The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  “I don’t have to do any of those things, Sal, if I don’t want to. I can choose to put on a simple black silk suit and stand beside Jon and smile, and no one would give a damn. No one can force me to even accept a Grammy. Leave me alone.”

  “You—” he started, but now Jon interfered.

  “Sal, it’s okay.” He offered him a coffee. “Don’t fuss.”

  “Why is this so important, Sal?” Naomi asked, sitting up finally to face him. “I’ve done almost everything you wanted. I wrote the lyrics for the soundtrack, I came back here last summer for the recording session, and now I’m here, am I not, because of the stupid Grammy? It’s only a useless statue, for heaven’s sake, one more thing to dust!”

  She did not see Jon draw his shoulders together, standing behind her with his back turned, but Sal did. Her easy dismissal of the award had touched a nerve, but there was no reaction from Jon toward her.

  “It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She reached out to touch Jon’s arm as he leaned over to give Art his coffee. “I know that it’s important for Jon. But for me, there are things that count a lot more.”

  Gentler, smiling at her husband so sweetly it nearly broke Sal’s heart, she added, “That’s why I’m here, Sal. Not for the Grammy, not for a possible Oscar, but because of him.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Sal murmured.

  “And for him, never fear, I’ll dazzle the world. I would never demean him by showing up in anything but the best. You can stop the arguing already.”

  Sal caught the serene expression on Jon’s face and decided to call it a day.

  She felt ridiculous and completely out of place in the huge, silent car as Stewart drove through the town. Over breakfast a short discussion had ensued, and with a phrase he used unconsciously, Naomi understood that at least half of Jon’s concern was not for her safety but also that she would feel at ease in LA. Curiously enough, this strengthened her resolve to go out on her own. She had to prove to herself and to him that she could survive quite well here without his protection and without Solveigh or Sal in attendance.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said to him before she left. “I lived alone for so long, I think I can survive a shopping trip.”

  “You know that’s not how this is done.” Jon had followed her outside to where Stewart was waiting beside the brand-new Rolls. “You are going to get a gown for an official event, you should be taking your manager, your assistant, your best friend to hold your purse while you try on dresses. Then have lunch at a chic place and let yourself be photographed by at least a dozen paparazzi, and later throw a fit because you weren’t wearing any makeup and your hair wasn’t right, and because you were seen eating real food! Ah, and you need one of those ugly little dogs that can be carried around in a pink purse!”

  She had only huffed in reply, which had made him laugh. But he won, at least, her promise to meet him for lunch.

  Harry’s wife had recommended a Lebanese designer to Naomi. He was, she had said, relatively unknown, his store not in the most fashionable part of town, but he had an extravagant flair that might appeal to her.

  Naomi, stepping into the cool, plush interior of the shop, realized she had come to the right place. She knew Solveigh liked to call her a drama queen, and here was a heaven where she could play out that role. She regretted being alone now; the choice was so great, and each dress was more beautiful than the last. When the manager asked her when and where she was going to wear it, she took a long time replying.

  At last she gave in. “To the Grammys.”

  The man nodded, his lips pursed. His name, he told her, was Jamal. He came from Beirut himself, and the designer was his cousin. Quite candidly he added that he had no idea who she was, but he wished her to look better than any other woman, and if she would allow him to advise her…

  There was a white dress with gold embroidery that Naomi liked a lot. Jamal nodded, but took it from her again. “It would look wonderful on you. And maybe you want to buy it for some other occasion, but not for the Grammy. You want to stand out. Here.” He picked a flaming red silk gown with a flaring, ruffled skirt. “Wear this, and you will stand alone. And get your hair cut.”

  Scandalized, Naomi opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head.

  “Not short, but just so it reaches your shoulder blades. Get it layered and wear it loose. Get rid of that braid. You are too old and too young for it.”

  She accepted the fragrant mocha he offered her, and the oriental pastries, and sat on the couch while he showed her more gowns, shawls, exquisitely embroidered jackets, and little evening purses she could dangle from her wrist. A couple of times Jamal glanced toward the waiting car outside and Stewart, who had taken up his position beside the door.

  “Will you be going to the Oscars as well?” When she nodded reluctantly, he said, “Then you can wear the white and gold.”

  But Naomi had her own ideas. Did his cousin, she asked, come to LA from time to time? She had something in mind. She wanted a dress made especially for her.

  Jamal sat, his legs crossed elegantly, and regarded her over the rim of his dainty cup for a while. A faint scent of patchouli intermingled with the cardamom aroma of their coffee, the light from the heavy crystal chandeliers reflecting lazily on the polished surface of the small glass table between them. “You are going as a guest to the Grammy?” It was asked as circumspectly as he could without being outright rude.

  “Yes and no.”

  He waited politely.

  “I’m a nominee.”

  “A nominee for the Grammy? Then I have to ask. Who are you? Which song?”

  “With my husband. My husband is the composer.”

  She had no idea why she was telling this dark-skinned stranger about herself at all. He was watching her acutely with his velvety Mediterranean eyes, toying with the tiny silver spoon he had used to stir his coffee.

  “What did you have in mind for the Oscars?” Jamal asked, and as she told him, his face lit up in mischievous joy.

  “Yes. I can see that. I can see my cousin beaming with delight already. Drink another coffee. I will call Sayed now.”

  There was a dark green gown she had been eyeing during their conversation, the brocade skirt interwoven with gold threads and embroidered with pearls along the hem, a gown for a harem princess. She was turning in front of the large mirrors in it, a couple of shop assistants tugging the rich folds into order, when Jamal returned and stopped, looking at her with appreciation.

  “My cousin, the designer, will be here next week. If it pleases you, he will see you right after the Grammys.”

  In the end Naomi bought more than the three gowns. She felt wonderful in the precious materials, the luscious colors, the rich decorations, every pearl and thread applied by hand, Jamal told her, in a small village in the mountains of Lebanon, high up where the famous cedars grew and snow fell in winter.

  “The red dress,” Jamal said as she pulled out her credit card, “I’m giving to you. You will be asked which designer you are wearing, and we would be proud if that name is ours.”

  Naomi had always stood to the side with Sal while Jon walked the red carpet, fielding questions and posing for pictures, but this time, her hand firmly in his, she was by his side, aides around her telling her where to stand and where to look, directing the questions put to her, indicating when she could move inside for a pause before the presentations began.

  Solveigh never left her side. When Naomi was separated from Jon, who had to give an exclusive interview to a magazine, Solveigh whispered, “Powder room. Blessed silence.”

  But when they made their way in the door, they discovered nearly every other woman attending was already there, putting finishing touches on impeccable makeup and hair that seemed plastered into place.

  Around them were many famous faces, female singers and musicians who had been nominated, which made her realize she had not bothered to ask who her rivals were, or if there would be anyone performing their song toni
ght. She was certain Jon knew every detail of the evening’s program, that he and Art had left nothing to chance and he had not involved her to take some of the pressure off her, but she saw she was laying a burden on him that he did not deserve.

  She rose from her comfortable nook and straightened her skirt.

  “I’m going to join Jon,” she informed Solveigh, who pulled up her eyebrows in surprise. “He shouldn’t have to do everything alone.”

  She had seen him like this before, alone on a couch, speaking to the reporters in his slow growl, reacting only to the questions he wanted to answer and simply ignoring the others, so cool, so intimidating, exquisitely polite and charming, yet distant and curiously unapproachable.

  He saw her even though she was standing in the shadows, and gave her a small, quick smile before he returned his attention to the reporter’s questions.

  He seemed so isolated, facing the world on his own terms. His bodyguards stood in the background; his manager and his producer, listening to the interminable requests, monitored the procedures while he stood in the limelight, but he was out there alone.

  She moved forward, head held high, and Jon, forgetting what he had been about to say, jumped up and took a step toward her.

  She sat down beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and smiled brightly into the camera.

  Later, when their names were called, she strode up to the stage with him, accepted the award, kissed the presenter on his cheek, and spoke a brief but very polite greeting into the microphone before dropping into her chair again and taking the offered champagne from Sean, her hand still shaking but firmly clasped around the little statue.

  Three days after the Grammys, the glamour and glitz seemed like a distant memory. Jon greeted Sal at the door with the dour words, “Leave me alone. Bother Naomi if you need someone to talk to. I’m working,” and left him standing there in the entrance while he retreated to his studio, uncombed, unshaven, in run-down loafers, a cigarette between his lips, and squinting malevolently through his glasses at their manager.

  Sal found Naomi in the kitchen with her blouse untucked, her jeans rolled up, and her hair still wet from the shower, padding around barefoot on the tile floor. Their recent Grammy was sitting ignored on the kitchen counter.

  Sal glared at her.

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Sal asked, taking a steaming mug from her. “Your husband slouches through the house like a bum, you leave your award sitting in the kitchen, and here I am with your tickets for the Oscars and all you can do is shrug your shoulders?”

  Unbelievably, she really shrugged, setting a ham sandwich down in front of him. “We knew, right? We’ve known for quite a while. The question is, are we going to need those tickets, or are we going to sit up front with the other nominees?” A pensive look crossed her face. “I hope so for Jon, I think he wants it a lot.”

  “Of course he does, you stupid woman!” Sal cried. “Who wouldn’t, except maybe for you?”

  Again the shrug. He wondered how Jon dealt with the cool dismissal and the blatant provocation she could express with that one small gesture.

  “And your man?” The sandwich was delicious, plastered liberally with mayonnaise. “What’s he up to today?”

  “Don’t know exactly.” Naomi planted herself on the kitchen counter, her feet dangling next to his knees. “I think he woke up with a new tune in his head and felt the need to try it out.”

  “Aha.” Sal had run out of words for once.

  The serenity was almost too much for him. It was a much better defense than her withdrawal or anger.

  “If you like,” Naomi suggested, “we could take a walk on the beach. I’ve not been out yet today, and it’s such a lovely morning.”

  He followed her and waited on the porch while she went into the studio to tell Jon. Another thing he would never have dared to do—intrude on him when he was working—having learned quite early in their career that Jon hated nothing more than being interrupted when he was composing. But he heard Jon laugh at something she said, a few bars of music from the piano and a brief, derisive comment from her, an outraged cry from Jon, followed by more laughter from both, and something that sounded suspiciously like a slap on a female rump.

  “Take Stewart, Babe,” Jon called after her before she closed the door again. “Don’t go alone!”

  “I’m taking Sal. He should be good enough.”

  The beach was quiet and empty, impressive waves thundering on the wet sand before dying in sizzling foam at their feet. Overhead, the sky had the pastel tint of clear air, the breeze quite tart, reminding them that it was still only February.

  “I used to imagine,” Naomi said, looking back toward the house, “that the sky was a big bowl covering the West Coast, encapsulating every acre west of the Rockies. Every time I come here it feels as if I’m leaving Earth and going to a different planet altogether. Why is life so different here, Sal?”

  She picked through the debris, collecting stones again, wiping them on the hem of her shirt only to toss most of them back into the sea.

  “Life here is soft and warm, but treacherous, like a bog. As long as you’re young, successful, and famous everyone is your friend. If your star sinks, you can clean their toilets again. It’s all about fame, Sal, and how often your face is on the billboards or in the tabloids.”

  Sal held out a flat pink shell to her and she took it from his hand, scrutinizing it closely before cleaning it.

  “To some, it means everything. Did you see your designer yet?”

  She had, she told him, and yes, her gown for the Oscars was even now being made in Lebanon.

  “Something nicely flamboyant again? You do have a sense for drama with your dresses.” It was meant as a compliment, but she drew her brows together briefly, so he hastily added, “Beautifully dramatic, and with style. You are an eye-catcher when you step out in public.”

  They followed the gentle curve of the beach, strolling leisurely close to the water, Sal with his hands deep in his pockets, awkward and searching for words that did not come, Naomi intent on her finds.

  “Jon kept my little stones,” she said suddenly. “I found them at that hovel where he was living. He had them lined up on the railing of the deck. He held on to them all that time, Sal.”

  He’d known, of course.

  Soon after Jon had moved, Sal had stood right there on the deck, the high tide roiling under his feet, and picked up one of them, mindless, and tossed it into the sea in a wide curve, just for the fun of seeing it fly, and Jon had nearly thrown him right after it in a sudden rush of fury. He had yelled at Sal, ordering him to never touch them again, never; if he valued his life and his job, they were not his to touch.

  “They’re only stones, for God’s sake,” Sal had said, but the answer had been, “They were hers. They aren’t just stones. They are mine now, and you don’t throw them away.”

  He had stared at the lively water as if he wanted to jump in to retrieve the worthless pebble, as if Sal had taken a part of his body from him and tossed it into the surf.

  “I wrote some lyrics about them when we came here last summer,” she was telling him, “but he’s still toying around with them. Don’t know if it will ever be a song. He keeps dismissing ideas, as if he can’t find the right kind of music. It was only a little piece of nonsense.”

  He followed her silently back to the gate where Stewart was waiting.

  As Sal had hoped and Jon had expected, there were a handful of nominations for their movie, including two for the music.

  “Ah, here we go,” Sal had crowed when he came to them with the news two days after their walk on the beach. “Now we’re back in business!”

  Jon, reclining on the couch with his feet on the table, had muttered, “Never left it, I think.”

  Naomi had barely looked up from her magazine.

  They were nominated together for the song, and Jon for the film score, and she could see how deeply he was pleased with this. She had call
ed her parents to tell them about the honor and the upcoming event. Her mother had congratulated her very nicely, adding she was glad her change in life had brought her more fulfillment than just love. Her father had been less kind.

  “It’s nothing, Naomi,” had been his words. “Like smoke. One day you’re famous, the next day you’re dirt. Don’t waste yourself. You know your place is here, always.”

  It had felt like a cold blast into her warm and sunny life.

  Carl was delighted. He was glad, he told her, that everything had worked out for her so beautifully, and that her son had been able to develop a meaningful relationship with his father.

  “That’s all that matters. You have your life back now, after all those long dark years you punished yourself. I’ll be sure to watch the awards show, and maybe I’ll even see you on the red carpet.”

  Sal was nervous. They had a tight schedule, with a set slot for their limousines in the long row of arrivals outside the Los Angeles Shrine Auditorium. They needed to get across the city to get there, and he hated the fact that they were all standing in the hall of the Stone house waiting for Naomi.

  Jon, as usual, was completely relaxed. He had brought out his case of Cuban cigars and offered them, along with a good measure of deep golden bourbon, saying, “Stop fussing, Sal. You know she’ll be down in good time.”

  Jon nearly dropped his Cohiba when he turned to see Naomi descend toward them, head lowered and hands gathered over her chest.

  Jon paniced briefly, the dire thought that she had decided not to go, wasn’t dressed and was here now only to tell him. Then he realized she was made up and her hair set, and what he had at first glance taken to be a bedsheet was in fact an exquisite satin gown.

  He recalled how she had come to him that morning after their first night together in Halmar, warm, wrapped only in a sheet, the scent of love still on her, while he was sitting at the piano. That had brought home to him, more than anything else, that she was his again. And now, on the cusp of her own success, she was returning it to him. Jon’s heart flooded with adoration at the statement her gown made, and at the beauty of it.