She might have laughed. “You’re starring in our opening concert. This year’s festival coincides with the delayed art fair. You’ve been sold out for months.”
He asked again, “Kiki, what am I playing?”
“This is the oddest conversation I’ve had in thirty years.”
“Kiki.”
“Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez. And Vivaldi’s Concerto in D Major.”
He knew them both. Intimately. Had performed them countless times. “Who is conducting?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” When Ian did not respond, she said, “Israel Saban.”
“Good. Wonderful, in fact.”
“Not really. Israel is furious. He’s demanding that I ditch you. Bring in someone who doesn’t threaten us with a last-minute tantrum.” A pause, then, “Should I?”
“No tantrums,” he replied. “I’ll give you the best that I have.”
“You better.”
“I’m sorry, Kiki. Really, really sorry.”
“Enough to do the second gig?”
“I heard about that. I don’t remember where. Maybe I saw it online.”
This time her laugh was clearly audible. “Your ex-louse booked you for ‘An Intimate Conversation with Ian Hart.’ Just you and several hundred of your closest admirers.”
“What am I playing?”
“In this case, whatever you like.”
Ian studied the two men beyond the wall and sensed an idea taking form. He opened his mouth, tasted the air, decided the idea was a good one. Better than that. He asked, “Do I have to play classical?”
Another longish pause, then, “It’s not polite to render me speechless.”
“I’ve been working on a film score with Connor Larkin.”
“The film star?”
“And pianist. And singer. He’s good, Kiki. Outstanding, in fact. His specialty is soft jazz and renditions of late-era big band.”
“You. And Connor Larkin. An intimate evening on Miami Beach’s New World Center stage.”
“I haven’t asked him. I just came up with the idea while we’ve been talking. But I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.”
“Go ask. I’ll wait. And, Ian . . .”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing. Hurry. I’m quite sure I’m late for something vital. I just can’t remember what.”
* * *
Ian decided he wasn’t up for a solitary meal in his apartment. He headed for the diner, then decided a bar was more in keeping with his mood. So he returned to the same stool at Castaways and sat nursing another glass of excellent local grape, reviewing the day.
Everything about it rang true. It was an almost silly way to describe the work and the repetitive takes and the people who crowded in. But Ian felt those words best fit the long and tiring day. Especially given how he was left with a distinct sense of making new friends. Finding his own place in a town where he already felt at home.
