About
the Book
Title:
A Distant Shore
Author:
Mariam Kobras
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
Independent
Publisher Book Award for Romance
Amazon
#1 Bestseller - Contemporary Romance
There's
nothing like receiving a letter from a teenage son you knew nothing
about, but that's what happens to international rock star, Jonathon
Stone. He drops everything to find the boy, and his mother—Naomi,
the girl he loved so many years ago who left him when his rock n’
roll life became too much for her to bear.
Seeing her is
like falling in love all over again, and everything seems perfect,
until someone sets out to destroy their idyllic life.
Author
Bio
Three-time
Independent Publisher's Book Award Winner, Mariam was born in
Frankfurt, Germany. Growing up, she and her family lived in Brazil
and Saudi Arabia before they decided to settle in Germany. Mariam
attended school there and studied American Literature and Psychology
at Justus-Liebig-University in Giessen. Today she lives and writes in
Hamburg, Germany, with her husband, two sons, and two cats.
Links
The
Distant Shore on Amazon: myBook.to/The-Distant-Shore
Mariam
on Amazon: Author.to/Mariam-Kobras
Connect
with the author on:
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/Mariam_Kobras
Pinterest:
https://www.pinterest.com/mariamkobraspin/
The
author's blog: http://mariamkobras.blogspot.com/
Book
Excerpts
The
flight will be a little rough,” the pilot informed him, “I’ll
take you along the coast so you can see something of the landscape,
all right?”
Jon was
not quite sure he liked his cavalier attitude toward the miserable
weather. Fear was weakening the drive that had pushed him this far
around the globe, afraid that he was doing something incredibly
stupid and that the outcome would be too much to bear. And now,
coasting along the shoreline of this rugged country, past soaring
snow-covered mountains, over dark gray water that was capped by white
breakers, an Atlantic storm buffeting the plane, this fear poured
over him like icy slush.
He
regretted not having brought Sal, at last seeing the sense in his
admonition to take someone with him who would keep a clear head.
The wing
of the plane dipped as they passed through a gap in the high hills,
past a couple of small islands, and into the bay with a village at
its end.
“There.”
The pilot pointed, but Jon had seen it already.
There was
a yellow wooden building with a red gabled roof and white trim. It
sat right on the water, and behind it, rising into the gentle swell
of a forested hillside, the little town itself. A white church with
steeples sat nestled among greenery above the houses, looking down on
the pier. To the right, just beside the hotel, a small inlet
separated the town from a fishing wharf, just big enough to hold five
trawlers and a sort of depot.
The
landing was not as bad as he’d expected.
Using a
cigarette as an excuse, Jon lingered in the cold. Here he was, on her
doorstep, and now, after many hours of travel, his courage failed
him.
The
entrance to the hotel lay right on the corner of the pier, the small
square of red tiles separated from the water by a wooden railing and
a low wall following the curve of the bay to the dock where a couple
of yachts rested. From where he stood he could see along the deck at
the side of the hotel. There were some folded deck chairs, forgotten
now in deep winter, but a reminder that even here there would be days
to sit outside and enjoy a semblance of warmth.
The sun
had come out, and the wind was not as rough, broken by the
surrounding hills, but the temperature was just as vicious, just as
bitter. It was so quiet. A bell was ringing somewhere, a single car
passed by, two men strolled down the cobbled street along the pier,
the collars of their thick woolen jackets turned up, a flock of
seagulls swirled over the choppy water, but that was all. The air was
so tart, it stung his nostrils, the light so clear it made him
squint. At long last he tossed away the butt.
Seventeen
years had changed him from the young man who had just made his first
big step toward stardom and into the music icon he was now. Yet here
he was, just as pathetic as he’d been then, pleading for love from
the same woman.
________
They
began at last to talk about music, about Joshua’s studies and the
band he played with, the composition he was working on, and his daily
life at Oxford. Telling Jon about all this seemed to make him forget
his misgivings.
Jon felt
his heart turn over at the joy in his son’s face when he described
how he had walked in on the orchestra, purely by chance, because he
was looking for a book he had forgotten in the auditorium, and they
were practicing a piece he had written.
“Can
you imagine,” he said, his eyes glowing and his cheeks flushed,
“how that felt? There was this whole group of adults, all of them
excellent musicians, and they were playing my
music. That was the first time I’d heard it played, and it sounded
just as it had in my mind when I wrote it.”
Jon
wanted to cry. He wanted to cover his face with his hands and cry for
the lost time, for the moments they had missed when they could have
had these conversations and shared the joy that music brought to both
of them.
“I’m
sure,” he replied, and he heard his voice crack on the words, “I
know how you felt. It’s the instant when you realize you have
created something that others appreciate. And it just feels so good.
It’s all you need to make you go on, and it makes the struggle
worthwhile.”
Joshua,
the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that made him look just
like his mother, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Oh, it’s
no struggle. The melodies are just there. All you have to do is write
them down.”
And here,
Jon realized, was true talent. His own son was more of a composer
than he himself could ever hope to be. For the first time ever, he
knew how it was to feel proud of a child.
A
waitress came to clear away their plates and bring coffee and
pastries.
Joshua
began to ask questions. How did it feel to perform in such huge
venues? What was it like to be so famous and live in Los Angeles?
Could he meet his musicians sometime? And, “Are you going to be my
father from now on?”
“I’ve
always been your father,” was Jon’s reply. “I just didn’t
know it until I got your letter.”
_________
He
wandered over to the desk and looked down at it, clean and orderly in
a way it had never been when he had inhabited this room. He moved his
hand across the wood. “I used to sit here staring out the window,
and instead of studying my Latin I’d be scribbling disgusting,
sentimental lyrics, a young boy’s fantasies of his one perfect
love, the one you would recognize in an instant, one glance, and know
for sure she was the right one.”
“As far
as I can see, you’re still doing it today,” Naomi murmured, but
he heard her.
“Of
course!” He turned back to her with a smile. “Of course I am,
because it still confounds me that such a thing is possible. I’ve
never overcome the miracle of our first meeting. That is a bone I’ve
been chewing on for years now, and I’ve still not found the marrow.
It’s irrational and confusing, but there it is: it has never left
me alone, this thought that I’m not entitled to receive this
special grace. And maybe there’s some truth to that because I lost
you soon enough, wasn’t able to hold on to you. I knew it had to be
you, and yet I did nothing to make sure of you. My punishment and I
accept it.”
“Here
you go again.” She sighed. “You are such a hopeless fool. A
romantic, hopeless, and wonderful fool. Let’s go back down. I want
to meet the rest of your family. I love your mother, by the way.”
“Told
you.” His grin was wide and quite smug.
__________
Naomi lay
in his arms, toying with his shirt buttons, opening them one after
the other, softly touching his skin under the fabric, her fingers
lightly brushing the hairs on his chest.
“You
had better stop.” He shifted restlessly. “You might end up on the
carpet after all, flat on your back, with a starved, wild male on top
of you. But at least I can kiss you now, can’t I? Is this terrible
scene over?”
She
didn’t answer, just sighed in tired resignation.
“Say
you’ll marry me, Naomi. Say it. Tell me you are still mine, tell me
you aren’t going to rip our lives into shreds again. Tell me we can
go back upstairs in a little while and your terrible father and his
Viking brother won’t chop off my head in their fury for causing you
sorrow? Will I have a bride, walking up to me in a lovely gown and
standing beside me? Will I?”
She freed
herself from the hand entangled in her hair and climbed from his
embrace, even though he was unwilling to let her go, protesting that
he had not gotten that kiss yet.
“And
you won’t get that kiss,” Naomi replied, “because I know where
it would lead, and there’s no time now. I need to change and do my
hair, you mussed it all up. And then we’ll go meet the crowd
upstairs. We’ll put a good face on this disaster, Jon, and we’ll
get married. I’m not going to send them all away again and waste
all the food and flowers. Only…”
“Don’t
frighten me anymore, Naomi. Tell me you’ll marry me because you
want me, not because you can’t see a way out of it. Because if
that’s the reason, I think I’ll pass. I don’t want you as my
duty wife; I want you for love alone.”
He
watched her walk to the wardrobe, buttoning up his shirt again, the
feel of her soft fingertips still on his skin, the promising, gentle
touch that gave him the hope that all would be well in the end.
“You’re
getting me as your wife, Jon,” he heard her tired voice say. “Let
that be enough for now. I’ll have to find a way to deal with my
imagination and my guilt. It may take a while.”
No comments:
Post a Comment