living room. I just want to delay the oddly painful feeling that his soul still permeates the premises, although he’s physically gone. Parting is beginning to feel like a little death.
And as I breathe in the crisp fall air, a thought makes me smile. My girl. He can call me that any time. Or all the time.
It’s with a smile and an extra latté that I enter his office the next morning still riding the crest of Sunday’s high and floating on the promise of what three weeks’ time will finally bring. Merely two feet through the door’s threshold, the bottom drops out and I plummet without warning, a surfer whose board has been hijacked by a shark at the wave’s apex.
I barely recognize the man on the far side of the desk. He resembles Hale Lundström, and if I look hard enough, I might find a remnant of the man whose kiss made me believe that I could actually have it all. That it was really going to happen for me. But with every moment I stand there, coffee cup in each hand, those remnants dissipate rapidly, evaporating into the ether and I’m left with this sinking feeling that it was all a fantasy, from the night in the King Cole Salon right through to last night in front of my fireplace.
Well, I can’t say he didn’t warn me. He did, he tried to warn me, multiple times. I just had no idea it would be like this.
I can see it in her eyes. She sees it. She feels it. And every fiber in my being is screaming “Wait for me, Sierra. Wait for me.” Three weeks really isn’t a very long time, but when things are so new, as they are with us, there is no security in the realness of it all. And three weeks is an eternity that just might be interminable.
“Come on in.”
“I figured extra caffeine couldn’t hurt.” She places the coffee cups on the desk.
“Before you take a seat, please shut the door.”
We’re alone, behind closed doors and it’s time to tell her what is going on. Up until now I’ve been very stringent about only giving partial information. Everyone knew their part and nothing more. I never handed out the key to successfully build the puzzle. Classic military strategy.
“I trust you, Sierra. You’re a professional who can be relegated sensitive materials and information without worry that you will betray a confidence.”
“Well, thank you.” She squints as her head slightly cocks to the right.
I can tell that she’s perplexed by that statement.
Grabbing a yellow legal pad, I begin to create a list, adding to each line. When I’m done, I look through it, mentally counting the entries. After I am sure it is correct, and that I’ve forgotten nothing, I put the pen down and wordlessly slide the pad across the desk to Sierra.
Watching her face as she reads through the list, it is easy to see the shock register and increase as she works her way down the page. Silently, she looks up at me. There are so many questions swirling for her as our eyes meet. Extending my hand across the desk, I gesture for her to return the paper. From my left drawer, I extract a silver lighter. Flipping back the smooth top with my thumb, in one fluid motion, my finger is across the spark wheel and the yellow paper is in flames. Dropping it to my desk, I let it burn out. The expression on Sierra’s face is priceless. Our eyes meet again.
“Hale, what are you doing? What was that?” Her eyes are the size of saucers.
“The confirmed attendee list for TFV1.” I feel a huge weight lift as soon as it’s out of my mouth. The first of the secrets has been exposed.
“They are all going to be there?”
I nod.
“How is that…” she can’t finish the sentence as her brain is outrunning her mouth. “Hale, some of these people can’t be on the same continent together, much less in the same room. And some of them, are they even allowed in the United States? How is this happening?”
“When I told you that I needed people that I could trust to be discreet…”
“Does the government know you’re doing this?” she cuts me off before I can even finish my sentence.
“I am doing this as a private citizen and a U.S. businessman. I’ve reached out to government connections who are providing assistance in security, logistics and facilities. The President, Secretary