pickled herring for Naomi, and set the table for them on the deck outside the apartment, just above the water. The morning air was fragrant with the sea breeze; it was warm and light.
“When we were there,” she said, “and I went shopping on my own, when I walked up and down the streets alone, and not only on Park Avenue but also down on Canal and in Soho, I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the whole wide world—and I’ve seen many places, Jon. But there, right there among the noise and the dust of Manhattan, I felt life sing to me. I want to be there with a yearning that almost hurts.”
He stared at her over his coffee cup, speechless.
“I want to hear that hum from the city and walk in the shadow of the skyscrapers. Have lunch at Carnegie’s with the tourists and drive over to Flatbush Avenue to buy cheesecake at Junior’s, and I want to go to the Met every weekend.”
With a sigh, she looked out across the bay. “For the first time in a long while, when I was in New York I felt alive. If I could, I’d live in a tent on Times Square.”
“My wife is crazy,” Jon stated slowly. “I’ve married a raving lunatic. Next you’ll say you want a house in Jersey City.”
Her eyes were bright and curious like a bird. “What’s in Jersey City? Do we have to go and see it? Did I miss something?”
That made him laugh. “Ha, totally not. You don’t want to go there, baby. Don’t even think about it.”
Naomi, still in a hotel bathrobe, pursed her lips. “Now that you say it like that, I think I’ll have to go and take a look. Is it pretty there?”
Jon, smirking, got up to get more coffee from the kitchen. “Yeah, it’s pretty. As pretty as the devil’s armpit. Oh, no fear, I’ll take you there. I’ll even take you all the way to Newark and shock you properly, my dove.”
It felt almost like when they had lived here a year ago, but only just.
So often during the long time she had needed to recover from her wounds, Naomi had thought of fleeing and returning here, had dreamed of finding peace and healing in her old life; but now that she was here, she knew she had left in more than one way. She watched Jon as he moved around in the confined space of the apartment, recalling how he had come here to find her and how, for a brief while, they had hidden themselves away from the rest of the world here. She shook herself out of her reverie. It was time to get dressed and visit Solveigh.
In the wardrobe she found some of her old clothes, jeans and a couple of shirts, things she had not thought to take with her when she left for good, things she would not need in her new home in glamorous LA. They were a little loose—she had lost weight during the time she had spent on the roof garden of Jon’s mansion recovering—but good enough to wear. In fact they made her feel younger and somehow, as if she had put on a magic cloak, a lot more carefree. Her hair back in its usual braid, in a white cotton blouse and faded jeans, she returned to where Jon was waiting by her Steinway, bent over some music sheets, studying them.
“Hey,” he greeted her, “look at these. I forgot all about them. Why in the world did we leave them here?”
Because, Naomi wanted to reply, they were old and sad and had nothing to do with the musical they were working on, because they were from a time in her life she did not want to think back on.
“Those are stupid,” she said instead, and took them from his hand. “I don’t want them anymore, Jon. Just let them lie here and gather dust.”
He snatched them back. “Ah, no, not stupid. Sad, yes, stupid, no. None of your lyrics are stupid. These are lovely.”
She had written them, Naomi knew, after a trip to the supermarket, a spur-of-the-moment thing when she wanted ice cream late one evening and did not feel like wrestling with the huge containers in the kitchen. Standing in line to pay, watching the rain beat against the picture window of the store, she had
“When we were there,” she said, “and I went shopping on my own, when I walked up and down the streets alone, and not only on Park Avenue but also down on Canal and in Soho, I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the whole wide world—and I’ve seen many places, Jon. But there, right there among the noise and the dust of Manhattan, I felt life sing to me. I want to be there with a yearning that almost hurts.”
He stared at her over his coffee cup, speechless.
“I want to hear that hum from the city and walk in the shadow of the skyscrapers. Have lunch at Carnegie’s with the tourists and drive over to Flatbush Avenue to buy cheesecake at Junior’s, and I want to go to the Met every weekend.”
With a sigh, she looked out across the bay. “For the first time in a long while, when I was in New York I felt alive. If I could, I’d live in a tent on Times Square.”
“My wife is crazy,” Jon stated slowly. “I’ve married a raving lunatic. Next you’ll say you want a house in Jersey City.”
Her eyes were bright and curious like a bird. “What’s in Jersey City? Do we have to go and see it? Did I miss something?”
That made him laugh. “Ha, totally not. You don’t want to go there, baby. Don’t even think about it.”
Naomi, still in a hotel bathrobe, pursed her lips. “Now that you say it like that, I think I’ll have to go and take a look. Is it pretty there?”
Jon, smirking, got up to get more coffee from the kitchen. “Yeah, it’s pretty. As pretty as the devil’s armpit. Oh, no fear, I’ll take you there. I’ll even take you all the way to Newark and shock you properly, my dove.”
It felt almost like when they had lived here a year ago, but only just.
So often during the long time she had needed to recover from her wounds, Naomi had thought of fleeing and returning here, had dreamed of finding peace and healing in her old life; but now that she was here, she knew she had left in more than one way. She watched Jon as he moved around in the confined space of the apartment, recalling how he had come here to find her and how, for a brief while, they had hidden themselves away from the rest of the world here. She shook herself out of her reverie. It was time to get dressed and visit Solveigh.
In the wardrobe she found some of her old clothes, jeans and a couple of shirts, things she had not thought to take with her when she left for good, things she would not need in her new home in glamorous LA. They were a little loose—she had lost weight during the time she had spent on the roof garden of Jon’s mansion recovering—but good enough to wear. In fact they made her feel younger and somehow, as if she had put on a magic cloak, a lot more carefree. Her hair back in its usual braid, in a white cotton blouse and faded jeans, she returned to where Jon was waiting by her Steinway, bent over some music sheets, studying them.
“Hey,” he greeted her, “look at these. I forgot all about them. Why in the world did we leave them here?”
Because, Naomi wanted to reply, they were old and sad and had nothing to do with the musical they were working on, because they were from a time in her life she did not want to think back on.
“Those are stupid,” she said instead, and took them from his hand. “I don’t want them anymore, Jon. Just let them lie here and gather dust.”
He snatched them back. “Ah, no, not stupid. Sad, yes, stupid, no. None of your lyrics are stupid. These are lovely.”
She had written them, Naomi knew, after a trip to the supermarket, a spur-of-the-moment thing when she wanted ice cream late one evening and did not feel like wrestling with the huge containers in the kitchen. Standing in line to pay, watching the rain beat against the picture window of the store, she had
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