During the nearly sixty years he lived on Earth thus far, Mestral had made a habit of visiting a local tavern each time he arrived in a new town or city.
Kansas City wasn't exactly a small town, yet it lacked the amenities afforded to cities of similar size. His preference for the settlements along the east and west coasts of the US proved as true now as when he'd left fifty years previously. Upon setting foot again on the North American continent, he learned quickly that bars were something that had changed quite a bit while he'd toured the less populated areas of Asia and the South Pacific. It seemed unaccompanied humans frequented these establishments in order to "pick up" other unaccompanied humans.
He hardly had a right to disapprove. Nature had forced him to resort to those very tactics every seven years. But he had none of those particular...needs at this time. To his relief, he discovered he could find a more cultural experience, similar to what he remembered when last in Europe, in coffee shops, or most pubs labeled "Irish."
It was into one such pub that he strolled one spring afternoon. A lone guitarist sat on the stage, strumming her instrument for the handful of people gathered during the lazy lull in business between lunch and dinner hours. Considering the lyrics, it came as no surprise that the song struck a cord with his emotions.
The violets were scenting the woods, Maggie,
Displaying their charm to the bee,
When I first said I loved only you, Maggie,
And you said you loved only me.
Mestral ordered a Guinness and permitted himself the tiniest of sighs when the bartender turned her back to pour his pint.
It had been fifty years since he left Carbon Creek for Tibet; fifty years since Maggie died. Even for a human, her death came premature, the result of a car crash with an intoxicated driver late one night on her way home from visiting Jack at university.
The chestnut blooms gleamed through the glade, Maggie,
A robin sang loud from a tree,
When I first said I loved only you, Maggie,
And you said you loved only me.
He still missed her. He dropped his eyes into the smoky head of his beer when he realized he was staring at the singer. She bore a striking resemblance to Maggie—approximately ten years younger than when he first met her—but the same soft blonde hair and bright blue eyes, the same warm disposition of one trapped by circumstances, yet determined to make the best of her situation. She didn't belong there any more than Maggie and Jack had belonged in Carbon Creek.
Our dreams they have never come true, Maggie
Our hopes they never were to be.
When I first said I loved only you, Maggie
And you said you loved only me.
Jack hadn't wanted him to leave. At the same time, he knew that Mestral's loss mirrored his own. It was the logical choice. Maggie had enough difficulties accepting the truth. She didn't want her son to bear the burden of knowing his stepfather's origins as well. As a Vulcan, Mestral's age of eighty-four years didn't show when compared to humans. In fact, his appearance had changed very little from when his ship crash landed in Pennsylvania.
Unlike the boy's natural father, however, the Vulcan made a point of writing to him regularly—remote monasteries in the Himalayas notwithstanding. Only now...now that Jack was gone, too, could he return to America. Regrettably, he didn't dare risk going back to Carbon Creek. People who would recognize him remained alive there.
Yet again, he found himself staring at the singer. This time, her eyes caught his. A moment passed between them. He did not need to meld with her mind to see that, like him, she searched for something. Like him, she felt the dull ache of loneliness. Mestral maintained a firm control of his emotions—control didn't mean he didn't have them.
She had stopped playing. Soft applause echoed around the mostly-empty room. And still, she held his gaze. Her azure eyes grew dark and stormy. She was...pleasant to look at. Very pleasant.
He broke the contact and retreated into his Guinness. I must not give her the impression that I'm here to "pick up" a female. I'll finish my drink and depart.
Moments later, he heard a distinctly feminine, "Ahem," behind him. "You didn't like my song?" she asked.
Mestral turned. "I didn't say that," he answered kindly. "I liked it."
"Why didn't you clap, then?" She folded her arms, her striking eyes boring into him.
"It reminded me of someone," he admitted.
Her expression softened. "A lady friend?"
He nodded.
"Where is she now?" she asked, though he could tell she'd already guessed the answer.
"She is deceased."
"Oh. Sorry." She brushed her hair behind one ear. A gesture that often signified uneasiness, and possibly an attraction toward himself.
Mestral set his empty glass on the counter. He probably should have said something along the lines of "I am not offended," paid the tab, and left.
But...he did not wish to do that.
He wanted to learn more about this fascinating young woman who sang sad ballads. True, he was old enough to be her grandfather by human standards. Yet when compared to a Vulcan's lifespan, his maturity was barely ahead of hers. "Would you permit me to buy you a drink?" he ventured.
Her hopeful look beamed into a dazzling smile. "Only if it's a Guinness."
He checked his quickening pulse, ordered the drinks, then gestured for her to sit at one of the barstools. "My name is Mestral."
"Mestral. Sounds French." She tilted her head. "But you don't look French."
For some reason, he could not bring himself to use his logical, prepared response to this kind of comment. "Does it bother you that I'm different?" he asked instead.
She mulled over the question. "No," she decided. Her face brightened, and she tucked her hair behind her ear again. "I'm Nora."
He exhaled. She had told him the truth along with her name. At last, he sat down on the stool next to her and allowed his shoulders to relax. "Tell me more about your music, Nora."
I've tried watch Enterprise two or three times, but couldn't get into it. Maybe it was just my mood at the time? Then I saw the "Carbon Creek" episode. Now I plan to give the series another try. :-) It has really been bothering me that we don't know what happened to Maggie and Mestral—seriously, as in, keeping me awake at night. Why do the ST show writers do this to us?
My regular readers: prepare for a shock. Mestral—a Vulcan—has joined the ranks of my Romulan beaux! ;-)