Honeymoon

Chapter 90

NORA WAS STANDING over the polished stainless-steel Viking stovetop, looking like a dream, when Jeffrey joined her in the kitchen. “You were right,” he said. “A shower did feel good.”

“See, I told you. Nora knows best.”

He peeked over her shoulder at the skillet. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do in here?”

“Not a thing, darling. I’ve got everything under control.”

She reached for the spatula. There really was nothing he could do, was there? She’d made up her mind. As he sat down she gave his omelet one last flip.

There’s no turning back. I have to do this. Tonight’s the night.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “That magazine photographer is coming up next weekend. He’ll be here Saturday afternoon to take the shots of us for the article.”

“I guess that means you’ve thought it through and made your decision?”

“About telling the world what a truly lucky guy I am? Yes. Jeffrey Walker and Nora Sinclair are a blissfully married couple. If anything, I feel even more strongly about going public.”

She stifled a laugh.

“What?”

“You make it sound like a stock offering,” she said. “Like business.” Nora turned back to the burner and scooped up Jeffrey’s omelet, putting it on a plate.

For a silent minute she sat at the table with him and watched as he swallowed bite after bite. He looked happy and content. And why not?

“So tell me more about the novel,” she eventually said. “It ends with a hanging?”

He nodded. “I’ve written guillotines, sword duels, and firing squads, but never a good old-fashioned hanging.” Suddenly he lifted his hands up to his neck and made a choking noise before giving way to a laugh.

Nora tried her best to smile, too.

“You know, Nora, we should talk about—”

“What’s wrong?”

Jeffrey slowly opened his eyes. “Nothing,” he said with a catch in his throat. He cleared it. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah… we should talk about the—”

Again he stopped. Nora watched his face carefully. The drug was having some effect, but she worried she’d measured short on the dosage. He should be further along by now. Something must be wrong.

“What was I saying?” he asked, his voice straining for composure.

No sooner did he ask the question than he began to teeter in his chair. Then he started to sound like a broken record. “We should talk about… talk about… the honeymoon.” He grabbed his stomach, gasping in pain. He looked helplessly into Nora’s eyes.

She stood and went to the sink, filling a glass with water. With her back turned, she quickly poured in the powder, a heaping overdose of neostigmine, or, as her first husband, Tom the cardiologist, liked to call it… the kicker. Combined with the chloroquine phosphate Nora had mixed with the omelet, it would speed up the respiratory collapse and, ultimately, the cardiac failure. All while being completely absorbed into his system.

“Here, take this,” she said to Jeffrey, handing him the glass.

He coughed and sputtered. “Wha—what’s this?” he asked, barely able to focus on the fizzy concoction.

“Just drink it,” Nora said. “It will take care of everything. Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz.”