The Maya 1.40
Previously On The Maya...
Eugenio Stavros tells Amara Barclay he is retiring for the evening. The next day will be busy and exciting. Amara apologizes for her subdued mood during dinner. Stavros tells her it's his fault; he should never have told her George Kirkegaard might be a spy. Stavros leaves and Amara sits down on a chair near the pool deck to think. She concludes that either Kirkegaard is the best spy there ever was, or he is who he says he is, a busted newspaper publisher.
She decides to find out. Using high tech equipment, she traces Paloma's vehicle from the Layton's home to another neighborhood, where she finds Kirkegaard and Paloma talking on the backyard patio. Letting herself in, Amara, invisible, leans up against the wall to listen in on the conversation.
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
"This is fantastic," Kirekgaard said. He was dipping a bite of lobster tail in a melted butter sauce. King prawns, crab legs, rice pilaf and a salad made of greens, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, bell peppers and a light sprinkling of mozzarella cheese rounded out the dinner.
So far, their conversation had touched on family and lighter fare.
"Thank you." Paloma smiled, brilliantly. "I'm glad you like it."
"I can't believe you remembered I love shrimp and lobster."
"I remember a lot of things about you," Paloma said, picking at her salad. She kept her eyes on her plate.
Kirkegaard stopped, looked up from his food. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "I hope there's something good in all of that."
"Oh, there is."
"I'm probably asking for it, but just what kinds of things do you remember?"
"Most of all, I remember the look on your face when the President of the United States, then president-elect, invited me up to his hotel room." She brought her eyes level to his. There was no hint of teasing in them, just matter-of-fact sincerity.
"Right to the jugular," Kirkegaard said. In that moment, though, he didn't know how right he was, or he wouldn't have followed it up with the question he did. He dropped his napkin and leaned back into his chair. He managed a smile. "I remember that, too. What did I look like?"
"Trapped." Paloma left the word float on its own for a moment or two, then added, "You couldn't stop them, they wouldn't let you follow me. You were not happy about that."
This was unexpected. Wherever he thought their conversation might go, this was not where he thought it would be. Not this soon. "I wasn't," was all Kirkegaard could say.
For Kirkegaard, recall flooded in. The memory was vivid, raw, as if it were unfolding before him in realtime. It had taken months to bury it. He couldn't accept it, being powerless, helpless to stop what neither of them wanted, so he'd hidden it, to move on. He knew the moment Paloma spoke of, too. She, surrounded by Secret Service as they piled into an elevator, looking back at him with stoic resolve, while he fought against more security, trying unsuccessfully to push passed them.
It was the last time he'd seen Paloma in the flesh, until yesterday afternoon.
Kirkegaard felt something gentle and warm. He looked down to see Paloma's hand placed on his.
"You know I never wanted any of it," she said softly. The sentence was a statement, but her tone was earnest, as if she were asking him to forgive her.
It was her voice that made him shake his head. "Paloma, you don't owe me an apology. For anything."
"I could have called. Let you know I was at least okay. We could have said a proper goodbye."
Kirkegaard felt a chill run through him. Nearly those same words had pervaded his thoughts for days afterward, until he buried them with their associated feelings of anger, loss and frustration, right next to the emotions of haplessness and futility from watching her go against both their wills.
He'd thought he'd moved on. Now, he realized, he hadn't. Just like his newspaper business, Paloma had been taken from him.
Kirkegaard closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. "It would have been nice," he said, as measured as he could muster, "I waited to hear from you. I called every number I knew to get ahold of you. If only to say goodbye." He paused, then opened his eyes, and brought his other hand on top of hers. "When I didn't hear from you, I realized that we didn't really have anything, anyway. No commitments. No promises. We'd spent some time together because of circumstances, not entirely of our choice or doing. I know you didn't want to be there. If anything, I took advantage of the situation. I took advantage of you."
"You're too hard on yourself," Paloma said. Her smile flared, intense, impossible to ignore. "Like you said I was. I don't think it's possible to be around the people we were with, in the places we were, without feeling dirty. Corrupted. And, so that you know, my not responding to your calls, or reaching out on my own, had nothing to do with any of that, or you."
"Then, what was the reason?"
Paloma did not answer immediately. Instead, she searched his face, looking for something. She leaned in, her voice low. His gaze fell to her mouth as she formed the words of her answer.
"I wasn't ready."
Frowning, Kirkegaard leaned closer, too. "Ready? Ready for what?"
"To say goodbye."
Paloma was squeezing his hand tightly, her eyes still probing, as if she could look inside of him, discern his thoughts. What's she looking for? What does she want from me? Then, it dawned on him. She sought understanding.
A wave of warmth rushed over him, relaxing him. He hadn't noticed how tense he was until he was released of it. He couldn't help but laugh at them, at her, the intensity of the moment, the childlike pleading in her eyes.
He fell back, shaking. Confusion flashed across Paloma's face, but then, as she leaned back too, it was replaced by relief. Then, serenity.
It took a few moments for Kirkegaard to gather himself. When he did, the words came out slowly. "I don't know what to say. I wasn't expecting that."
"I know it doesn't make any sense," Paloma said. She withdrew her hand, used it to wave in the air. Her expression did not change, however.
"There was something between us," Kirekgaard said. "It wasn't just my imagination, or my wishful thinking."
Slowly, Paloma nodded.
"But you couldn't tell me that. I needed to realize it. Or, at least act on my own feelings and desires. And I didn't. Not enough, anyway. I gave up."
"I did not make it easy for you," Paloma said.
"If you love someone, set them free," Kirkegaard said with astonishment. It was as if he couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth.
"If they love you, they will return," Paloma finished. A tear formed in her eye, and fell. She put her hands to her face and began to sob softly.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.