Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (3 page)

“You look good, Jon Stone. You look good enough to make the ladies wilt. I’m jealous.” Naomi stepped back to look at him critically. “How I hate sharing you with all those others. You know you’re mine alone, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Three weeks, and you have no idea how I missed you. You can’t begin to imagine how lonely I was and how grueling the nights were—me, alone in that bed, your scent still on the pillow.” He tried to embrace her, but she stepped back, shaking her head. “And now you won’t even let me kiss you. What’s the use in being married?”

“You will get rumpled. No hugging and fondling before the show.”

Before he could react, there was another knock on the door, and he sighed. It was time.

She was there. That was all that mattered. Naomi once more sat on the corner of the dressing table, in the way of the makeup artist, forcing him to work around her, creeping ever closer as the eyeliner was applied, fascinated by the procedure; and Jon, a deep burning in his heart, recalled how she had done the same thing right before that interview, after they had won the Oscar. Moments, it had been only moments later that she had been shot. He felt the urge to jump out of the chair and be done with it; take her hand and walk out of his old life; forget the stage, the concerts, the publicity and hide somewhere, in a quiet corner of the world where no harm would come to her and he could be himself.

“Just a minute more,” Ralph murmured, feeling his impatience.

“So you miss Halmar?” Jon asked around the puffs of powder Ralph was producing around his face.

There was no answer for a while, and he closed his eyes. The smell of the makeup was irritating.

“No.” Her voice was steady, calm. “No I don’t. I want to be here, with you.”

When he dared to look she was smiling directly at him, her eyes bright.

T
here was a  way of dealing with the press that they had developed over the years; and now, walking into the room reserved for them, Jon said, “Stay with Sean and Art. You don’t need to be out there with me. Not this time,” and quickly pressed her hand. There would be no more kisses before the show; he was ready for the limelight now.

“
H
ello, darling.” Sean touched her shoulder lightly. “It’s good to see you. Are you well?”

She had missed him, and everyone in the group. As much as she had needed the silence, she needed this more.

Standing between Art and Sean she felt safe, at home in a way she didn’t feel anywhere else, and so she leaned into him briefly.

“I’m well, Sean, and so glad to be back with you all.”

He left his fingers on her shoulder.

The last time she had been at a press conference with Jon it had been before the Grammys. Then she had gathered all her courage and joined him, faced the many questions, cameras, and curious eyes; but now, she knew, she would never be able to bring herself to do something like that again, ever. The lights scared her, the hum in the large room seemed deafening, the crowd—focused on Jon—as threatening as a clown with razor teeth.

“Steady,” Art mumbled when he felt her draw back. “We’re all here. Don’t be spooked. No need to be afraid.”

But she was. For the first time since the shooting, the well-hidden panic surfaced: black bile in her throat, a silver flitter behind her eyes, red knives in the veins of her arms.

Naomi gasped. She could feel Sean’s steadying arm around her waist and Art moving to stand in front of her, shielding her.

“Do you want to go?” Sean asked softly. “If you want to go I’ll take you back to the dressing room, or Art can take you to the hotel. What do you want, darling?”

She clasped the frame of the door. Sal was speaking, thanking the press for being there, giving some details of the tour program, praising the venue and the organizers, then he introduced Jon and invited questions.

“I’m okay,” Naomi said. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to give in. There was the taste of metal on her tongue, and breathing seemed hard.

“What I would like to know,” someone in the audience said, “is how you deal with what happened to your wife at the Academy Awards? You are launching a big concert tour today, and where is your wife?”

Abruptly, silence fell. Naomi felt Art and Sean shift, felt them move closer to her as if to close ranks, and saw the security men around them change their stance into one of alertness. The woman, LaGasse, hired by Jon to be her guard, moved in front of her with the easy elegance of a cat, her hand on her back, under her suit jacket.

“This is not a topic for tonight.” It was Sal’s voice, contained and cool.

She couldn’t see Jon from where she was standing now, inside her tight ring of people, not even when she rose on her toes to peer around LaGasse.

“It’s also none of your business. She is well, and that’s all I’m going to say about it.” Jon was furious; she could hear it in his tone.

“It was your former lover, was it not, who shot her? A young woman named Sophie? A movie director’s daughter?” The interrogator was still the same. “It was she who shot your wife, is that not correct?”

No one spoke. Then Jon replied, very softly, “Yes. That is correct.”

“Your wife was severely hurt, correct? She lost part of her lung? And her bodyguard was killed. The girl Sophie died too, if I remember correctly. So what about your wife? Where is she now? Here you are, starting a tour, and where is your wife?”

Naomi tugged LaGasse’s sleeve, and she moved marginally, just enough to allow Naomi a view without being seen.

The man who was putting these questions to Jon, who was verbally pushing him into a corner, was the same one who had bought the champagne on the plane, the one who had introduced himself as Parker.

“My wife.” Jon rose. He was formidable in his stage outfit, and now, staring down at his opponent, he looked intimidating. “My wife and her well-being are my concern. Neither her health, nor anything else about her, are open to discussion.”

“Oh.” Parker stepped forward. “So you are keeping her hidden?”

A murmur went through the group of journalists, some of them stared at him quizzically.

“I’m not keeping her hidden, what utter nonsense.” Jon threw a quick glance in her direction. “It is her decision alone how much she wants to reveal about what happened, and to whom. If you are that interested in this, I suggest you ask her for an interview and not disrupt my press conference.” He grinned wryly. “I wish you the best of luck. You’ll have to deal with her managers first, and they are as tough as nails. I’m glad I get to see her sometimes, they protect her that well.”

Most of the reporters chuckled, breaking the tension.

“Stupid,” Naomi heard Art whisper. “How stupid of him. Why did he react like that? I’m not getting it; he could have told them you were here and fine and looking forward to the tour. What made him take the bait like that?”

Strangely, her fear seemed to dissolve. For the first time in months she felt the urge to talk about the incident in Hollywood, to tell someone and lay the burden aside. Only once, way back when she had still been in LA, had she tentatively spoken to Art; but she had been shy, scared, worried, not wanting to bother any of them.

“So you don’t mind if I ask your wife for an interview?” Parker was asking, “because I will. I’d kill for an exclusive interview.”

Jon, on the point of leaving his spot by the microphone, turned around to stare at him. “We do not,” he said slowly, “we do not use that word. We do not talk about killing. We are musicians, artists, writers. We do not enjoy death, or pain, the way you reporters do. Something terrible happened at the Oscars, and we still bear the scars of that day.My wife nearly died. The trauma we all suffered is awful, but it’s nothing compared to what she had and still has to endure.” He leaned forward, his palms on the table before him, and the glamour of the rock icon was broken when he added, “I beg you, leave her alone. She is only now reclaiming her life. Don’t hurt her.”

“Come.” Sean gripped her arm and led Naomi away.

S
he didn’t see Jon again until it was nearly time for him to go onstage. Naomi knew the entire band and the technicians were together for a last pep talk and a few jokes, and no one else was allowed inside, not even Sal. The door to the room they were in was tightly closed. Together with Art and Sal she stood outside, leaning against the wall, tired, feeling the jet lag at last despite sleeping on the plane.

She felt displaced, as if she was walking in cotton, almost as if she had just woken from anesthesia, with the same taste of electricity on her tongue and dullness behind her eyes. It wasn’t tiredness but something else, as if her body was off-kilter, and her mind too.

From inside they could hear snatches of laughter, a voice raised
in
singing for a brief moment, not Jon’s though, and then, at last, they
piled out, exhilarated, hyped, ready for the stage and the thousands of waiting fans.

Jon came out last. He gave her a smile, standing still as one of the techs attached the in-ear monitors and clipped the little transmitter box to the back of his trousers.

“Baby,” he said, his arms outstretched so the cables could be hidden under his shirt, “you look tired. Are you sure you want to stay and listen to this nonsense? It’s only me up there. And you know very well how I look.”

“What you said,” Naomi replied, “the things you said in there, Jon.”

His look grew pensive. “You shouldn’t have witnessed that. I’m sorry, my love. I should have made Sal interrupt the conference right away. They had no right to ask those questions.”

“But maybe they do.”

“What?” He had been busy tucking the shirt into his trousers, but now his head came up. “What are you saying, Naomi? This is private.”

“Yes…and no. They won’t stop asking.” His collar was lopsided, and with a deft twist she put it in order, letting her hand rest on his shoulder. “Someday I’ll have to face it. It might as well be now..”

Someone handed Jon the microphone. Without thinking, born of the many years onstage, he softly spoke into it and adjusted his monitors. For a moment he was far away, their discussion forgotten, as he said, “A little more bass, Russ.”

Naomi took a step back from him. Every second that passed now, every breath he took, moved him farther from her; she could see it in the absent gaze, in the set of the mouth and the way his posture changed. He was Jon, and yet he wasn’t; he was more, as if—with the eyeliner, the face powder, and the sleek shirt—he had turned into a new being, a vessel for the music, the core of his band.

His body was moving with the rhythm he was hearing through the monitors, his lips whispering the lyrics, his fingers twitching as he imagined the chords he would be playing in a moment.

“I love you,” she said softly, “I love you, Jon Stone. No matter what, remember that.”

And Jon, his attention drawn back to the real world, gripped her tightly around the waist and kissed her fiercely, mindless of the cables and the fact that everyone onstage had heard her words through the microphone in his hand.

chapter 3

T
here was a seat for her in the first row, right in the center, but Naomi refused, saying she didn’t want to be among the steaming crowd when Jon started to flirt with them.

“We have,” Sal offered carefully, “a VIP lounge reserved. I think he meant it for you, just in case you showed up. I don’t think there’s anyone else there. You would have it all to yourself.”

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted either, sitting so far up and away from it all, alone, but she was too tired to stand upright anymore.

“Here.” Carefully, he took her arm. “I’ll take you there.”

They could see Jon from where they were standing, his back turned to them, at the bottom of the stairs that would take him up on the stage, hidden in dimness. He looked unreal, bathed as he was in the mist of the fog machines, colorful beams flitting across his hair, a still, tall figure, all his attention focused on the music.

“Okay.”

There was an elevator, for which she was more than grateful. Stairs would have been too much, she knew, and she was sure Sal did too. She also knew that he had made sure she would be comfortable.

They could hear the opening bars of the intro even inside the elevator, and she wished it would move faster so she could see Jon when he entered the stage, when the beams caught him and the applause surged through the air like a huge wave. She fidgeted, impatient, and Sal grinned, but he didn’t say a word.

The lounge was the best in the building, as close to the stage as possible, and there was no one in it. A guard was standing just outside the door, a stern, hefty man with cropped hair, his suit smooth over well-developed muscles and the dreaded bulge of the gun. The sight was enough to make her feel exhausted, scared, and in a way despondent. He gave her an attentive but humorless nod, no trace of a smile, not a hint of personality; and Naomi wondered if this was something they learned during their training, to distance themselves from their charges, not to be attached in any way. Stewart had died for her during the shooting. He had been her bodyguard and she had liked him, had even enjoyed his company when she went out for a stroll on the beach at dawn. Jon hadn’t allowed her to see his family when she had been well enough to mourn him, so instead she had made a pilgrimage to the cedar grove on the grounds of their estate where Stewart had lugged a large piece of driftwood one morning at her request. There, she had at last cried for Sophie, for herself, and also for Stewart, so senselessly dead.

“Your name?” she asked the strange man, and he looked at her in surprise.

“Alan,” he replied after a second, “madam.”

“Well, you don’t need to stand out here like a statue, Alan. Come inside and watch the show, if you want to.” It was pathetic and unprofessional, and she knew it.

He did not even move. “Ma’am, my place is right here.”

Sal listened to the brief exchange without interrupting, patiently holding the door for her.

Someone had taken care to place a chair on the balcony so she could watch without being locked in the secluded room. On the table, on spotless white linen, was a large bouquet of roses, and a cooler with champagne and a single flute.

“Try to get some rest,” she heard Sal say. “I’ll be back shortly and keep you company, okay? But right now I have to get back down there and see that everything is going the way it should. I’ll make sure the waiters look in on you and get you anything you want.” He hesitated. “Are you all right? Are you sure you want to do this, Naomi? You don’t have to. I hate to leave you here like this, but…”

“It’s fine, Sal, don’t worry.” She rather liked the privacy and seclusion, at least for the moment. It would give her a chance to rest and get her flight-muddled mind sorted.

“It’s good to see you.” He was still standing in the doorway. “I’m glad to see you.” He left before she could answer.

The music soared. It filled the hall and made its way right to her heart, made her sway a bit with the impact, sorry for the decision to be up here and not down there with the others, perched on a stool beside Russ at his computers, right next to the stage. From there she could have heard Jon’s breath when he came over for a drink of water between songs, could hear him crack a joke with the band and catch a glance from him, a smile.

A young woman entered, a tray in her hands, to offer her coffee or wine, food and cake; but she declined. With a glass of champagne, Naomi sat down in the chair on the balcony where she could see across the audience and right at Jon.