Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (4 page)

“Here you are.” The voice was quite close, and by now, well known. Parker was stepping out of the lounge right next to hers. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, showing off well-toned forearms. His hands were strong, square, his fingers sturdy. “I have the feeling we are meant to meet again and again.”

She turned her head away.

“And I’m very happy about it, I have to say. What great good fortune—the press lounge is right next to yours!” He leaned over to her. “So, you’re having champagne again? Mind if I join you?”

“Yes.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m thinking it’s not right that they leave you up here all by yourself. You should not be all alone. Someone should look after you, pour your wine. Will you let me do that for you?”

“No.”

“I never thought you’d be this monosyllabic. Really.” The music was loud enough to nearly drown out his words, the beat throbbing, demanding.

Naomi loved how it sounded, almost like a big band was playing: full, harmonic, balanced. Jon had taken up the koa and stood nearly at the edge of the stage, close enough for the fans in the first row to touch. He picked up his cue from Sean and began to sing, his voice well modulated, carrying, seducing the crowd. She could see them standing up clapping, waving, singing along, diving into the song with him; and she leaned forward, her hands on the railing, wishing she was down there too.

Without her noticing, Parker had gone back inside and now returned with a bottle of wine that he offered to her. “If your husband prefers the adoration of the multitude to adoring you, let me keep you company for a while.”

Without looking his way, Naomi placed her glass on the far side, well away from him.

“Come on,” Parker said, “I can see your glass is empty. Are you angry because of the press conference? I assure you, I was really concerned about you. What happened at the Oscars, it was nearly too much to take.”

The song had finished, the cheering ebbed, and Jon took the microphone in his hand. “Two years ago we were here,” he addressed the audience. “I remember it was cold, and it rained that evening. I wasn’t in a very good mood, I have to admit. The coffee was lousy, and I hadn’t slept too well the night before. I guess I needed a miracle to happen to make me happy.”

Laughter rippled through the rows, which made him hold up his hand.

“Yes, and some god must have smiled on me, because that miracle happened. And that’s why we are here again tonight. Welcome, all!”

His hand came up well above his head, guitar pick between his outstretched fingers. “Let’s rock the house, guys!”

And they did, launching into the fast, hard
River Song
, one of her favorites, and the reason for being where she was now.

Excitement welled up in her, and a sudden joy, a kind of happiness she hadn’t felt in many months. Not since she had woke from her coma and found herself in a hospital bed, in a sea of injury and pain. Her heart beating fast, Naomi jumped up. They were playing the old version of the song, the one she had first heard on the radio nearly twenty years ago, the same one that had made her send a sheaf of lyrics to Jon.

“Take it, Sean!” Jon called, and Sean, smiling softly, hit the piano keys. It was their most famous song, the steamy rock rhythm like the beating heart of a huge beast, and Jon moving with it, giving himself up to it.

She was ready to cry. They had never again performed this solo, not after she had left Jon all those years ago, not in a single concert, Sean had told her. It had always been her favorite piece, and Jon knew.

He stood below, on the stage, legs apart, shoulders straight, chin raised, steadying the guitar with one hand and with the other pointing straight at her, looking up and nodding slowly, triumphantly.

Naomi’s fingers gripped the cold metal of the rail tightly, and she didn’t care at all that many faces turned her way, that some flashlights went off, this time not directed at Jon but at her; and she even leaned forward a little in her desire to be closer to him.

The song ended. Jon handed his instrument to a waiting tech and took up the microphone to start on the quiet, soft
Secret Garden
, the first song she had written for him. The lights turned mellow, the audience quieted down.

It was time to go. The lounge, Naomi realized, was not the right place for her at all. She needed to be at the heart of the music, in the place where she could smell the dust of the stage and the sweat of the performers, where she could feel the beat in the soles of her feet and maybe, in a passing instant of glory, touch Jon’s hand when he came close.

P
arker saw her leave and hurried to the hallway to follow her, only to stop in his tracks after catching sight of the the massive security guard who accompanied her.

“Thank you, Alan. I’ll find my way, no worries. I don’t need an escort.”

“Ma’am” was the reply, “those are not my orders. It would cost me my job if I let you go all the way to the backstage area on your own. Mr. Stone told me not to let you go anywhere alone. He was very adamant about that.”

Defeated, she folded her hands and lowered her head.

“If I may,” Parker interrupted, “I’d be more than happy to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Ma’am?” Alan moved to block his way.

“Please take me backstage.” She shot one last, blistering look at Parker and walked away, followed by the guard.

“Naomi,” Parker called, just before she entered the elevator.

The way she stopped, the way she held her head while she waited for what he was about to say, seared his heart. She was still in the same red dress she had worn leaving the plane; her braid hung over her shoulder just like before. “I’ll ask you for an interview. I’ll call your manager and ask for an interview. Will you agree?”

Slowly, she came back into the hallway, the lift doors closing with a discreet hiss.

“Why,” Naomi asked. “Why do you keep pestering me? Why were you at the press conference? Are you stalking me?”

He had to think, and quickly. “No. No, please don’t think that.” He moved toward her but stopped when Alan raised his hand in warning. With a shrug, Parker explained, “I’m a journalist. And you…” A softening of her mouth, just barely noticeable, but good enough for him, for the moment. “I would like to give you the opportunity to tell the world what happened, give your view of the affair; no scandals, nothing you don’t want written.” Once more he fumbled for his business card, just like on the plane, and held it out. “Give me a call? Think about it, at least?” He drew a deep breath. “And if I annoyed you or overstepped, please put it down to bedazzlement.”

She did not take the card. But, very gently, said, “Call Sal Rosenberg. Tell him I told you to. Then we’ll see.”

This time the doors closed behind her, and he was left alone, his hand still outstretched, with the memory of rose perfume and the swirl of a red skirt around slim legs.

One step. He was one step closer to her.

A
ll she had to do was follow his voice. Like a lighthouse beacon, it reeled her in, the safe harbor waiting. Doors opened for her swift and smooth, security personnel eased her through and let her pass.

The huge hall was like an aquarium turned upside down, a bowl filled with music instead of water, the beams of light skipping over its surface, like sunlight breaking on a river, the standing, dancing people in it algae and ferns rooted to its bottom yet swaying in a rhythmic current. Jon was speaking to the audience while he played the intro bars to his next song. Naomi went to stand next to Art and Russ at the computers right at the side of the stage, and Jon saw her then. His face lit up, and with a movement of his hand the next song took off, his voice carrying it away across the thousands of listeners. He had turned slightly toward her, as if he was singing to her alone, flirting with her until she smiled back at him.

It ended too soon. A last encore, a last bow, and he left without turning back once. It took a while for the audience to accept it, even after the band had taken their leave.

“Let’s go,” Art said. He rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Brilliant, they were really brilliant tonight. Wow, Jon had some steam in him for a first show! What a grand opening to a tour; he really rocked them. I think, boys and girls, we will have to discuss a new live album, and don’t you just love the idea!”

Sal, a very wide smirk on his face, nodded. “Hell, yeah. Feels like the old days, doesn’t it? And I had thought he was too old for it.”

“He’s not old.” Naomi slapped his shoulder. “Don’t say that. We are not old.”

“Of course not, baby girl.” The smirk turned into a friendly grin.

“Well, you aren’t. But forty-six in this business can be difficult. Not for your man though.”

A tech came by carrying Jon’s guitars. “Here, I’ll take those myself.” Fondly he stroked the wood, now smudged from Jon’s touch, the ebony one rattling when he shook it. “The stupid bastard. He dropped one of the picks inside again. We should really tape the damn things to his fingers.”

They met Jon in the hallway. The assistants were around him, draping a large towel over his shoulders and handing him a bottle of water, relieving him of the cables and monitors while Ralph was carefully wiping makeup and sweat from his face to give him some comfort.

“Naomi.” His voice was raspy, rough from the singing, his features under the grime tired, ashen, the glamour gone. Yet seeing her, he smiled. “Babe, just let me take a shower and change, then I’m all yours. Can’t wait to get you alone now.” Impatiently he waved the others away.

“Will you wait here for me? It’ll only take me a minute, I promise.”

“I’ll come.” She blushed at the way he pursed his lips and drew up his eyebrows.

It had been so many years, Naomi had no idea if his routine after a concert had changed since she had last been with him, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be there when he turned back into a normal man, into the husband she loved.

“I can’t promise you I won’t try to kiss you,” Jon said once they were inside the dressing room. “I can’t even promise we’ll leave here anytime soon.”

“Didn’t you book a hotel room?”

His shirt was sodden when he peeled it off and dropped it on the floor. “Don’t tease. It’s bad enough being without you for so long.”

“Hurry up, Jon.”

Surprised, he looked up. “Hurry up? You want me to hurry? Nah, there won’t be no hurrying, I can promise you that. It will be soft and slow, and you’ll enjoy every second. Need to remind you why you’re married to me. The sad days, and the lonely days, those are over now, my dear.”

chapter 4

D
awn was stretching its first cool wisps into the room when Naomi woke. Disoriented, she lay and watched the curtains dance lazily in the breeze and listened to the sounds of the traffic, trying to remember where she was, and why. Just yesterday she was greeted by the scent of a warm sea, the cry of gulls and the chugging of boats leaving for a day of fishing in Chesapeake Bay. Now, it was the lumbering rumble of buses passing on the street below that greeted  her.

Breath touched her shoulder, arms held her enclosed, her body lay nestled into another, warm, safe, familiar.

“Can’t wait,” he had said, and whisked her away to the hotel despite Sal’s shouts and the waiting throng of fans outside the venue. The drive had taken forever, but he had not touched her, had even sat in the other corner of the limo’s large backseat, well away.

“If I kiss you now, mayhem will ensue.” had been Jon’s words. “I don’t know that I’d keep it together.” And he had pulled out another bottle of water from the small fridge, his eyes never leaving her.

Once in the privacy of their suite, though, it had gone differently. Jet lag had its claws hooked into her flesh and mind by then, and it had been like a wild dream. Jon, whispering to her in the darkness, coming for her, claiming her, a dark, sensual fantasy, right here in their bed. She had felt like the prey of a big, feral jungle beast, caressed into submission, gently mauled, loved to death. Her aching limbs told the story.

“Never again,” he had said to her when she was sobbing in ecstasy. “Never leave me again. Every time you do, I break. Promise, I want to hear you say it.”

And, clinging to him, his in every way, she did.

C
arefully she tried to slip out from under the sheets, but the arms around her tightened.

“Where do you want to run off to now?”

The touch of his lips on her ear made her shiver. “I thought I’d go for a walk and get some coffee. It’s so nice outside, and the sun is just rising. It’s a lovely morning, Jon.”

“Not yet. Please don’t go yet. I’m sure I can make it worth your while.”

Naomi turned on her back. “Oh, I know you can. But I’m really hungry. There was no proper dinner last night, and now I want pancakes, and bacon, and a very big mug of coffee. And butter and syrup.”

“Hungry, dear heart? Really?”

She looked up at him, at his dark eyes and the beautiful shape of his mouth, at the face she loved so much. There was no way she could tell him how much she had missed him in her exile, how great the impulse had been to return, and how hard she had fought it. He would never understand. The scar down her side was healing well; it didn’t pain her anymore, and she knew that it would, in good time, be little more than a thin white line, barely visible. The surgeons had done a very good job. But it was there; she saw it every time she looked in a mirror, and it reminded her of what had happened. She could feel it now when Jon ran his fingers down her body, and she flinched.

His lips tightened briefly, but he did not pull back and did not take his hand away either.

“Does it hurt?” Jon asked. “Did I hurt you? Last night, was it too much?”

That made her smile and stretch under his touch like a cat. “Oh no.” Her arms came up around his neck. “Never too much.”

“Ah, okay.” His voice turned into the soft, deep drawl that made her melt. “If that’s so, I have some more to give. Or do you want me to call room service for your breakfast now?”

“No.” She moved against him. “I’d rather go hungry for a little while longer.”

J
on was still groggy from the concert, but when she said she wanted to go out for breakfast and not order room service, to spend some time strolling through London, he agreed.

There was a coffee shop just down the road, right across from Harrods, and he knew she always had gone there when she had been in town before, and then, after sitting and watching the passersby and the traffic, walk across the street and shop for tea at the notorious department store. He had seen the tin boxes in her kitchen back in Halmar, placed in a neat row on the top of the fridge, sorry, dusty things filled with stale, unused leaves. Perplexed, he had asked why she spent her money on them at all, and she had given him that impossible shrug of hers and replied that it was a ritual, nothing more, something she did to remind herself that she had actually been in London.