Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  Naomi rose from her seat, which brought LaGasse over. She smiled grimly at him. “This song, Father, this song that you think is very good, I wrote it. I wrote it for Jon.”

  Sal was on his way to her, but she waved and he stopped to wait for her.

  “Don’t ask,” she said, and sat down on his chair. Art, busy with the computers, gave her a short grin and offered his coffee cup.

  Here, right beside the stage, right under the speakers, it was too loud to talk comfortably, so she leaned back to watch Jon and let the music drown her, wash away the black mood and the bitter feelings. She could see her parents, her father, relaxed now, his legs crossed and his long, elegant hands resting on them while he chatted with Walter, and her mother, her lips drawn in a thin line, staring up at Jon.

  Jon briefly came over to check on her, and when he saw her surrounded by friends and security blew her a kiss and smiled.

  The night was spectacular. There was still enough of the full moon to highlight the mountains, a gentle breeze brought down fresh air from the snowy slopes filled with the scent of pine trees and herbs.

  Jon was singing. His voice filled the arena, soared all the way up to the stars sparkling in the sky, enveloping her like a warm shawl, throwing her back in time to that summer day so long ago when she had been in the exact same spot, listening to him, falling in love. Nothing had changed. It was still the same, a heady, hot longing, the desire for his kiss, for his embrace.

  “I have,” Jon said, “a new song. My wife, who is also my lyricist, came up with these words last summer when we returned to LA from Europe. She has this habit of collecting stones on the beach.” He pulled up the stool and sat down. “She puts them in a special corner of our garden, and for the longest time I thought it was a cute but pretty silly habit; but then she wrote this song.” The guitar hummed when his fingers touched the strings. “And I knew it had never been about the pebbles. It had always been about love, and about bringing it back home.”

  Her breath caught. She had not known. He had kept it a secret, to share with her on this special evening.

  “I’ll pick you up; don’t be afraid anymore

  You have been tossed around and lost your way

  A beautiful pebble on a lonely shore…”

  Jon sang the words thoughtfully, gently, as if he was tasting them on his lips, testing their impact. The band rested, it was only his voice and his guitar, the song a clear, fragile ribbon of melody that wove through the night. Very cleverly they had dimmed the lights until only one bluish-green beam rested on him, serene and cool like an ocean wave, soothing.

  Naomi could see her parents, her mother talking to Pauline, and her father, his eyes wandering around, observing the security, assessing the speakers and the stage, the number of people in the audience. Rage blossomed in her chest; it unfolded like a huge, white flower that poured out its poison in a sticky, glistening stream. For an instant she was nearly blinded by it, blinded by the glare of the white petals and their razor-sharp, silvery edges.

  She turned her back on her parents, on the hurt and the wrath, and let the music wash her away.

  “Naomi.”

  The moment he came off the stage, the instant the concert was finally over, he asked for her. Ralph was there to hand him a dry towel, wrap a dressing gown around his shoulders, and hand him a bottle of water; but Jon’s eyes traveled over all of them to where she was, a little to the side, to give them space, waiting. His vision seemed to shift when he saw her, mixing the real image and the memory of her, of the girl she had been.

  “Baby, did you like it?” he called, his voice cracking, exhausted from the singing. “Did you like the new song?” and grinned when her face softened into a smile.

  He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he was soaked, his face a sticky mess of sweat and makeup. The cables itched on his skin; the monitors irritated him.

  From the end of the hallway he saw Sal and Art coming toward them, laughing, relaxed now that the concert was over and had gone well, and right behind them, her parents. His good mood wilted. Olaf was a study in politely hidden boredom. He glanced at his watch and then back toward the exit, took his wife’s elbow and yawned, hiding it behind his hand.

  “So did you enjoy the concert?” Jon asked. He wanted to go to the dressing room and get out of the stage clothes, have a long, hot shower and feel human again; but he realized it would have to wait.

  Naomi took a step toward him, close enough to bring her to his side and clasp his hand.

  “Enjoy is not the right word,” Olaf replied. “But yes, it was quite impressive. You do draw a crowd, I have to say. I bet your revenues are quite satisfactory.”

  A crease appeared between Lucia’s eyes. “That was a beautiful song, Jon.” Her tone was friendly, conciliatory, and she freed herself from Olaf’s grasp. “I liked what you said about the stones and the love.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He was beginning to feel cold.

  “That’s all,” Naomi said. “You come all the way from New York or wherever, and all you can say is it was nice..” She was shaking. “You come here and say you want to make peace, and that’s all you have to offer?”

  “Baby…” Jon laid his arm around her shoulder, but she did not react.

  “My whole life,” she went on, “I’ve never been able to do anything to please you. Nothing I did was good enough, was it? I’m not really your daughter at all; I’m something you produced to keep your precious company going. I bet you cried, Father, when you found out I was a girl.”

  Jon realized they were standing in the middle of the hallway, the technicians streaming around them on the way to the arena to take down the stage; Sal, Art, everyone else, listening to Naomi’s bitter words. It was Sal though who reacted even faster. Without much ado he took Naomi’s arm and pulled her with him, saying, “Not here. Let Jon get out of his sweaty clothes; and if you need to have it out with your old man, go into the press room, please, where no one will hear. Please, darling.”

  Impatiently, she shook him off when they had reached the dressing room. “I’m not going anywhere, Sal. My place is right here, with my husband. He worked his ass off tonight to please his audience, and me, and I’m going to take care of him now and not waste my time arguing with my father.”

  “I beg you, Naomi.” Olaf sighed. “This is so useless. We came all the way from the US to see you, knowing we would maybe get a chance to see you here, where he could not keep us away; and you start another of these stupid discussions. Yes, I’m sorry you don’t want to take over the business. Yes, I’m not pleased…” He broke off when Jon moved toward him.

  “Careful,” Jon said softly, “careful with what you’re going to say next. Don’t overstep your boundaries. You might scare your daughter and intimidate your wife, but not me. Naomi went to see you yesterday; she went to your house, wanting to see you. We didn’t know you had moved away.” Impatiently, he tore the monitor cable from his shirt collar, ignoring Sal’s yelp of protest. “I’m not going to explain to you again how amazing Naomi is as a songwriter and what a waste it would be if she did anything else, but that’s not the point. The point is that you’re unable to love your only daughter the way she is, the way every child should be loved by their parents, without condition. She’s right, you know. You didn’t want a daughter; you wanted someone to inherit your bloody damned hotel empire. Well, she ain’t it. She’s a writer, an artist. Find someone else to run your hotels.” He took a deep breath. “This is impossible. I’m exhausted, and I need a shower and something to eat. I’m not going to leave Naomi out here with you on her own for a moment. She’s taken all the crap she has to from you.” On the point of walking into his dressing room, he turned around. “I have not forgotten, Olaf, what you did in that hospital, how you twisted the truth to convince Naomi to leave me and nearly killed
her with the sorrow. You laid the blame of those deaths at the Oscars on her, just to get her to go back to Canada with you. I wonder what else you would have done?”

  “This is totally insane.” Olaf, his face flushed, stepped back from Jon’s glare. “I never wanted to harm her, for God’s sake. I truly believed she would be safer, better off at home in Toronto! The fact that she is your wife is what put her in danger in the first place!”

  “Yes.” The same old guilt, the same old sadness. “Yes, it was my fault. So maybe you should have tried to kill me instead of her.” Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Jon. The joy had gone out of the evening, his expectations of a romantic night drowned in bitter memories.

  “No.” They all turned toward Naomi, who was still standing beside Sal, pale now, her mouth a tired line. “No. Not you, Jon, not your fault. Not yours, not mine.” A ragged sob escaped her. “So this is what you call making peace, Father? Coming here, telling me all over again how bad my choices are, how useless my life is? Why did you and Mom really move to New York? Did you really move there?”

  “Because Joshua is there, Naomi,” Olaf answered for Lucia, “and he is our only grandchild. I know you’re raising him to be like…” He waved in Jon’s direction. “Like his father. A musician. But that boy is as bright as gold, and he has more in him than writing little songs; and someone has to show him there’s more to life than this.”

  Sal grabbed Naomi’s arms when she was about to lunge at her father, shouting, “You’re not going anywhere near Joshua! You’re not even going to see him! If I have to I’ll hide him from you, have him escorted by guards all the time; but you will not lure him into your infernal business!”

  Olaf nodded slowly, unimpressed. “And what, my dear, if he wants to? It’s his birthright; you can’t take it away from him. What if he tells you he wants his part of it, wants to go to business school and join the family company?”

  Jon moved toward her and took her into his arms. She was shaking badly now, swaying on her feet, her breath short and painful.

  “Then,” he said, “it will be Joshua’s choice. We will not force anything on him. If he decides he wants to join you, then he can. But…” He grinned evilly at Olaf, “I doubt it. I doubt he wants to give up his music. You’ll have to find someone else to run your hotels for you.”

  With that they entered the dressing room and slammed the door.

  chapter 17

  “I think,” Sal said carefully, “you should go.” He had never been this grateful for a closed door between himself and Jon. He gazed at Lucia, at her oval face and the thick, black hair, straight and just touching her shoulders. She was not as frail boned as her daughter but had a beauty all her own: earthier, less elfin. She was a lush, well-shaped woman. Sal wondered how old she had been when Naomi was born and what she had been doing when she met her Viking husband. There was some Italian heritage, he knew, but there had never been any talk about how she and Olaf had met, and where. For a crazy, disoriented moment he saw her serving bowls of pasta in a Neapolitan trattoria and Olaf walking by, seeing her in a low-cut peasant dress, and falling instantly in love. It was such an outlandish vision that he had to literally shake himself out of it.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Lucia took a step toward the dressing room. “I’ve come all the way from New York to see Naomi, and I’ll stay right here until she comes out and talks to me. This stupid fight has to end.”

  Surprised, Olaf stared at her.

  “I’ve had it.” Angrily she shrugged him off when he touched her shoulder, her black eyes flashing in a sudden show of temper. “You and your stupid hotels. I’ve borne this way too long. It’s always the business, always the responsibility, the money. Olaf, what good will all that wealth do you if your daughter doesn’t talk to you anymore?”

  “She’s not talking to me now.” It came out in an obstinate mumble, and Sal had to hide a grin.

  “She’s not talking to you because you can’t even give her a smile! You can’t look at her without seeing your precious family empire floating away, and you can’t accept that she has chosen a husband you don’t like.” Lucia raised her hand to knock on the door, but Sal rushed over to hold her back.

  “Oh no.” He was ready to break out in a sweat. “Don’t. Never. Not after the show, and not when that door is closed. They’ll be out soon enough, but don’t intrude. Jon needs time to calm down and rest. Leave them alone.”

  Olaf snorted, his hands in his trouser pockets again, ready to turn away. “Rest. I bet he needs rest after more than two hours of shouting and bashing his guitar.”

  “Ha!” Sal couldn’t help himself; he had to laugh out loud at that. “Hardly shouting. I admit he’s a bit harsh on his guitars sometimes, and not the best player on the planet, but who cares. His singing is sublime, Olaf. He’s one of the best around, and his songwriting is stellar. Jon’s not who he is for nothing!”

  Shrugging, he added, “Well, their songwriting. The two of them together, writing songs that are beyond words. You heard that one about the stones and the surf? Hell, I can hear the money rolling into our accounts right now.”

  Art, who had until now watched the scene in silence, cleared his throat. “This is interesting. Olaf, if that was Placido Domingo behind that door and your daughter with him, how would you feel about that?”

  They never, ever did this. Normally, at this point after a show, they would be meeting in the hospitality area to eat something, drink a beer, and talk over the evening; but they would not stand around in a hallway debating their careers. The harsh sounds of the stage being dismantled sounded like a huge percussion set being played by a beginner, like a child trying the drumsticks on every piece of equipment.

  There would be a party, either at the hotel or somewhere else, or they would meet in one of their rooms for a round of cards and some drinks.

  But Jon would never allow fights or discussions until the next day, until they were rested and their minds clear.

  “Well, that would be different, yes.” Olaf pulled down the corners of his thin lips. “He’s a real artist, a wonderful singer.”

  Art took a step closer, his blue eyes sparkling like marbles. “And Gershwin? Frank Sinatra? Bernstein? Cole Porter?”

  Olaf waved him away with a disdainful sigh. “Oh, please. Those were great men, great musicians.”

  “Yeah,” Art breathed, “and with the exception of Domingo, they are also all dead. Jon, he is what they were in their time. It’s that easy, Olaf. You want to see only the man on the stage, the one with the mike in his hand, and the guitar and the flashy shirts; but you refuse to look deeper and see the creativity. This…”—he pointed back at the stage—“this is only a very small part, the moment of glory. If you judge Jon by this, then you are not as savvy as I thought. Who do you think writes all these songs? Your daughter and your son-in-law. They write songs that make the world cry with joy and yearning; they break hearts and make people fall in love. Every time they put something on paper you can rely on them earning a new fortune, and it’s that way because they think and feel as one person in this.” He drew a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Makes me want to go all lyrical and sentimental. But then I’m Irish, and we get sentimental easily.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Olaf looked at the closed door again, his brow drawn in doubt. “Is this really how you see him?”

  “Hell, yes.” The red curls on Art’s head seemed like extensions of his mirth. “But not only us, the world does! We are lucky to be able to work for him, be along on the ride! Jon may seem like the glittering beast of show biz to you; but he’s the Master, the one who pulls the music from the spheres and shapes it into song, Olaf.”

  Sal stared at him, but Art shrugged. “What? I’m Irish; we tend to get lyrical. Or sentimental. Whatever fits.”
/>   From inside, they could hear Jon’s voice raised in laughter, and Naomi’s, responding sounding like a silver tinkle.

  “Maybe we should move.” Sal had no idea where to take them, if they would even agree to leave; but he was certain it would not be a good idea to still be here when Jon came out. “Why don’t we go and find some coffee or something. Which hotel are you staying at?”

  “The same as you, obviously,” Olaf replied.

  Jon remembered how he had stood in this shower those twenty years ago, the water running over his shoulders and down his back, the shower curtain sticking to the tiles, his eyes closed; and he remembered thinking of the girl waiting for him somewhere with Sean and Sal. He had been almost angry at her for letting him stew, for not coming into the dressing room with him and letting him have her when there was nothing that he wanted more. But she had waved to him merrily and walked away, and he had stared after her like the last idiot in the world, speechless, stunned.

  She was sitting on the couch when he stepped out, his hair dripping, a towel wrapped around his hips.

  “Now that I know better,” Naomi said, “I can see that you’re wearing makeup even in these photos. I’m not sure I like it.”

  Jon shrugged. Ralph had laid out fresh clothes for him, comfortable jeans and a soft shirt, nothing fancy. He loved this moment when he returned to being himself, no cables, no powder on his face, no false smiles for the press.

  There were no ghosts of loneliness waiting in the shadows of the corners either. Naomi was here.

  “Babe.”