CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 6
It had all started simply enough.
Several years back, Rafi introduced her to a Santa Monica arts group. There were over a dozen such collectives in her hometown. Hundreds more scattered through greater Los Angeles. But this one was a rarity.
These artists were also successful in some aspect of the film world—graphic arts, storyboarding, CGI formatting, PR design, photography. The reason they gravitated here was the group’s rules, which were both strict and rigidly enforced. All conversation was limited to painting. Any mention of the outside world, any pitching of a story, any discussion of a project, any photograph, anything of the sort, and they were barred from the group for life.
The members soon grew accustomed to Kari’s reserve. She wasn’t the only one who preferred silence to casual conversation. The group contained a number of stars, top directors, senior film executives, and producers. Such people craved time away from the constant chatter and pressure. Successful film people were constantly inundated with tasks and requests—scripts to be read, projects to review, financial packages that needed a name to reach completion, photographs to consider, stories to mull over. The barrage was as constant as rain. Having a place where they could remove themselves from the spotlight, dress down in a floppy hat and oversized glasses, shield themselves behind easels, become part of a group who respected privacy, who shared their passion for interpreting the world with colors and brushes, was priceless.
Monthly dues were steep, and almost everything was spent on travel and teachers. Rafi probably had a word with the art group’s director, for any time they brought in a member of the dark-edged artistic elite, Kari was alerted and granted a chance to retreat. Either she did not attend at all or she attached a sheet to the top of her easel, which she would flip over her canvas every time the visiting instructor came within range.
Some in the group knew of her success. They treated her with the same delicate respect they showed the stars. Kari made a few cautious friends, attended a few parties, even went out on dates. She had always enjoyed the company of men, so long as there was no connection to what she called the film world’s snatch-and-grab attitude. But her more intimate relationships ended badly. Her first journey to Miramar came after one such breakup. She was astonished at how intense the pain was, how physically ill she felt over a lost love. She signed on to the overnight trip to Miramar in an act of desperation, hoping to flee her misery, at least for a weekend.
Instead, she found a haven. A place she had never dreamed might exist. A world that she desperately wanted to claim for her own.
That first afternoon, Kari declined an invitation to dine with the class and spent hours walking the town’s heart. Almost hoping the intense draw she felt would fade. If it didn’t right away, this would give her an excuse to stay a few more days on her own. Then she would put it down to a pleasant interlude and travel back by train, her happy memories stowed away, glad to have found a place she might visit from time to time, nothing more.
Ha.
She proceeded down to the shore, strolled along the beachfront path, went back up the main street. It was when she stopped for coffee and a sandwich that she finally admitted defeat.
Every step, every minute, the sense of belonging grew stronger still.
The next stage came together with astonishing ease. Rafi and Graham took childlike delight in shopping for houses. This process became a vital means of calming her internal waters, for it was in this same period that Kari accepted Indrid’s counsel and agreed to participate in the gallery event. Throw her coveted anonymity aside. Reveal herself to the world.
The idea of a home that might become her secret haven became increasingly important. The online inspection of homes in and around Miramar took on a special flavor. She was doing this. She was doing this now.
The home she selected was a case of love at first glance.
The old farmhouse sat at the end of a meandering valley lane. It had been stripped down to a weather-beaten shell and then resurrected as a two-bedroom haven. Old walls had been stripped out, as well as the original ceiling. The result was a series of large, interconnected spaces forming the kitchen, dining room, and living area. A new garage was tucked around to one side. Behind it was a miniature replica of the house itself, intended as a guest cottage. And beside that...
Her studio.
The barnlike structure had been plucked from her most secret dreams.
The weathered exterior gave way to a huge internal space, full of light from tall windows on every side, plus a massive skylight, all of which were shielded by electronic blinds. A small bath was tucked in one corner. The video presentation suggested it as either a sound studio, a viewing room, or a gym. Kari knew otherwise.
She bought it the next day.
* * *
Kari left her motel room as dawn etched silhouettes from the quiet city. She checked out and poured a coffee from the lobby urn. She had no interest in waiting for breakfast. She was far too nervous to eat. Kari dwelled in some nether region, the borderlands where fear and excitement and dread and joy all met. She settled Sienna’s wicker basket in the passenger seat and started off.
As Kari drove along the silent street, she decided the moment and her emotions were all too potent a mix. She was filled with the urge to use these impressions in a new work. A block past Rafi and Graham’s gallery, she pulled into a parking space and rose from the car. The electric stabs of fear that had jolted her during the night were gone now. Standing there in the breathless quiet, Kari felt it all gradually come together.
This was why she was leaving her safe little niche in other people’s world. So she could have moments like this. Making a slow circuit of Ca?on Drive, using her phone to photograph the gray city’s silhouette, mentally sketching the artwork to come.
The Beverly Hills street would be a mere shadow image. By contrast, the people would possess a brilliant clarity. A child. No, two children holding hands. A couple walking behind them, also linked. A family so full of happiness and love, they positively shone in primary colors. While the world of shops and cars and wealth, the things other people treated as important, as real, was reduced to a vague predawn silhouette. Just like now.
When the new image was firmly fixed in her mind, Kari settled back behind the wheel and started the motor. As she pulled from the curb, Sienna emerged from her basket. The sleepy kitten padded across the central console, settled into Kari’s lap, and purred.
Kari joined the freeway and headed north.
Kari had driven the LA freeway system only a few times and never by herself. Her intention was to make it past Ventura before the early rush-hour speeders began their morning commutes. Her only scary moment came after she passed the Getty and started down that steep, steep slope, with two semis and a concrete mixer for company. Her car was nearly new, a Mercedes GLB. She liked the high-up driving position almost as much as the car’s color, a metallic periwinkle blue.
Past Thousand Oaks, another climb and descent, then Ventura’s multiple exits, and the freeway merged with the coastal road for a long narrow stretch, with cliffs to the east and the Pacific glistening off to her left. She stopped at a Starbucks in Santa Barbara for coffee and a pastry, almost giddy with the sense of adventure just beyond the freeway’s next bend.
She had often come up here with her art group and considered Santa Barbara a border territory. Walking the streets, observing the region from behind the safety of her easel, she had recognized any number of people from her father’s realm. Santa Barbara was home to many successful denizens of the film world, stars and directors and producers powerful enough to have others come to them. But she was safe here. Such people had not taken much notice of her when she had attended parties and festivals at her father’s or brother’s insistence. They were blind to her now.
What lay north of Santa Barbara was, quite simply, another world. She had heard locals call it the Middle Kingdom. As far as Kari was concerned, no title had ever fit a region better.
Looking back, Kari was filled with solemn awe at how she had managed the maze of home ownership. The answer was equally astonishing. Gradually, her tight little solitary world had been pried open to include others. People who were there for her. People who went out of their way to make her feel comfortable with the next incredible step.
Graham had dealt on several occasions with an attorney in San Luis Obispo, the closest real city to Miramar. Megan Pierce was fiercely intelligent, with a competent manner that had calmed Kari during their very first Zoom call. Megan had clearly been comfortable representing a young woman who was buying a home sight unseen, for cash, in a town she had visited only once. The attorney had not only handled the required documents but had helped anchor Kari to earth.
As she passed San Luis Obispo and took the county road north, Kari put on a favorite album, Ian Hart Plays Segovia. The traffic was very light; the road so empty she could let her mind drift. Kari found herself thinking back over her most recent conversation with Megan. Up to that point, all queries from the building contractor, Noah Hearst, had been passed through the SLO attorney. Kari had refused to involve herself in any details regarding the home’s interior. So many areas where Noah had wanted her input—the kitchen cabinetry, bathrooms, floors, windows, lighting fixtures, drawer handles, the walkway, the grout and tile colors. Kari had found the decision-making both frightening and baffling. She had determinedly held her distance. Then the week the home was finished, Megan firmly suggested it was time for Kari to connect with the man responsible for creating her new home.
When the Zoom conference opened, Kari saw the attorney’s familiar face alongside a strong-featured man in his forties, tanned and weathered by a life spent outdoors. Megan introduced Noah, then said, “I was in Miramar three days ago and stopped by the house. Noah is both a builder and an artist.”
Noah had a surprisingly gentle smile. “Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Langham.”
“Noah was a film set designer in a previous life,” Megan said.
He nodded. “I know a couple of agents who share your name. Justin and Max. Are they any . . .”
When a flash of very real fear on Kari’s face silenced the builder, Megan asked, “Is something wrong?”
Kari began the tragic process of backing away. “Maybe this is all just a terrible mistake.”
“Kari, does your family know of this acquisition?” Megan studied her frozen expression, then asked Noah, “How much contact do you have with your Hollywood friends?”
“None at all,” Noah replied. “And most of them are no longer friends.”
“Noah’s company was legally stolen out from under him,” Megan explained. “The partner he had trusted with his professional life stabbed him in the back.”
“I haven’t returned to LA since signing the final documents,” Noah said. “I hope I never do.”
“My senior partner, Sol Feinnes, is now partners with Noah in a yacht,” Megan went on. “Sol is the most honorable man I have ever met. He would never enter into such a venture with anyone he did not trust.”
“Say the word,” Noah told Kari. “I will never mention who bought the house. Ever. To anyone.”
It was the concern they showed her, the respect for her situation, even when they did not understand, that convinced Kari and allowed her to say, “I am trying to make a refuge. Somewhere totally private.”
“I doubt anyone will understand that better than I do,” Noah said. “The original farmhouse was where I retreated after leaving the Los Angeles nightmare behind. I’m selling only because my wife is running a surgical ward at the San Lu hospital.”
Megan said, “I think you should trust him to honor your wishes, Kari.”
A long moment, a pair of uncertain breaths, then, “All right. Thank you.”
But Megan wasn’t finished. “So your intention is to keep your family at arm’s length. Is that correct?”
“My family can’t ever know where I am.”
“Perhaps you should think about using me as a cutout,” Megan suggested. “All contact goes through me.”
“This is possible?”
“Oh, absolutely. My firm performs this service for several highly successful individuals.”
“I would like that,” Kari said. And added, “I need it.”
“Consider it done.” Megan addressed the builder. “You had something you wanted to ask Kari?”
“Absolutely. Whatever you don’t like about the home’s interior, anything that doesn’t suit, I’m happy to change.” When Kari started shaking her head, Noah asked, “Did I say something wrong?”
“If somebody wanted me to repaint a segment of a finished canvas, I’d refund their deposit and ask them to never contact me again.”
“Lucky you.”
“I want to honor your work the same way I honor other art that is precious to me. I want to study it. Take my time. Absorb everything I possibly can. Let it take its place at the deepest level of who I am.”
He wiped one side of his face. Up and down. Very slowly. “Kari . . .”
“Yes?”
“The key will be under a planter by your front door.”
Herdoor. Her home. Kari shivered. “Thank you, Noah.” As she started to cut the connection, he called her back. “Yes?”
“I was wondering, could I invite you to dinner? A friend of mine is playing at Miramar’s premier restaurant this coming Friday.”
“It’s always a sellout night,” Megan said. “The atmosphere is Miramar at its finest. Not to mention the food.”
Kari found herself captivated by the sensation of new friends. It required no effort whatsoever to reply, “That sounds nice. Thank you.”
* * *
Kari had not returned to Miramar since deciding to purchase her home. She wanted to arrive when life’s new canvas was hers to paint. She had waited. Worked. Kept herself busy. Endured the nights of fears and thrills and uncertainty. So she could do this now: Turn through the valley gates and drive slowly, slowly down the narrow lane. Savoring every moment of her arrival.
The northern ridge was scarred by fires from some distant season. Down below, everything was silent and still. Watchful. Low-slung houses set on big lots. Several had boats parked in their drives. A dog barked once, then went quiet.
Her new home stood at the end of the lane. The gray-white exterior remained similar to how it had been for three-quarters of a century. The windows were new, as was the railing that framed the wraparound porch. And the rockers. Two of them. Positioned beneath broad-blade fans, which rotated slowly in the hot breeze. Varnished hands waving her forward.
She parked and sat for a long while, not so much studying the house as coming to terms with the fact that it was now hers. She might have remained there all day if Sienna had not planted her front paws on Kari’s right arm and mewed.
Kari opened her door, lifted out the kitten, carried Sienna inside. Returned for the padded basket where Sienna liked to sleep, her bowls, food, and covered litter tray. She entered the kitchen without really seeing anything, filled both bowls, then walked back outside. She took a long breath, surveying the silent valley. When she was ready, she entered the house again. And looked.
The home had been kept to its original size, but the interior had been reconfigured into just two large rooms. The kitchen-dining-lounge area and the main bedroom were floored in broad redwood planks. Noah had rescued the wood from an office building undergoing redevelopment. The open ceiling of pale oak was framed by varnished beams. Kitchen and bathroom cabinetry of pale blue with white trim. Gray-blue counters and matching tiles. Kari walked slowly from room to room, the kitten padding at her feet.
The sight left Kari breathless.
Behind the main house rose the three other structures, connected to the rear porch by fired-brick walkways. A new cottage matching the home stood well off, there to house any overnight guests. And a garage built in the same weathered style.
And then there was the third structure.
The old barn had been transformed into a massive single room, lined with narrow cathedral-style windows and floored in polished concrete. The distant ceiling held a trio of skylights and multiple light fixtures that could be dimmed or swiveled by controls set beside the main entry. Another set of switches controlled the pale blinds for both windows and skylights.
As she left the atelier and checked out the guest cottage, children shouted from some yard. A dog barked in response. The sounds made her shiver.
The home, the outbuildings, the space they contained, all this was hers to shape. But first she had to come to terms with Noah’s artwork in and of itself.
She imagined most people would think it silly, wanting days and probably weeks to absorb the empty spaces. They would most likely be out already, buying items to fill the rooms, reshaping and decorating and laying claim. Kari saw things differently. Noah’s sculpture of wood and stone and space was a delight in and of itself.
The builder had left her an unexpected gift. Four rocking chairs of polished oak, two on the front porch, two out back. Kari stroked the top rim of one and thought it was just like the man she had never met. His silent “Welcome home,” an invitation to sit and rest and revel in what was now hers.
The moving van arrived thirty minutes later. As soon as the driver stepped from the cab, however, Sienna fought to be released, squirming and pushing against Kari’s hold. She opened the kitchen door and allowed the kitten to scamper inside.
Kari had brought the absolute basics, the very few items required for day-to-day life. A Japanese-style pallet for sleeping, one set of sheets, a few chairs, a kitchen table, the necessary utensils and basic plates and cutlery. Along with that came everything her art required—easels, stretched canvases, drop cloths, paints, brushes. And the paintings she was not yet prepared to part with, fourteen in all.
When the movers left and Kari returned to the home’s rear porch, Sienna stood inside the rear screen door, mewing. Kari picked up the kitten and seated herself in one of the polished rockers, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.
Her home.