The three paintings were images taken from Kari’s favorite childhood memories. One was on the beach at Malibu; another sailing on Lake Tahoe.
Justin pointed to the third and exclaimed, “That’s us.”
“It is, yes. All of them are.”
“I remember that day! I wanted to talk with . . .”
“Ariel.”
“But I was afraid. You said I should give her flowers.” He smiled at the recollection, two children surrounded by a springtime garden, the young Kari tying her hair ribbon around a bouquet held by her brother. “Ariel was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I was what? Eight?”
“You were ten. I was five.”
“These are great, Kari. Really.”
She watched her brother study the painting and remembered. Justin had been her family’s lone voice of diplomacy and reason, at least some of the time. He shared their parents’ ability to explode in nearly blind wrath. But in his case, Kari could usually identify the reason and knew in advance when to flee. So long as Justin got his way, or no one stood between him and his immediate goal, his attitude toward Kari remained placidly cheerful.
She told her family, “I want you to have them. One each. You decide.”
“Really, daughter,” her mother protested, “I fail to understand why we’re learning about this only now.”
Rafi chose the perfect moment to call, “Kari, the press are here. And photographers.”
It was a most excellent reason for Kari to rush her words. “I’m leaving LA. I’ve found what I think will be my new home. I’ll contact you once I’m settled.”
All three started to protest. But Graham was already ushering her away.
Kari said over her shoulder, “I leave tomorrow.”
