Perhaps it had, I concluded reluctantly. I was wrestling with what to say when I looked up and noticed where we were. Ambling on automatic pilot, we’d reached the Palace of the Popes. Miranda stared bleakly at the stone façade; silent tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down her face. “God, I hate this place,” she whispered fiercely, not so much to me as to herself, or perhaps to the palace. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, or at least to Disney, when I first saw it. The glory and the glamour, I totally fell for it, you know?” She laughed bitterly. “I was too dazzled to see that Stefan was just playing me. Probably using me to get to you — wanting to add your forensic heft to the project to give it more credibility. It never occurred to me to suspect him of that. I only suspected him of wanting to get into my pants again.”
It was, I supposed after my initial shock, as good an opening as any to the conversation we needed to have. “And did you want him to?”
“No. Well, maybe. But not really.” She shook her head. “God, what a mess. Would you let me just talk for a while? Can you just listen, and not interrupt, and try not to judge me?” She took my arm and led me to a bench at the edge of the plaza. “I hadn’t thought about Stefan for years; I really hadn’t. So when he first got in touch with me about this, I barely even remembered who he was. He had to say his name twice, and add ‘in France.’ But after that, it was like this seed started to germinate — ha, shades of Zeus and Leda; the seed of unfinished business, somehow. Digging around in the Palace of the Popes sounded cool, and so did a paid junket to France. But I got this nervous, hopeful feeling, too; this hope that maybe we could somehow get rid of some of the scar tissue we’d created six years ago, when Stefan’s wife showed up and I left Guatemala in disgrace.” I nodded; I wasn’t entirely sure I understood, but I’d been instructed not to interrupt, and I wanted her to know I was listening.
“So as soon as I get here, Stefan starts talking about how glad he is to be working with me again. How sorry he is about what happened in Guatemala. How grateful he is to have a chance to become real colleagues. I tried not to make too much of it; it sounded good, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was working me a bit, trying to get into my pants again. And he did make a pass at me that night on his balcony, but I turned him down, just like I told you. But what I didn’t tell you about that night is, I didn’t burn the bridge completely. I was willing to consider the possibility that there actually could be something there — something genuine with Stefan — after all.”
I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from asking if Stefan had given her reason to hope for more. It was almost as though she’d read my mind, though. “He kept dropping hints along those lines,” she went on. “Talking about what an opportunity this find was. How we could publish off it for years. How it could open all sorts of doors for us. Turns out death’s door was the only one, huh?” She took another deep breath. “There’s another thing I haven’t told you. Stefan came to my hotel room last night.”
I broke the no-interruptions rule. “I know.”
She looked miserable. “How?”
“Descartes told me.”
“Shit. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it from me first.” She looked down at the cobblestones. “About ten o’clock last night, Stefan calls me, says he’s on his way home from dinner and can he swing by for a minute and talk to me about something. I say okay. He shows up at my room with a bottle of wine, and he’s all funny and charming, and I let him talk me into having some wine with him. A couple glasses in, I’m feeling relaxed and happy, and then he starts kissing me. And this time, I’m not planning on turning him down. But then he starts whispering stuff in my ear about how he wants to run away with me. How we can get out of the rat race of academia. Live somewhere beautiful and exotic. Travel the world. Write novels, raise orchids, do whatever the hell we want. At first I just figure he’s trying to sweet-talk me, but he keeps on and on, so finally I ask him what the hell he’s talking about — it makes no sense to me; it sounds crazy and juvenile. So then he gets defensive and mad. He gets up and storms out.”
“That’s it? That’s all that happened?”
“Almost; not quite. As he’s walking out the door, he turns and says, ‘You have no idea what I’m offering you, Miranda. The door’s opening tonight. Right now. I’m stepping through it. I’d love for you to go with me.” He stands there looking at me, just…waiting. Then he shakes his head, steps into the hall, and shuts the door behind him. And then he’s gone.”
“Let me get this straight. He wanted you to leave the hotel with him, right then, at midnight, to seize some golden opportunity?”
“I think he did. I keep turning and turning those words over in my mind, and that’s where I end up every time.”
“Did you tell Descartes this?”
“Yes. I don’t know how seriously he took me. Or whether he even believes me.”
Suddenly I felt dizzy, almost sick. “If you’d gone with Stefan, you might have ended up hanging in that chapel with him. Nailed to the back side of that beam.”
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER 23
The mistral had come roaring back at nightfall, churning through the leaves of the trees in Lumani’s garden. I tossed and turned for hours, chasing sleep without catching it — like a donkey forever pursuing a carrot suspended just beyond its nose. I was finally getting my first taste of it when I heard a tapping at my door, so light it was all but drowned out by the wind. I sat up in bed, instantly on full alert. “Hello? Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Dr. B.”
“Miranda? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Sort of. Not really.”
Switching on the bedside lamp, I scrambled out from under the covers, fumbled with the lock, and opened the door in my T-shirt and surgical scrub pants. Even by the low light spilling from my room, I could see how ravaged her face looked. “You look like hell.”
Normally, this would have prompted a smart-ass response, but she simply nodded and crumpled against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her back. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head. “Do you want to go get some coffee or something to eat? If we can find someplace that’s open?” She shook her head again.
“I just don’t think I can be by myself. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” The room wasn’t designed for company; the only places to sit were the bed and a narrow wooden chair in the corner. I nodded toward the chair. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but what I’d really like is to just sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, but I got really creeped out in that hotel room. I could still smell Stefan’s cigarettes and cologne in there; still feel his presence.” She drew a deep breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. “I just so desperately want to sleep. Would you mind if I slept here with you?”
“Miranda, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Maybe not, and I’m sorry to ask, but I really don’t want to be alone.” Her eyes looked sad and weary. “Just sleep. I promise. Please? I need a friend right now, not a boss.”
Five minutes later I was sharing my bed with Miranda, and I knew there’d be no sleep for me. I was lying on the far side of the bed, on the edge of the mattress, my thoughts and emotions swirling. I focused on my breathing, making it as regular as possible. Three seconds a breath. In-in-in. Out-out-out. In-in-in. Out-out-out.
The covers rustled, the mattress shifted slightly, and I felt Miranda press against me. She spooned up behind me, her knees tucked into the bends of my legs, her chest and belly against my back. She wrapped one arm around my shoulder and laid a hand on my chest. She patted my heart—tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump—and I swear, it beat in time with her touch. Gradually her body went slack and her breath grew deep. With each breath in, her belly swelled against me; with each exhalation, the hair on the back of my neck stirred.