Previously On The Maya...
George Kirkegaard and Paloma embrace as she weeps. Then Paloma says she has something to tell him. She then declares that she knew she would see him again, and not only that, it would be on the Isle of Use. And then she recounts a dream she had that morning, which matches Kirkegaard's dream only from Paloma's point of view. Kirkegaard can't believe it, and he feels embarrassed for the feeling he has regarding Amara Barclay. He admits to having the same dream.
Paloma tells him how she felt when she saw him at the sandwich shop with Amara. Kirkegaard tries to apologize, but Paloma tells him, "I know you're attracted to her."
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.
The words tumbled out of Paloma, but there was no rancor or accusation in them. "And why not? She's the ultimate fantasy in the flesh. She knows it, too, and has no reason to hide from who she is."
"Paloma, I..."
She interrupted him. "I'm trying to say, I'm okay." She paused, bit her lip. "I'm okay, because you left her to go after me. Twice."
"Once in the dream, the other when we were leaving lunch."
Paloma nodded. "You still wanted to see me, even with Amara there."
"I didn't know any of this was going to happen. I still can't believe it is. I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for Jim."
"You didn't tell me why."
Kirkegaard winced. Another unwanted moment had arrived. "I bought a newspaper business from him, about three years ago. He was done fighting with it, trying to juggle family and other obligations while eking out a meager profit. I didn't have any of those obligations, and threw my heart and soul and many a sleepless night into it. It turned around, started to make good money, and then..."
Involuntarily, Kirkegaard balled his fists. His jaw clenched and he could feel his face heat up as the anger rose. He tried to force it down, but it came and all he could do was hold on until it passed. In the middle of it, he felt an arm around his neck and a hand raising his chin. He began to push against it, but then lips fell onto his, sweet, longing, loving.
Kirkegaard and Paloma had never kissed before. Not even come close. But there they were, mouths clinging, as if it were natural, or they were making up for lost time. After several heartbeats, she withdrew. When he opened his eyes, Paloma's nose was touching his, and she was smiling. "Easy," she breathed. "I don't remember that much of a temper."
"The state legislature changed a law," he said, forcing the words out, "I couldn't publish legal notices anymore. Most of my revenue was tied up in those notices. Income dried up almost overnight. I fought, I begged, I threatened, I railed, all for naught."
"Just like the last time you saw me," Paloma said.
Kirkegaard nodded. He could feel the knots in his muscles, from his temples to his toes, begin to unravel and release.
"So, this is Jim's idea of anger management." Paloma giggled.
"Yeah."
"I'm glad," Paloma said. She reached out with both hands and took his.
Kirkegaard sighed. "This is the second conversation I've had since I've been here that I didn't expect to have."
"What was the first?"
He summarized the discussion he had with Jim last night about Marie.
"That explains why she was in the dream," Paloma said, with an impish grin. "She's very attractive, too, though much more modest. And it goes without saying, she's a good cook."
"She is, a good cook, I mean, but the food here..." Floundering, Kirkegaard didn't finish. Instead, he directed his gaze onto the unfinished food on both their plates.
"It's cold by now," Paloma said. "If you want, we can reheat it."
"It's delicious, you know."
"As good as Marie's?" Pouting, Paloma stood up, grasped his plate.
"I think there's room on this island for more than one good cook," Kirkegaard said, choosing his words carefully. "In fact, I'm sure there are tens of thousands."
"I'll let you off the hook, this time," Paloma said, over his shoulder.
"That might be the least of my worries," Kirkegaard said.
"You think so?"
"You've got me worried now," Kirkegaard said, staring off into space.
"About what?"
"Are shared dreams commonplace here? Another one of those island oddities?"
"I don't know. This is the first one I've had where someone else had it, too."
"Don't you find it strange? Or is strange normal around here?"
He heard Paloma laugh. "Something like that, I guess."
"What if Marie and Amara both had the same dream, too?"
"The word awkward comes to mind."
Paloma wasn't teasing. The way she said it, she was merely stating fact. Kirkegaard sighed, and was about to voice his agreement, when he heard a noise. It came from behind him, around the side of the house, and it sounded like the clicking of a gate latch.
He looked back at Paloma. She must have heard it too, as confusion became concern. "George?" She called after him as he ran to the end where he thought the sound had come. The gate was shut, and he saw no one. He pushed through and came to the front of the house. Nothing. No person, no animal, nothing. He ran out into the street, looking both ways. It was twilight, the street lamps flickering on, but visibility was good. The place was deserted.
I didn't imagine it. He knew he'd heard something. He was pretty sure Paloma had also. It was loud enough, carried on the hush of the night air. Not knowing what else to do, he turned and started back toward the house. He'd only taken a couple of steps, still in the roadway, when he thought he felt something rush past him. Startled, he whirled, heart thumping.
The hairs on the back of his neck felt like they were standing on end when his eyes fell onto a flickering of colors. It was moving toward the next street for the instant he could see it, and then it was gone. He looked ahead, farther away, hoping to glimpse it again, but that was it. He rubbed his eyes, refocused. Still nothing.
He was beginning to wonder if he was hallucinating the whole thing when he went back through the gate and found Paloma, standing on the patio, talking to someone on her cordless phone. When she saw him, she held up a finger, said, "Just a moment," and then muted the receiver.
"Do you know someone named Agent Lander Smith?" Paloma asked. "Island Protection Bureau."
"Oh, no," Kirkegaard said.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.