Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (2 page)

“Missed you so much,” Jon breathed into her mouth. “You have no idea. I wanted to go after you, find you and stay with you, give up the tour, everything. Nothing makes any sense if you’re not there.”

From outside he could hear Sal’s voice, not yet impatient but loud enough to remind him of where he was supposed to be.

“They are waiting.” But he didn’t let her go. It felt too good to have her in his arms again.

Naomi pushed against his chest. “In a minute Sal is going to bang on the door, and that will be so awkward. I’ll be right here, darling. Give me a chance to get some coffee and then I’ll join you, I promise. But I just got off the plane, and I need to freshen up a bit before I see the rest of the group.”

“But how will I be sure?” It sounded a little plaintive, and it made her smile.

“You’ll just have to trust me, I’m afraid. I’ll make Sal take me to hospitality and get me a backstage pass so I can move around without being a nuisance.” She rose on her toes. “But first, one more kiss.”

Jon didn’t want to let her go, so afraid she would be gone when he returned from the sound check. He had done it once before, taken her with him onto the stage and sat her down next to Sean on the piano bench, just to make sure she would not vanish, and he was very tempted to do it again now so that he could keep her in sight the whole time, only he was sure he would meet with resistance.

There was a knock, diffident and not too loud, and he sighed.

“Go,” Naomi urged. “Don’t make them wait. I promise not to go anywhere.”

“I can’t.” His hands dug into her hair, loosening the braid, freeing the locks. “How can I, with you here, after not having you in my arms for a month.”

“Three weeks, Jon. Don’t exaggerate so. And we talked on the phone all the time.” But she didn’t try to get away again.

“The phone,” he mumbled against her temple. “Can’t make love on the phone. Can’t feel your breath on my skin, can’t touch you, can’t see you when I wake up.”

Her body softened against his, but only for a moment. “Jon.”

“Ah, Naomi, you’re breaking my heart. All I get is a moment’s solace, and then you send me off again. I’ve hardly had time to say hello to you.”

“And little wonder.” She undid her braid to put it in order. “You were too busy kissing me to speak in proper sentences.”

He had been on his way to the door, but turned and shot her a dangerous glance. “I haven’t even begun kissing you, my dear. Just wait until we’re back at the hotel. And then.”

F
or the first time in his life Jon didn’t want to go onstage. He made his way slowly, carefully; and when he was at the bottom of the narrow stairway that would take him up at the back so he could make a decent entrance, he stopped. One hand on the handrail, he looked back, dithering.

Sean had started the band. They were rehearsing the orchestral intro, a short piece out of the movie soundtrack that had won the Oscar just a few months ago. Jon could hear Sean giving directions to their sound engineer and Russ talking to Sal, could see them still fiddling with the recording computers at the side of the scaffolding and the lighting people climbing along the crossbeams like monkeys. Their rope ladder dangled down onto the stage, almost exactly on the spot where he was supposed to be, right by his microphone stand.

Someone had set up his guitars for him, but not in the right order, and he cursed silently. His attention wavered. Part of him wanted to go back to where Naomi was so he could look at her and have her in his arms, but this bothered him.

Over the years they had all developed a routine full of small rituals; and now someone had broken them, had changed the setting, and the obsessive part of him was upset. Calling for Sal, Jon jumped up the few steps. He pushed at the ladder hanging in his way and pointed at the guitars, a harangue on his lips, but Sal was already there, putting the instruments in their place.

“Goodness,” he grumbled, “you are insufferable. If you can’t stand being here, then go and smooch some more with the wife. Don’t dump your sour mood on us.”

Jon didn’t reply.

“You’ve already wasted fifteen minutes. You have another forty-five for the rehearsal, and then the press and the fan clubs will be here, Jon. You know we promised them a  press conference.”

As if he didn’t know, after a quarter century in the business. The first show of the tour, and they needed a good write-up. Everyone in the music world would be looking at the London concert, and everyone who was still thinking about buying a ticket for the later performances too.

“Yeah.” He still didn’t feel like playing, let alone singing. She had said she wanted coffee and that she would join him shortly, but she wasn’t here yet. It made him restless. “Let me just go and make sure she’s all right.”

Sal sighed. “For heaven’s sake, Jon, she doesn’t need a babysitter. Let me go and see what Naomi’s up to; but please, just do your job.” Without waiting for a reply he left.

The guitars were well polished, not a single fingerprint from the tuning on their glossy surface, just the way he liked them. Lovingly Jon ran his hand over the koa twelve-string, its bold grain and coloring like the curly auburn hair of a lovely woman. It was an old friend, as old as his career. How well he remembered playing it in the sun-drenched open-air stadium in Geneva all those years ago when he had met Naomi, and the turmoil of his feelings when he realized she was the one and only, the one girl he wanted in his life.

Beside it was the ebony acoustic, his lover, the one that had been custom-made for him ten years ago. He had seen the black wood in the workshop—the fine, wavy red stripes like the highlights in Naomi’s locks—and he had known he wanted it. The sound of the instrument, when it was delivered, had first surprised and then nearly hurt him. It was soft, melodious, with a sweet, mellow timbre; and it had an echoing, haunting quality that reminded him so much of her that he could only bear to play it when he was alone.

Now, of course, everything was different. She was back in his life; and he could easily pick up the guitar during a concert, could even play their most intimate song,
The Secret Garden
, on it and no longer cry.

Sean launched into the opening chords.

Jon raised his head to look up at the high ceiling, listened to the intro and let it inundate him. He wanted to stretch out his arms and float on the melody, feel it carry him like a wave. It was his music, the extension  of his soul into the real world, a shining cloud that  surrounded him, the fabric of his existence.

He picked up his twelve-string, swung it over his head, and settled it into place against his body. The guitar pick in his raised hand, he waited for his cue, then dove into the ocean of his creation.

chapter 2

S
al found her in the hospitality area, sitting quietly in a corner sipping coffee.

He stood in the doorway for a moment before going over to her. She had changed, but not as much as he had feared. It was true, she was still frail, and there was a residue of fatigue around her eyes and mouth; but Sal hoped it was more from the overnight flight than from her injuries.

“Hey,” he greeted her softly, “it’s good to see you back. He can be such an asshole when you’re not around.”

A small smile appeared on her lips. She tried to hide it behind the cup, but he saw and grinned in reply.

“So how was your flight?” Grabbing a cup for himself, he sat down beside her, his back to the wall.

“It was okay.” Naomi shrugged. “I had this guy sitting across the aisle, and he kept pushing champagne at me, wanted to talk, talk, talk; and all I wanted was to really get some rest. That’s the downside of traveling commercially. No private space, for hours.”

With a little sigh, she gazed toward the hallway leading to the stage. “But I wanted to be here as soon as possible. I promised.”

Sal didn’t point out to her that with a private plane she could have traveled on her own itinerary, and without unpleasant company, so he only replied, “Someone wanted to impress you. I’m not suprised.”

She pulled up her shoulders in that well-known gesture of denial. “It was more than that.  He was just a bit too inquisitive. He insisted on telling me his name. Parker, he called himself. Just that.” For a moment she seemed lost in contemplation. “He was really rather cute, now that I think of it. Very charming, in an English way. Very European. A bit like a puppy, eager to impress. I turned my back on him and went to sleep. Ah well.” A wave of her hand, a cool dismissal. “It’s over now, and we’re all here.”

Sal had the feeling there was a little more to it, as if a shadow of that flight was still lingering in her memory, and he was on the point of asking. But then, seeing her face soften as the music drifted toward them, he said, “Come on, you know where you’re supposed to be. He’s on the stage and being petulant because you’re not around, and I promised to take you there, drag you by your braid if I have to. You have such a way of unsettling the routine.”

Naomi rose. “But I promised to come to London. Would you rather I leave again?”

“No!” The thought alone was enough to make him break out in a sweat. “Don’t even think that! If you left now I know there’d be no concert tonight. He’d go after you like a mad dog and to hell with a sold-out house!”

The red dress looked good on her. In fact, Sal thought, trailing after her toward the hall, she had regained some weight and was well on the way to being her old self, to being the beautiful, healthy woman she had been before the attack at the Oscars.

“You look great.” He held the door for her. Naomi gazed at him over her shoulder.

“I mean, you look well. Rested,” he added hastily. “The break did you good. You even have a tan. Good!”

Without replying she walked to the stage and put down her cup on the edge, right at Jon’s feet, and propped her elbows on the wood. It was a little too high for her, but she managed. Jon, in the middle of a verse, gave her a smile without missing a beat. He stepped forward and leaned down to her, still singing, to kiss her, and when it did not work went down on his knees, his guitar slung on his back.

Sean, picking up the mood, changed to a gentler measure, changing the character of the song; and the lighting engineers, at their tables at the back of the house, pointed a mellow, pinkish beam at them. The image was so perfect, so made for a romantic moment somewhere in the show that Sal wondered if they should repeat it with a female fan, but he dismissed it right away, knowing full well Jon would never agree. He would never sell himself like that, not for anything. Sal sighed. It would have been a nice snapshot for a front page.

A
couple of pieces later Jon called an end to the sound check. They had, he announced, rehearsed more than they needed to already, and he was ready for some food and a rest before he had to face the press. Before Sal could get in a word, he had vanished, Naomi in tow.

In the dressing room, quiet welcomed them. Naomi’s ears were still ringing from the volume of the music, her heart beating fast, bones throbbing with the rhythm. She sat on the corner of the table again to watch as Jon was transformed into the icon, the star who would make thousands of women swoon only a little while later.

“This one?” Jon took a shirt from the rack, one among many. It was cream silk with colorful embroidery on the shoulders and down the sleeves. He held it up for her to see, a grin on his face. “I’m going to wear this one. What do you think?”

Her breath caught. “Really, Jon?”

“Yeah, I think. Does it remind you of something?” The supple material seemed to flow through his hands like a small waterfall.

Of course it did.

The concert had been only a couple of years ago, and she remembered all too well how she had stood outside with the fans back then, hiding from him, wanting to see him but not wanting him to see her after their long years apart. Cold rain had dripped down her neck and soaked her coat, and Jon had walked by, eating an apple, unconcerned. She had told him, of course, once they had found each other again, how she had sat through the concert afterward, desperate and lonely, and how terrible his shirt had been.

The makeup artist came in, towels over his arm. Muttering at seeing John still in his jeans, he turned and left again.

“Well, yes or no? I have to change.” He began to strip, right there in the center of the room, tossing his clothes on the couch. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s no time for that now. Don’t make me regret that I have to go onstage in a little while.”

Deep inside her heart she heard him sing as he had that night—sad, lonely, his voice breaking on the songs they had written together—and she recalled so well sitting in the third row, crying, mourning their past.

“Not that one, Jon.” She couldn’t bear to see him in it again. “Please, pick something else.” And, with a wave at the rack, “Pick a new one. There are plenty. Give me that one. It’s my memory, and it still hurts, and I want it all for myself.”

He laid it in her outstretched hand, bemused. “Okay, so which one do you want me to wear? You tell me.”

Naomi slid from the table and went over to the collection of stage outfits, all still covered in protective plastic covers, pristine, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. For a moment she hesitated, then she took a dark red linen shirt down, and black trousers.

“Here,” she said, “dress like a gentleman. Dress the way you should. You don’t need those crazy American outfits to stand out on the stage. Your music and your voice alone are good enough for that.”

“I am American.” Jon’s eyebrows came up in amusement. “And you are married to me, so that makes you one too, more or less.”

“Never!”

The vehemence of her reply made him chuckle. “So tell me. What was that place where you were these past weeks? Your family’s?”

She returned to her perch, the discarded shirt crumpled in her lap, and told him about the hotel where she had gone to rest, one of the many that belonged to her family, this one in Maryland, on the Eastern Shore, in a small town with the name of an archangel.

“It’s right on the water,” her legs dangling, her fingers once again playing with the eyeliner. “With its own dock and a small swimming pool on the deck. It’s been ours for ages. Well, for twenty years.” She shrugged. “I don’t like the weather there. It’s okay now, but in a couple of weeks it will be as hot as hell, too hot to be outside.” There was a bowl of lemon candy on the table behind her and she picked one out. “I got up every morning at dawn to watch this couple go out to catch crabs. They would take a boat and row across the bay, their dog with them, and he would stand in the prow, all excited and yapping. I think it was a very young dog. He could hardly wait to get to the beach, and sometimes he jumped into the water just before they got there. It was fun to watch him shake himself and spray the water all over his people. They didn’t seem to mind though.” She smiled in reminiscence. “Then a little later the fishing boats would come in and I’d be there to watch the cooks buy what they wanted for the day, and then I’d go to the kitchen with them and have some coffee. And then…” She gazed into the distance, right past him. “And then there would be nothing for me to do. Mostly I sat on the deck and tried to write. They wouldn’t let me work the desk. And I hated it. I wanted to do something.”

Jon, on the point of pulling on the shirt, let his hands sink to look at her and listen.

“It felt a bit like being back in Halmar, for a while. But then I realized it wasn’t, and that was when I knew I was ready to come back to you.” A smile brightened her face. “And about time too, it seems.” Her attention returned to him. “Look at you, daydreaming when you should be getting ready. Here, let me help you.”

Patiently he stood still as she buttoned the shirt for him and straightened the shoulders, the urge to draw her into his arms strong. He even held out his hands so she could fasten the cuffs.