“Mom made me go to your concert a while ago, and I saw the guitars you and your band were using. You had nice instruments.” Joshua stopped as the memory came back to him and he put the pieces together.
“You cried!” He turned accusingly toward Naomi. “It wasn’t the heat in that hall. You were crying. You sat there and looked up at him on the stage and cried.”
She pressed her hands together in her lap, but Joshua went on, oblivious to her distress.
“And she bought that ridiculous picture. I made fun of you. And I made fun of mom for buying it.”
There was a long silence while Naomi sat, her eyes lowered to her clasped fingers, her ring cutting into the skin. Jon was looking at her, but she could not face him.
“But Naomi said you liked the music.” His voice was steady enough.
“The music was great.” Joshua’s tone had changed, the moodiness had vanished. He tackled the food. “But you made it really hard to concentrate on it with that shirt and the lighting. It was too much.”
They began at last to talk about music, about Joshua’s studies and the band he played with, the composition he was working on and his daily life at Oxford. Telling Jon about all this seemed to make him forget his misgivings.
Jon felt his heart turn over at the growing joy in his son’s face when he described the latest band rehearsal, and how he had walked in on the orchestra, purely by chance, because he was looking for a book he had forgotten in the auditorium, and they were practicing a piece he had written.
“Can you imagine,” he said, his eyes glowing and his cheeks flushed, “how that felt? There was this whole group of grownups, all of them really good musicians, and they were playing my music. That was the first time I’d heard it played, and it sounded just like it had in my mind, when I wrote it.”
Jon wanted to cry. He wanted to cover his face with his hands and cry for the lost time, for the many moments they had missed when they could have had these conversations and shared the joy that music brought to both of them.
“I’m sure,” he replied, and he could hear his voice crack on the words, “I know how you felt. It’s the instant when you realize you have created something that others appreciate. And it just feels so good. It’s all you need to make you go on, and it makes the struggle worthwhile.”
Joshua, the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that made him look just like his mother, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Oh, it’s no struggle. The melodies are just there. All you need to do is write them down.”
And here, Jon realized, was true talent. His own son was more of a composer than he himself could ever hope to be. For the first time ever, he knew how it was to feel proud of a child.
A waitress came to clear away their plates and bring coffee and pastries.
Joshua began to ask questions. How did it feel to perform in such huge venues? What was it like to be so famous and live in Los Angeles? Could he meet his musicians sometime? And: “Are you going to be my father from now on?”
“I’ve always been your father,” was Jon’s reply. “I just didn’t know it until I got your letter.”
Joshua turned his eyes accusingly on Naomi, which made Jon touch his arm.
“Don’t look at your mother like that. She did what she thought was best for you. And it probably was. You might have turned into a spoiled Hollywood brat, and I like the way you are just fine. And yes, I’ll be in your life from now on. Your mom and I are finally getting married.”
That silenced him for a while.
“Joshua…” Naomi said.
“Why did you cry, Mom? At the concert? You could have just walked up to—” he searched for the right word—“to my father and told him you were there, if it meant so much. If you wanted to marry him, you could have done it that much sooner.”
“Let it rest, Joshua.” Jon answered for her, “It’s going to happen now, and that’s all that’s important.”
Joshua looked from one to the other. “So it truly was my letter, right? You’re here because of my letter.”
“Yes.” Jon replied.
And finally, at last, the hint of a smile crossed the boy’s face.
Sal tried to keep his eyes open as he listened to the string of requests coming from the other side of the ocean. Once again Jon had called at a god-forsaken hour, and Sal struggled hard to refrain from making any really snarky comments. At least this time Jon had found him in bed alone.
“Jon, what time is it over there?” He kicked free of the sheets “It’s the middle of the night here. You’ve got to stop doing this, you crazy bastard!”
It wasn’t really the middle of the night, he realized when he glanced at the clock, but it was still too early for him.
“About three in the afternoon. Stop whining, Sal. What is it with you, don’t you work at all when I’m not around to kick your butt?”
That was rich; Jon was the one who often had to be prodded and pushed into working! Sal found himself wide awake and wondering if this might be the right time to mention the offer they’d received a couple of days ago. It was a great offer and he had wanted to accept it on the spot, but had managed to wheedle a week out of Harry before they had to give an answer.
“Listen, Jon. Since we’re talking about work, Harry called and asked if you would do a movie soundtrack for him.” He padded to the kitchen to start some coffee and search for his cigarettes. There was no reply, so Sal pushed on, “It’s a great script, and from what I’ve heard the film will likely get an Oscar nomination. We could be in on that. Harry kicked the original composer out and now he needs a replacement. Would you consider giving him a call? Please don’t say no because you’re busy honeymooning.”
All he could hear was Jon’s breathing and some obscure background noises, as if he was standing out in the street, but no reply came.
“You want me to come over to Norway anyway. I could bring Russ and Sean and we could discuss it, or even start working, and then finish it when you return—”
“I’m not returning Sal.”
This made Sal pause.
The coffee tin was nearly empty. He would have to go out for a cup, which made him curse silently and dampened his spirits considerably on top of his growing irritation at Jon. “Yes, whatever. But don’t let this thing pass, Jon. This is too good, and if you come up with something great you might even have a chance for a nomination yourself again. It would be good for you, running for an Oscar. You might build a tour on that next year. With new songs.”
Four years had passed since he had put out a new album, an eternity in their business where hits came and went on a daily basis. Sal wanted a song back on the charts very badly. Or better yet, an entire album. It wouldn’t be easy with a movie soundtrack, but it could be done.
“It’s now or never, and you know it. Come on, you know you want this, Jon. I know you do, it’s just what you’ve been waiting for. Take it as the motivation to get back in the swing again! You have what you pined for all this time, right, the girl is back with you, so you might as well start working again.” How he hated having to prompt Jon into composing, but this chance wasn’t one he could let slip away, even if it meant dragging the whole band to Norway.
“So what’s the deal with your elusive maiden?” he asked, “She wants you to stay with her in that God-forsaken wilderness? Seriously Jon, you aren’t going to do that, are you? I mean, come on, man, your life is here.”
“My life,” Jon echoed, musing. “Yes, my life.”
“Don’t give me the songwriter bullshit, Jon, not at this time of day. I want that deal, and you should want it too. Regardless of what’s going on over there in Norway.”
The cigarette did not taste half as good without coffee, which made Sal irritable and very impatient with Jon and his romantic issues. He opened the balcony door to let in the early sun. From the street below, he could smell freshly baked bread, and, sadly, coffee.
“We’re getting married.”
Sal wasn’t sur
e he had heard that with cars honking and a police siren screaming by. “I don’t think I understood you just now. There’s too much noise here. Did you say you’re getting married?”
He knew it was a stupid question and would only earn him a sarcastic reply. He nodded to himself when Jon replied, “You heard me. Don’t give me that crap.”
It was rather lame; he was used to better comebacks from Jon. “I’ll be over in three or four days,” Sal responded after a pause, “And I’ll bring Russ and Sean. And you, I want you to think about that soundtrack, Jon. I’ll send you the specifics later. Check your email, will you? For once? They do have computers in Norway, don’t they? You know, the Internet? Please tell me they don’t use snail mail for everything still? Or do they still have outriders carrying the letters?”
“Shut up, Sal. And get your ass over here.”
Sal could hear someone talking in Norwegian near Jon, and the soft silver sound of laughter that he remembered only too well. His stomach plummeted. He wondered how she looked now, so many years later, if she still was as lovely as he remembered her.
“Hey, Babe,” Jon was saying, “Want to say hello to Sal? He’s a bit speechless, so it’s a good chance for you to knock him over.”
And the way his voice changed when he addressed her, with the dark, soft timbre that captivated his female fans and made all the difference between a good singer and a great star.
“Hello, Sal.”
She sounded exactly the same, as if time had stood still.
“Hello, my dear,” he answered shakily. “How are you coping with him around?”
“Just fine, Sal. He’s being a good boy.”
Jon growled softly, “Careful, little beast, I can hear what you’re saying!”
It was too much for Sal.
It had turned warm, and the landscape around them had changed so quickly. Jon stood on the pier and stared at the sudden green in amazement. He had the impression that nature was in a hurry to gather as much strength as it could before summer was over again. It was as if the ground was pushing the grass and flowers up in a frenzied attempt to soak up as much as it could of the sudden, fierce sunlight. The sky was full of birds. Flocks of geese and ducks passed overhead, their cries echoing from the hills and water as Jon watched them fly north, heralding spring. The little town seemed to come to life too. Tables and chairs appeared outside the café across from the hotel. The flower shop set blooming pots under their awning, and people turned down the collars of their jackets and left their woolen caps at home.
It was Saturday morning and Naomi had slept late. She opened the door to the deck and walked out in her bathrobe, a cinnamon roll and coffee in her hands. On the water, a couple of white yachts drifted lazily toward the ocean. The post ship had just arrived and docked at the pier; gulls were flying around it, screeching and fighting, hoping for tidbits from the guests leaning on the railing. A hum of well-being seemed to drift on the wind, mixing with the salty scent of the sea.
Jon, in one of the deck chairs, took the coffee from her, and she sat down in his lap. She leaned into him, her head against his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of both the sun and his body, listening to his heartbeat and his breathing.
“Are we going away on a honeymoon?”
“Would you like to? We could, certainly. Where should we go?”
He wrapped his hand in her hair and tugged at it playfully. The bathrobe had fallen open to reveal her legs and bare feet, but she didn’t mind. They were alone on the balcony, hidden from the outside world, set apart from daily life.
“I don’t know.” Naomi wiggled her toes. “Truly, I can hardly wrap my mind around the wedding thing yet. I’ll believe it when it happens. It seems very unreal. You seem unreal.”
He tugged a little harder.
“Stop!” she protested, “I know you’re here; there’s barely a moment when you let me forget it. But still…” Her head was bent back and her lips beckoned, the robe slipping from her shoulder to reveal the top of her breasts.
“You look just like Scarlett O’Hara,” Jon said approvingly, “right before she gets ravished by Rhett. All we’re missing is Atlanta burning in the background.”
“That’s so like you,” she replied, breathless, “You would burn a city just to get your way. Think of all those poor Coca-Cola shareholders.”
His grip on her hair tightened, pulling her back a little further. He leaned toward her, nearly touching her lips, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. “The things you say just to get a little ravishing, you impossible girl.”
Naomi strained toward his kiss but he held back, stretching out the moment, reveling in this sweetest of tortures, waiting for her to plead a little, wanting her to need him, if only for a kiss, for a touch.
There was a knock on the door, and Jon, without looking up, called, “Come in!”
She struggled harder then, but he didn’t let her go. Embarrassment made her squirm, and she hit his arm in a futile attempt to make him release her, but Jon grinned and held her tightly to claim the kiss he had wanted all along.
“Oh look! It’s Gone with the Wind all over again,” Sal said dryly.
“It’s Sal!” She pushed at Jon. “Let go, look, it’s Sal!” And then, when she could look past Sal, “And Sean and Russ! Jon, Sean is here!”
“I know, Baby.”
Naomi flew into Sean’s embrace, surprising herself with her emotional reaction at seeing these two.
Sean clasped her tightly. “Hello, darling. Such a hard time you gave us. It’s good to see you well and back in Jon’s arms where you belong. God, but you’re still beautiful.”
“Jon,” Sal drawled, “are you sure it’s you she was after? It seems to me there’s a little sideshow going on here.” He hugged Naomi when she turned to him.
“Hey, Babe. So here, in this God-forsaken dead-end, somewhere in Norway, we find the solution to the great mystery. And we hope to hear everything explained before the day is out.”
“You will.” Jon laid his hands on her shoulders. “But give the lady time to find some clothes first. Here, have some cinnamon rolls.”
Still rubbing her hair after her shower but finally dressed, she returned to the deck, where they had settled in the sunshine.
“Right.” Sal bent down and opened his briefcase. “You see, I’m not really here for our favorite pop star. I’m here because of you. There’s something we have to talk about, that’s why Jon called me over. So here I am, following my Master’s orders, as always.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Sal.” Jon gave him a pained look, but Sal ignored him.
“Listen, Naomi, there are a few things to put in order, and we’ll do it right now, before we all get sentimental and drunk. Jon, take Sean and Russ and go do something. Go get that blonde’s phone number for me.”
“Oh, no.” Russ raised his hand. “That one’s mine. I’m getting her number. She’s my kind of girl.”
Naomi looked wildly from one to the other, upset by what was happening. Jon kissed her lightly when he got up to leave, “Don’t worry, everything is fine. Just listen to Sal. I’ll be right inside.”
Sal put a thick manila envelope down on the table, which Naomi opened with trepidation. Inside were three debit cards in her name and a thick sheaf of legal documents. Perplexed, she held the cards up. “What am I supposed to do with these? We aren’t even married.”
“Oh, no, no. These have nothing to do with Jon.” Sal said, with a nod toward Jon, who had returned to listen, leaning against the door frame. Then he conceded, “Well, in a way they do, of course, because he performed the songs, but these are for your accounts. You have your own money, you see. The thing is, we never knew where to send it, and none us ever thought of giving it to your parents. I guess Jon always hoped…well, whatever. So we just held it for you.” He shrugged apologetically. “But here it is now, all yours.”
“For what? Why do I get money?” An awful, ugly thought crept up in her, something so bitter she could hardly
say it out loud. “Are you trying to buy me off, Sal? Is that it? Do you want me to let go of Jon?”
“Baby, no, for God’s sake, no!” Jon caught her and held her, his arms tight around her. “Don’t say such a terrible thing! Sal, please, if you can’t do this properly, let me—”
“I’m sorry,” Sal said quickly, “I thought…Naomi, this money I’m talking about, these are your royalties. You wrote the lyrics, remember, for the Garden album? We were very meticulous. Half the net proceeds went into your account. I’ve been looking after it all these years, as your de-facto business manager, but it’s yours. Please sign these and take it. And some advice: spend it before you get married. Because then he’ll have to pay for you ever after. Nice, huh?” He laughed. “Let her go, Jon. I don’t think she’ll run. She just needs to sign these things.”
She sat again, but Jon remained behind her. From inside, they could hear Sean trying out the new melodies he had found on the piano.
Jon touched her hair. “Go ahead, Naomi. Sign those things and shut him up. Everything is in order, I promise. It’s my fault, I should have told you. But I wanted it to be a surprise, I wanted it to come from Sal and not from me so you would see it truly is a business transaction and not something I’m giving you. It’s yours. You earned it, every penny.”
Naomi leafed through the papers. There were bank statements, shareholder reports, calculations, and all kinds of other documents. “I own stocks?”
“Well, yes.” Sal shifted and lit another cigarette. “We couldn’t let the money just sit idly in the bank, could we? But we picked solid stocks, as you’ll see.”
“How much do I own?”
He pushed another sheet toward her and she stared at the number.
Silence descended on them like a cloud. Sal, satisfied with his delivery, smoked while Jon waited, rather anxiously, for her reaction. Naomi was still looking at the papers, leafing through them again and again. At last she looked up at Jon and said: “I don’t want your money. You don’t have to pay me for those lyrics; I wanted you to have them.”
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 8