Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (19 page)

At arm’s length, Paloma stopped. His penetrating stare gave no clue what he was thinking. Not that she cared, would ever care. She blurted, “You spoke to Maddie? Did she mention me?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. 

Relief washed over her. This had been her only prayer – that her daughter hadn’t forgotten her. Other questions came to mind. What kind of girl had she become? How much of her mother did she remember? Paloma, tongue-tied, didn’t know where to start. She needed to have every question answered, every bit of news heard, understood, savored. Suddenly, the traffic sounds became alarmingly intrusive. She looked around, unsure of what to do.

“Listen, come to my house,” he said. “We’ll talk.”

She was appalled by the suggestion. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You want to discuss the matter here?” His face was stoney. 

She considered the options. There were benches at Washington Square, but the lunch crowd was everywhere.

“Fine,” he said sarcastically. “What do you want to know?” 

Her mind reeled with alternative places to talk. 

He glanced at his watch. “Well?” 

Panic struck. Was he anxious to get it over, to answer her few questions then move on? How had the tables turned so quickly? At a crossroad, Paloma felt torn, desperate for any news, yet spiteful of the messenger. 

Yielding, she said, “Where’s your car?”

They drove in silence. Occasionally she felt his eyes on her, a quick glimpse in her direction at stop lights, turns. Part of her wanted to challenge his gaze, but her position was precarious – no matter what, she wouldn’t leave without knowing everything about Maddie. “Just so you know,” she said, staring out the window. “I’m only here to discuss my daughter.”

“Fair enough.” She heard him say.   

She was about to be more specific, lay down some ground rules but was too exhausted to think. Instead, coddled by the swaying car, she closed her eyes and recalled a past irony – how she had felt the safest with Max, when indeed she’d been in the most danger, not physically, but emotionally. She cracked open her eyes and glanced in his direction. Things were different now. She could look at him and see a man, nothing more, no complicated emotions, no overwhelming desire to press her lips to his. 

He turned to her. “You must be tired. Sleep.” 

This time her eyes stayed closed, only sensing the light and shadows that passed over her lids. 

She woke when the car heaved into a driveway. 

He cut the engine. “Don’t move. I’ll help you out.”      

The home was large and for the first time she wondered if he’d married, had children. Plenty could have happened in the fifteen years since she’d seen him. 

He sprang around the front of the car. After opening the front passenger door, he held out a helping hand.

She glanced at the ringless third finger. “I can manage,” she said refusing any physical contact.

His hand dropped away.

The main entrance to the home faced the driveway. Without a key, he pressed his thumb onto the door latch, entered, and rushed ahead of her, grabbing a few papers off the floor. 

The small vestibule opened into a short hall that then emptied into the living room. The house appeared solid. Decorative moldings and wide baseboards ran along the ceiling and floor. Soft light passed through a stained glass window that hung over the fireplace. The furniture was mismatched and there was a strong stench of cigar smoke. Max gathered more papers from the couch. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”     

Paloma sat on the edge of the cushion. 

“Can I get you something to eat, drink?”

Anxious to get down to business, Paloma said, “I’m fine.”

Max continued standing. “Would you mind if I ate?”

“I won’t be staying long.”

“No, of course not. But I haven’t eaten today. I could make us a salad. Do you like salad?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Okay. Then how about some coffee or tea?”

Paloma recalled how the Arabian family across the hall only talked to her after she  accepted their food. “Yes. Coffee’s fine.”

He smiled broadly. “A cup of joe, coming up.” And he disappeared down the hallway.

The living room was cavernous. His only decorations were some Post-it notes on a wall near a cumbersome wooden desk. Suddenly she was reminded. This house and his apartment of twenty-five years earlier were frighteningly similar. Not that she recognized the furniture, but the general construct was the same – a seemingly temporary space of little warmth. Appropriate. 

“I’m really sorry about the mess,” he yelled out.

She stayed quiet. Best not to let any small talk begin. She settled into the couch.

As he banged around in parts unknown, more questions about Maddie came to mind. Was she happy? In love? What were her plans? A smile played on Paloma’s lips. Was her favorite dessert still chocolate ice cream with sprinkles? Memories of dessert led to others – finger painting at the kitchen table, reading of
A Walk in the City
at bedtime. More backtrack and Paloma recalled a plump bundle with sparkling eyes whose tiny hand wrapped around Paloma’s little finger, not letting go. Paloma looked at her own finger now, wishing the moment would play over again, if only she thought hard enough, but the memory was dissolving. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye.   

Max entered the room carrying a couple of serving tables. “Almost done.”

Don’t breakdown. It never did any good. Snap out of it. She opened the door for conversation. “How long have you lived here?”

He looked off into space. “Let’s see. About seven years. As you can see, I’m still not handy.”

Paloma cringed at the reference to their shared history. “It’s very big.”

“Big?”

“The house.”

“Yeah. But a single guy may as well have a single house.” He laughed. “Bought it as an investment. Property around here has taken off.” He clapped his hands. “I’ll get the coffee.”

Paloma’s gaze lingered on him. Had he combed his hair? And that smell. Something was different. Yes, in the last few minutes, he had snuck in a shave. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. “Can I use the bathroom?”

“Sure. Down the hall to the left. It’s at the top of the stairs.”

The bathroom mirror was stilled fogged up. She wiped a small circle, only enough to see her eyes. Surprisingly they weren’t bloodshot. She swiped a broader stroke. How gaunt she had become, and those circles around her eyes. She ran the cold water and bent down. Cupping her hand, she drank. Hoping to add some color, she splashed the icy water onto her face. What the hell was she doing? Why should she care? Nevertheless, she unzipped her bag and dug for some lipstick. 

When she returned to the living room, another transformation had taken place. A dusty arrangement of silk flowers sat on the coffee table. The double sets of French doors that faced the street were now open. A breeze freshened the room.

“You work fast,” she said.

He beamed.

She returned to the sofa where two trays were set up. On one was a cup of steaming coffee with a dish of cookies, on the other was a salad and a beer.

“You still like your coffee black?”

He did it again – another reference to their past. “Yes,” she said sitting down.

He collapsed into a chair and pulled the tray toward him. “I figured it’s better eating here. The kitchen’s a mess. Sure you don’t want some salad?”

She shook her head. Salad was the last thing on her mind. She needed answers and didn’t want to waste any more time. “She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Who?”

“Maddie.”

He put his hand around the can of beer. “Maddie?  Oh, yes, she’s very beautiful…just like her mother.”

“I look nothing like her. Sure she’s dark like me, but she’s so tall and graceful.”

Max nodded. “Yes, she is tall.” He stabbed a lettuce leaf. “So when did you last talk to her?”

Paloma briefly considered his face, his tone of voice. Neither was confrontational. “Talk? You mean you don’t know? She didn’t say?”

He stopped chewing, then swallowed. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Yes, he couldn’t know everything. There had to be some blind spots. “I haven’t spoken to her in fifteen years, but I do see her on occasion.” 

He looked confused. “How’s that?”

Paloma felt flustered. How could she possibly account for her behavior, stalking her own daughter? “I just do.”

He shook his head. “Agnes, I’m so sorry.”

Tears welled up. “If we are to continue this conversation, you must not pity me or call me that name. I’m not Agnes.”

“Okay. Not a problem. However, it would help if you told me who you’d liked to be called.”

“My name is Paloma.  But you already know that.”

“Yes. You’re right, Paloma.”

The conversation had gotten off track. She must be careful and not let him seduce her into talking about herself. “So tell me everything. Why did Maddie come to see you?”

Max took a paper napkin and wiped his mouth. “Out of curiosity, I suspect.”

“Did she say how she knew to contact you?”

He sat back. “Let me think if she mentioned that.” His eyes glazed over, then lit up. “On-line. Would you believe it? She said she was on-line and searched your name, and one thing led to another and she found me.”

Paloma smiled at her child’s ingenuity, but something was odd. “I wonder how she knew my name.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was her mother my name was Nancy Abbott, not Agnes López.”

“I see your point.” He took a sip of beer. “Oh, that’s it. Now I remember. It wasn’t your name she searched but mine, Max Laurent. Apparently her father, Clay, had said that we were old friends.”

“Yes, Clay would have said that. He always liked you.”

“Did he? Anyway, she had tried Maxwell and Maximilian. But I’m just Max, plain and simple.” 

Hardly plain and simple. But again the conversation had veered off. “What did she say? What did you talk about?”

“Let’s see. Well, she wanted to know what kind of person you were.”

“Really? And what did you tell her?”

“The truth of course.”

Paloma felt uneasy. Truth was such a loaded word. So much of the truth had to do with perception, grades and levels. “Which truths did you tell?”

He laughed. “I could say all the good ones, but that would imply that there were some bad.” His face turned serious. He looked deeply into her eyes. “No, Paloma, I told the basic truth, the truth that is constant, unchanging.”

Paloma heard his words but didn’t understand. Her breath quickened. “What specifically did you say to my daughter?”

“I told her you were a brave woman, a woman of conviction, a woman who saw the big picture, who was fearless.”

Paloma grimaced.

“Did I say something wrong?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“Nonsense. You’re all those things.”

Paloma’s heart hammered.

“Did I say the wrong thing to Maddie?” he asked.

Paloma sighed deeply. “It wasn’t the truthful thing, but it wasn’t the wrong thing either. Lies may not be moral, but they have their advantages.”

His face relaxed. “Yes. I agree.”

“A dead parent idealized is better than one who is dragged through the mud. Not for the parent’s sake, but for the child’s.”

“What are you saying? That you were never brave?”

Paloma wrung her hands. “I’ve always been afraid, a meek mouse in a maze. That’s how I’ve always seen myself, scurrying around, butting up against the same four walls, making no progress.” The moment the words came out, she regretted them.    

“You’ve had difficult choices to make,” he said.

She choked out. “And I’ve regretted them all.”

Concern played on his face. “But then Maddie wouldn’t have happened.”

She found herself looking at him through a curtain of tears. Without warning, he rose from the chair, sat next to her and gave her a napkin. She blotted the tears from her cheeks. This couldn’t be going more badly. She needed to control herself and not appear so vulnerable. His legs were touching hers. She wanted to move away, from the pressure, from the closeness, but didn’t. Her voice quivered. “What else did Maddie want to know?”

He leaned forward. “She wanted to know about us.”

“What?”

“When we had met. How long I had known you, that sort of thing.”

“And what did you say?”

“About us?”

Was she being baited? “Of course about us.”

“Shades of the truth, I suppose. That we were very good friends. And we were, weren’t we?”

Exhausted, Paloma answered, “I’m not sure what we were.”

He whispered. “I have regrets too. I was an asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

He blinked. “Probably still am.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is hard for me.” He rubbed his face. “I did something a long time ago that I’ve regretted from the day it happened.”

Paloma braced herself. She knew where this was heading – their one night together. Yes, it had been a mistake, a terrible mistake.

“Anyway, I need to apologize.”

Paloma couldn’t be sure, but now he appeared to be the one with tears in his eyes. “We all make mistakes,” she said. “No apology necessary.”

He reached out.

Inwardly, Paloma recoiled, but she allowed it. His warm hand enveloped hers. How odd their entwined hands looked, one so large, the other so small. For an insane moment she never wanted to let go. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he said.

He must feel sorry for her. Why else would he say such a thing? 

“Max,” she said his name for the first time. “I accept your apology. There’s no need for flattery.”

“Flattery? But it’s true.”

She cast off his feigned sincerity and smirked. “One of those unchanging truths?”

“Yes.”

She began to pull her hand away, but he held tight. “Listen to me.”

Their eyes locked. Without warning, his hand was behind her neck and his face was coming forward. His breath warmed her cheek, then his mouth fell on her lips. She collapsed against the cushion with his weight on top of her. She raised her hands and, with as much strength as she could manage, pushed against his chest, feeling his pulsating heart. His arms engulfed her back, wrapping her tight. There was no room to move, to fight. The pressure from his body took her breath away, or was it the kiss? The memory? Stop it she wanted to say. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. Her voice was useless. The undertow was drawing her into another world, a world she’d long forgotten. She was drowning in his arms, gasping for another kiss. Don’t fight it she told herself. Let it happen, submit. And she did.