CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 8
Castaways was a work of art, aged and weathered, filled with good cheer and a rainbow of fragrances. Long before their first course arrived, Kari grew certain she was in the company of genuine people. There were five of them crammed around a table meant for four. But the entire restaurant was overfull, and the confines somehow added to the atmosphere.
Noah was accompanied by his wife, Jenna Greaves. The two had been married only a few months, and their love surrounded the table in a soft luminescence. Noah, the artist with wood and stone, and Jenna, the . . . what? She had described herself as a nurse, but the way the others watched her as she spoke, the depths to Jenna’s gaze, Kari was fairly certain Jenna carried secrets. She and her husband both. Just the same, they showed her a genuineness that no amount of hidden elements could taint.
The other couple was equally fascinating. Noah’s half brother, an African American county sheriff named Amos, and his Latina wife, Aldana. Silent and strong and entirely comfortable in their own skin. The harmony that bound these four people was a quiet force that welcomed Kari yet held the rest of the world at bay. What was more, the sheriff lived just down the valley lane from Kari. Soon as Noah revealed this, the couple went out of their way to assure Kari that they would not bother her or probe or come by when they weren’t invited.
Aldana told her, “Privacy is one big reason why people move to our valley.”
“We go out of our way to be good neighbors,” Amos assured her. “And invisible most of the time.”
Midway through the second course, Kari found herself struck by how she was the one who was not being honest. As in, refusing to reveal who she truly was. Forming her own version of the falsehood she had grown up with. Fashioning a lie through her silence. Keeping the truth of who she was hidden. She sighed, confronted by how Miramar was already making changes in her life.
She heard herself say, “There’s more to this than just my need for privacy. Which is really important. I’m an artist. A painter. I go by the name Kariel.”
“Kari Langham,” Noah said. “Wow.”
Aldana said, “You’re famous.”
“I’ve never been comfortable with that,” Kari said. “Fame.”
The four exchanged a long look, and then Amos said, “Somebody needs to tell the lady.”
“You ask her,” Aldana corrected. “There is no telling. This is a request.”
“You know that’s exactly what I meant.”
“Then you should have said it.”
“I’ll do it.” Jenna turned to Kari and said, “We have very dear friends. Ethan is a banker here in Miramar.”
“And an artist,” Aldana said. “He builds miniature houses. A few go to children, but they’re mostly for film sets and such.”
Amos was already busy with his phone. He held out the device so Kari could see a brightly painted palace in the softest pastels. “This is three feet high.”
Jenna said, “His wife, Ryan, is a detective on the Miramar force.”
“We’re all very close,” Aldana said. “The four of them, Ryan and Ethan and Noah and Jenna, they got married in a joint ceremony.”
“We all own an ocean cruiser together,” Amos said. “Love to take you out someday, if you’re interested.”
Noah said, “Ryan has a son from her first marriage. Liam. He’s twelve and a truly gifted kid.”
Amos scrolled swiftly through his phone and showed Kari a sketch of his wife, one that was precise and clear and vivid. A minimum of lines. Remarkable maturity, incredible depth.
Kari asked, “The person who drew this is twelve? Truly?”
“Liam thinks the world of your work,” Jenna said.
“He has two of your posters on his walls,” Aldana said. “Children on the swings. A baby at the surf’s edge, bound by the mama’s legs. The first time my Amos saw that picture, he wept.”
“I did no such thing,” Amos protested.
“Inside, where only I saw.” Aldana nudged her husband. “Where it means the most.”
Jenna said, “Some of Liam’s work was used in Noah’s last television project.”
“Back before my LA world got shredded,” Noah agreed.
Kari studied the four faces. Saw the intensity of the concern for a child not their own, a shared bond, which somehow left her wanting to cry out loud. Shout to her own past, demand to know why she could not have been gifted with such an upbringing.
She knew what Indrid would say. That her past and her longings had all combined to make her and her own art what they were today. Just the same, she had to swallow hard before she could say, “I would be delighted to meet him.”
They breathed in unison.
Jenna said, “It will mean the world to that child.”
“You need to understand,” Noah said, “Liam is the quietest kid I’ve ever known.”
“He can go for hours without saying a word,” Amos added. “Days, even.”
“The best word to describe Liam is solitary,” Aldana said. “I don’t think he has any idea just how lonely he is.”
“The child needs contact with another artist,” Noah agreed.
“I have no problem with silence,” Kari said. “May I make a request of my own?”
Amos and his brother shared a look, then chorused, “Sister, just say the word.”
“I would like to use you and this moment in a new work.”
“You mean paint us?” Amos grinned. “Like we’re somebody?”
“Exactly like that.” Kari took the phone from her purse and rose. “Could you just take a few moments and talk among yourselves?”
She went into the ladies’ and splashed water on her face. She’d hoped to clarify her thoughts, but it proved futile. Her first evening out in this new hometown, and already she felt the ground shifting.
Kari thought most of the successful people in her family’s film world were manically self-absorbed. Miramar and these new acquaintances were so different, she felt threatened. As if all the assumptions she’d made, the walls she’d built to shield her creative fire, simply did not fit in this place. She stared in the mirror and wondered if here in Miramar, she was the imposter.
She reentered the dining room and stopped. The bar formed a brass-rimmed island to her right. Their table was directly ahead, against the far wall. As hoped, the four of them deep in conversation, her presence momentarily forgotten.
Kari raised her phone, brought the table into focus, and shot each individual several times. She had no idea how she would use these images. Only that they represented a seismic shift, a direct honesty, even when they clearly held secrets. They were honest secrets. She couldn’t say it any better than that.
She then widened her focus and photographed the table. She then pivoted in order to shoot the surrounding tables, the entrance, the grand bay window, the bar....
Then she saw him.
Ian Hart. The guitarist whose music had framed a backdrop to so many of her most precious creative hours. Here.
Kari had a sudden certainty that he knew she was there and that he assumed, mistakenly, that she was shooting his photograph. He looked so sad, so resigned....
She walked over and said, “I wasn’t taking your picture.”
He looked over.
“I’m an artist. I wanted . . .” She gestured in the vague direction of her table. “There’s something very special about this place, these people. I wanted to capture it. Not you.”
He nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. About Miramar. I’ve been here only a few hours, and already I feel . . .”
“Disconnected,” she offered. “From out there.”
His gaze cleared. He did not actually offer her a smile. But Kari had the distinct impression he came as close as he could just then. He asked, “You’re an artist?”
She nodded. “Kariel.”
“Are you really?” Ian Hart swung fully around. “Sorry. Of course you are. It’s just . . . I love your work.”
“That makes two of us.” She swatted at the words. “That sounds vaguely nuts. I mean, I love your music. I’ve heard you twice. I mean, in person.” She stopped. “Maybe I should just shut up and run away.”
“No. Don’t go. Where did you see me?”
“Hollywood Bowl. And Toronto.” The only reason she had agreed to accompany her father and brother to the film festival. To hear Ian Hart in person. Who was now so into their conversation, she felt the restaurant slip into vague shadows. “You were wonderful. Your music totally captivated me. Sometimes when I listen to your albums, it’s like I’m hearing the pieces for the very first time.” Kari stopped because her words had somehow brought his sorrow back to the surface. Suddenly, all she had said seemed so feeble and out of place, including, “I’m sorry.”
He made a genuine effort to clear his gaze and offered another almost smile. “I have one of your oils. At least, I did. Now . . . you’ve heard about my current situation?”
Of course she had. But Kari had no interest in talking about things that belonged to the outside world. “Which one?”
“The ballerina dancing on the ocean wave. The first time I saw it . . .” Ian drew a tight breath. “It’s a long story.”
“I understand. A little. Really. And I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . I’ve never spoken with a buyer before.”
“What? Never?”
She shook her head, mostly in wonder. Ian Hart.
“I bought it sixteen months ago. Just as I was beginning to see . . .” Another hard breath. “I needed a break. Your painting reminded me of what I’d lost. What I needed to get back.”
Kari breathed a soft, “Wow.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just moved here.”
“No kidding. When?”
“Yesterday.”
Ian came closer still to a real smile. “Okay, that’s spooky.”
“You’ve moved here?”
“This morning.”
“Wow again.”
“You said it. Why Miramar?”
“I’ve always wanted a refuge. A place where I could be safe.” She could scarcely believe the words she heard herself release. Her secrets shared with a man she knew only through his own art. A total stranger. Now in possession of intimate details. She wanted to take a step back, maybe just offer a soft farewell, until . . .
Ian said softly, “Sheltered from the harshest storms.”
She shivered. Wow did not go far enough.
“My aunt called Miramar her midnight harbor,” Ian said.
What Kari thought was, I’m going to paint that. “Your aunt lives here?”
“She did. I’ve inherited her apartment. As of today.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Kari watched the waiter approach with Ian’s meal and said, “I should get back to my friends.”
“Wait. Kariel . . .”
“Just Kari. Kari Langham.”
“Thank you for speaking with me. Really.”
“I’m so glad I did. Really.”
“Can I see you again?”
Apparently, this was a night made for the shivers. “I’d like that.”
“Coffee tomorrow? No, wait, I’m booked . . . A glass of wine tomorrow evening? Here?”
“Seven o’clock.” Kari brought her smile back to the table, slipped into her chair, and announced, “I have a date with Ian Hart.”