The Maltese Goddess

  The Maltese Goddess

  By Lyn Hamilton

  Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords

  ISBN: 978-1-927789-02-5

  Copyright 2013 Lyn Hamilton

  Originally Published by The Berkely Group (Penguin), 1998

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each other person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  For my sister

  PROLOGUE

  I am at the beginning as I am at the end. I am the sacred circle, spinner of the web of space and time. I am the Cosmic “And”: life and death, order and chaos, eternal and finite. I am Earth and all things of it.

  For periods of time you call millennia, we lived in harmony, you and I. I gave the bounty of the lands and seas to nourish you, and taught you to use them. I gave you artistic expression so that through your sculpture, painting, and weaving you might honor me, and through me, yourselves. And I taught you writing that you might remember me.

  How is it that you wrenched apart that which is inseparable? Why did you make the Either/Or? Flesh or spirit, body or soul, thinking or feeling. Because when you did, when you replaced me with your despotic sky gods who rule from Without, you made me something to be mastered, something to be conquered, just as you then thought you had to conquer each other.

  Neglected, devalued, insulted, and profaned I may be, but I remain. I wait in my sacred places. I live in your dreams. Nammu, Isis, Aphrodite, Inanna, Astarte, Anath. Call me whichever of my manifestations you will. I am the Great Goddess, and I will be avenged.

  ADONIS

  ONE

  I like to think of myself as an honorable person, but once I’ve explained to someone slowly, in words of one syllable, why it would be cheaper for them to deal with someone else, then if they insist, I’m as happy as the next person to take their money.

  At least that is what I thought when Martin Galea, the best of the best of the Toronto architectural scene, came into my shop, Greenhalgh and McClintoch by name, accompanied by his timid wife and his platinum credit card, and began to spend what seemed at the time to be almost breathtaking amounts of money. We—my business partner Sarah Greenhalgh and I—were suffering through the doldrums of an economic downturn, a seemingly chronic tum of events, and Galea’s purchase looked almost too good to be true. Which it was—and had I been gifted with the ability to foretell the future, no amount of money would have enticed me to agree to his terms.

  It all started innocuously enough, though. It was a clear winter day in Toronto, and if there were tremors in the cosmic fabric that should have warned me of what was to come, I didn’t notice them. Diesel, aka The Deez, the official Shop Cat, was at his favorite post, curled up in the front window enjoying the sunshine, as usual ignoring the activity of the mere mortals around him.

  Even Galea’s visit followed its normal course. He’d been in the store several times before, and the routine was always the same. A Jaguar pulled up in front of the shop, facing the wrong way, half on the narrow street and half on the even narrower sidewalk. Galea leapt out and bounded up the few steps to the store, leaving Mrs. Galea—if she had a first name, I was not privy to it—to negotiate her way out of the car on the street side, painfully aware, it seemed to me, of the hostile looks and rude gestures of the motorists and pedestrians inconvenienced by this display of automotive bad manners.

  It never seemed possible for Galea to simply walk into a room. His entrance was always a dramatic event of some kind, although I would be hard-pressed to tell you exactly what he did to make it seem that way.

  It helped, of course, that he was, let’s face it, extraordinarily good looking. Not particularly tall, but well built, and obviously a man who worked at it, he had a very stylish look to him. On this particular occasion he wore some kind of collarless shirt—it was silk, l think, although nobody has ever called me an expert on clothes—black, nicely cut pants, and a black coat, in what I’m sure was cashmere, which he rather cavalierly tossed onto the front desk on arrival. The clothes went well with the perennial tan and the dark hair, cut just long enough to be artsy but not long enough to offend his well-heeled clients. His features were almost perfect, except perhaps for a certain softness about the mouth, which men, jealous no doubt, liked to call effeminate, but which women found charmingly boyish.

  In any event, we all—Sarah and I; my neighbor and our right-hand man Alex Stewart; and our only other customer, a young woman in the shortest black skirt I have ever seen, black tights and boots, and leather jacket, and who was not, my instincts told me, planning to buy anything at all—looked in his direction as he entered the shop, his driving gloves in one hand, his sunglasses twirling nonchalantly in the other. Sarah, who was a whiz on the business side but who found dealing with difficult clients troublesome, disappeared quickly into the little office in the back. Alex moved to assist our other customer.

  “Ms. McClintoch,” Galea smiled in my general direction as he looked about him. “I’m very glad to see you are here. I’d appreciate your advice and assistance with my latest project.” Galea had a way of making you think your opinion was important to him, although my experience with him to date would indicate that the only opinion that mattered was his own.

  “I’m building a house in Malta. I was born there, you know. A bit of a return to my roots. Nice little piece of property, sea view of course. I’ll be needing some furnishings for it, so let us see what you have,” he said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me toward the back of the store. He smelled very nice, I noticed, some exotic aftershave or men’s cologne I did not recognize. “A little more Mediterranean in feel than what I usually do. A little more relaxed. More like my place in the Caribbean, which you may recall.”

  I nodded. Of course I recalled it. The last time we had supplied some furniture for Galea, it had been for the home he was referring to, a luxurious retreat on an exclusive island in the Caribbean. The house had been featured in one of the upscale architectural magazines, and indeed had won an award for its design, and Galea had been good enough to give Greenhalgh and McClintoch a credit. It had moved us into an entirely different league, so to speak, and had brought us some very exclusive customers. The point was, I didn’t need to be reminded. This was Galea’s way of telling me that I owed him, and while it was true, it irritated me because I had a feeling that payback time was near.

  “Now, what have we here? Very nice—Indonesian, I believe,” he said, pausing in front of a very expensive antique teak armoire and chewing thoughtfully on the arm of his sunglasses in a way that I confess I found suggestive. “I think that will do quite nicely, don’t you?

  “And what about this, Lara?” he said, sliding easily to a first-name basis while pointing to a large old teak dining table and eight slat chairs. “What do you think?” he asked, standing much too close for comfort.

  “I, of course, t
hink they’re perfect,” I replied, backing away slightly. “But I should point out to you that the price quoted covers the cost of their having been shipped from Jakarta to Toronto, and I’d have to charge you to ship it from here to Malta. Malta, if my knowledge of geography serves me correctly, is very close to Italy, a country whose design industry is among the best in the world, so it might be better for you to shop a little closer to your new home.” I tried to sound crisp and professional.

  This apparently was not the answer he wanted. “What do you think?” he asked, turning to our only other customer. “Miss… ?”

  “Perez,” she said, blushing from the attention. “Monica Perez. I think it’s…” Her voice trailed off as she thought about it. I could tell she was thinking by the way she chewed her lip and wrinkled her brow prettily. “It’s lovely,” she concluded.

  “What do you think would look nice on the patio?” he asked her, drawing away from me and leading her toward a set of wrought-iron patio furniture, leaving me feeling in some unfathomable way bereft. I found myself wondering how Galea managed to turn the act of buying furniture into a seduction. He had a way with women that went with the looks, and it was said at least some of his design commissions owed much to urging on the part of his clients’ wives, several of whom he was rumored to have had affairs with. These affairs never seemed to last long. When I wasn’t falling under is spell, I liked to think that it was his incessant use of the first person singular that caused even the most infatuated to lose interest. More likely, however, it was he who did the dumping.

  I couldn’t hear what he and Ms. Perez were saying; they were almost whispering to each other by this time, their heads almost touching, but I couldn’t argue with the results: the armoire, an antique Indonesian cabinet, the teak table and chairs, two carved mirrors, the wrought-iron and glass patio set, two side tables, and a large, intricately carved coffee table. The bill would be satisfyingly well into five digits, and even The Deez sat up and took notice, surprised no doubt to find a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the world as his oyster in the same way he did.

  Throughout the entire performance, ignored by her husband and almost forgotten by the rest of us, Mrs. Galea stood, back to the wall, near the front door. Not once in this whole process did Galea consult with, or even acknowledge, his wife, although presumably she too would spend time in the house in Malta. Her opinion, at least insofar as furniture was concerned, did not appear to be of any consequence.

  Rumored to be considerably older than her husband, she certainly looked it. She was a rather plain woman, about her husband’s height, her features too sharp—perhaps patrician would be a kinder way of describing them—to be attractive. Her hair was cut way too severely, a blunt cut that accentuated the sharpness of her features and the square of her jaw. Her clothes—of the powder-blue twin sweater set and pearls variety, matching pleated skirt unfashionably long, pleats sewn down over the hips—while no doubt expensive, could only be described as dull. To be fair, I suppose, I should say that it was possible that twin sweater sets were back in style—where clothes fashion is concerned, I’d be the last to know—but more than anything else Mrs. Galea gave the impression of a colorless creature intent on blending into the background as much as possible. The only feature that commanded attention were her eyes, intelligent and inquisitive. If her husband was the charmer of the pair, she was the born observer.

  Monica Perez, on the other hand, whose opinion apparently did matter, was quite the opposite of Mrs. Galea, flashy and, in my opinion, definitely more style than substance. And there I was to complete the female triangle, not entirely immune to his charms but definitely wary. For a moment I had a vision of the three of us as three little planets revolving around his sun, held there by the strength of his personality and the brightness of his charm.

  Then, the selections made, Galea, bored already with Ms. Perez, turned his attention back to me. His most charming smile on his face, teeth perfect, head cocked disarmingly to one side, he once again took my elbow and steered me toward the desk. I knew that I was about to learn the quid pro quo to all this money being spent: Galea’s propensity to keep a mental tally of owe-me’s aside, there almost always is one when somebody spends that much money in the shop, and I tried to steel myself for what was to come.

  He was standing way too close again, and since he was only a little taller than I am, his eyes were disconcertingly focused directly on mine.

  “I have a small favor to ask of you,” he began.

  Say no, I told myself. Out loud I said, “If I can help, I will,” trying to keep my tone neutral as possible.

  “I am going to be entertaining some very important people at my house in Malta very soon, in about ten days, actually, and I need the place to be arranged to my standard, which as you know is rather exacting, shall we say. Unfortunately I can’t go there myself right away—I have to make a presentation to one of the banks here—so I can’t supervise the work personally. I need all of these pieces consolidated with some furniture at my house and shipped to this address,” he said, handing me a slip of paper with the address neatly typed on it. “But most importantly, I need you to go over there and see that the finishing is up to snuff and that all the furniture is placed correctly. I will, of course, cover your airfare and compensate you for your time.”

  “I’m not sure I could be away from the store right now,” I said, “and furthermore…” My voice trailed off as I searched for an excuse not to go.

  “You could stay in the house too, which is already partially furnished, and I will reimburse you for your meals and other expenses while you are there. You could look upon it as a bit of a holiday,” he said in a wheedling tone and giving me the high voltage smile.

  “This will be expensive, Mr. Galea,” I said, but I could feel myself weakening. “First of all, the deadline means we’ll have to ship by air, not sea. And why not have someone there see to the placement of the furniture?”

  “There is no one over there I can trust to do this to my standards. In fact there are very few people anywhere I would trust with this task,” he said smoothly. “The meeting is an important one for me,” he added.

  I would accept, of course. I knew it, and so did he, but I didn’t want to look like a pushover to his charms.

  “Here is a check for $2500 as an advance on expenses. You can have the shipping and insurance charges billed directly to me, as usual,” he said. “Will you do it?”

  I nodded. There was no question we needed the sale. I looked at the check and capitulated totally. I called Sarah to come and do the paperwork, and then feeling slightly guilty, turned my attention to Mrs. Galea. She was now intently examining a small wooden carving, only three or four inches high, one of several we had in a basket at the front desk, a conversation piece and an inexpensive purchase for those just browsing.

  “I’m Lara, Lara McClintoch, Mrs. Galea. I don’t think we have been officially introduced. That’s an Indonesian Worryman you’re looking at. If you look closely you can see it is a man all hunched over. The idea is that you rub all your troubles onto his back, and he takes them all on for you.”

  She smiled tentatively. “You’re the owner, then,” she said.

  “One of them,” I replied. “Sarah Greenhalgh, who is with your husband now, is the other.”

  “You have lovely things,” she said, smiling rather shyly.

  At this point, her husband, his business done, turned to me and said, as if my time was now his alone to command, “Come to the house at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to see the furniture I want shipped and to pick up a set of plans.”

  “Is ten convenient for you too, Mrs. Galea?” I asked, turning to her. If he wasn’t going to ask her, I was. She nodded, blushing at the attention.

  Ignoring her, Galea headed down the steps to the car, leaving her to follow him out of the store. As she got to the door, I rushed after her and pressed the Worryman into her hands. If anyone needed it, she did.

  “W
ith our compliments, Mrs. Galea,” I said.

  She looked surprised. “Thank you,” she said. “And it’s Marilyn.”

  With that they were gone, a screeching of brakes from another car as Galea pulled away without so much as a glance at the rest of the traffic, leaving all of us, particularly Monica Perez, slightly breathless.

  “Dreadful man!” Sarah sighed when Monica Perez had also left and we once again had the store to ourselves. “Imagine having a husband who flirts with other women right in front of you. That poor woman!”

  “He certainly thinks he’s God’s gift to women, that’s for sure,” I agreed.

  “That expression, ‘God’s gift.’ implies the existence of a Being of higher consequence than Martin Galea himself, and therefore not something Galea could bring himself to support, I suspect,” Alex said dryly.

  We all laughed. “I have to say I like his work, though,” Alex continued, naming several of Galea’s better known commissions. Galea did work all over the world.

  I had to agree with Alex. Galea, despite his less ennobling qualities, had enormous talent to match the ego.

  “You also have to agree he’s good for business, Sarah,” I said. “Monica Perez, who I’m sure was just browsing, was so entranced she bought a mirror similar to one Galea bought! With any luck, she’ll be back for more—furniture, I mean.”

  “Why do you figure a man like that married a woman like that?” Sarah mused, ignoring the compliments we’d given Galea and our rather jejune attempts at humor.

  “Money,” Alex replied “McLean money to be precise,” he said, naming a well-known Toronto family. “Married while he was still an architectural student. Got him off to a good start, I’d think. Money and connections.”