Free The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) by Kristen Elise Ph.D.

front of a large nice-looking hotel. “ L’Hotel Santa Lucia! ” my driver announced, and I realized that I had inadvertently requested it.
    By this point, exiting the taxi was my only priority. I did not wait for him to open my door. I collected my bags and sent the driver on his way. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, gulping at the fresh air to quell the motion sickness. Then I finally began rummaging through my purse to retrieve the message that had come in while I was in the taxi.
    When I saw the text message, my nausea quickly returned. It was not from Larry Shuman as I had expected. It was from my daughter. It read: Where r u?
    And it was sent to Jeff’s phone, not mine.
     

    Once inside my hotel room, I found my phone once again.
    I called my daughter, but she did not answer. I hung up without leaving a message. Then I looked at the time signature on the phone’s screen and mentally back-calculated. It was now 4:17 a.m. in California.
    I walked past the bed and into the bathroom, where I splashed some water on my face. Then I strode across the room and opened the curtains. Brilliant light poured in through a pair of narrow French doors.
    I opened the doors and stepped out onto a small balcony. Before me was a large geometrically shaped castle. Surrounding it lay a surprisingly organized aquatic parking lot lined with hundreds of small private boats. Dozens more of its occupants were out for the day, sailing casually through the crystalline crescent-shaped Bay of Naples. Beyond the bay loomed Mount Vesuvius like a massive grim reaper, a fallen angel choosing the moment to rain down its black death from above.
     

    “The castle beneath your balcony is Castel dell’Ovo ,” the concierge informed me in heavily accented, but clear English. “Just to its left is the small Santa Lucia seafood district. You will need to cross the long bridge toward the castle and then follow the road that turns left off of the bridge just before the bridge enters the castle through the gates.”
    I thanked the woman and stepped out of the hotel. After a quick walk along the frontage street, I turned onto the bridge she had referred to. Even from across the span of water, I could see the bridge leading directly through the front gates and into the castle. Tall, thick pillars flanked the bridge, and docked boats littered the water lapping its sides.
    I had almost arrived at the arched entrance of the castle when the side street leading to the left off of the bridge came into view. I followed this street into a quiet neighborhood containing one restaurant after another. Potted plants and umbrellas decorated patios adjacent to charming old buildings. Beyond them lay the castle to one side, water to the other. I selected a quaint bistro with green and white checkered tablecloths and a view of the bridge. To my surprise, the restaurant was relatively empty, and I was seated immediately at a partially shaded table by the water.
    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