“All those words are nothing but a circumspect way to say indifferent. Say what you like, but you had what you wanted. You were so secure in the knowledge that you had a sweet little toy, you could afford to be careless.”
It was hard not to allow the hurt she was causing him to show in his expression, but he thought he succeeded rather well.
“You left me alone,” she repeated. “And you will never be able to understand what it felt like to be all by myself in that house surrounded by the debris of the party and not have the faintest idea of how life was supposed to go on for me.”
Impatiently she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I felt betrayed. Why didn’t you call Sal? Why didn’t you think to have someone look after me?”
“Because,” Jon said very deliberately, “I was drunk and drugged and I didn’t give a damn about anything at all. I can’t even recall worrying about you.”
It was delivered without any emotion, cool and dry, and it made her catch her breath. He nodded. “Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to be angry at me for so long. It’s about time you laid the blame on me. Now I feel a lot better. Go on; tell me how you really felt. I never believed all that stuff about me not being responsible for the misery of our lives.”
They had been over it so often, but she had never thrown it at him like this.
“I hated you! Is that what you want to hear? I hated that I loved you, and I wanted to burn you out of my heart. I wanted the memory of you gone! I was furious at you for leaving me alone, not only that night, but all the time, treating me as if I were just another piece of furniture in that house of yours. Do you realize we only did things that you wanted to do? Didn’t you see that it was you who always made the decisions? When you went to jail with the others, I finally found the strength to go, Jon.”
She was magnificent in her anger, her fists balled at her sides and her eyes blazing, hair flying wildly with each movement. The words she was saying broke his heart, but he was ready to take them in and absorb them and help her find healing here, in the room where she had hidden from him.
“I came here, and I told my uncle I wanted to go to a place where you would never, ever find me. And I told my father to tell you, if you should come searching, that I was dead.”
“Yes, Baby.” He sighed bitterly. “And he did. Olaf seemed to find real joy in doing that.”
This shook her out of her fury. “He had no right to say that to you.”
Jon laughed despite the dire situation. He gazed out at the snowy stretch of lawn, trying to picture the house and the land around it in summer, or even in early fall, when the maple trees and oaks would be in flaming glory.
“My love. I didn’t believe him. I knew you were alive. I’m sure I would have felt it if something had happened to you. I’m certain. You see, there would have been a lot less music in the spheres.”
Speechless, she stared at him.
“And see where we are, Naomi,” Jon said between the kisses he planted on her lips. “Everything is well, and there are no shadows left. I’ll never let you go again, and I’ll make very sure you won’t want to. I promise, my love.”
Sal called. They were on the way, but this could not wait. It had happened, just as they had hoped. The movie soundtrack had received a Grammy nomination. Naomi could hear laughter and Solveigh’s raised voice in the background.
“I suppose this means I have to take you out shopping again,” he grumbled teasingly. “And that is such a chore, knowing how much you hate it. Maybe I’ll just wrap you in a bedsheet for the Grammys. They look great on you, and they’re cheap.”
“But Jon. Doesn’t it mean anything to you, a Grammy nomination, the whisper of Academy Awards?”
He dropped onto the bed and watched as she unpacked the glorious blue silk gown she had bought in New York and spread out the wide, billowing skirt. He could already see her dancing in it, the material swinging around her legs, her waist narrow and supple in his arm.
“Of course I’m pleased, Naomi, and you know why. We find each other, and even in the midst of all the turmoil of bringing our lives together, we are able to shape a grand a piece of songwriting. Proof that we belong together is what it is: we are surely meant for each other.”
“You wrote superb songs with Sean. And I sincerely hope you did not have to…”
“Ah, watch what you’re saying! Don’t paint pictures no one wants to see!”
Shaking her head, she took her cosmetics into the bathroom.
“Tonight, sweet thing,” he called after her, “tonight we’ll be here in this bed! Here, where you tried to sleep me out of your memory, we’re going to make new memories that will keep me forever in your mind and your heart.”
He found he rather liked this simple room; it had the same quiet, withdrawn atmosphere of the apartment in Halmar. It came down to this, over and over again, the great mystery of her life and the way it had centered around him all the time, either with him or trying to let go of him.
“And Russ and Solveigh. I wonder. Have they set a date yet? Did she tell you where they want to get married? Just think, Russ getting married, and to a European, too! Incredible, the way our lives have changed, and all because of that letter! How I wish I could relive the day of that concert in London, only this time I would find you among the crowd.” He folded his hands under his head.
“You are the most maudlin and sentimental man on Earth. You really like those bittersweet memories, don’t you? You wallow in them.”
She climbed up onto the bed, creeping up along and over his body, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, watched by Jon with growing excitement, but when he tried to reach for her, she pushed him down again.
“Gives me ideas,” she whispered into his mouth, pulling back when he tried to kiss her, “Gives me strange, dark ideas of a strong man bound to my bed, forced to please me again and again.”
Jon lay quite still and listened to her with an amused sparkle in his eyes.
“Yes,” she continued softly, her fingers once more on the buttons of his shirt, “forced to please me.”
Silent laughter rippled through him, but he did not move. Naomi had opened his shirt and was stroking his chest and the curly hair there. “Oh yes, mine, all mine.”
He reached up to cup her breasts through her blouse. “Like apples, so smooth, so round and firm, delicious, sweet to the taste. Come here, Baby, come to me, let me free them from all these clothes.” The amusement had vanished from his tone, replaced by the roughness of growing urgency, but she moved away deftly.
“No. We need to go down and greet our guests. No more play.”
Quite easily he toppled her over and held her, kissing her deeply.
“God,” he breathed, “the way I want you. Will it ever lessen I wonder, will this dire need ever pale? I could dive into you now just to hear you sigh, see the brightness in your eyes that tells me you want me just as much.”
Naomi moved against him, on the verge of losing herself to him.
“And your lips, how am I supposed to refuse that invitation, how do you expect me not to kiss you? I can feel your blood boiling for my touch. My God, how do you expect me to rise and face the world, with you, here, softening in my embrace, willing, pleading for love?”
“Sal. Russ and Solveigh. Artie and Sue. At the door, in a few minutes.”
He let her go unwillingly. “Why is it that you mention Sal first? Pure provocation, little beast.”
For a moment, she couldn’t move but simply lay there on her old quilt watching watched him button up his shirt and run his fingers through his hair.
“Now get up yourself,” he ordered. “You are spread out there on that bed of laments like seduction poured out of a dream, and you expect me to be the cool-headed one? Pull down your skirt, comb your hair, and wipe that look off your face, or Sal will think it is meant for him!”
“Slap me sideways till I cry,” was Art’s comment when the car left the forest and the vista of the house and park
opened before them. The windows were lit, the Christmas decorations around the fountain illuminated, and the door was ajar to welcome them.
Sal was not overly surprised. The size of the house was more than he had calculated, but not by much. A wonder, he pondered idly, she did not act like more of a society girl. He recalled their conversation that day in Geneva while Jon was doing the soundcheck, glaring at them from the stage. Even then there had been the sleekness of wealth and good grooming about her, the ease of a cosmopolitan. She had been reticent and a little doubtful, visibly shaken by the impact of her encounter with Jon, but never frightened by the circus around him.
And here she was now, his best friend’s wife, stepping out onto the broad stairs, waving and laughing, clearly happy to see them. The image was ruined for him when Jon came up behind her.
“Good God,” Art sighed. “Isn’t this as it should be? Don’t they look like the lord and lady of the manor?”
“Yeah, he would like that,” Sal grumbled evilly. “Bastard. Lording it over the Canadian peasants, striding over his acres of land in the morning light and accepting the homage of his adoring subjects.”
Solveigh and Sue giggled as the limousine stopped in front of the entrance.
“Riding a huge, white horse, probably,” Sal went on in a sepulchral voice. “Riding crop in his fist, the poor sods groveling and kissing his highly polished boots as he distributes advice and bread. And yeah! The buxom maidens running from harvesting the maple sap to offer themselves up to the charismatic leader…”
Jon pulled the car door open. “Welcome to the land of maple trees and pretty girls,” he said, and drew back in surprise when Solveigh and Sue broke down in hysterical laughter.
Sal looked past him at Naomi. He wondered briefly whether it had been a mistake to come here and see her in this setting where she belonged; she looked so contained and serene.
“Welcome.” She hugged him briefly and kissed his cheek, allowing him to inhale the flowery perfume he always associated with her alone, and hold her close for a precious instant before she was gone again.
The flight had been worth it, seeing her in that red dress he liked so much, her hair flowing in the cold Canadian wind, and with the prospect of New Year’s Eve and dancing with her. Surely she would not deny him a dance.
They had been given wonderful rooms overlooking the park, with the offer to have their evening clothes pressed and a snack if they were hungry, but he had declined, needing a moment to collect himself before he changed for the night.
Sal noticed with interest that there was little difference between this and a grand affair in Hollywood. There was a live band, huge buffet, opulent flowers and a host of service personnel. He stood at the bar in the great hall, drink in hand, and watched the guests arrive. All of them were very well-dressed, the women in lovely gowns, the men in tuxes.
Olaf paused near him for a moment and snatched a glass from a passing waiter. “We do this every year. It’s nice to see this old house in its glory. This is how it is supposed to look, and it was my deep wish that with Naomi the family would bloom. But now…” He downed the martini. “Now it seems it will be going to the dogs. Her cousin, God help me, is a stupid, arrogant asshole who cares more for his bloody Polo ponies than the business, and his wife, the lovely Rita, knows the fashion stores better than her home.” Morosely he glared at the flowers on the table. “Naomi, she received all the careful grooming and education. We had a prospective husband chosen for her, someone who would understand our ways and support her in her profession, but, well, things went differently.”
Sal was scandalized. “Is this how things are done here? You choose partners for your children? You tell them what they are supposed to do with their lives?”
Olaf glanced at his watch, an expensive gold piece. “Yes, well. We try to keep things together and pass it on to our heirs, just the way it has been done for generations. Now, with Naomi out of the picture, there is the danger that it will fall apart.”
“Surely you know,” Sal replied, piqued into defensiveness, “how good she is as a songwriter? She told you, didn’t she, that she’s been nominated for a Grammy?”
“A Grammy?” Olaf repeated derisively, “What’s a Grammy?”
“It’s…” Sal sighed in resignation. “Probably not important to you.”
“It’s the least that husband of hers can do for her after she’s thrown herself away for him.” A spark of anger marred Olaf’s civil appearance. “My daughter, married to a bloody American showman. It’s impossible.” He wandered away.
Sal stared after him.
“Oh, good grief,” Art said from behind him, “Look at that. The queen and her superstar. They sure know how to make an entrance, don’t they?”
“I don’t think it’s intentional. She just looks like that.” He did not want to turn around, afraid to see her in glory again.
“Right.” Art barked a dry, ironic laugh and slapped Sal on the back. “You are one besotted idiot, Sal. Snap out of it!”
They were coming down the broad stairs together, Naomi’s arm hooked through Jon’s, and she was laughing at something he had said to her.
In the blue ballgown, her hair done up with the ends bouncing in curls around her shoulders, she seemed radiant in a manner he had not seen before. It was as if she had settled into herself and their new life, and allowed herself happiness at last. The dress was beautiful and hung well on her, accentuating her bare shoulders and neckline.
The band stopped their muted playing when Carl stepped up to the microphone to welcome his guests and open the ball.
“Who are we seeing here?” Jon asked, returning to Sal when Carl took Naomi away to meet people, but received only a shrug as answer.
“All Canadians. So no one important.” Art grinned cynically.
“Isn’t that the mayor of Toronto?” Jon pointed out a man about their age with reddish, graying hair and a short, sturdy figure. “I remember him from our last visit. He came backstage, didn’t he?”
“Is he still the mayor?” Sal enquired. “My, but you have a good memory, Jon!”
Jon waved him away and explained that he had been very friendly and interested and had confided he was a great fan.
He was busy watching Naomi make her way through the room and greet the guests, stopping to talk for a few minutes sometimes, her gown gleaming like a beacon. She seemed familiar with most of them and was welcomed by all with surprise and enthusiasm, some even with an embrace and a kiss. From time to time she turned and smiled at him, assuring herself he was close.
“You look like a band of spies,” Sue said, “Like James Bond times three on enemy territory, checking out the bad guys.”
“And how do you know,” Jon growled, “we aren’t the bad guys?”
“Aw, Jon.” Sue laughed at him. “No one in the whole wide world would buy that. Give up that illusion right now, my friend.”
“Strange.” He sighed. “Someone in New York said much the same to me the other day. Oh well.”
Carl could not find any faults in his niece’s American husband. His behavior was as impeccable as his clothes, and an accomplished dancer who had the good manners to ask his wife’s mother for a slow waltz.
“You are biased,” he said to Olaf when he caught him watching her dance with Jon. “You are still prejudiced, despite what you see with your own eyes. You gave her away to him, Olaf, and told her to be happy. Now she is, and to such a degree that she can return here and into society, and still you are not pleased. In all those years she never came here, and now, married, she does.”
Olaf grunted in reply but folded his arms defiantly.
“Olaf,” Carl pressed, “give in. Make peace with yourself and with your daughter. No amount of money is worth that. Here is the chance to bring her back into the family, and you are wasting it with your pride.”
He paused to observe the dancers, Naomi secure in Jon’s arm, holding her skirt with one hand to prevent stepping on it, the sil
k swaying around her.
“It’s not pride, and you know it. It is a waste, a terrible, senseless waste, to see her like this, when she should be living here, running the business, at her age, and married to Seth.” Olaf gave his brother a cold stare when Carl touched his shoulder.
“Please! You know as well as I do she would never have married him. I mean, look at him, Olaf, and then look at Jon! Plans are just that Olaf, and they get upset by life!”
“Goddamit all, Carl,” Olaf hissed through his teeth, “Don’t give me that sentimental crap! She preferred marrying into show business to doing the right thing.”
“She preferred,” Carl said quietly, “hiding in Halmar for half her life to living without him, Olaf.”
He turned toward the waitress, but his glance fell on Lucia, who had been listening to them silently, gazing at her husband thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair as if she wanted to put distance between them.
Shortly before they went downstairs for the ball, Naomi handed Jon a battered red folder and a photo album.
This room, Naomi disclosed, was where she had grown up. He would be sleeping in her childhood bed, under her old quilt. There were no more mysteries, and nothing much had changed.
In the folder were her tentative first tries at rhyming, short, rugged lyrics lacking the fluid elegance of her later writing. The album was filled with pictures of a little girl in pigtails and a young teenager with the ubiquitous braid, riding, with friends, in a school uniform with a pleated skirt and dark blue jacket, and out on the terrace at the back of the manor, lounging on a deck chair in a bikini, staring insolently at the photographer over the rim her sunglasses, a fashion magazine on her knees, maybe fifteen.
“Ah,” Jon had breathed, gazing at the snapshot, “Good thing I didn’t meet you then. I would have gone to jail. No way would I have been able to keep away from you, dear heart. I would have snatched you up so fast. Look at the expression on your face! If that isn’t provocative I don’t know what is. Who took this picture?”
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 30
