A male voice shouted, “Go away!”
“This can’t wait, Sol.”
“I don’t have time for you!”
“Tough. You just have to make time.”
“Megan, not today!”
“Sol, you want to hear this. And it has to happen now.”
When the door closed behind her, the receptionist told Ian, “I love it when Megan gets mad.” She lifted the phone, punched in a number, then went on, “Things were getting a little stale around here. Now you’ll see the sparks fly.”
* * *
When Megan emerged from the office, she entered the reception area and informed Ian, “We need to put off anything further until tomorrow. Would eleven o’clock work for you?”
“I don’t have anything else to do.”
“You look like you could use an afternoon off. Any luck, Regina?”
The receptionist handed Ian a typed page. “You’re all set. The inn is a straight shot six blocks west.”
“Their restaurant is first rate.” Megan must have seen his sudden discomfort, for she added, “The expenses are taken care of.”
“And Amelia’s will . . . ?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” Megan replied, already heading toward her next legal fire.
Ian managed to retrieve his rental car and find the inn without getting lost. The hotel was pleasant indeed, a sprawling old house with two arms encircling a central courtyard. His room overlooked a sparkling fountain. Star jasmine filled his room with a fragrance that passed as hope. The difference between this place and the Lompoc motel was good for a smile.
He ate a solitary meal, remembering other hotels. Huge suites filled with flowers and people and phones and chatter. Ian had always moved at warp speed, arriving late and leaving early. There had never been time to appreciate his surroundings. The complimentary bottle of champagne had usually remained unopened, sweating in a bucket filled with melting ice. Just another part of the life he had worked so hard to claim.
The sun had scarcely set when he went to bed.
It felt as though he had just fallen asleep when the whispers woke him. But the clock said it was half past one. Ian sighed his way from the bed. The vague murmurs had become an unwelcome part of far too many nights. He slipped into his trousers and left the room. The night was dry and warm; the courtyard silent except for the fountain’s steady tune. He sat in a cast-iron chair and watched the moonlit water. Helpless.
These ghosts had become part of his dark and lonely hours. It was impossible to ignore the whispered truth now. The real reason why he had insisted his manager arrange for Ian to take a year off. The raging argument that had followed, the bitter incriminations, the threats which Ian had thought were bogus. Until his manager had vanished, stripping Ian’s bank accounts and stealing the advances from three contracts Ian had not known even existed.
Exhaustion was the only reason he had given his manager for demanding the year off. And that was true enough. But it was also just a small part of the whole picture, the one portion he had been able to confess aloud.
Now, though, the specter of truth loomed so large, it blocked out the moon and threatened to cut off his air.
The fire had gone out.
The music that had filled his world, the ceaseless flame that had carried him through so much, it was no more.
Ian sat and listened to the fountain’s melody and tasted the cold ashes of everything he had lost. His last four performances, the most recent album, the live concert aired on PBS—they had been soulless exercises. He had played with mechanical precision. Had gone through the motions, had smiled as he endured the applause and ovations. The audiences had cheered; the critics had gushed. But it was all a sham. Before each of those gigs, he vomited from the dread of enduring another hours-long lie.
So he had demanded a year off. And they had fought, he and the man who had steered him to global acclaim. And on that very first free day, when he should have been readying himself to star in Miami’s annual music festival, a gig he had never agreed to do, Ian learned of the man’s treachery.
And now the empty days stretched out before him, a litany of lost hours.
