“No.”
Naomi had been on the point of leaving, but this made her turn around again.
“One question, Jon, before I go. What did you expect to find here? I mean, you just drop everything and come here–what was your plan?”
“There was no plan. I’ll do what I have to do to get you back. I’ll do it. That’s all.”
The mess she had made when she dropped the tray had been cleared. Solveigh was back by the desk talking to some guests. In the dining room, Christi and Sven were busy setting the tables, sadly not with the new plates she had been so proud of when she had unpacked them only this morning, fresh from the factory in England.
“Do you know at all what you’re doing?” Solveigh rounded on Naomi. “Don’t you know who that is? Why did you put him in Joshua’s old room? The suite is free, and you hole him up down there? And what is someone like him doing here anyway, and in the deep of winter? You can’t leave him there, the impression he will get! Why is he all on his own, I ask you? Those people never travel on their own!”
Naomi busied herself with the computer until Solveigh ran out of breath and questions.
“You changed your clothes, and you were gone for nearly two hours. What’s going on, Naomi?” She was a pretty Scandinavian girl, with frizzy golden hair, a complexion like a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth, and blue eyes like the summer sky. Her hourglass figure was the perfect first sight for anyone entering the lobby.
“I was tired, I took a nap.”
“And then you change out of your work dress, why? In all our years together I’ve never seen you in private clothes during your shift.”
“Spilled coffee on it.” Naomi tried to turn away, but Solveigh stepped in her path.
“How many of those do you have? Three, four? All of them, you spilled coffee on all of your dresses? Come on, there’s something fishy going on here.”
Naomi went around her and into the kitchen, letting the swinging doors close rudely behind her, but Solveigh followed her. “And why did you drop those plates? We’ve been waiting for them for months, and you were all excited when they were finally delivered this morning, so what made you drop them?”
Andrea stopped chopping carrots to hand them muffins and coffee and listened to Solveigh’s interrogation with raised eyebrows.
“Cook a steak, Andrea,” she ordered, “Medium, with fried potatoes and mushrooms. A really nice one with bread and butter, please. A slice of apple pie, and vanilla sauce. Don’t forget the coffee, and have it taken to Joshua’s old room. Do it right away, our guest wants to rest after his long flight.”
That silenced Solveigh for the moment.
“You’re so going to tell,” she said finally. “I’m going to make you. Anyway, he can’t stay down there forever. At some point he’ll show up, and then I’ll just ask him what he wants here in this godforsaken corner of the world.”
“Do that, Solveigh.” She heard Solveigh gasp at her calm offer and felt a surge of elation at having shut her up so neatly for once.
Naomi, with little to do at this time of day, rested her elbow on the desk and stared out into the darkness and the curtain of snow.
It had only been one kiss after all, on that summer afternoon all those years ago.
She had left the hotel terrace with him when he offered the stroll, and followed him along the tree-shaded promenade on the shore of Lake Leman. They walked past the wooden pier with the paddle boats and the ice cream vendor, the bells on the sides of his cart ringing out their merry signal to the children down by the swings on the narrow stretch of lawn. The fountain’s spray had cast a rainbow over the water as it danced in the breeze from the mountains.
They had talked about little things, like the breakfast he had eaten, and how different it had been compared to what he was used to, especially the French coffee. How he had expected to be served a bar of chocolate, but there had only been croissants and jam.
She had laughed at him and explained that breakfast was not such a big deal, but lunch was generally nice, and then he could always have his chocolate for dessert. That had been the moment when he had taken her in his arms.
That kiss had changed everything for her. He had been so careful, shy even, barely touching her lips at first. When she did not pull away, he had brushed his tongue over her teeth until she opened up to him. Jon had not let go of her hand on their way back. There had been little talk, not even when they returned to the hotel where Sal had been waiting impatiently. Without resistance, she had followed Jon onto the bus. The members of his band had been there, a loud, high-spirited group commenting on the sights they passed as they went through the city. One of them had his guitar out and played snatches of melodies and crazy riffs. The girls in the back row chatted about their shopping trip earlier in the day, someone else had covered his head with a towel and reclined in his seat, his hands folded over his chest, his long legs stretched out into the aisle.
“What am I supposed to do with you now?” Jon had asked. “I can’t let you go. I’m afraid you will vanish and I’d have to spend days searching for you, and I can’t because I have to go on to Paris from here. You have to promise not to run off.”
He took her up on the stage and ordered the man sitting at the piano to watch her and to not let her leave at all costs. Then he picked up the microphone to sing his songs to the empty, sun-drenched space.
“He made you sit up here?” Sean had begun playing the next song while talking.
“Does he do this often? Bring girls onstage?”
He had laughed out loud at that. “No, never.”
“Are there many girls?” A stupid and unnecessary question, but it had popped out before she could hold it back. Sean had pointed toward Jon, his tall form moving with the rhythm of the percussion.
“What do you think? Look at him!” He patted her shoulder in a friendly manner just as Jon turned to look for her.
“Don’t touch, Sean,” he called. It came out rather imperiously. “Don’t touch what’s mine.”
Sean’s laugh had changed into an amused grin. “Oh, so that’s how it is. Alright then.”
This had been a little too much for her.
Sal, sitting in the first row, waved to her and she clambered over the edge of the stage to join him.
“Tell me about yourself!” he shouted over the music as he handed her a can of cold Coke.
There was not much to tell, Naomi replied, but then painted the picture of her life for him, of skiing trips to the mountains in winter and balls at the yachting club on summer nights, sailing on the lake on cool mornings with friends. And yes, she lived with her parents right here, actually on the lakeshore not too far from their hotel, in an apartment that looked out over the water. Jon broke off the sound check a short time later after a rather tart discussion with his musicians.
“Oh my,” Sal commented acidicly as he rose from his seat and brushed off his pants, “Look at him. All wound up because you’re sitting here with me and chatting away as if he wasn’t there anymore. I’m going to find something to do before he rips me apart, the jealous bastard. Farewell, lovely one.” And he walked off; whistling the same tune Jon had sung only moments before, only coming from him, it sounded slightly off-key.
Jon shivered as he stared out into the early darkness in a mixture of wonder and awe. He was cold, even with hot food in his stomach and the quilt pulled up to his chin. The bed was awkwardly narrow; in fact, it was so frugal that lying on his back, there was barely room for his arms. He turned onto his side to watch the beacon of the lighthouse. From upstairs he could hear the muted sound of people talking and laughing, occasionally a chair scraping and footsteps, some heavier than others in sturdy boots, crossing right above his head.
“Nothing,” she had said, as easily as that. He had done nothing to send her away; it had not been his fault. She had kissed him and let him hold her to prove it—not quite long enough for his taste, but it was a start.
Jon, trying to change his po
sition without falling out of the bed, marveled at the ease with which she had accepted him back, as if she had expected this to happen someday, or had even been waiting for it. He was certain now that he had done the right thing in coming here without thinking about it. Maybe, just maybe, there was nothing here that could be treated rationally at all, just like all those years ago.
The blue light of his cell phone blinked from where it lay on the bedside table. He considered ignoring it, but Sal would keep calling him every fifteen minutes until he finally gave in.
“Hey,” he heard his manager’s voice as if he were standing next to him. “Where are you, man?”
“In bed, Sal.” Jon cursed himself immediately for it.
“Alone?”
Yes, that had been the reaction he had expected.
“Alone, Sal. It’s afternoon here. I’m just resting. That was a long, mean flight. And the last stretch, in that little plane, flying through a storm, was no fun at all.”
He could hear Sal’s breathing on the other end, then a circumspect clearing of his throat. “You really did it, Jon? You’re not kidding me, are you? What did she say? What does she look like?”
“Much the same, really.”
And it was true, not wishful thinking at all, as if time had passed her by while she was hidden away in this tranquil place.
“What did she say when you walked in? Come on, Jon.”
There was no way he was going to talk about this with anyone, not even Sal.
“I’ll call you, Sal. When I’m ready, I’ll call you. Don’t worry about me, and don’t call me. Not for anything at all, you hear me? I’ll fire you instantly if you do.”
He hung up before Sal could ask more questions.
Squirming again on the bed, it came to him that this had been his son’s room, and was probably the same bed he had slept in, maybe even the same quilt he had used. He sniffed it carefully, but there was only the clean smell of detergent, which made him feel like a pathetic fool again.
Jon wondered where the boy was; his former room, Naomi had said. That meant he didn’t live here anymore, which was another explanation he wanted very badly. Twisted into an awkward bundle, the covers tangled around his legs, he fell into an uneasy sleep.
For a moment, just before she entered her apartment, Naomi had the eerie feeling she had only been deeply immersed in one of her recurring daydreams which would bring Jon to her, let him unravel the veil of obscurity she had woven so tightly around herself. But then she opened the door and saw that indeed her life had changed.
His shoes still stood under the piano bench where he had taken them off at her demand, the damp leather jacket lay over a chair, her desk light was turned on, and her lyrics sheets were spread out, half of them on the piano, the other half over the dining table. On many he had scribbled comments or added a few lines, finishing with a quick stroke where she had given up, changing a sequence where the rhythm was awkward, a word where the rhyme did not work. She read some of his notes while she gathered the scattered papers, deeply moved by his fast insight into her moods and intentions and the implicit manner in which he had taken possession of her work. On a couple of sheets, he had even drawn a few quick staff lines and sketches of tunes, hearing the melodies in her verses as he read them.
It had been like this before.
Behind her on the shelf, together with all the other recordings he had put out during the past twenty years, was the one they had made together: the only album with a rose cover, and all of the songs on it had her words in them.
She showered and changed into her prettiest nightgown and made some tea before she settled down on the couch.
He would come, and reclaim her. Aside from locking him out, there was precious little she could do to prevent it. She had made sure the door was unlocked. All he had to do was walk in.
She felt a little like a bride waiting for her new husband, excited, expectant, fearful. This one night, she promised herself, she would not think about the future nor dwell on the past.
Her eyes on Jon’s shoes, Naomi drifted off.
It seemed to be dark most of the time, Jon noted when he woke to the sound of waves slapping against the deck. He had forgotten to reset his watch and cell phone, and there was no clock in the room.
In the hallway, silence greeted him. The lobby, which he could partially see from where he stood, was only sparingly lit, and there were no sounds at all, which told him it had to be night.
Her door was unlocked, and seeing her asleep on the couch, her face resting on her hand, Jon knew he would not give up this fight, no matter how long it took or how hard it would be.
“That bed,” he said softly when Naomi opened her eyes to look at him, “It’s very hard and narrow, Baby. Will you let me sleep in yours tonight?”
The sheets were fresh, even new, pristine and white, the covers turned down, the pillows in lace covers and flower-scented. On the small night table stood a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a bouquet of nodding roses. She had wanted this too, he understood.
Very gently he slipped the straps from her shoulders and let her nightgown drop to the floor where it pooled in folds of ivory satin.
He undressed, letting her watch, watching her in turn as her eyes traveled from his face to his chest, then deeper. He had passed forty a few years ago, but he was in good shape, slim and well-muscled, nothing to be ashamed about in that department.
She allowed him do as he wished, spread her hair on the pillow, kiss her ever so gently, brush his fingertips down the hollow of her throat.
“I’ll make it real now, Baby,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, my love. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long. Don’t be afraid.”
As if it were an act of prayer, he unfolded her limbs, and her body welcomed him, arching against him in a sudden, hot surge of passion. Jon caught her, sensing her rising need, his movements gentle and slow, and whispered all those words to her he had wanted to say through all the years, her breathless sighs the loveliest sound he could imagine, her hands on his skin the touch he had missed more than he had even known, and the look in her eyes the sweet surrender he craved.
“Yes, Baby,” he breathed. “You and me. Always was, and has to be, forever.” Here it was, the deep truth he had always, even in his darkest moments, held on to, the proof he had been right.
They lay together for a long time afterward, their limbs entangled, her hair wrapped around them, lips touching, skin to skin, overwhelmed by the intimacy they had regained.
“You know we are absolutely insane. We should not be falling into each other’s arms like this. It can’t last. I’m afraid it won’t last. I will wake up and find it was just another one of those dreams in which you come to me and which always leave me hot and bothered and—” His deep kiss silenced her and took her breath away.
“I’ll make you as hot and bothered as you can take, any time you want, my love,” he promised darkly. “Just say the word and turn down the sheets. Or, at the least, clear the table.”
Desire welled up in her again, he could feel it. His mouth close to her ear, he asked, “I take it you are thinking of that table at the studio in LA?” and caught her in a wild embrace when she gasped.
Naomi woke, warm and cozy, wrapped in the quilt by loving hands, sunlight on her face, the scent of coffee in the air. From below she heard the soft tinkle of the piano. Still drowsy, she listened to the experimental notes, the short phrases of melody, to Jon as he mumbled to himself and the soft bubbling of the coffee maker. She felt deliciously languid, unwilling to rise from her soft cocoon, so she lay and dozed, her head buried deep in the pillow, until she had to admit the day had started and the hotel staff would probably be in upheaval if she did not show up at some point. Lazily she stretched, savoring the mild ache in her muscles, wrapping the sheet around herself before heading down the stairs.
Halfway down, she stopped. He had not noticed her yet, bent as he was over the piano keys, intent on what he was doing.
>
It looked so right to see him sitting there, in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, barefoot, with glasses, please God, scribbling on the paper in front of him with one hand while playing with the other.
Composing, creating, singing softly to himself.
Jon looked up at her, a smile spreading on his face. “Ah, this is surely how a bride should look after her wedding night. You are lovely. That is the most becoming dress I can imagine. Come here.”
He pulled her onto his lap and handed her the coffee mug from which he had been drinking.
“I found this,” he said, tapping the piece of paper in front of him. “How do you do it? Does it just pour out of you? It’s incredible.”
His hands went down to the piano keys. “I don’t even need to think, the music is right there in your words. It feels a little like stealing from you. Listen.”
A slow, measured melody emerged with his playing. “I can hear the strings and the harp right here, then, for the second verse, a cello and horns. It should be airy and a little transcendent, there’s this fairy touch to it. Oh, and here…oh yes.”
For an instant he drifted away from her and his surroundings, caught up in the music he alone was hearing, letting the tune flow through him. She shifted, and the sheet parted, revealing a length of leg. His gaze dropped to her naked thigh, his hand following a little slower.
“And what are you trying to do, distracting me like that? Really, Naomi, here, on the piano? You are one shameless girl.”
“Hot and bothered again? You’ll have to deal with it on your own Jon. I need to get to work. But first I want a shower. Alone.”
He watched her walk away, dropping the sheet halfway to the bathroom. When she returned she was dressed in a smart cream-colored business suit, her hair done up and in high heels, a delicate string of pearls around her throat. She leaned over to kiss him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I have a business meeting this morning. I do own more clothes than that black dress and a sheet.”
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 4
