Darlene found herself liking the way Lou was looking at her—steady but relaxed eye contact, with no hidden agenda or preoccupying thoughts. She tried reminding herself that he had the advantage of not having to compartmentalize his life the way Martin did. But in the end, she felt unwilling to fight her attraction to the man.

“Before Martin took the oath of office,” she said, “I read everything I could about being a First Lady. There’s no provision in the Constitution for the president’s wife. No formal job description, either.”

“You were a doctor. It must have been hard for you to go from having a very clear set of guidelines to none at all. Maybe you could start doing some version of medical practice.”

“Believe it or not, I never even considered that.”

“Well, like you said, there’s no job description for what you do.”

A pleasant silence followed, which became prolonged enough to begin to feel edgy.

“Well, it’s time,” she said, clearing her throat and checking her Movado—a wedding present from Martin. “How about we go visit Dr. Humphries and see what he has to offer to untangle this conundrum.”

“Great idea.” Lou paused a beat. “Can you make another wish on the Philadelphia skyline?” he asked, eyes fixed ahead.

“Sure,” Darlene said. “Nothing in the rules of wishing says I can’t.”

“Then how about just wishing that everything becomes clear … on every level.”

Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

Lou had imagined Dr. Oliver Humphries would be a small-framed, skittish fellow with oversized glasses—something akin to some of the arthropod phylum he studied. To his great surprise, Humphries looked nothing like a bug, but rather, possessed an uncanny resemblance to the rock star Sting. The entomologist’s two-toned hairdo was cut short on top, with dyed-blond spikes held straight by a vigorous application of gel. One of Humphries’s ears was pierced, a silver dragonfly dangling from a small chain, and a silver stud could be seen depressed into the side of his left nostril. Even more distinctive were his muscular arms, which featured an array of brilliantly drawn tattoos incorporating insects of all types—flying, crawling, stinging, and praying.

They were in Humphries’s modest office on the second floor of the Bio-Life Building. Photographs of the scientist on expedition to every conceivable climate adorned the walls, along with half a dozen framed degrees and testimonials, including a doctorate from UC Davis.

“Well,” Humphries said, “I guess your friends from the Secret Service found me no threat.”

“Actually, they were quite interested in you and wanted to stay and hear what you had to say,” Darlene replied.

Humphries pushed aside a stack of papers and several magnifying lenses, and slid a spiral-bound notebook in front of him. Lou’s immediate sense of the man was completely positive.

“So, then, let’s talk termites,” Humphries said as he studied what Lou assumed to be notes taken from their phone conversation.