Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  Mortified, Naomi pushed the mushrooms around on her plate. Art, beside her, said nothing, and Sean listened with narrowed eyes.

  “What were you thinking? Did you dump your brains in the gutter somewhere?” There was more venom in Jon’s tone than she had heard in a long time.

  They couldn’t hear Sal’s reply.

  “Yeah, I don’t care.” Jon dropped the spoon back on the buffet table, where it landed on a pile of used cups with a ringing sound. Art raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care what you thought. Don’t think, Sal, it’s useless anyway. Just do as you’re told.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Jon came over to her table, fury painted on his face, and sat down beside her. He was still clutching the napkin, and he had not brought any food with him.

  Sal, still standing where Jon had left him, gave her a resigned glance. One corner of his mouth tried to twitch into a smile, but instead it turned into a smirk of resignation. With a shrug he turned away and left the room, everyone in it staring after him, their expressions a mirror of Naomi’s feelings.

  Carefully she laid down her fork, appetite gone, the joy of being back with Jon lost.

  “That was harsh.” Art stole one of the cooling mushrooms from her plate. “Jon, that was really harsh. Did you have a bad night?” And then, realizing what he had said, grinned at Naomi. “Yeah, I guess not, but why attack Sal, and in public?”

  “Don’t talk to me, Art.” Jon poured himself some coffee. “Just don’t talk to me, okay? The stupid bastard…” He broke off and took a deep breath.

  Art waited patiently.

  “Okay, yeah, it was a bit harsh. Sorry you had to hear that, but I’m so angry with him. He left Naomi all by herself in the bloody VIP lounge when I told him to look after her. And promptly someone jumps on her and tries for an interview. We need to discuss security, Art. We need to tighten it considerably.” His breathing calmed after a sip of coffee. Gradually his body relaxed; he leaned back in his chair, eyeing Naomi’s discarded food with regret. “I’m sorry, babe. Didn’t mean to yell at Sal right here, but when I saw him it just broke out of me. God, I’m so angry I could strangle him.”

  “He left you alone up there?” Art asked incredulously. “Was he out of his mind? With only one guard?”

  Jon’s fist hit the table, shaking the coffee pot dangerously. “Just my words! There you go, Art, I can’t believe it.”

  “That is really hard to believe.”

  Naomi rose. “No, don’t bother,” she said when both of them began to jump up. “I’m only going back to our room.” Her hand on Jon’s shoulder, she added, “And I don’t want to listen to you any longer. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Sal would lie down and die to protect me, and you know that. I’m done with you for now,” and walked out without so much as a glance back.

  There was no luggage.

  She hadn’t brought anything but the change of clothes she was wearing now.

  The door closed behind her, and it was only then that she realized she was still holding her napkin. It was a very nice one, damask linen, the hotel’s logo elaborately embroidered in one corner, larger than a handkerchief, heavy. Sadly she gazed at it, rubbing the fine material between her fingers. Only a few weeks before Jon had appeared on her doorstep in Halmar she had ordered nearly the same design for the hotel there, only they had been pale green. They had used them at their wedding a few months later, and she had flushed with pride when her uncle commented on them, complimenting her good taste and how well they went with the interior of the dining room.

  Longing for the Seaside spiked in her like a sharp, sudden pain.

  It was June. In a few days they would be celebrating Midsummer Night there, and she would miss it.

  She would miss putting on her white cotton dress, the one with the lace trim, and sitting in the meadow down by the sea with Solveigh and the other girls, watching the sun dip toward the water but never set. There would be no Norwegian folk songs for her this year, nor the spectacle of the bonfire or the taste of the fish grilled over it, no scent of dill from the vat with the crawfish and no tangy sip of aquavit, brewed by a local distillery and brought out only for special occasions.

  Her hotel had always been fully booked for Midsummer, and most of the guests were the same ones, returning year after year like the geese traveling over the bay on their migrations. Often enough she had stood on the deck to watch their flight, wishing herself away with them, to warmer places, out of her loneliness and longing, dreaming of seeking out Jon and ending her exile. But the birds had vanished beyond the hills, and she had returned inside to her work, and everything had been as before.

  chapter 5

  There was a desk with a computer near the elevator. A security guard sat behind it to document who came and went.

  He pointed, very courteously, toward Sal’s room door.

  For a few seconds Naomi stood before it, hand raised to knock, a little scared, uncertain what to say.

  “Hey.” Tired lines were etched around his mouth, but they melted into the dimples of a smile when he saw her. “I’m sorry, darling. Never meant to get you into trouble. He’s really pissed, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.” She stepped past him into his room.

  Sal raised his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t bring any luggage,” Naomi said. “When I left DC I thought I’d go shopping here. I love to go shopping in London. But…” She hesitated and glanced at the open door. “I have the feeling Jon is not in the mood for Harrods. Would you like to go shopping with me?”

  “Not really.”

  Surprised, she blinked at him. For some reason this dry, calm response shook her; it was so unusual coming from Sal, who normally always did her bidding, and gladly.

  He pushed his fists into his jeans pockets and shrugged, still standing in the open doorway as if he was afraid to be alone with her, afraid of incurring more wrath from Jon. “I’m really sorry, Naomi, but I don’t think I can go out with you. He’s right. I shouldn’t have left you alone; it was my fault you were bothered. I’m too upset to be good company now.”

  His room was neat, tidy, nothing lying around, not even a shirt on a chair somewhere. It was a very nice room too, large and sunny, but nowhere near as grand as the suite she and Jon were staying in. There was only muffled traffic noise from outside; birdsong and the tinkling of a fountain were louder. She remembered the hotel’s yard from last year, and how much she had liked the white gravel of its winding paths.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You said you would come back right away and keep me company. Only I left before you could return. Sal.”

  He raised his head.

  “Sal, I want you to do something for me. That reporter, the one who grilled Jon yesterday and who approached me in the lounge. You know who I mean?”

  The corners of his mouth came down in disdain, but he nodded.

  “I want to give him an interview, and I told him to call you about it. So when he does, make an appointment, okay? I’m ready for this. It’s time to move on.” Naomi could hardly believe these words had just left her lips. She could feel their residue on her tongue, the echo in her ears, and it seemed as if a distant door fell softly into its lock, leaving behind a kind of deafness, a muted, breathless silence.

  “Time to move on.” Repeating it didn’t change anything; the phrase still fell dead.

  Sal didn’t notice her surprise. Relieved, he took a deep breath. “All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. But, Naomi, we will have to be very circumspect. Let me handle it, okay? You know we have to watch what we want the press to know about the background of the whole thing; this could destroy Jon’s career.”

  “Whatever.” Somehow, right at this moment, she could not muster any enthusiasm for Jon’s fame at al
l.

  Back in the hallway, she was alone. The guard was still sitting by the elevators, but otherwise there was no movement. Most of the band would still be at breakfast now; she could hear their voices. She still had her purse in her hand from their early-morning stroll; and now, on an impulse, knowing full well what the consequences would be, Naomi walked up to the elevator and, as casually as she could, pressed the button.

  With a frown, the security man was about to speak, but she said quickly, “Spa appointment. Be right back,” and he stopped.

  It was that easy, and standing once again on the broad steps outside the entrance, she breathed in the warm, fume-scented London air.

  She was free. For a fleeting moment Naomi wished Solveigh was with her to share the fun of a shopping trip, but Solveigh was back in Halmar, probably off work at the hotel by now, waiting for her baby’s birth. She and Russ had yet to celebrate getting married. Everything had been overshadowed by the shooting, even her best friend’s wedding to Jon’s producer. There had been a very brief civil ceremony back in LA, she knew, before Russ had sent her off to be with her family for the baby’s birth while he was touring with Jon.

  Naomi recalled them sitting over lunch, right after the dull and unromantic procedure, and how she had suggested that Russ go to Halmar with her.

  Russ had looked like an owl in his shock, his fine brown hair literally standing on ends.

  “Are you out of your mind?” had been his words. “How could I ever do that? Thirty containers, Naomi, which means thirty trucks, and that’s not even our personal stuff! If one of them goes missing there will be no show! We’d lose millions!”

  And Solveigh, her fingers knit through his, her new ring shining in the California noon sunlight, had nodded, a wrinkle of exasperation between her eyes. A wedding feast, she had informed Naomi, could always happen later, when the tour was over, when she didn’t look like a pig in a potato sack anymore, when there was time and she, Naomi, could hold the baby and be the godmother.

  Naomi would have preferred to be on Oxford Street. She liked the lively bustle there, the casual crowd, the tourists and the street vendors.

  Before, when she had been just Naomi, an unimportant hotel manager from a small, Norwegian town, she had spent hours sitting on one of the benches there, a take-out container of Thai food in her lap, eating, watching, like a potted plant in the stream of life around her.

  But for now, Brompton would have to do, and Harrods.

  Tourist trap, she knew the Londoners called it, and sniffed in disdain when she professed her liking for it, overpriced, ostentatious.

  She loved it. She loved the stupid splendor of the Egyptian floor and the marble restrooms; she even loved the silly souvenir department, and she could spend hours gawking at the artful displays in the food court.

  “I’m a tourist,” she had said to the lady who ran the B&B where she had liked to stay, “so it’s okay for me to go there.”

  And every time she had brought back a tea tin, a useless but cherished memento of another trip to London, bought and then forgotten on the top of her fridge.

  Now, shopping for clothes, she used her own credit card, the one for her own account, as if she felt she had to make a point, as if it was a short foray into freedom.

  She needed a suitcase, or a bag, and another purse, shoes, and sandals. She took her time. A couple of times her cell phone rang, but she didn’t take it out to look to see who was calling.

  Dresses, she wanted dresses, underwear, a couple of pairs of jeans, shirts, a jacket or two. And she was in the mood for a good manicure, massage and all.

  Out of sheer willfulness she picked a dark red nail polish and later, when it had been applied, looked at her hands in astonishment. They looked elegant in a new, strange way, not like hers at all, as if they belonged to a strange, strong, independent woman; and she liked it. It made her buy the matching lipstick, and when the salesgirl offered to freshen up her makeup she let her do it, amused by the fact that she had not been wearing any in the first place. She saw a different self in the mirror, an enhanced and altered self, with an arrogantly painted mouth and skin as glowing as pale satin.

  In a new, dark blue skirt, its hem well above her knees, and a cream lace blouse, matching high heels on her feel that clicked with every step, she returned to the hotel.

  Jon was waiting in the lobby.

  All by himself, a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, he was watching the door.

  “Does it give you that much satisfaction,” he said when she walked up to him. “Is this something you need, to take off without telling anyone, leaving me in misery and fear?”

  “Yes.” She wondered how long it would take Harrods to deliver her purchases.

  “Yes?” A short, bitter laugh, then, “So this is what I get, Naomi? I have to live with this, you doing as you please in the face of danger?”

  The lush red varnish looked even better in the muted light of the lobby; it had the satisfying gleam of blood now.

  “Danger. That is all you can think about, isn’t it? Danger, Jon? I’m trying to get my life back, my life. Not yours, not Sal’s. Mine.”

  Without waiting for a reply she left him there and returned to their rooms.

  Jon followed, slamming the door behind him. “I’m so tired of your attitude. It’s not as if I’m locking you in or anything. I just want you to let me know when and where you’re going, and to take someone with you. Take LaGasse. Alan. For crying out loud, take Sal if it pleases you, but don’t run off on your own!”

  Naomi ignored him. She opened the balcony door and stepped outside. Just below, cabs and buses had come to a halt because a woman had dropped a bag of oranges while crossing the street. They were rolling everywhere, sunny little orbs fighting for their freedom.

  “What am I supposed to tell you, huh? What is it you want to hear? I’ll not apologize to Sal for shouting at him this morning. It was his job to look after your safety and he blew it. For that he deserves all the shouting I’m capable of.” Fury and fear made his voice sound rough, nothing like the famous singer’s at all.

  One of the cab drivers had gotten out of his car and was helping the woman collect the oranges. She was awkwardly trying to hold them in the crook of her arm. The shopping bag was torn and useless, and when she bent down to pick up another one, they fell from her again. Intrigued, Naomi watched how the driver tossed the oranges into the taxi and waved to the woman, offering her a ride, and how she thanked him with a sweet smile. It was a meaningless little scene, but it lifted her spirits considerably.

  With a sigh, she turned back inside and toward Jon. “I needed clothes. You were busy fuming and making dire plans with Art, Sal was too scared of you to go with me, and I didn’t want a bodyguard trailing me while I shop for underwear. And you can stop ranting now.”

  “I’m not ranting! I’m…God, Naomi, why do you keep doing this? Why do I have to go through this again, and again: you gone, and I dumb-struck with panic because I don’t know if and when I’ll see you again?”

  There was a knock on the door. Without looking Jon reached behind him and opened it, only to step aside in surprise. Two liveried men carried in her purchases, neatly bundled in the famous green sacks; and another one, right behind them, brought in the new suitcases, saying, “Madam, do you wish us to unpack for you?”

  Distracted, Jon stood by as she directed them to the bedroom and gave her orders.

  “You bought all this in the short time you were gone?” he asked when she returned. “And you got a manicure and a facial? How?”

  Anger rose to pool between her temples. “Yes, Jon, I did. I was on a plane and at your concert during the last forty-eight hours, and then you go and have that fight with Sal about nothing and ruin the morning, and I felt like something nic
e, like some fresh clothes. You can go and fume somewhere else. I’m tired. I’m sad and upset, and I don’t want to hear you carry your fury into the bedroom where I’m going now to have a look at my pretty new dresses.”

  “Is this what this is about? You wanted to go shopping, you wanted that more than anything else? Really? Well, baby, I would take you anywhere you want! You should have said something!” Helplessly, he spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. “I’ve never had a wife before; how am I supposed to know what you want if you don’t say so?”

  With a little gasp, her anger flew away, only to be replaced by a resigned fatigue, a tired indifference, and the wish to be somewhere else.

  “I don’t know, Jon. I don’t know why it is so important that you have to be told about every little step I take, who I talk to, or what I want. I just don’t know. All I do know is that I was able to take care of myself very well before we met again, and no one ever told me what to do. And I liked it that way.”

  He trailed after her into the other room, where the hotel personnel were busy with her things.

  Naomi, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, did not move away when he stopped right behind her, and so he laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. “You look beautiful. That lipstick makes me want to stare at your mouth all the time; you are outrageously glamorous.” There was no response, so he plodded on, “I talked to Sal. I didn’t apologize, it’s true, but we talked. You will get your interview—he will see to it. But Naomi, why that reporter, I want to know? He isn’t even a real one, did you know? He owns a newspaper. I have no idea why he wants an interview with you. Do you know him?”