CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 31
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 it la 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.”
Ian accepted the phone. “Graham must have loved that.”
“He told Rafi to get in line.” When Ian did not lift the phone, she added, “You said you wanted to help. So help.”
It was Rafi who answered. The man sounded almost cheerful. “How’s our incredible hunk doing this morning?”
“Soon as he shows up, I’ll ask.”
A pause. Then, “Excuse me while I go drown myself in the tar pits.”
“Is that Graham I hear shouting?”
“He’s busy roasting Miami officialdom. Which is why I have the opportunity to embarrass myself totally.”
“Can you ask him to give me a minute? Now?”
There was a pause, a final blast in the distance, and then Graham huffed, “I truly loathe losing my temper.”
“Let me tell you what I think happened,” Ian said. “They assigned Kari’s schedule to some high-class outside PR group they use for the entire art thing.”
“Art fair, not thing.”
“Whatever. Soon as the PR team heard Kari was using this as her coming-out party, they freaked. It was their chance to parade on the global PR stage.”
Graham was silent. Then, “Have you been speaking with those awful people in charge?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Because you’re basically echoing everything they just told me.”
“The question,” Ian said, “comes down to whether you ever want anything to do with the Miami show ever again.”
“Wait, wait, let me put you on speaker. All right. Rafi is listening. Is Kari there?”
“Right here beside me.” Ian started to hit speaker on her phone as well, then decided it might work best if Kari remained slightly apart.
At Graham’s request, Ian repeated his impressions for Rafi. Then he said, “There should be some room for compromise. Right now they have her running flat out for two days.”
“I insisted they go back to the original agreement,” Graham replied. “Kari arrives at the gala after your concert. She gives one interview on-site. Nothing more.”
“Hold that thought. What if we could work with what they clearly want to see happen? Offer a concept that satisfies the PR group? Only shape it into something Kari might actually enjoy?”
“Not possible,” Kari said. “Not in a million billion years.”
“What did she just say?”
“She has reservations.”
“Ha,” Kari said. “Joking at a time like this. Double ha.”
Graham asked, “What did you have in mind?”
“Anything that happens at the gala is going to be rushed and noisy.” Ian pondered. Then, “Kari’s had her share of bad experiences with the art critics.”
“They’ve been awful,” Kari said.
“But what if the Miami interviews aren’t done by critics at all?” Ian talked as much to her as to Graham. “Her world, her fans, these are people who defy the critics. Fine. So restrict the interviews to journalists who are truly fans of her work. People who have written and talked about her before. Who can show they are on her side.”
Kari was watching him now. Fully there.
Graham remained silent.
Ian felt as if his idea took form in Kari’s crystal gaze. “Say she limits herself to two interviews. Tight restriction on who attends both. In one, she walks around the exhibition. Talking about how her art took form. Her beginnings.”
Another silence. Then Rafi asked, “The second?”
“Same structure, only this one takes place inside your gallery at the art fair. She talks about what she’s doing now. The new pieces. How she feels herself growing. Where she is headed. Who she is becoming.”
Graham asked, “What do you think?”
Rafi responded, “What do I think? I’m back in heaven again.”
Graham had resumed his calm, thoughtful air. “This is a wonderful idea, Ian. How does Kari feel about it?”
By this point she had shifted over so as to lean her head on Ian’s shoulder.
“She seems agreeable.” Ian asked her as much as them, “Can I make one more suggestion?”
Graham said, “By all means.”
Kari nodded against his shoulder.
“Is there a top-tier art school in Miami?”
“There are several,” Graham said. “My favorites are the School of Fine Arts and the University of Art and Design.”
“Why not see if they’ll do a joint session, open only to students, to be televised after the fact? And it’s not handled by some snotty professor. The interview needs to be performed by the biggest television personality they can arrange. Aim for a structure they could offer to the Arts Channel as a special. At least, that’s how you should pitch it.”
Another silence. Then Rafi said, “Shivers.”
Graham asked, “Kari is open to this?”
As if in response, Kari slipped the kitten into Ian’s lap. But only so she could wrap both arms around his neck.
Ian said, “Kari thinks it might work.”