Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (42 page)

Silence settled over the table, and even the noise from the street seemed dimmed, as if the traffic had stopped for a moment and the pedestrians on the sidewalk were holding their breath, waiting for a reaction.

With a deep breath Jon took up his knife and fork. “Anyway. We need to plan a trip to Boston. When do you think we should go?”

“Tomorrow, “ Olaf said. “Let’s go tomorrow. We’ll fly. I’ll arrange for the jet.”

He signaled to the cook, who went inside and brought out a cart with desserts and coffee.

Olaf’s eyebrows rose in amusement at Naomi’s critical glance. “Naomi, since you seem so unhappy with the hotel in Positano, why don’t you take it over? I’ll give it to you. To be honest, we hardly stay there anyway. Most of the time we are at Cesare’s house, with the family. I’ll give it to you, and you can kick out the manager.”

She raised her chin at him. “I want this one too. And I want a number of houses in Brooklyn, close to where we are, where our people can live while we work on the musical. I want them close to us.”

That made him give her one of his feral grins. “You want this hotel here? As your own? What about your mother and me; are you going to kick us out then? We just moved here!”

“You can stay, of course. But I want it.”

“Oh, hang on,” Jon said. “You want to own this place? Why in the world?”

Naomi waved at him. “It will still be part of the family estate, Jon, don’t be ridiculous. No one’s going to tear that apart. And it will all end up with Ethan and Joshua. And whoever has the guts to stand up to them. All right then, Harvard.”

Olaf cut a big piece of cheesecake and handed it to her. “Tell me, daughter mine, what’s this about houses in Brooklyn?”

Bemused, Jon listened as they launched into a complicated discussion about estate prices, locations, financing, and ownership while he poked at his cherry pie. He felt hungry for a cigarette after the excellent meal; but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen Olaf smoke, and he had forgotten to bring his own. Kevin had left, saying he had to get back to work and how happy he was at the way things had turned out.

“Can’t say I ever wanted Ethan to be a surgeon.” had been his parting words. “Even though it’s the family tradition. I’m way more pleased with this.”

“So,” Jon heard Olaf say, “you want it to be part of the Carlsson estate? What would we do with the apartments? Once you move on, what will we do with them? And why can’t these people take care of themselves?”

“Because,” Naomi replied, laying her hand on Jon’s, “they are part of my family. I want them near me,” and Olaf nodded.

It still felt surreal. It felt scary and otherworldly, seeing them sit around one table and talk to each other like normal people, pouring coffee for each other, debating the purchase of a Brooklyn Heights building as if they were debating buying a new car for Naomi.

“All right.” Olaf picked the phone out of his pocket. “Let me talk to Carl. He’s a bit better with that than I am.” Once again that shark’s grin appeared on his face and made Jon’s skin crawl. “I’m only good with money.”

“Did you hear,” Jon said, “the FBI were at our house today. Seems there won’t be a court case. Parker died in a stupid accident at the airport when he tried to leave the country.”

“Really.” The shark’s grin widened.

“Yes, fell down some stairs or an escalator, they said.” Jon watched hopefully as a bottle of Scotch was brought in by a waiter and placed at Olaf’s elbow, followed by a wooden box and cigar utensils.

“What a pity.” Olaf opened the box and gazed down at the cigars. “Would you like one, Jon?”

They were Cuban, the best, and their scent was divine. Jon rolled his between his fingers and listened to the soft, crackling sound of the whole leaves. The brand was the same he had offered Sal and Sean at the Malibu house just before they had left for the Academy Awards, when they had been waiting for Naomi. He remembered how she had come down the stairs, how his heart had nearly stopped at seeing her, thinking for a moment that she was bowing out at the last moment and had not even taken the time to dress before he realized that she was wearing an exquisite, lovely, cream silk dress made to look as if she was wrapped in a bed sheet, as if she had just risen from bed. For an instant Jon thought he could even taste the aged whiskey they had been drinking.

He had been so proud of her, so full of love, and so insanely happy that night, before it all ended in disaster.

“Thank you indeed, Olaf,” Jon said, and leaned forward to let him light the cigar.

“Did you have something to do with this, Father? With Parker’s death?” Naomi was looking at them, her eyes traveling from one to the other suspiciously, but Olaf gave her a gentle smile.

“Drink your champagne, darling. Do you really think I have enough clout to have someone killed? How silly.”

chapter 40

J
on woke to what sounded like a door closing.

It was barely light, dawn creeping through the curtains on gray, tired
fingers; and once again he was alone, her side of the bed cold and empty.

Panicked, he sat up.

Everything seemed as it was supposed to be, their packed suitcases stood against the wall, her purse on top of them; nothing was missing. And yet, once more, he was alone. His glance fell on the bathroom door, but it stood slightly ajar, and the light wasn’t on.

That morning in Malibu came rushing back, the morning a few months ago when she had told him she had to leave, had to find peace, and it could not be with him. Jon recalled only too well how they had stood on the roof terrace of their house while the sun rose over the hills, and how his heart had broken, piece by little piece. For a moment panic took over, the bare-chested, simple fear that she was again gone, again for some reason he could not fathom, gone from his life; and he jumped out of bed, calling her name. There was no answer.

Barefoot, in his pajama pants, Jon wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen. Here too everything was quiet. She had not turned on the coffeemaker, not put bread into the toaster, not taken out a mug. The dishwasher hadn’t been unloaded, and the fridge was once again woefully empty. Neither of them was very good at looking after themselves, Jon realized, staring at the single egg left in the carton and the one tired tomato.

Amparo would be arriving later that day, and what a blessing that was. He had not been able to convince her to stay here in New York with them though; she didn’t want to leave her family and home in California, but she had offered to send her sister, Lourdes, to run the house for them. Jon could hardly imagine a life without Amparo.

With half his heart beating, the part where hope lived, he walked into the living room, expecting to find Naomi on the couch, asleep again, where she might have come during the night for some reason; but she was not there either.

So much had happened here during the past two weeks.

Furniture, rugs, paintings, and plants had been delivered; and from his perch on the piano stool, well out of her way, Jon had watched Naomi turn the nearly empty house into a home, had watched how she decorated every room, imprinting some of herself into it by her choice of colors, style, the way everything was placed. A couple of times he had trailed after her, entered a space where she had just been, and taken a deep breath, certain he could still feel her there. She had shaken her head at him, saying that she was only making the place livable and that there was nothing special to picking a couch or a piece of fabric, but Jon thought otherwise. For him it was the assurance that she indeed meant to live here with him, share his life, at last unafraid, at last happy to be where she was.

He threw open the double doors to the studio, and to brilliant light. The sun had just risen; it was hovering around the Statue of Liberty like a red balloon, pouring its rays onto the black, gleaming top of the Steinway, but Naomi wasn’t there either.

How surprised she had been, Jon recalled, when they had gone to Boston with Olaf and he had shown them the condo he had bought for the boys. It was right on Cambridge Square, an impossibly expensive and wonderful setting, with a view of the campus and right across the street from the Harvard bookstore. Proudly, Olaf had thrown open a door to a salon overlooking a backyard filled with old trees. There was nothing in it but a brand-new grand much like this one. “I never said he should give up the music” had been Olaf’s words. “I just want a broader perspective for Josh.”

They had walked through the halls of Harvard together, met a few people, signed some more papers; and when Jon had offered a donation, he had received a fine smile and the reply, “But Mr. Carlsson has been very generous. Of course, if you feel you should…”

R
eturning to the hallway, Jon called her name.

He listened to his own voice echoing up the stairs and dying
somewhere on the third floor, but there was no reply.

Defeated, he wandered back into the kitchen and opened the cupboard to bring out the coffee tin. It was nearly empty too, and he wondered if shopping for groceries would make sense before they left the next morning.

The tour was moving on. Sal had been around a couple of times to keep him informed, to tell him that all containers had safely arrived and that the equipment was in good and operative condition with the exception of two beamers that needed their bulbs replaced. The tour books for the US leg had been delivered, and they were nice, better than the European ones; the office had done a fine job. Ten stops in two months—that wasn’t too bad; nothing compared to what he was used to, what he had been doing for many years. This tour was a pleasure trip, planned to entertain Naomi, to give them a good time, nothing more, the cities they would visit those she wanted to see. Over the past few days the others had arrived: the band, Art, and Russ, still without Solveigh, who would stay in Norway until the end of the tour. He had brought a thick stack of photographs and shown them around proudly while telling them every detail about Marisol and what a wonder it was to have a baby. Jon had seen Naomi smile at the pictures, had watched her touch the image of the baby with the tips of her fingers and he had reached out to her, laying his hand on her back.

It had been good to have them all back, find them gathered in this new living room, drinking their wine. The door to the yard had stood open, letting in a fresh, wet breeze after a brief thunderstorm. The terrace looked nothing like it had when they had arrived. Now, there were pots with blooming plants around it and new cedar furniture waiting to be used. Work on the barbecue had begun. Once they got back they’d be able to use it and throw parties for their family and friends.

Jon poured water into the coffeemaker, measuring it carefully so there wouldn’t be too much for the pitiful mound of coffee in the filter. He was closing the top of the machine when he heard something, coming from upstairs, from all the way under the roof. Her steps sounded slow and tired, so he returned to the hall.

“I was looking for you,” he called.

She was in her nightgown and wool socks, a towel in her hands; and she was deathly pale. “I was upstairs. My stomach was upset. I didn’t want to disturb you, Jon, it’s so early.” Her voice sounded weak and a little rough.

“Are you okay?” Right away, as soon as she spoke, the fear turned into worry. “You look as if you’re ready to faint.” He laid his arms around her, supporting her. “Do you need a doctor? Do you want me to call Kevin? What’s wrong with you, my love?”

Naomi leaned her brow against his chest. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Just a migraine or something. I took a hot shower. Now I’m hungry.”

Her skin was cold and damp; her hair smelled of shampoo.

“All right.” Still doubtful, Jon led her into the kitchen. “Coffee?” He filled a mug and set it down on the table, but she pushed it away.

“I think not. I’m still queasy. Is there any orange juice? And a cookie?”

“A cookie? For breakfast? No eggs, no mushrooms?” He began opening the cupboards looking for cookies, even though he knew for a fact there were none. “You’re confusing me. You never want cookies in the morning. You don’t even care for the cinnamon rolls as much as I do. I’ll have to go out and get some.”

“No, stay here.” Naomi pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around them. “If you go I won’t be able to look at you, and you’re so cute in those pajama bottoms.”

“Why in the world did you go and hide in that bathroom on the third floor if you’re feeling sick?” There was some strawberry jam, so he buttered a slice of toast and spread some of it on the bread and cut it into squares before putting it down in front of her. “Here, eat something. You look like a ghost.”

“Because I was sick, Jon. There are some things even you don’t need to witness. And I’m fine now, so stop fussing as if you’re my mother, for crying out loud.” She poked at the toast with one finger. “I’ll be okay in a minute, and then we can get dressed and enjoy our last day in New York for a while. I had the thought about going uptown and buying some clothes. I feel like clothes shopping.”

“Hell, you don’t look well enough to leave your bed, let alone go shopping!” Critically he watched how she took a tiny bit, as if checking to see if it would stay down. After a minute and another sip of juice, she popped the rest of the piece into her mouth and quite greedily ate the entire slice of bread. “Can I have another one?” she asked, and Jon, sighing, complied.

“When we are uptown,” he heard her say while he has watching the toaster, “we could try to get that Met box. I so want to go this season.”

“Oh, that.”

“You don’t want to go.”

The disappointment in her voice made him smile. “Yeah, I want to go. I want to go, but I have to tell you; I’m more interested in seeing you in fine evening gowns than in the Met itself. I want to take you out and show you off, little beast. I want all the other men to be jealous of what I have, of my beautiful wife, the love of my life.”