Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  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.

  She 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

  There 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 se
e 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.

  “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.

  Parker 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.

  All 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.