She picked another fry out of her container and daintily bit off half. “I needed to see our carpenter. He lives outside of town, so I didn’t want to go on my own.”
Russ looked at her questioningly, and she shrugged slightly. “Needed to order a table. I wanted to pick the wood myself, and I think I did well, right, Sal?”
“Really nice,” he conceded. “Rosewood, would you believe it? She spent a fortune.”
Naomi shrugged again. “It’s my gift for your studio. I hope you’ll enjoy working on it.”
Jon’s hand tightened.
“A table for the studio? Did we ever have one in LA? I don’t remember a table.” Russ looked from one to the other.
“Hell, yeah. Can’t do without a table in the studio. I need it badly.” Jon relished the shiver that ran through her body.
“Well, if you say so.” Russ looked dubious. “You’re the Master.”
Sal had flown back to LA a few days earlier, and life was settling into a new sense of normalcy. Naomi was at the desk, checking out some American guests.
“There’s certainly been a lot of music here,” the woman was saying. “It’s been nice, but I do wish they had played more songs that we know.”
“Yes, well, they are trying out some new songs and…” just then Naomi glanced up from her work and saw Art walking in the door.
There was a shout of laughter from Art, who had a bright grin on his face. He came toward her and slumped on the counter, grinning at the strange woman. “You have no idea who was playing that music, do you?”
He hadn’t changed much. There was some grey in his blond hair and a few laugh lines around his mouth, but otherwise he seemed the same man that Naomi remembered so well.
“Shut up, Art,” she said.
“You weren’t this outspoken earlier in your career,” he crowed.
She pulled herself together and sent the guests off. Only when they had left the building did she turn to him.
“What are you doing here? Did anyone ask you to come?”
Her tone was unfriendly and defensive, but his grin only widened.
“Baby Girl. You are lovelier than ever. And yes, the good Sal sent me. I had so hoped for a warmer welcome. Whatever did I do to deserve this much animosity?”
“I will tell you right up front because I want you out of here. And I don’t want your goblin’s grin within a thousand miles of my home. You brought those drugs to our house that night! So out you go.”
The grin fell from his face, replaced by a questioning look and a quick drumming of his fingers on the counter.
“Drugs? Nah, no drugs. Wes had the stuff on him all the time, and we used it alright, but I never owned any drugs, just like your man. We were always partying, and there was reason enough. What is this all about, Naomi?”
Naomi vanished into the office without another word.
Jon felt out of place seeing his producer, manager, and musical director sitting in the attic room—now a brand new studio—that looked out onto the stark Norwegian landscape with its strange light and brisk wind. It was so different from his studio in downtown LA. Motes of dust danced in the slanting sunlight falling through the panes. It was quiet, and the air smelled of the ocean and fresh timber from the new floorboards.
There was a profound feeling of peace and the slowing of time, a gathering of energy and the essence that meant music to him, a silent sound that hung waiting in his mind, ready to be called forth when the moment was right. He had always needed solitude to compose, an atmosphere that would let him concentrate, at best a place that would channel inspiration and let him hear the harmonies evolving from the source deep inside him. He could see himself working here, writing the soundtrack he had promised to deliver.
“Hey,” Sean said softly. “You seem ready to work. I know that look on your face and I’ve missed it for the longest time.”
Jon pulled himself out of his reverie. He had been pleased at first to see Art, but when he had walked into Naomi’s office and noticed her shuttered face he had recalled her reservations. She had refused to talk about it, refused to talk to him at all, saying she was too busy to worry about him and his cronies right now, and to please leave her alone.
“Yeah. About ready. But before we get down to it, there’s something that needs taking care of. Art.”
The manager nodded and stood up. “Coming. I guessed we’d have to talk after Naomi’s warm welcome.”
“Nice place,” Art commented as they made their way down. “A bit far off the beaten track, and a long ride from any city that deserves that title, but very nice. Do you really want to live here?”
“It’s where she is.”
“You know that drug raid had nothing to do with me, don’t you?” Art asked when they had reached Naomi’s door.
“It’s not me you need to convince. It’s Naomi. She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“Ah,” Art breathed. “Finally tamed. Never thought I would see the day. Domesticated. Purring like a kitten under the gentle caress of the little woman.”
Naomi was sitting at her desk, her back straight and stiff, her hands folded in her lap, staring out at the water, waiting.
“Hey, Naomi.” Art stopped right inside the door. “Maybe you’ll give me a second chance and talk to me?”
“You’ve been in so many of my nightmares, Arthur Kennedy.” She rose from her chair. “You’ll need to do a lot of talking to convince me.”
Jon moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll make some coffee.”
Art watched him start the ritual of brewing coffee as if he had never lived anywhere else, finding the things he needed without looking, moving in the confined space with ease. Jon took a pink mug out of the cupboard and filled it, mixed milk into it, and put it in Naomi’s hands.
Art had to wait a moment before Jon could tear his attention away from her.
“I don’t know what I did to earn your hostility, but I would like to clear the air and be back in your good graces again, Baby Girl.” He could see her demeanor soften somewhat at his words, encouraged by a smile from Jon.
“No one,” she answered, “truly no one has called me that in a long, long time, Art. I had completely forgotten about it.”
“Well.” He shrugged at her. “It seems you aren’t that much of a baby anymore, my dear. You’ve gotten your shit together just fine. Got your old man in line, too. It was high time someone took him in hand, and I always thought you would be the one. So tell me why you want me out of here so badly. What have I done to deserve your hatred?”
He saw her draw a breath to answer, but then reticence took over again and she looked toward Jon, who waited patiently for her to gather the courage to do her own talking.
“You blame me for the raid at the house. But I don’t know why. Why don’t you tell me what happened that night to make you think so?”
Art watched her closely, fascinated by the fact that she was the one who had held their star’s heart for so many years. She was pretty enough, short, the top of her head well below Jon’s chin, slim but not bony, with clear, white skin. Her eyes were dark and large, her black, curly hair sensational, no two ways about it. Her beauty was fragile but then again not; there was a distinct Mediterranean flair too. Art could not fathom Jon’s obsession with this European female, but he recognized that having her back had done him a world of good. Jon had not been so at ease with himself in a very long time.
“I can’t tell you,” she replied into his thoughts. “I won’t tell you what happened. But the reason it happened was because you and Wes had those drugs on you. I wasted sixteen years of my life because of you. I could have been…” A small, helpless gesture toward Jon. “We could have had a life together. We might have been together. But for you and Wes, none of this would have happened.”
Art’s hands dug deep into his curls, as if pulling his hair would bring some kind of atonement. “I would gladly take the blame for that night if it would change anything. Hell, I will take th
e blame! If it helps, I will tell you I had those drugs and it was my fault we all went to jail. I should have kept Wes from bringing them to your house. I didn’t. My fault. So throw me out.”
But despite his words, he did not move away from his spot. He observed her reaction closely, the way she stood so still and withdrawn, gazing at him from those velvety black eyes, lips soft and vulnerable, and had a fleeting glimpse of what it was that seemed so alluring to Jon. It would appeal to him, the elusiveness and the withdrawal. It would be a constant challenge to decipher her.
But he received the surprise of his life.
“Baby,” Jon said with some amusement, “don’t give him that look. I know what you’re thinking, so give the poor man a break. Tell him you forgive him already.”
His tone was so unstrained and easy. Art had a hard time remembering when he had last heard him like that.
“Right.” He cleared his throat in bewilderment. “I’ll get on my knees and plead if I have to, but please let me stay. I need to witness this wonder you have wrought. Peace and domestic bliss in the Stone household. Where’s your son, just to make the picture perfect?”
Naomi took her empty cup to the counter, where Jon picked it up again to put it in the dishwasher. Art could not contain himself any longer; he broke out in loud laughter.
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “What’s so funny, Arthur? Haven’t you ever seen Jon put something in a dishwasher?”
“Hey. Don’t talk about me as if I were an idiot, please. Tell Artie what he must be told and be done with it. Sean and Russ are up there waiting for us, and I really can’t afford to lose another day. So let’s get on with it.” But Jon’s face was bright with hidden glee as he said this.
The movie soundtrack had come together overnight when Jon, in a bout of furious creativity, disappeared into the studio for nearly twenty-four hours, not even calling down for food or coffee.
They had written it in little more than two months, a nearly impossible feat, and he had no idea how they had done it. For years and years he had written nothing but songs about lost love and dreaming of finding it again, preferably with the one he had lost in the first place, songs about wanting to belong, about forgiving and understanding, or even meaningless funny tunes about things like a night in a bar, driving down a country road, or drinking a bottle of scotch with a friend and drowning in maudlin reminiscences, but never anything of great musical value. Nothing he considered important enough to signify real creative growth. The inner peace, the quietness he needed to listen again to what was inside him, was back. Had come back, if he was honest, in the jet that had brought him here, as if the knowledge of where he was going had been enough.
In a flurry of activity, they finished the last preparations for the trip to Los Angeles. Art had ordered a private plane that would take them from Halmar directly to California.
He laughed at Jon over breakfast, when he told them about his first trip coming here. How he had gone to the airport all by himself, not even knowing where Halmar was, and how he had taken the water taxi from Bergen, not knowing Halmar even had an airport, albeit a small one.
“Big enough for a small jet,” Solveigh remarked a little acidly.
“Yes, well, I know that now.”
There were quite a few things he had discovered, both about himself and the world in general. Things he had either forgotten over time or never bothered to find out before, like the fact that life outside of his home country held a kind of freedom for him that he could not have in the States.
It rained miserably when they left for the airport, as if Norway was sad to see them go.
Solveigh, leaving her hometown for the first time, said good-bye to her parents on the tarmac. Russ stood beside her, assuring them he would take good care of their daughter and would not let her come to harm in the big city. He received a stony glare from her in return.
Jon watched critically as the luggage was loaded. Now, minutes before they were to take off, he was having qualms. The thought of Naomi in LA frightened him, and he was about to turn around and tell her to stay behind when she walked out of the little building, her arm in Sean’s, a magazine in her hand.
“Ready, honey?” she called. “Time to go?”
He was shaking in his shoes at her volatile moods. Here she was, dressed in sweatpants and a comfortable shirt, sneakers and thick socks on her feet, ready to spend hours on a plane as if she had never done anything else in her life. There was nearly nothing left of the prim, pale, black-clad hotel girl he had found when he had come here.
He could just see it. For an instant, the curtain blew open and he could see a vision of their future, traveling, seeing places, giving concerts to huge crowds, and in between, writing, creating, loving.
She smiled at him and vanished into the plane.
They flew into the night, leaving the sunset behind them, the cities far below twinkling up at them like a second sky. Joshua sat by a window, staring down until he fell asleep with his brow pressed against the cold glass. Naomi started to rise, but Jon held her back. “Let me.” He settled Joshua back into the broad seat and covered him with one of the blankets provided by the attendant.
“You look cozy,” Jon remarked when he returned. “As if you had spent your whole life flying across the Atlantic.”
“I can do some simple math. It’s a terribly long flight.”
This was something he knew all too well. The last time, he had done it alone, and it had seemed to take an eternity. Now here they were, going back, and he prayed it would all turn out alright.
He had asked her before they left if she wanted to stay at a hotel rather than in his house, but Naomi had only stared at him in surprise. Of course, she replied, she wanted to see where he lived. Not “had lived.” It disturbed him, the way she said it unconsciously, as if there was, despite all the protestations of faith, still a measure of disbelief that he would stay with her.
“Maybe,” he said in a hushed voice, “bringing you to California wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“Didn’t you clean up before you left?” She eyed him in mock suspicion. “No fresh sheets? When did you have your last lover there?”
“Naomi.” Jon was scandalized. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Well, come on!” she shrugged. “Don’t tell me you never took anyone to your home. Did you always book a hotel?”
“That does it,” he said. “I’m not taking you there. We’ll stay at a hotel. You’re right. I can’t take you to that house. I won’t have you sleep in that bed.”
She drew up her legs to lay them over his knees.
“A little late to realize that, isn’t it? No. I want to see it. I want to see where you spent your life. I want to be part of it, even if only for a day. We’ll ask Art to put up Joshua, and you and I are going out there.” Her look grew pensive. “It might have been my home…”
“No.” This was easy enough to answer. “Never. We would have stayed in Malibu. I would never have moved you out there. It wouldn’t have been safe for a kid. It’s a place for lonely people, not for families.”
“You are so ridiculous. Why did you move there, then? Why did you move out of the Malibu house? Who lives there now, do you know? Who bought it?”
It was very quiet in the little plane. Solveigh was asleep with her head on Russ’ shoulder, Sean, way up front, was working, his laptop open on his knees. He was typing furiously with Art next to him looking on with great interest.
“I didn’t sell it,” he said after a while. “I just moved out. After you left I didn’t want to stay there. It was too lonely, too big, and every corner reminded me of you. But I couldn’t make myself sell it. It would have been too final. Sal used to say I was obsessed with you and should let go, but I couldn’t. I always thought somehow that as long as I held on to the house there was still some chance that someday you might return there…I don’t know.”
There was nothing to say. All those years had wandered pas
t them in slow, unfaltering steps, but this had not changed, a constant of irrational dimensions, a monument to loss, the inability in both of them to let go.
Holding on to that house had been just as foolish a gesture as her going to that concert. It was a way to keep reality from turning into nothing more than memory.
Jon laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, his hands on her legs, and Naomi let her thoughts wander.
From the living room it had not been possible to see the ocean; there had only been the green wilderness and the many blooming bushes and the meandering path that led from the terrace down to the high fence and then the beach. It was a mansion still waiting to be inhabited, elegant in its way, but not yet imprinted by the owner’s taste.
There was only one corner that had seemed lived in, and that was the room with the piano and the guitars and the cluttered shelves, full of folders and books, music, records, and a stereo. But even this had been a spartan, undecided place. The bedroom led out onto a covered roof garden that stretched nearly the width of the building, but it had been sadly unkempt. From here, the view of the sea was spectacular. Jon had told her that she was welcome to do with the house whatever she wished. After all, it was supposed to be her home from now on, and he wanted her to be comfortable. But other than buying a new bed and a rug, she had never found the courage to change anything at all.
Naomi opened her eyes again when he touched her face lightly.
“What are you listening to that makes you go all dreamy?” he asked when she took off the earphones. He heard his own voice from them. “Oh, shame on you.” With a smile, he pried them from her hands. “You have the original right next to you and you listen to the canned version?”
“I can’t hear you sing right now,” she replied. “And it wasn’t the music that made me dream. You never told me, who lives in the house now?”
Jon shifted so he could look straight at her. “Why do you ask? You ran from that house, and I seem to recall you saying you never wanted to return to it.”
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 14
