Chapter 2
ISABELLA
The morning sun spills through my office window at Boston University, casting elongated, dappled shadows across a desk cluttered with the new tools of my trade.
Stacks of well-worn advanced chemistry books from my father’s collection sit beside my meticulously prepared syllabi, dotted with my notes.
A fresh cup of coffee with thin tendrils of steam is placed next to my sleek, new, university-issued laptop. It’s my first day as a Professor of Advanced Organic Chemistry. The nerves churn tumultuously in my stomach, making the coffee a terrible but necessary choice.
I take a deep breath and try to steady the jittering feeling by reaching for the warm mug.
The rich aroma transports me back to countless mornings in my childhood home in New Jersey, where the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the tang of chemical reagents that Papà often brought home from his Princeton lab.
I sip slowly, allowing the bitter taste to ground me, and glance at the framed photograph that sits prominently on my desk. A snapshot of Papà and me in his old lab. The photo, faded around the edges, is a poignant reminder of where it all started.
In the picture, I am ten years old. My hair is a wild, unbrushed tangle of thick chocolate strands that I cut into short bangs across my forehead to keep it out of my eyes.
My mother wasn’t happy with my handiwork, scolding me with an accompanying slap to my bottom before racing me to her hairdresser to fix it.
My eyes were wide with wonder as I held up a beaker, the liquid inside swirling with color that fascinated and transformed my life.
Papà, his hair just beginning to gray at the temples, looked on with pride.
That lab was our sanctuary, a place of magic and mysteries, where Papà taught me the fundamentals of chemistry and ignited a curiosity about the world that has never dulled.
He had come to Princeton in the late ’80s, recruited directly from Italy. His reputation as a brilliant organic chemist preceded him. Despite his achievements, he carried an earnestness about his love for chemistry that turned our home into an extension of his laboratory.
Discussions about molecular structures were as common at home as discussions about sports or television shows in other people’s homes.
My phone rings, interrupting my reverie, and I set my mug down. Seeing my father’s name, I quickly answer.
“Isabella, how are you this morning?”
His rich Italian accent hasn’t faded despite living in America for decades.
“Hi, Papà. I’m good, but nervous. It’s my first day, remember?”
“Of course, I remember! It’s why I’m calling. Are you ready to dazzle them with your brilliance?”
His tone is light and teasing, but I can hear an undercurrent of pride and the faint mistiness in his words.
He didn’t begrudge the administration when they suggested a retirement.
He had been feeling the effects of the long hours and heavy workload for years.
It was only when Mother died suddenly from pancreatic cancer that the toll of her death accelerated the decline of his health and advanced retirement sooner than he’d hoped.
Despite all my attempts to have him come live with me, he calls them fodder for another day. He’s content to stay cloaked in her memories and their house, despite her being very sullen and difficult to be around.
Mother was different. Aloof, quiet, and withdrawn. If Papà was warmth and sunshine, Mother was the cold chill of Princeton winters.
My love for him and our shared love for chemistry pushed her out. Having been second to his passion originally, when I came along, equally dazzled by it, there was no place left for her.
“Isabella?”
I shake away the memories from yesteryear.
“I’m ready, I think.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up from my chest as my gaze sweeps around the stark classroom I’ve barely begun to personalize. “It’s a big step, teaching the highest level of chemistry they offer. A far cry from community college.”
“That’s perfectly normal, Isabella. I felt the same way on my first day at Princeton. Every great venture begins with a bit of nerves. They keep you sharp.”
“I just want to make a good impression, Papà. Follow in your footsteps. Be the amazing Professor you were.”
“You will, Isabella. All those afternoons spent in my lab. You were always so curious. Asking a thousand questions, never satisfied until you understood every detail. You have the same passion for chemistry I had, maybe even more.”
He was always the encouraging parent, always asking me what I see and what I think, and challenging me to formulate my theories apart from those learned in his textbooks.
“Let’s hope. I’ve prepared my lecture on synthesizing complex organic molecules. Groundbreaking research could change how we develop pharmaceuticals. But I worry about connecting with the students, getting them as excited about chemistry as I am.”
There have been tremendous breakthroughs in the field during my father’s lifetime.
I assume there will be equal, if not more, in my lifetime.
Something I eagerly study and look to deliver to my students, beyond the politicization of Big Pharma and the controversy of artificial intelligence taking over scientific research.
“Passion is contagious, cara,” he reassures me before clearing his throat loudly. His emphysema acts up with the changing of the seasons. “Show them your love for chemistry. Involve and challenge them. They will see your enthusiasm and knowledge, and they will respond.”
“I’ll do my best. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if I can do this. If I’m ready to lead my lab and inspire these young minds as you did.”
“Ah, doubt and reservations are the companions of every great scientist. It pushes us to prove ourselves and to break new ground. You are more than ready. Whether you knew it or not, you’ve been preparing for this all your life.
Look at your school prior. That success begets this success until one day, a colleague from an Ivy League school drops into the lab, and the rest will be history. I’m convinced of it.”
The conviction in his career path for me is like a comforting embrace.
“I needed to hear that today. Needed the pep talk.”
“It’s. . . how you say . . . old-fashioned, but let the science guide you. Chemistry is not just about molecules and reactions. It’s about discovery and exploring the unknown. Share that wonder with them. And Isabella?” he adds with a note of seriousness.
“Yes?”
“Hope your first day goes off without a reaction, but if it does, may it be exothermic.”
I laugh at his silly chemistry joke.
“Thanks, Papà. I love you.”
“Ti amo, Isabella.”
Ending the call, I glance at the clock mounted at the front of the classroom, counting down the time before my first class starts. When the doors swing open, I stand, going to the podium to organize my notes for the zillionth time and greet the students as they file in.
My sweaty hands curl around the edges of the papers, drawing needed confidence from the preparation I put into them and the numerous rounds of practiced lectures I did at home. I’m well prepared. As the clock hits the top of the hour and a few stragglers file in, I take a deep breath and begin.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Organic Chemistry. I’m Professor Rossi, and I look forward to teaching the fascinating intricacies of molecules and the reactions that define our world this semester.”
Twenty minutes into outlining the syllabus, I’m discussing the expectations for the semester. Punctuality, participation, and respect for the learning environment when the classroom door swings open with careless ease. The sudden interruption pulls every eye in the direction of the newcomer.
He saunters in with a swagger that seems almost calculated to maximize disruption. As the whispers start, I feel a tight knot of annoyance form in my stomach, and my carefully constructed atmosphere of focused attention frays around the edges.
He’s tall, dark, and obviously handsome by the shared looks among the young women in the front row, already drooling over him.
There’s a nonchalant grace in his demeanor that doesn’t quite mask the audacity of arriving so late.
His dark hair is tousled as if he’s come straight from his bed to my class without a care about the time.
As he scans the room for an empty seat, our eyes meet.
There’s a flicker of amusement in his. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the situation at all.
“Mr . . . ?”
My question hangs in the air, an unspoken challenge as I cross my arms.
“Diego. Diego Kahale.”
His gaze racks over me, taking in my custom knee-high boots, dark, fitted jeans tucked inside the rim of the custom leather, and a sweater and blazer to complete my look.
Despite being a science student, I’m Italian. I inherited my Mother’s penchant for fashion, and we sometimes visited couture fashion houses when we summered back home. His expression suggests appreciation. The corner of his mouth turns into a smirk as he chooses a seat near the back.
“Well, Mr. Kahale.”
The ice in my voice is sharp enough to draw a few stunned looks from the other students, compared to my warm introduction to the class.
“In this class, we respect each other’s time and commitment to learning. Arriving twenty minutes late is unacceptable. Would you care to explain?”
He stretches out, his arm draping across the back of an empty chair next to him, unfazed.
“Traffic was a nightmare.”
The casual shrug that follows undermines the sincerity of his words. The other students’ eyes volley back at me with anticipation so thick that I want to pull against the suddenly too-tight neckline of my sweater, but I refrain from doing so.
“Traffic?”
My skepticism is apparent.
I pause, considering my next words carefully.