“Kari, I know you’re under so much pressure. The last thing I want, the very last, is to add—”
“Tell Justin he’s welcome.” She watched a group of chattering people walk past their car. “I can’t tell how much of what I feel is real. How much is an echo from the past.”
Despite his fluttering nerves, Rafi had often struck her as the wiser and more observant of the two. Like now. “You’re not just talking about your brother.”
“No.”
“It’s everything. The trip, Miami, the showcase, the gala. All of it.”
Kari breathed around the enormity of what lay ahead. She could almost hear Indrid’s voice. Telling Ian that his confusion and uncertainty were no reasons to stop moving forward. Kari had suspected the woman had meant her words for her, as well. Now she was certain.
She opened her door. “Let’s go inside.”
* * *
The bartender, Marcela, spotted them at the entrance and came rushing over. “Ian’s been asking for you. I think he was worried you couldn’t make it.” She led them up front, to a coveted table by the side wall. A sweating ice bucket held an unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses. Marcela pulled a third chair from several stacked beside the stage and said, “I’ll snag you another glass.”
Once they were seated, Graham asked, “And just who is this Ian?”
The bartender’s smile widened as she started away.
“Marcela, wait.” Kari pointed to an oil painting on the wall above their table. It showed a cove very much like Miramar’s, sheltered in two cupped hands fashioned from a starlit night. “Whose work is this?”
Marcela’s expression softened. “Sylvie’s father.”
“Really? It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?” Marcela studied the work. “I see it so often, I forget.”
“Is he here?”
“Who? John? No, he passed years ago. Have Sylvie tell you about growing up on the road, traveling from Alaska to Baja, selling his works as they went.” Someone called Marcela’s name. She started away, adding, “Only don’t ask her tonight.”
The room was beyond full. Most of the tables were crammed so tightly, the patrons rubbed shoulders with those seated nearby. Kari’s was positioned in an island of its own, separated by a channel holding thick electric cables. A small stepladder was positioned by the stage’s left corner, with a video camera resting on top. A control board now dominated the bar.
Rafi asked, “What on earth is going on?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you—” She stopped at the sight of Ian rushing toward them.
“Kari, I’m so glad you made it.” Ian leaned over, kissed her cheek, set down a third glass, then said to the two astonished men, “Hi. Welcome to bedlam.”
Rafi said, “You’re Ian Hart.”
“Am I? Oh, good. I was worried.” Ian snagged his stool from the stage and settled on it with his back to the room.
Kari asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, you know. Last-minute issues.”
But the parchment-tight lines around his eyes, the worried expression, said otherwise. “No, I don’t know. Do you want to tell me?”
“Actually, I could use your advice.” Ian glanced at the two men. “If it’s okay.”
“Rafi and Graham are my managers. And two of my oldest friends. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“We could leave,” Graham offered.
“And go where?” Rafi waved at the room. To Ian, he explained, “We run an art gallery two blocks off Rodeo. What we know, what we never talk about, would topple regimes.”
