Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy) (19 page)

“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.

J
on 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.”

She did not look up but leafed through the tour book she had picked up from a box  beside her.

“Baby, listen to me.” He dropped the towel, but not even that made her glance up. “Naomi, we need to talk. We have to decide how to handle this.”

Furiously, she flung the book away, which made Jon raise his eyebrows and mumble, “Careful. Those things are expensive.”

“They came here to tell us they want to take Joshua away, Jon. There was never any thought of making peace with me, or accepting you. It’s always and again about the stupid business.” Her hand trembled as she wiped away her tears. “And I thought…really, I thought I’d come back here and see them, and everything would be different. I’m so stupid. I really wanted to see them, and tell them I’m sorry.”

His stomach was growling. There had not been a chance to eat anything before the concert, not even the banana he normally had. “Tell them you’re sorry? For what?”

Her fingers knotted around the hem of her dress. “Well, for shutting them out, for not calling, for not letting them know I’m okay.”

“Yeah.” The idea was disgusting enough. Jon envisioned her picking up the phone in their Malibu home and calling her father, letting him intrude into their lives, allowing him to make her miserable all over again.

“Would they have cared? Would your father have cared?” Something new occurred to him. “Why does your mother tolerate all his shit, I want to know? She’s not stupid, and I know she has something like an opinion; there are moments when it shines through.”

Surprised, Naomi blinked at him. “Yes. Yes, she does have her own opinion. But she loves my father. I think she loves him a whole lot.”

Jon felt laughter bubble up in his chest despite the dire prospect of having to see Olaf again in a few moments, and he decided to change the subject. “Tonight is not at all what I thought it would be. I thought we would have a romantic dinner, and then I’d take you to bed, make love to you like I dreamed of doing back then. Instead we have your parents to deal with.” He sighed. “Oh well, can’t be helped. What do you think; are they still out there somewhere? ”