She was already in the process of opening her car door. “I have to call you back.”
* * *
Ian returned to the restaurant bar and ordered a glass of wine. He sat staring at the orchestral beauty of a Miramar sunset, set within the bay window’s varnished frame. He could have been seated in the aft cabin of some great sailing vessel, bidding farewell to another mysterious dusk. He was meeting a lovely and talented artist. He was tired from the unexpected pile of events. Exhausted, really. A red-eye flight, a drive north, a first recording session, followed by an evening on the restaurant’s cramped stage. No single night’s sleep could erase all that. Not to mention today’s long session.
But none of that was what had left him so hollow.
Kari rushed through the entrance and hurried over. “I’m so sorry to be late . . .” She inspected his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all.” He slipped from his seat and fashioned a salesman’s smile. “It’s so nice to see you. What would you like to drink?”
“I don’t care.” She pointed at his glass. “What is that?”
“A local pinot.”
“Fine.”
Ian signaled to a waitress, and when she made her way over, he ordered another glass.
Kari waited until they were alone again, then demanded, “Ian, tell me.”
Hours later, lying in a bed too large for the narrow room, Ian wished he had deflected. Told her something else. Taken a different path. One that carried them away from the intimate moment that honesty revealed.
But what he said was, “I’ve been lost for almost a year now. Since I’ve gotten to Miramar, things have been better. Nice, even. Today was great. But the moment ends, and I’m left . . .”
She took his hand. Held it while the waitress deposited her wine. Then said again, soft as the gathering dusk, “Tell me.”
Ian looked at her. This woman with the power to isolate them in the heart of a restaurant. Make an island of light and warmth. All with the touch of her hand, the look in those impossibly clear eyes. Kari Langham was not a beauty in any standard sense of the word. She was tall and strong, with a face drawn too sharply for today’s taste. But to him, she was as lovely as the night. Her pale blue eyes struck him as too frank and open and intense for this world. Hers was the clearest gaze he had ever seen.
“There was a time . . . ,” he said. Hearing himself shape the words, he took hold of his glass, set it back down. Watching it all from the distance of fatigue and something else. A lonely man calling out from the depths of his sad cave. “I never took it for granted. Not really. But it was just a part of me. The only time I was alone, the most important moment before a concert or session, I shut myself away and ran through a practice routine. I’ve done it ten thousand times. More.”
He knew he wasn’t telling it well. Part of him, whispers from his own dark corner, cried for him to stop. Be silent. Keep it hidden away. Nothing good would come from this barstool confession. He heard himself continue, “Before every session, I’d keep at it until I just . . . disappeared. Me, the guitar, the place, the audience, the recording studio, all the outside things that didn’t matter. When it was just the music flowing through me, I was ready.”
He stared at the fingers resting on his. “Now it’s gone. My playing is a lie. Even on a day like this, as special as I’ve had in months. I’m performing. I’m doing what I need to do. Getting it out there. But inside . . .”
Kari’s hand retreated. She whispered, “That’s terrible.”
Ian looked up and realized that her expression had gone from concerned to horrified. “You understand.”
“Ian, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Even the plea was not enough. “I said I wanted to take a year off. Now I’m dragged back in. Only I didn’t fight it. A couple of studio sessions, playing here, and now Miami.”
She jerked upright. “What?”
“Connor thinks I should agree to play in Miami’s annual music festival. My former manager committed me to it. They’re probably desperate to find . . . Kari, what’s the matter?”
“When is the festival?”
“Five days.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came.
“My manager signed me up, then forgot to tell me. Or maybe he did, but I wasn’t listening. The events definitely weren’t in my calendar. Two performances. Now he’s gone, and—” Ian stopped his rambling discourse because Kari was off her stool and backing away.
“There’s something . . . I need to be going,” she said.
“Kari, I’m so sorry. I should never—”
“I asked. You said.” She was already heading for the door. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just . . .”
She was gone.
