CHAPTER31
Ian arranged to leave Kari’s ride in the hotel lot. He loaded his suitcase and two guitars into the hotel limo, discovered Graham had taken care of his bill as well as Kari’s, and stood waiting out front. The morning sky was scrubbed clean by the storm, which had passed just before daybreak. The air was Pacific fresh. A perfect day to fly.
Kari did not show.
He was about to go back inside and call her room when she appeared. She had resumed the same distant fragility he had last seen at the diner, only this was much more severe. He eased her into the limo, helped load her suitcases, tipped the bellhop, slipped in beside her. Tried to find something that might make the moment better, decided he was better off staying silent.
The Santa Barbara airport was a little gem, with hacienda-style buildings framed by a garden of blooming shrubs and imperial palms. The airport staff were cheerful, friendly, efficient. Ian thought several people eyeballed him. Certainly the woman checking them in recognized his name. But he had been out of the media’s eye for over a week. A week was almost an eternity in the whirlwind of celebrity gossip.
As Ian handled the check-in process, he gradually became more comfortable with his silent-support role. Being with Kari, even in a situation like this, when she remained both distant and disconnected, was truly pleasant. He marveled at his response to her needing his strength. Guiding her into the waiting room, finding spots by the front windows, enjoying the small-town vibe drew his past travels into clear focus. And not just the journeys. The tight insistence that had grown around his stardom. Traveling to a new gig had always meant going direct. Always. He had refused to connect because he had wanted control over his timing. On the few occasions when a connecting flight had been unavoidable, usually with international gigs, he had always insisted on spending the night somewhere between flights. It used to drive his manager nuts.
Upon boarding the plane, they settled into the front row. Kari took the seat by the window, Sienna’s case tucked neatly behind her feet. Once they were airborne, Kari reached over, took hold of his hand, shut her eyes, and drifted away. When the kitten mewed, Kari gave no sign of having heard. Ian reached down with his free hand, lifted the kitten’s carryall, and settled it in his lap. He unzipped the flap a trifle, enough to reach one finger inside and stroke the little head.
His clarity of memory, his determined walk through the recent past, continued as they flew. He felt as if he was talking to the purring kitten, sharing secrets, in keeping with the confidences Kari had offered the previous day.
He used to call itla vida loca. The crazy life. Ian had always meant it as a half joke. Classical music was bound by traditions and strictures that went far beyond the music itself. He knew the tales of modern music stars and their excesses. The truly wild life had never much appealed to him. The music had been enough, at least until that point when his interior world began to crumble.
Ian had been almost living with his almost fiancée at the time. Andrea was a Bulgarian model with impeccable style and the smoothest skin he had ever known. Her face had a sprinkling of golden freckles, which she despised and he thought beautiful. She claimed to love him, and in their rare moments of solitude, he often wondered if she was the one. But part of what drove him to an awareness of his empty void was the subtle knowledge that their relationship was a lie. She loved the high-speed high life. The cameras, the endless new vistas, the palatial receptions, the attention they garnered as the star couple of the classical world. And he . . . It took him months to accept that he was simply going along for the ride.
Now it was hard to face the resulting questions. If their breakup was actually when he began sensing the change. If it was really his response to helplessness. If he had become aware at some deeper level that his creative and professional lives were undergoing a seismic shift. If that was why he so quietly accepted the inevitable farewell from this woman he did not love.
When they landed at Dallas–Fort Worth, Ian resumed his role as guide. Together they walked the long concourse, entered the first-class lounge, and he settled Kari into a seat by the window.
“Can I get you something?” he asked.
She spoke for the first time that morning. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no need—”
“I don’t know what to do.”
Ian pulled his chair in close enough to her to block out the other passengers. Repeated the same words, only with salsa. “Tell me how I can help.”
Sienna mewed. Kari lifted the case, unzipped the flap, settled the kitten in her lap. “I was having breakfast. Everything was fine. Then Graham texted me the itinerary. I threw all the food back up. Now . . .”
“Can I see?”
She rummaged through her purse, found her phone, scrolled, handed it over.
Ian needed ninety seconds to declare, “This is nuts. They have you running flat out for two days, from seven in the morning to . . . Kari, they don’t even have you attending my concert.”
“Graham called. He said the same thing. But with fire. I’ve never heard him angry before. It’s always Rafi who goes off the rails.” She stroked the kitten. “He says he’s going to cancel everything. Neither he nor Rafi agreed to any of it, and they’re telling them no.”
Ian hesitated, then decided it needed to be said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The people who put this together, they can’t do anything to you. But they’ll go after Graham and Rafi.”
She focused on him fully now. “I can’t let that happen.”
“I agree.”
“So I have to do what they’re saying?”
“No. Absolutely not. But there needs to be some form of compromise. A face-saving measure.”
“Call them.”
“Maybe you should be the one to do that. You’re their client. They hardly know—”
“Don’t even start.” She retrieved her phone, scrolled through the contact list, touched a number, handed it back. “Besides, Rafi thinks you’re a dish. He wants to take you home to Mama.”
