Kari needed a moment to realize he meant her sketchbook. “I carry it with me everywhere.”
“Can I see?”
She drew the sketchbook from her purse, astonished at how easy it felt. Andright. Showing this almost stranger what she kept hidden from everyone. Kari turned to the sketches she’d done before Graham’s call. “Here. These.”
He turned the pages. So very slowly.
The old man called Ian’s name a second time. Connor spoke too softly for Kari to understand the words. The three women laughed.
Ian turned the next page, revealing a blank sheet, and sighed. Closed the cover. Didn’t hand the sketchbook back. Did not look up. Just stood there.
She had to tug the sketchbook to get him to release it.
“Kari, these are amazing.”
It was beyond easy to confess, “I’m terrified of going.”
He breathed once. Like he was awakening. Only then did he look up. “You don’t want to go to Miami?”
“I’ve never been anywhere. I don’t . . . I revealed myself as Kariel only last week. It was part of my leaving LA and starting here. Being honest.”
She felt like the words had jagged edges. Just the same, she was glad she had spoken.
Especially when he nodded once and softly declared, “You need to protect your gift.”
She opened her mouth, but no words emerged.
“If you decide to go, I’ll do all I can to help.” This time, his smile was weighted down by the sorrow in his gaze. “It’s a lesson I need to learn myself. If there’s still time.”
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
“Of course.”
“I have a friend coming up. Her name is Indrid Anand. She wants to meet you.” Kari realized how that probably sounded. “Not because of who you are. She’s my oldest and dearest friend.”
“She wants to help protect your gift. Which means meeting me.”
Having Ian understand her and connect with her secret needs at such a level that it made him sad left Kari so intensely conflicted that she didn’t know whether to embrace him or flee. “Yes. Only we can’t meet at my new home. I don’t have any furniture. Yet. It’s just . . . I want to take my time.”
Ian seemed to find nothing amiss with her living in an empty home. His only response was, “We can eat at my place.”
“All right.”
“Or we can go out.” He smiled. “I know a great restaurant.”
“No. Your place is better.”
“It’s very small, Kari. Kind of cramped, even when it’s just me.”
“Better than sitting on my kitchen floor.”
“A little. Maybe.” He walked back to the stage, retrieved his pad and pen. Spoke a few words, then returned.
“This is my address and number.” He wrote, tore out the page, handed it over. “Thank you for coming today. So much.”
“I’m glad I did. Really.”
He started toward the stage. Then turned back long enough to say, “Kari, I wish I had met you years ago.”
Kari stood there a long moment, captured by the torrent of emotions. Finally, she stepped to the bar and pulled out her sketchbook. Swiftly she drew a new image. One of a man seated on a stool, playing a classical guitar. A storm of smoke and burning cinders surrounded him, whirling with hurricane force.
A heart’s flame flickered in feeble defiance to the tempest.
