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
Jon 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…”
Returning 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.”
She took the plate from him and balanced it on her knees.
“And the box thing has been solved,” Jon went on, retrieving the mug he had poured for her and taking a sip. “We have a box.” When she started to respond, he lifted his hand. “It’s not totally ours, mind you. Or rather, I didn’t buy it. It’s your parents’. But they are more than willing to share it with us.”
For the longest time Naomi did not respond. Daintily, with two fingers, she picked up one piece of toast after another until the plate was empty.
“It might sound crazy, but deep down I have a feeling that you and my father had something to do with how Parker met his end.”
“Hell, babe, no!” He nearly dropped his cup. “Seriously, Naomi, I have no idea why you would think that! I might be famous, and pretty rich, but I wouldn’t even know how to go about hiring a killer! I’m a good person. Basically.”
“Oh, you are.”
It was delightful to watch her unfold, stretch out her legs and stand up, and it reminded him of a flower opening its petals.
“You are a good person, Jon, and a wonderful and loving husband. But I do believe that if you decided to do it, you could very well have somebody killed. And my father? Hell, yes.”
Her kiss tasted of strawberries, her lips were sweet and sticky with the jam, and he passed his tongue over them to catch the flavor. She gasped softly, her hands on his bare back when he held her against the counter. “You’re really feeling better, aren’t you?” Jon said softly. “And how much better are you feeling? Are you well enough to go back to bed?”
“I am.” She let go of him. “I am well enough for what you have in mind, but I’m not going back to bed. It’s our last day here for a while, and I want to enjoy the city. You can come, or you can lie around in bed alone and dream of me.”
“You do this to me all the time,” Jon called after her when she walked out into the hall and up the stairs. “You turn me on and then you leave me here to steam. Come back!”
She did not reply.
“I wonder,” Naomi said when they were on the bridge and she had lowered the window of the limo. “I can’t wait to see what it will be like here in the spring. I bet it will be gorgeous. I bet the air will be sweet and balmy, and the sky deep blue.”
“Only in your dreams.” Her persistence was amusing. “You are such a romantic. I wonder if you really see a different world than the rest of us.” That thought made Jon stop and ponder for a while. “Yes,” he went on, “I really wonder. I wonder if that thing about different realities isn’t really more than just a saying. Maybe you do see things differently. Maybe we do. Maybe that’s what separates artists from other people.”
“Different realities,” she echoed his words. “I don’t think it’s different realities. I think it’s a matter of perception, a matter of love.” Pointing at the towers of the World Trade Center, she added, “Beautiful.”
“Yes, it is pretty awesome.”
The pallor had gone from her face, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes lively, every trace of illness gone.
She wanted, she had told him, a few light things for the tour, clothes that would travel well, and if they were going uptown anyway she planned on dropping in at the Valentino store if he didn’t mind.
“Only if you let me pay” had been his reply, and her eyes had sparkled at him.
The memory of their day in London came back to him, that day when he had asked her to marry him and then had taken her to Valentino’s store on Sloane Street to heap beautiful things on her.
“You look way better than earlier today. Where do you want to go for lunch?”
“Carnegie’s,” she replied, and Jon groaned. “I want a pastrami sandwich this big, Jon, and an entire jar of pickles. I want a jar of pickles to take home. Or maybe two.”
“You are happy.” It was more a statement than a question. “You seem as if a huge load has fallen off you. What changed?”
They drove up Madison, past all the fancy stores and the elegant restaurants, up toward Central Park; and again she looked, her head turning from one side to the other like a child’s, trying to take in everything at the same time.
“I keep telling you I’m happy, Jon. Not every single minute of every single day, but basically, yes, I’m happy.” She smiled at him. “I have what I’ve always wanted. I have you. Everything else falls into place.”
Jon wished they weren’t in a car; he wished they were alone and he could embrace and kiss her, and whisper into her ear how much he loved her.
“I’ve changed my mind, Jon,” Naomi said, “not Carnegie’s. Let’s go pick up my parents. We can all go out for lunch together…like a family.”
The author, Mariam Kobras, with the artist, Eric G. Thompson.
Acknowledgements
MY SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Eric G. Thompson and his wife Hilary, for letting us use his amazing paintings as cover art. I can’t imagine my books without them!
My family, especially my husband who does the laundry and the dishes and the grocery shopping so I have time to write.
My beloved friends - Bunny Hipps, Jane Gese, Pea Murrell and Shaleeta Bihari for reading the chapters of Under The Same Sun as soon as they were written.
Sarah Fulford - for the photographs, support, and for being a friend.
Friends and Writers - Johanna Harness of #amwriting, Katie Weiland, Kerry Schafer, Julie Butcher, Zehra Cranmer, Maria Duffy, Jane Travers, Nita Beshear and Rebecca Emin, my Twitter “writing group”.
Chris de Burgh, who was the inspiration for this book’s title. His song Same Sun is one of my all-time favorites!
My publisher - MaryChris Bradley, for simply everything.
Praise for the Independent Publisher’s,
IPPY Award-winner, The Distant Shore
‘This is a delicious book, one that demands tea or chocolate and hours to savor the words and thoughts of her characters…the story tumbles out beautifully, the story structured with a sense of inevitability—and yet I still found myself surprised. Mariam hits familiar
notes and yet the story feels altogether fresh. She is a lovely writer and one to watch.”
~ Johanna Harness, www.johannaharness.com/blog
“This is a gorgeous book; from the strangely tactile, softly coloured cover right through to the unresolved ending, Kobras plays on all the senses to weave a tale of love that is bigger than either of the main characters.
It takes a great writing craftsperson to draw in the reader in such an irrevocable manner, and Kobras is such a writer. Her style is reminiscent of Anita Shreve, and if you liked Body Surfing, then you will love this.”
~ Jane Travers, www. tweet-treats.blogspot.com
“It isn’t often I experience true eloquence in the written word, but The Distant Shore is pure poetry. Rather than the typical romance story you find in the “chick lit” or Romance genres, the relationship between famous rock star, Jonathon Stone and Naomi, is an enduring, complex love that spans decades. The story takes you on a sweeping international escapade, from Norway to North America, and the ending will leave you with many questions and a fierce desire to read the next book in Trilogy. Rather than the story being tied up neatly with a bow in the typical unconvincing, often stale “happy ending”, I was left with questions and the subtle disappointment I often feel after finishing a written masterpiece.”
Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) Page 36