Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (20 page)

Naomi rose from the couch and straightened her dress. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Jon…” Her tone made him turn and look at her. “Jon, they want to take Joshua from us. My father, now that he realizes he can’t have me, he wants Joshua; and I can’t let that happen! I can’t let him snare Joshua away from what he’s really supposed to do! I can’t allow that to happen.”

Carefully, slowly, Jon buttoned his cuffs.

“Joshua was born to be a musician like you, Jon. Not to run a hotel business. That can’t happen, not ever. It’s the worst nightmare I can think of!” She stood before him, her hands in a tight knot, and gave him such a sad, imploring look that he hesitated for a moment before speaking; but then Jon replied,  “Joshua will have to decide for himself what he wants for his life, my love.” He said it as gently as he could. “It’s his choice. We can ease his path and pay for his education. We can show him the possibilities he has and encourage him, but in the end it’s up to him.”

Relieved, she nodded, a tentative smile playing on her lips.

“But, Naomi, if he decides to go into your family business and work for your father, then that’s his choice too. And it’s his right. What your father says is true, darling. You may refuse it, but it’s Joshua’s heritage. It’s his birthright.” He shrugged. “It would break my heart to see him give up music, but if he wanted to go to business school instead, well…”

“I don’t want to hear this!” Her shoulders came up in that gesture of denial he knew so well by now.

“Yeah, I know you don’t. Come here.” It felt good to hold her in his arms, even though she was still bristling, unwilling to soften into the embrace. “It’s like this, Naomi. If we keep Joshua away from your parents, if we don’t let him make his own choices, we’ll be no better than your father. We’ll put the same pressure on our son that he put on you. He hates that you picked me and music. We would hate for Joshua to go into the hotel business, but don’t you think we love him enough to let him go and be happy with whatever he chooses? I know I do. I know I can put my own dreams for him away to see him live his. Can you?”

She didn’t reply for the longest time, just rested her brow against his chest. Jon mulled over his own words, thought about the cool sanity in them. It made his stomach churn. The idea of Joshua leaving Juilliard made him sick with dread. All the hopes he had harbored of some day working with his son, of composing wonderful songs with him, performing them, even touring together, seemed to wash away.

“But it’s so not what I want for him. I want him with us, sharing our life.” Her voice sounded muted, defeated.

“I know, baby. Just like your father wanted you to share his life.”  Lovingly, he ran his hand down her back to cup it around her hip. “I know. Only your father chose to use pressure to get you there, and you ran. We won’t make the same mistake.”

Tired, he was so tired, drained from hours on the stage. There was nothing he wanted more than a hot dinner and a nice, warm bed. In a way it was ironic; during all the years they had been apart he had lamented the loneliness after the concert, and now it was nearly too much excitement.

“I’m not worried about Joshua,” Jon said. “He’ll be fine. We’ll see to it, and let him make his choices. It’s you I’m worried about.” Over her head, he looked around in the room. There was a stuffy smell to it, the vent in the shower did not work properly, and his stage clothes were lying around on the floor. The dressing table was a mess, littered with the tissues he had used to remove the mix of sweat and makeup from him face. Wryly, Jon wondered how many of his fans would really care to see the realities of his life, the unglamorous backstage hours, the exhaustion.

“Me?” Her fingers were in his hair, stroking down the back of his neck, her face upraised to look at him, her eyes dark and troubled.

“Yes, you, because you permit your father to hurt you, because you carry around those old hurts like a ball. I want you to let go. Drop it. Give it a kick and tell it to go to hell. He can’t harm you anymore, love. He can’t harm you because you owe him nothing. He can’t do a thing, Naomi, and if you’re smarting it’s only because you allow it. Just let it go.” He kissed her, prying her lips open with his tongue, gently forcing her to yield until she relented, at last melting into the embrace. “There, much better,” Jon breathed.

As if someone had pulled back a curtain, as if a sound or a scent had triggered the memory, he saw that hotel room before him and the young girl she had been then in his bed, the sheet pulled up to hide her body. The middle of the night it had been, and he had gone to get some champagne from the fridge. Returning, he had looked at her, at the sweet curve of her mouth, the curtain of black hair falling over her pale shoulder, and he had nearly dropped the bottle. His heart had been ready to burst with love that first night, and it still was.

“Babe, let’s just go to the hotel, shall we?” The skin of her throat was warm and soft; a hint of her rose perfume still clung to it. “Let’s go to our room and hide. Let me take you to bed and love you, and we’ll just forget your parents.”

“Yes.” No more than a breath on his cheek. “Yes, yes, Jon. We’ll worry about them tomorrow.”

He laughed at her words. “You said it, Miss Scarlett.”

Chapter 18

A
group of fans was waiting outside the hotel when they drove up. The driver cast a questioning glance at Jon through the rearview mirror, but Jon shrugged. “We’ll get out. It’s a quiet and disciplined crowd.” He chuckled. “Hey, we’re in Switzerland. They don’t even know how to make an uproar.”

Naomi threw him a disdainful glance. “You have no idea. If you hadn’t stolen me away that day, I’d have been standing here that evening after the show.”

On the point of getting out of the car, he turned back. “I stole you? I don’t think there was a lot of stealing involved. You came quite willingly. You came to my bed willingly the next night. Didn’t take lot of persuasion to get you there, you wild hussy.”

“Jon.” It was hardly more than a sigh, and he took her hand.

“Come on, then. A couple minutes giving autographs, and then I’m all yours.” His mind on more exciting things, he led her up the stairs and toward the hotel lobby. Sal and Art were there to greet them, a number of guards to keep the fans in check, but it was an orderly, polite thing.

Sal handed him a pen, and he signed the tour books and CDs, chatted, even allowed a few photographs. Naomi had not, to his surprise, gone inside ahead of him but remained by his side, even smiled and talked when she was addressed, most of the time very close to him but once or twice talking to someone on her own. Sal hovered close behind her, and LaGasse watched every movement.

“No,” he heard her say at one point, “I think I want to settle down after this tour. There is so much writing still to be done,” and wondered if she had something special in mind, something he knew nothing about yet; and it made him want to wander over to her and ask right away. With that simple sentence, spoken to a stranger, another piece of the universe seemed to fall into place, putting the world back in the shape it was supposed to be.

Pen in hand, Jon stared out at the lake over the head of the woman in front of him, an elderly blonde; and for an instant he saw the vista of winter days in Brooklyn, in their new house, writing, composing, living their life. He even thought he could smell the snow despite the mild summer night.

Mindlessly he put his name on the cover of the book, right across his own face, his heart filled with the sudden hope that they could indeed find peace, put away the dark ghosts of the shooting, the sadness.

“Darling.” She was right behind him, her hand sliding up his back. “Are you done yet? Can we go?”

“Yes. Yes.” It was as if she had read his mind, as if she knew what he wanted more than anything right now, more than food, even more than a drink. He put his arm around her waist to feel her warmth, the curve of her body, the promise of love. “Let’s go.”

“
I
thought I should tell you,” Art said diffidently as they entered the lobby, “your parents are waiting for you in the bar. It was either that or they would still be standing outside your dressing room, Jon. I couldn’t very well have them arrested for stalking, could I?”

Naomi stopped walking, but Art shrugged. “It’s your family, my dear. No matter how much you fight it, they’re still your family. Blood is thicker than water and all that crap.” He grinned. “In fact, I think there is hope. Your father does like music; he just doesn’t understood yet that Jon’s is just as good as Bernstein’s or Mozart’s, just…more modern.”

“You’re talking garbage, Art.” Jon had the urge to throw something, preferably something big like the crystal vase with the thick gladiola bouquet in the lobby. “Why are they here, for crying out loud? Why did you bring them to our hotel?”

Again Art shrugged. “They’re staying here too. What am I supposed to do: have the management throw them out? Put them in another hotel?”

There was a juicy curse forming on Jon’s tongue, but he swallowed it and sighed. “All right then, the bar it is.”

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I want?” Her fists on her hips, Naomi glared at them. “I don’t want to talk to them. I want to go to bed, and I want my husband to go with me. I want champagne and strawberries, and I sure don’t want them with my parents.”

Delighted, Jon laughed. Art was trying to hide a grin, but it wasn’t easy. “Right on, honey,” he replied, trying to be serious. “I know what
you mean. But honestly, you can’t just walk away. Also, I think this is a
good moment. Your father seems…willing to talk. As far as he can be willing, that is.”

Naomi threw her hands up.

“Come on, babe.” Jon looked at his watch. “We’ll give them ten minutes, and then it’s you, me, and the champagne, all right?” He added when she hesitated, “You know it would just gnaw at you all night if you walked away now. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink while we talk to them.”

She was so lovely when she was angry. It put some color into her cheeks and gave her eyes a wild sparkle. Jon loved how a few locks had loosened from the tight chignon and floated around her face, little statements of freedom, tiny flaws in her perfect appearance.

“A double,” she said, “make it a double Scotch. All right then,” and stalked off ahead of them.

“Man, Jon.” Art rubbed his now stubbly cheeks. “You really must have the guts of a lion. I wouldn’t want to get into a fight with her, ever.”

“It’s not that bad.” Smiling, Jon clapped his shoulder. “She’s easy to appease. ”

S
he sat with her legs crossed, leaning back so her face was in the shadows, as if she had calculated the effect. Jon thought she looked very dramatic with only her mouth highlighted by the candle on the table, and it painted that dark, luscious red, a stark contrast to her light skin. It was interesting to see her with her mother again. Lucia looked like life itself in comparison, a generous, mature version of her fragile daughter; and it made him worry about Naomi’s health. She was holding up, traveling well, never complaining; but Jon had a suspicion she was more exhausted than she let on.

Sal and Art were with them. They had picked a booth in a far corner of the nearly empty bar. There was no Scotch. Olaf had ordered champagne, and he served it to them himself, mixing a dollop of peach brandy into every glass.

“My wife,” he said, without looking at any of them, “loves her bubbly this way. When she was younger, Naomi liked it too. Of course, her tastes may have changed now.”

Naomi’s lips tightened briefly, but she took the glass her father offered her with a nod of thanks.

“And I thought I’d better indulge my wife tonight,” Olaf went on, “because she’s really angry at me, and I can’t live with that.”

Surprise washed over Jon. The exhaustion that had threatened to drown him vanished, and he sat up straight.

Olaf’s blue eyes flashed at him. “There’s nothing worse than an incensed Carlsson female. You should know by now.”

“Yes.” Carefully, very cautiously, Jon looked at his father-in-law, but Olaf was busy handing Lucia her glass, and she was smiling at him.

For the life of him Jon could not understand how anyone would want to smile at Olaf. It seemed a bit like smiling at a wolf. Heat prickled between his shoulder blades, watching them. They were such an unlikely pair, Lucia as lush as a tropical garden, Olaf as stern and cool as an iceberg.

“Your man Arthur here,” Olaf said into his wild thoughts, “says you are the new Leonard Bernstein.”

“Uhm.” Jon felt he needed a stronger drink, and badly. The situation was as unreal as a dream during an overnight flight.

“I love Cole Porter.” Olaf took one of the cigars offered by the waiter and sniffed it before lighting it. “Perhaps my taste in music is old-fashioned.”

Naomi didn’t move.

“Jon did a recording of Cole Porter songs a few years back,” Art replied, holding out his glass for a refill. “It was quite a success. For a while we thought about going on tour with a big band, but Jon didn’t want to.” He grinned at Jon. “Said it was too hot onstage for a tux.”

Jon shrugged. “My wife makes me wear one often enough, I don’t need to go to work in a tux too.” He saw Olaf’s eyes travel to Naomi, but she didn’t react.

Lucia leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulders in a thick, straight curtain. She was elegantly dressed in a caramel linen suit, a thin, cream silk blouse under it, with a beautiful triple string of pearls and some rings on her fingers that rivaled Naomi’s. For a quirky moment Jon felt an insane satisfaction at having won Naomi as his wife, a woman as well-bred and sophisticated as she was, marrying him a mere Brooklyn boy. He took one of the cigars and let Sal light it for him.

“It is hard.” Olaf had folded his hands on his knees as he slowly picked his words. “It is hard to see well-laid plans come to nothing. I was raised to take over the business, and it was a matter of course for me that my child would do it after me. The hotels have been in this family for centuries; and now, with Naomi, it ends.” Sadly, he smiled at Lucia. “My beloved wife has put the dagger to my throat. She is forcing me to choose.” His shoulders came up in a gesture Jon knew only too well, and he bit down on his cigar. “How can I not choose Lucia? How would I live without her?”