“But for how long?”
“None of us can ever know the answer to that. Which only makes our time together more special.” A final sip, and then she rose to her feet and started for the door. “More coffee?”
Kari passed over her cup without looking up.
When Indrid returned, Kari said, “You sound so . . .”
“Calm? Pleased?” Indrid settled back in the rocker. “Happy for you?”
“Glib.”
Indrid rocked a long moment, then asked, “Have you called your managers?” When Kari remained silent, Indrid added, “Your friends?”
“I just woke up.”
“My dear, those two are no doubt wearing grooves in the gallery floor.”
“How can I call anyone? I haven’t decided whether I’m going or not.”
“Now you’re being silly. Of course you are. It was clear enough in your gaze last night. You want to go. You want to be with him. There. At this event.” Indrid’s gaze was warm. Beckoning. Filled with good humor. “You want to know if he prefers you over all these fashionable ladies who litter his past, no? Fine. Call Graham and Rafi. Let those two wonderful men celebrate with you.”
“Indrid—”
“Dear one, go inside and make the call.” She turned back to the day. “I need to be heading home. But first, I want to see what you’ve been working on since your arrival.”
* * *
That next morning, Danny shifted their session to Arthur’s studio. Connor was reluctant, but Ian wholeheartedly agreed with the move. He knew it was a far better spot for the whirlwind to come, and so did Arthur. It was crucial that they pull Connor away from the stage, where he was most comfortable. Where playing with his little group was fun. As Ian’s former instructors used to say, fun would not take them where they needed to go.
It was one thing to perform for a group of longtime enthusiasts in Sylvie’s restaurant, where any small error would be happily overlooked. The same easy state also existed during recording sessions, where multiple takes were common. But they would face an entirely different situation in Miami. They would be playing in front of a highly critical audience who had paid a hundred dollars or more for a seat. Not to mention the professional critics and journalists eager to headline the next chapter of Ian Hart’s fall from the lofty heights.
Danny had gently insisted their backup group be expanded to include the three women. Arthur complained mightily, but Ian suspected he was equally pleased. The women’s voices and professional manners would go a long way toward smoothing out any rough edges. Which there were bound to be.
With Arthur’s silent agreement, Danny asked for the musical lineup to expand beyond the film’s soundtrack. Woven into this were numbers from Connor’s existing repertoire, with a focus on songs that fashioned a seamless musical tapestry.
Over an early lunch of sandwiches and coffee, Connor asked how large Ian thought their audience would be. “That is, assuming anybody shows up.”
“No question there,” Ian replied. “Kiki says the gig’s been sold out for weeks.”
Connor dropped his sandwich back on the wrapper. “How many?”
“I’ve never played the small salon. Three-fifty to four hundred is my guess.”
Trish, the eldest of the ladies, asked, “And the big place where you have your first concert?”
“Just over two thousand,” Ian responded.
Lucinda asked, “Can we come?”
“If you want, sure.”
“Is that a joke?” This from Maxine, the de facto team leader. “Do we want. Huh.”
“It’s classical music,” Ian pointed out, only half joking. “No jive. Very little beat. Hip-hop is barred at the door.”
Lucinda raised a hand the size of a skillet. “You’re looking for a taste of Dominican heat, you don’t watch out.”
Trish asked, “Didn’t you say that first gig is sold out, too? How can you find us seats?”
