Midnight Harbor

Book 8: Miramar Bay

by Davis Bunn

Genres: Religious & Inspirational

Synopsis

Hearts, dreams. and creative spirits are stirred in this beautiful novel about fate and second chances, from the international bestselling author of the California-set Miramar Bay novels.

Running from the ghosts of yesterday . . .

There was a time when classical guitarist Ian Hart was on top of the world. Awards. International acclaim. Adoring fans. And the belief that it was forever. Now, under the shadow of a scandal and betrayal that destroyed his career, Ian wonders what the next day will bring. In the midst of a life in turnaround, Ian’s Aunt Amelia—his closest friend and greatest supporter—passes away, leaving him her home in Miramar. It’s just the quietude he needs to reflect and to try and move forward. But what awaits Ian in the tranquil seaside town is more than he ever expected.

Toward a hopeful tomorrow . . .

Kari Langham is a stranger in her own family—misunderstood, dismissed, and underestimated.  They strive for wealth, status, and fame while Kari finds personal fulfillment in painting. Wanting nothing more than to escape the soul-crushing sheen of a Hollywood life, Kari does the only thing that makes sense. She flees to Miramar. Renovating an old barn into her home and atelier, Kari finds anonymous sanctuary. But the openhearted town, and the world at large, has something else in mind—for Kari and for another newcomer to Miramar.

Ian and Kari are finding themselves in a haven by the sea, and it’s just the beginning. They’re ready for whatever the future brings, and to embrace with all their hearts what matters most.

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Ian’s overnight flight from Washington landed in Los Angeles forty-five minutes early, just in time for him to watch the pale wash of a new dawn. The same travel agent who had been handling him for years had arranged this particular trip. Which had been hugely embarrassing for them both. Flying economy. Selecting the airline and flying overnight because of the cost. Ditto for the rental car. Thankfully, no explanation had been necessary. News of Ian’s recent scandals had made almost daily headlines in the local Annapolis papers. Frozen accounts. Federalist townhome going up for auction. Bankruptcy. When he’d gone by to collect his tickets, the agent had actually said it was a good time to get out of town.

Ian had become accustomed to drinking his coffee black while recording his first album. The studio had kept artificial everything—sweetener, dry milk, the works. He had soon learned only newcomers took anything in their coffee. At four o’clock in the morning, with gallons of caffeine drunk during session after session of repetitive takes, it no longer mattered what anyone put in their mug or how long the pot had been stewing. All anyone wanted by that point was the jolt. The stronger the brew, the better. Six and a half years later, Ian still took it black.

Such memories struck him at the oddest times. Like now, as he stood by the terminal’s east-facing window, watching the sunrise and waiting for all his fellow passengers to grab their luggage and depart. He was fairly certain several had recognized him. Hurrying now meant running the risk of them taking selfies and, as had happened several times since the scandal broke, finding himself the latest and hottest image on Snapchat.

He took his time, drank a second cup, and waited until the sun was a completed golden globe. After all, there was no longer any reason to rush.

For the past several whirlwind years, free time had been a luxury. The first few days after his world fell apart, being liberated from his dawn-to-midnight schedule had left Ian weightless. Now, though, the hours clung like weights. Memories rose unbidden, drawing him back to the horrors that had shredded his world.

Just like now.

He remembered what it had felt like seven years earlier. The morning his former manager, his supposed friend, had called. Five fifteen, the world still dark, Ian nearly shattered with exhaustion after having just returned from concerts in Paris and Frankfurt, having flown back because he was scheduled to start rehearsals with the National Symphony Orchestra the next day. Just the same, thirty seconds after being awoken, he was dancing. Shouting into the phone, almost delirious with astonishment and joy. His album had been nominated for a Grammy. It had debuted at the top of the classical list. Number one.

Ian Hart. The classical guitarist the world had been waiting for. Handsome and gifted and possessing an almost magnetic draw. Captivating audiences wherever he went. A global star on the rise. On and on, the critics gushed. For years. Long enough for Ian to assume it was his forever.

Ian dumped his half-finished cup into the trash and started down the crowded hall. Off to begin his new life.

He was three days shy of his thirtieth birthday. Too young for the world to be carving his tombstone.

But still.

Ian collected the rental car’s keys, signed the papers, and ignored the stares that followed him. The Kia had a weary four-cylinder engine and almost fifty thousand miles on the odometer. The interior smelled of old ashes and sweat, which was hardly a surprise, since the air conditioner was not up to the morning’s heat. The motor moaned and coughed as he entered the freeway traffic and aimed north.

There were few things that could have forced Ian to emerge into the public eye and endure a cross-country trip. But news of his aunt’s passage had come as a terrible shock. When the San Luis Obispo attorney had called and requested he fly out, Ian had instantly agreed.

From his early childhood, Amelia had played the role of loving older sister. She had brought rays of hope and a promise of better tomorrows into an era that was almost as dark and dismal as Ian’s present. After his own parents had vanished from the scene, Ian had been raised by his paternal grandparents. Sort of. Ian’s grandfather had considered Amelia to be a “repository of bad habits”—his exact words. Ian’s grandmother had referred to her only daughter as “that wretched girl.” For his tenth birthday, Amelia had tried to have herself named Ian’s guardian. After Amelia lost what became a vicious court battle, Ian had been ordered never to mention the woman again.

They had, of course, remained secretly in touch. That had become much easier once Ian’s star began to rise and he gained the freedom that came with money in the bank. Then Amelia’s partner succumbed to leukemia, but not before they ran through almost all their joint savings in treating the illness. Six weeks after the funeral, Amelia sold their Baltimore home and moved to California. “Your star is on the rise,” she told Ian when he drove her to the airport. “You won’t have time to miss me.”

“But why California? It’s the other end of the known universe.”

“That’s part of the appeal. We went there from time to time. I fell in love with a quiet coastal town called Miramar. You should visit.”

“I won’t have any choice, with you out there.” He knew he sounded disappointed, and couldn’t help it.

“Everyone needs a harbor at midnight,” she said. “This is mine.”

When Ian asked what she meant by that, Amelia’s only response was that she hoped he wouldn’t need to understand for years yet. By then they were standing outside the departure gate, and she begged him to come visit. But life and success got in the way, and Ian never did. Not even when he had gigs in LA. By that point, his schedule no longer permitted side trips. Or so he claimed when they met.

Amelia never revealed her failing health. She simply continued as she had all his life. Being there for him. Just like now. He learned of her death only when the mysterious California attorney called to say he needed to come out for the reading of Amelia’s will.

Just past the first Santa Barbara exit, northbound traffic on the 101 came to a complete halt. Southbound vehicles continued to thunder past. Ian followed the example of other travelers: he cut off the motor, rose from his Kia, stretched, and stood in the late afternoon heat.

He waited there for almost three hours. Long enough for exhaustion to set in. And hunger. He had been skipping meals, dining instead on worry and fears. By the time the traffic started moving again, the sunset was a faint smudge on the western ridges. Ian pushed on as far as he could, but finally admitted defeat. He took the exit for a town he had never heard of before. He avoided the Residence Inn close to the interstate and selected a strip motel that had seen better days. The manager accepted his cash payment without comment and pointed him to a diner a block farther down the street.

He took a stool at the counter and accepted the waitress’s suggestion of the daily special, meat loaf. The food was hot; the serving overlarge. He walked back to the motel, showered, and slipped into bed. The walls were paper thin, which forced him to listen as two men and a woman in the next room shouted and argued in a language he did not recognize. But not even the woman’s shrill voice could hold him back from falling asleep.

When he woke at two in the morning, Ian knew a moment’s panic. Then he remembered the flight, the drive, the motel. His mattress had grown a lump just under his left ribs. Ian pulled the covers onto the floor and settled down once more. The darkness became crowded with terrors he could scarcely name. Going broke. Being saddled with a mountain of unpaid bills. Losing his career.

And the worst fear of all. Not caring if he ever played again.

Despite the conditions, Ian slept as well as he had since disaster struck. He woke the next morning surprisingly refreshed. He entered the lobby and paused at the sight. The adjoining breakfast room was jammed, almost every table taken. The diners all appeared to share the same surly, sullen expression. Heavy and unkempt and hungover and rough. Ian was tempted to turn away. But he was hungry, and the food was free. He loaded a plate with breakfast burritos, poured a coffee from the urn, ate hurriedly, and returned to his room. He took another shower, then carried his cases to the Kia—one suitcase of clothes and two carbon-fiber travel cases for what had formerly been his favorite guitars.

Ian then returned to the lobby. The manager had the calm manner of someone who had seen it all and found much of it hilarious. “Did you have a nice stay?”

Ian tasted several replies and settled on, “The next room spent a long time shouting.”

“That would be the Armenians. They show up every week or so. Noisy, but otherwise never any trouble, I’m happy to say. They’ve got a relative who’s a guest of the state.”

Suddenly, the guests crowding the next room made sense. “There’s a jail near here?”

“Prison. Jail is county. Lompoc is federal and state both.” The manager smiled across the counter. “First time in California?”

Ian had actually visited the state twice before, once to perform at the Hollywood Bowl, the other time to record an album with the San Francisco Symphony. But it seemed safer to reply, “Sort of.”

“Lompoc’s the state’s largest prison. Most of these other guests have somebody doing time.” He handed Ian the bill. “A lot of hard-luck tales in that room, if you have a mind to listen. Which I don’t.”

Ian rejoined the highway and continued north. By the time he entered San Luis Obispo, the sweltering heat had again defeated the Kia’s AC. He parked in a multistory garage and headed out on foot.

The lawyer’s office was done in warm desert tones, with attractive artwork and comfortable seating and a smiling receptionist, who introduced herself as Regina and asked if she could get him anything. Three minutes later, a tall, attractive woman in her early thirties strode confidently into the reception area.

“Mr. Hart? Megan Pierce. I’m afraid I have only a few minutes. I’m between conference calls with clients.” She inspected his rumpled, sweaty appearance. “I was expecting you yesterday afternoon.”

“I was caught behind an accident near Santa Barbara.”

“Told you,” the receptionist said. Regina was a cheerful, heavyset Latina with skin the color of warm caramel. To Ian, “I saw it on the news. The tailback was over twenty miles long.”

“I waited there for almost three hours,” he said. “When I finally started moving, I was so tired I gave up and spent the night in Lompoc.”

Both women were aghast.

Megan demanded, “Why on earth did you stop there?”

“Because I didn’t know any better. I heard about the prison only this morning.”

Megan addressed the receptionist. “Call the inn. See if the room is still available.” She inspected him again, then asked, “Why didn’t you call and let us know you’d been detained?”

He shrugged. “No phone. They cut off my service.”

“Who did?”

“The lawyers forcing me into bankruptcy. They froze my accounts. Which canceled my credit cards.” He watched a different light enter her dark gaze. “I thought you knew.”

“Of course, we’d heard about the scandal.” Megan inspected him. “Let me make sure I understand. Attorneys representing groups who were defrauded by your manager—”

“Ex-manager.”

“Seek to hold you accountable for his debts.”

“That pretty much sums up my life these days.”

Her words took on a sharper edge as she told Regina, “Call the clients. See if they’ll let me reschedule our conference for an hour later. Is Sol in?”

“Working on motions. Not to be disturbed under any circumstances. By anyone. No exceptions.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Regina smiled. “Should I tell him you’re on your way?”

“Don’t bother.” To Ian, she said, “Make yourself comfortable. This may take a few minutes.” Megan started down the side corridor, then turned back. “When I called and you said the movers had just arrived . . .”

“They’re kicking me out. I was putting everything in storage. My home is going on the block next week.”

“That’s what they think.” She walked down to the corner office, knocked, and opened the door.

A male voice shouted, “Go away!”

“This can’t wait, Sol.”

“I don’t have time for you!”

“Tough. You just have to make time.”

“Megan, not today!”

“Sol, you want to hear this. And it has to happen now.”

When the door closed behind her, the receptionist told Ian, “I love it when Megan gets mad.” She lifted the phone, punched in a number, then went on, “Things were getting a little stale around here. Now you’ll see the sparks fly.”

When Megan emerged from the office, she entered the reception area and informed Ian, “We need to put off anything further until tomorrow. Would eleven o’clock work for you?”

“I don’t have anything else to do.”

“You look like you could use an afternoon off. Any luck, Regina?”

The receptionist handed Ian a typed page. “You’re all set. The inn is a straight shot six blocks west.”

“Their restaurant is first rate.” Megan must have seen his sudden discomfort, for she added, “The expenses are taken care of.”

“And Amelia’s will . . . ?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” Megan replied, already heading toward her next legal fire.

Ian managed to retrieve his rental car and find the inn without getting lost. The hotel was pleasant indeed, a sprawling old house with two arms encircling a central courtyard. His room overlooked a sparkling fountain. Star jasmine filled his room with a fragrance that passed as hope. The difference between this place and the Lompoc motel was good for a smile.

He ate a solitary meal, remembering other hotels. Huge suites filled with flowers and people and phones and chatter. Ian had always moved at warp speed, arriving late and leaving early. There had never been time to appreciate his surroundings. The complimentary bottle of champagne had usually remained unopened, sweating in a bucket filled with melting ice. Just another part of the life he had worked so hard to claim.

The sun had scarcely set when he went to bed.

It felt as though he had just fallen asleep when the whispers woke him. But the clock said it was half past one. Ian sighed his way from the bed. The vague murmurs had become an unwelcome part of far too many nights. He slipped into his trousers and left the room. The night was dry and warm; the courtyard silent except for the fountain’s steady tune. He sat in a cast-iron chair and watched the moonlit water. Helpless.

These ghosts had become part of his dark and lonely hours. It was impossible to ignore the whispered truth now. The real reason why he had insisted his manager arrange for Ian to take a year off. The raging argument that had followed, the bitter incriminations, the threats which Ian had thought were bogus. Until his manager had vanished, stripping Ian’s bank accounts and stealing the advances from three contracts Ian had not known even existed.

Exhaustion was the only reason he had given his manager for demanding the year off. And that was true enough. But it was also just a small part of the whole picture, the one portion he had been able to confess aloud.

Now, though, the specter of truth loomed so large, it blocked out the moon and threatened to cut off his air.

The fire had gone out.

The music that had filled his world, the ceaseless flame that had carried him through so much, it was no more.

Ian sat and listened to the fountain’s melody and tasted the cold ashes of everything he had lost. His last four performances, the most recent album, the live concert aired on PBS—they had been soulless exercises. He had played with mechanical precision. Had gone through the motions, had smiled as he endured the applause and ovations. The audiences had cheered; the critics had gushed. But it was all a sham. Before each of those gigs, he vomited from the dread of enduring another hours-long lie.

So he had demanded a year off. And they had fought, he and the man who had steered him to global acclaim. And on that very first free day, when he should have been readying himself to star in Miami’s annual music festival, a gig he had never agreed to do, Ian learned of the man’s treachery.

And now the empty days stretched out before him, a litany of lost hours.

The gallery was on Cañon, several blocks off Rodeo Drive. The front glass wall was framed by Brazilian granite, ivory veined with palest blue, which also covered the floor in the two main rooms. Kari stood by the front windows, examining the first painting that adorned the left-hand wall. When she reached out to adjust the frame, one of the gallery owners rushed up, flapping his arms like a wounded stork. “Kari, dear, please, I beg you. It was perfect.”

She took a step away. Wrapped her arms around her trembling middle. “What time is it?”

“Precisely ninety seconds since the last time you asked.” Tall and impossibly slender and incredibly well groomed, Raphael was born to rule the California art trade. Graham, his partner in life and art, served as a quietly conservative balance to Rafi’s flighty ways. Somehow Graham kept Rafi from simply floating off on whatever stylish breeze happened to blow down Beverly Hills’ wealthy lanes. Rafi stepped over to where he filled her field of vision. “My dear, if confronting your family with the truth frightens you so, why not let us handle this?”

The answer was, Kari wanted nothing more. But her former therapist and closest friend had insisted, in her own gentle and iron-willed manner, that Kari do this herself. And Kari knew the woman was right. Even now, when it meant stripping away the masks that had shielded her all these years.

Graham spoke for the first time since Kari’s arrival. “Here they come.”

Rafi started in, saying, “Kari, dear, sweetheart—”

“Leave her alone,” Graham said.

“Well, really, anyone with eyes can see the poor girl—”

“Rafi, come back here and be quiet.”

Graham might as well have shouted a command, given the way Rafi huffed and turned and scuttled back to the gallery’s second room. Kari unwrapped her arms and took the three hardest steps in years. And stood by the entrance to greet her first guests.

The instant her father rose from the limo, Kari knew he was in one of his rages. The jerky movements of his body, the clenched jaw, the crouched position there by the limo’s rear door, how the driver backed away. Justin rose from the limo’s other side and spoke across the roof. Her father chopped the air between them and poured fury into his phone. All the flavors of her early years were on display in the street outside her gallery event. Her father’s wrath, her brother’s need to play diplomat. She watched Justin round the vehicle and gently but firmly pull the phone from her father’s grasp. While Justin poured verbal oil on troubled waters, her father stomped down the sidewalk, stabbing the air with one fist. Kari remained standing there behind the glass wall. Invisible.

Justin, her older brother, was the spitting image of their father, minus the extra eighty pounds from age and living the rich life. They were both dressed in slacks from three-thousand-dollar suits, striped shirts with white collars and cuffs, flash ties. Her father’s bark was audible through the closed glass doors, but his words were indecipherable. Both men lived for this. Father and son were now partners in one of LA’s most successful agencies. They thrived in the hypercompetitive LA film world, masters of the only universe that mattered.

Kari’s attention became held by how her reflection was planted ghostlike between the two men. She studied herself anew, starting with her outfit of midnight-blue silk slacks, matching Ferragamo open-toe sandals, slate-gray jacket over ivory blouse, pearls Kari had inherited from a grandmother she did not remember. And had never worn before this night. Her hair and make-up were courtesy of a shop Graham had selected. As she watched, the scene coalesced. The two men, the limo, Kari’s reflection, the door standing between them. A portal to a tomorrow she had strived toward and feared for almost three years.

“Graham?”

“I’m here, darling.”

“Would you take a photograph?” She watched him lift his phone. “No, stand farther to your right. Good. Can you shoot me and them without a flash?”

“Hang on and let’s see.” He clicked his phone’s camera several times, then walked over. Showed her the screen. “How’s this?”

“Perfect.” That would become her next painting. A good one, she thought.

Planning her next creative effort granted Kari a remarkable sense of calm. Which in itself was an astonishment, given what she was about to do. Strip away years of ghostlike life. Reveal the woman she was determined to become.

Kari had spent her childhood skirting around the edges of her fractured family. She had had no idea what caused most of the sudden eruptions. Had known only that silence was her safest refuge from becoming a target. Their explosive rages had come with increasing frequency, heightening her desire to maintain a safe distance. When she was eleven, she traded her upstairs bedroom for the pool house. Kari had often suspected it took months before her parents even noticed the change. It was there in her little private space that Kari’s dream and direction and life finally took shape.

She was almost ready when Justin handed back the phone and gestured for their father to join him. As they approached the entrance, Kari told the two men hovering behind her, “Thank you both. So much. For everything.”

Graham took that as their time to retreat. “We’re just a scream away, dear.”

Kari took a long breath and opened the glass door. “Hello, Daddy. Justin. Welcome.”

Her fat. . .