CHAPTER28
The morning following their concert, Ian approached Arthur’s studio with a degree of concern. The heady lift of a successful performance was behind them. Now was the point when everyone needed to be drawn together and to focus on the main act. Miami.
Ian’s main worry was Connor. The man whom Ian had effectively replaced as bandleader the previous evening. Which he needed to do again. Now. Today. In order to prepare the group for what would soon happen. The main event.
But when he entered the front room, Arthur greeted him with customary gruffness and ordered Ian to put on a fresh pot. When Ian realized Connor and the band members were already in the recording studio, he asked, “Shouldn’t I go in?”
“Coffee first.” Then Arthur rose and followed him into the kitchenette. “What you did last night carries the mark of greatness in my book.”
Ian almost dropped the coffeepot.
“Here, give me that.” Arthur filled it from the tap, set it in place, and began spooning coffee into a fresh filter. Anything but meet Ian’s astonished gaze. “No one else could have accomplished it. Not Danny. Not me. Certainly not Connor. You took a clutch of frightened musicians and turned them into a unit. One with purpose. Well done.”
“Arthur . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Danny rang. He’s checked the footage they shot. Claims they captured pure gold. His words.”
Ian kept his back to the recording studio. “What about Connor?”
“I had him and the band come in a few minutes early. Read them the riot act. You are hereby appointed boss and chief bottle washer. Chairman of the ruddy board. For the duration. If anybody dares voice an objection, I promised to personally pluck their feathers.”
“So Connor . . . He’s okay?”
“Don’t you worry about him, lad. Thanks to you, they all delivered. Connor is a pro at heart. He’ll adjust to the new reality because it’s best for everyone concerned.”
“Thetemporarynew reality,” Ian corrected.
Arthur actually smiled. “Ah, lad. You do my heart good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The door opened, and three cheerful ladies piled into the front room.
“Right on time,” Arthur said. “Pour yourself a mug and go get stuck in. That’s a good little bandleader.”
* * *
They began what for Ian was a standard sort of post-mortem. Together they broke down the songs, discussed possible changes, emphasized new elements, moved on. The same yet different. The band’s erstwhile leader remained remote. When addressed directly, Connor spoke in a soft monotone, then retreated to his dark silence. Ian had no choice, really. He did what Arthur said and maintained control. He was firm and handled the process in a swift and professional manner. Ian hid the way Connor’s moroseness impacted him. He didn’t show how Connor’s distant gaze resonated at his own deep level. As if there in the actor’s expression, he found a reflection of his own internal state. The same vague emptiness where passion once resided. The flame that now was reduced to ashes. It hurt Ian to look at Connor. He treated the actor with utmost care. Respecting every softly spoken word. Listening carefully, applying every suggestion without discussion or argument.
Two and a half hours later, they were done.
Ian walked around both rooms, shaking hands and thanking each person in turn, including the sound and lighting techs, Arthur, Danny, the cameraman. Taking his time, speaking about how they had come together in such a great way, and now they were ready. He followed the almost formal pattern used by the conductors he most admired. Making each person feel important. Like they were all standout performers.
He treated Connor like a valued soloist. Ian stressed how the actor needed to guard his voice, stay hydrated during the long flight, practice a few scales each day, nothing more. Connor had the music down cold. He would do fine.
Ian carried his phone out of the studio and along the graveled path to the rear wall. The stone was covered with some flowering vine he did not recognize. The blossoms’ scent carried a fragrant welcome. He stood looking out over the rooftops and the tree line, down to where Miramar met the sea. He remembered standing there with Connor, returning with the actor to the studio, making the call to Kiki. Which had brought them here. To the point where he was the man with strength enough to walk forward, while his new friend crouched inside the ready room. Ian hurt for him and, in a most illogical manner, hurt for himself. He hoped desperately he had done the right thing by suggesting to Kiki that they perform together in Miami.
He phoned Kari. She answered by saying, “Just a moment, Ian.” A pause, voices, sounds, and then a door dinged and Kari came back. “Thank you for last night. It was wonderful hearing you perform.”
“Where are you?”
“Standing outside some fancy store. Graham and Rafi have taken me shopping. Dresses and outfits. I hate shopping.”
“For the gala.” Drawing out the last word.
“You’re only making it worse, saying it like that. I started painting before dawn. I’m exhausted. No,drainedis a better word. I want to be in a rocker on my porch, Sienna in my lap. Instead, I’m trapped inside their idea of a good time.”
“Can I see you before I take off?”
