The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) (8 page)

As I waited for my food, I was approached by a guitarist and an accordion player, one heavy, the other thin. I breathed another deep sigh as the duo began serenading me with a beautiful romantic song. A sad, numb, exhausted relaxation enveloped me, and I turned to look out over the serene bay.

I turn to look out over the Seine, finding it necessary to avoid his eyes before I speak.

“I have a daughter.”

It is our third and final evening together in Paris, and Jeff and I are once again enjoying a romantic dinner. Through the window beside us, a breathtaking display of lights accents the river and Notre Dame Cathedral beneath a black sky. A pianist is playing and singing softly in French.

Jeff sets down his fork and finishes the last sip of his wine. Then he folds his hands on the table and looks at me attentively. The pianist, too, appears to finish, and she begins gathering her belongings from beside the piano bench.

“Alexis is eighteen now,” I continue. “She is a freshman at Berkeley in environmental sciences and has a boyfriend I’m not too crazy about. But he’s nice enough, so I guess I should consider that an improvement over some of the others.”

I smile, but I am embarrassed. My daughter’s taste in men seems to follow closely with my own. Until now, I realize, as I gaze across the table at the monumentally successful, charming, and handsome man who has become a promising love interest over the past three days.

Jeff chuckles softly.

“When I was still working exclusively on anthrax,” I say, “Lexi was living with me half of the time. In her earlier teens, she was a bit of an unholy nightmare. At a time when I couldn’t trust my daughter at
all
, I also had Homeland Security tracking my every move.

“You are correct that I developed a treatment for a virulent strain of anthrax, but you also know it was only effective on that strain. So the threat of anthrax remained, and I became the United States’ poster child for anthrax research. Between my daughter’s unpredictable behavior and my well-publicized work, I was worried something would come to a head.

“Then opportunity began guiding my career toward cancer research, so I embraced it. I thought it would be a safer career path…”

My food arrived, and I tore my eyes away from the Bay of Naples. I glanced around and noticed that the serenading guitarist and accordion player were now singing at another table.

The food was like a drug, and I had to force myself to eat slowly. I dove into the plate of poached salmon with lobster cream sauce on a bed of pasta, and the effects of thirty-six hours of adrenaline began to wane. My stomach gradually settled, and my mind began to clear. At last, I paused for a break from the food.

A large clock on an exterior wall of the restaurant now read 2:33 p.m. It was just after 5:30 a.m. in California. I tried calling Alexis again, this time from Jeff’s phone. There was no answer.

“
Prego, signora.
” My waiter laid the bill before me and bowed politely.

I dropped Jeff’s cell phone back into my purse and was rummaging for my wallet when the phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID. The incoming call was not from Alexis as I had expected. It was from John—Jeff’s best friend and personal physician.

I recalled the last time I had spoken to John, when he had called our home after Jeff had missed the Seattle conference. I could feel myself scowling all over again as I answered the phone. “Hi, John.”

“Oh, hey, Katrina! How are
you
doing, my lady?”

“I’m doing great!” I lied. “How are you? I’m assuming surf’s up or you wouldn’t be calling so early…”

John laughed heartily. “Oops, I’m sorry! Yes, I forgot again. Hope I didn’t wake you. Anyway, I’m doing great, except I can’t seem to get hold of your husband! Did he tell you to answer his phone and get rid of me?” He cracked up at his own joke. I laughed as well, hoping to sound realistic.

“We were supposed to go golfing this weekend,” John continued. “Jeff totally ditched me! Is he still having problems from the stomach flu he had earlier?”

I reflected briefly upon a bout of illness Jeff had endured two weeks prior. Now, I wondered if my husband’s “stomach flu” might have been, in truth, morphine withdrawal.

“Nah, nothing like that,” I said. “But he
is
currently off surfing. We’re in the Bahamas, actually. I guess he must have forgotten to tell you we were going, but, yeah, we’ll be here for the next two weeks. We needed a break.”

John’s joking demeanor changed. “Oh yeah?” he asked with some concern. “In that case, I hope you’re getting some rest. It’s no wonder, with the way the two of you work, that you’d burn yourselves out once in a while. Well, tell him that Mai Tais and sunscreen are doctor’s orders, OK? And hey—have him call me when he has a chance, would you, dear?”

“Will do, John. You take care.”

“You, too, my lady.”

I hung up the phone and then stared at its screen for a moment, wondering if John knew something I did not about my husband. If so, doctor-patient confidentiality would prevent him from sharing it.

Speaking to John reminded me once again that I had told no one I was leaving San Diego. John’s was not the last concerned phone call I would receive following the sudden disappearance of both Jeff and me. So I began preempting the calls.

“Oh, that’s
wonderful
!” The perpetually cheerful tone of Jeff’s mother was a welcome respite. She glowed across the miles as if travel was a rare treat for us.

“Well, Kat, you two have a
fabulous
time in the Bahamas! Give my son my love. And bring back tons of pictures, OK? I want to see
all
of them!”

“I will, Mom,” I promised, choking on tears. “See you soon.”

My own mother has Alzheimer’s. Her live-in nurse assured me that all was under control and that she would call me if necessary but that it would not be necessary. I found myself marveling that my mother was so much easier to handle than Jeff’s. If only we could all forget the past.

Our respective laboratories and offices were also easy to deal with. I diverted both with brief e-mails sent from our iPhones, offering no explanation as to our whereabouts other than “out of the office.”

Then I stared for a moment at the speed dial functions programmed into my phone. I had called all of them except for two.

The first number, of course, would reach the other phone in my purse. I avoided the temptation to dial it just to hear his voice.

I also avoided the phone number of my older sister. Because calling Kathy would mean having to tell the truth.