Rick and his fresh drink disappeared onto the porch, laughter fading as Isabel gazed into the mirror. Maybe stunning was the right word for the girl who looked back. Catswallow’s best stylists worked a small miracle with every feature that fell short. Instead of swampy green, her eyes were bold and intense. A sprinkle of freckles were banished beneath a layer of powdery cover-up, and a nose, which she saw as a tad too long, was a pleasant complement to her face. And when, Isabel wondered, did she develop cheekbones? Though she was admittedly at a loss when it came to fashion, her hair lent itself to occasions such as this. Cascading ringlets were pinned delicately to her head, falling like beautiful curled ribbon. Between the hair, makeup, and the nail tips that looked strikingly real, there was a stab of panic. Would Aidan even recognize her? The dress, magazine worthy, was sheer luck, having just been returned to a boutique in Birmingham. Isabel thought the returning customer might have been Shanna O’Rourke, and was relieved to overhear the clerk say that its previous owner, a girl from Birmingham, was “too far along to squeeze into it.” Isabel brushed a hand over the milky lavender skirt that flowed in sexy sheer layers. She’d never imagined wearing anything like it, not even in a dream. The saleswoman insisted otherwise, claiming the style flattered her natural curves. Needing no alterations, she said it looked custom-made for Isabel. She had to disagree when she saw the $800 price tag. To her surprise, Carrie had happily handed over a credit card, insisting the money wasn’t a problem.
“Isabel,” Carrie said, her tone less light. “Look, I understand the temptation. I’m not blind. If any girl your age were to custom-order the most magnetic, talented—God help me—good-looking male on the planet . . . Well, they’d get Aidan Roycroft parts in the box. Despite my feelings, I get it. But don’t let the sheen fool you. You’re smarter than that.”
She nodded. Carrie Lang was immune. In an eleventh-hour attempt to keep her mother from a night of nail biting, Isabel pleaded her case once again. “Mom, I told you, I’m just helping him out. It’s not like this is a real date. It’s one night. Besides, Aidan doesn’t look at me that way.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” Busy smoothing the dress, she stopped. “That’s not what I meant.” A stark stare jerked to her daughter’s reflection. “He should be so lucky. But I see what Aidan wants. Irresponsible hookups and girls who party twenty-four, seven. I’m only saying that’s not you, Isabel. You’re more practical, traditional . . . sensible.”
“Uh huh,” she mumbled, deciding how many synonyms there were for dull.
Like a mole head from a carnival game, Rick popped back into the living room, where a lingering gaze passed over her. A shiver rushed down Isabel’s back. It made her want to change into a T-shirt and baggy sweats. “You give her a time to be home, Carrie? My boys never went anywhere without a curfew. ’Course I never could get Trey to adhere to it,” he said, downing more of his drink. “Tomcat and all that he was at her age.”
Like father like son rolled reflexively through Isabel’s brain.
“If she were my girl, I’d have that set in stone, be puttin’ a glass slipper on her—somethin’.” While Isabel ignored the comment, there was a vision of Rick hauling ass out to his man-size SUV, retrieving a rifle, maybe a chastity belt.
“Isabel and I talked about that, about Aidan, specifically,” her mother said, shooting her a wary glance. “But there are a lot of post-gala activities and—”
“And exactly what activity she’ll be participating in, that’s what I’d be concerned to know. Guys like Roycroft have a way of sending even smart girls like Bella ass-over-teakettle. The next thing you know, she’s on public assistance, her life chained to a place like this,” he said, his glass sweeping through the trailer air, “hunting him down for child support.”
“Seriously?” Isabel said, incredulous.
“How the hell do you think Roycroft got here? That kind of behavior is inbred. Trust me, Bella. There’s more men looking to avoid that kind of responsibility than to take it on. I’m proud to say I’m one of the few who takes care of what’s mine.”
“I see,” she said coyly. “So tell me, Rick, exactly how close did Strobe come to being your bastard son?”
“Isabel!” Carrie said. “Rick only wants to make sure you’re safe. He’s only trying to point out the obvious.” She smiled at him, apologizing. “Sorry, honey.” The endearment caused Isabel to blanch. The last time Carrie referred to someone as honey, she was married to him. “It’s been too many years since she’s had a solid male role model. It’s hard for her to appreciate.”
“No harm done. I could see where she’d be lacking after hearing about her daddy’s . . . choices.”
Before Isabel could tally the differences between Rick and her father, which, oddly, were stacking in Eric Lang’s favor, there was a knock at the door. Rick’s face was not the first one she wanted Aidan to see, but it couldn’t be helped as he was closest. There was the exchange of manly grunts, Aidan brushing past. A swallow rolled through Isabel’s throat. If she looked good, he looked a thousand times better. This, apparently, was what Aidan wore well. It was a standard black tuxedo, but he’d put his own spin on it with a pewter-colored vest, no tie, and an open wing-tip collar. Instead of shiny black rental shoes, he wore cowboy boots. Aidan bought them from a roadside vendor on their way to a show in Selma, a fine-looking pair of two-tone imitation-snakeskin boots. He always said when he made it big, really big, he’d own the best pair money could buy.
Isabel didn’t know how many seconds had passed. But it was more than a few since Carrie was deep into a narrative of the drunk drivers she x-rayed on an ordinary Saturday night. Aidan didn’t say a word, and Isabel thought she’d better. “You look nice.” It hit the air with the sound of obvious information, as if saying that the sun rose. He still didn’t speak, Isabel guessing he was saving his voice. On the other hand, maybe Aidan had taken one look at her and decided that this was the dumbest idea he’d ever had. Suddenly her hair felt too big, the dress too tight, thinking her lipstick looked as if she swiped it off a hooker. Naturally, Rick was right there with an attaboy.
“Uh, usually it’s customary to compliment the female, especially when she spends an entire day gussying up for you. You really are cut from the same cloth as your skirt-chasing daddy, aren’t you?”
Aidan’s eyes veered from Isabel and onto Rick. His mouth twitched and the silence turned ugly. “Isabel, you ready?” he said, shoving a plastic container at her. Inside was a beautiful spray of white roses surrounded by violets, a shade deeper than her dress. She’d been fully prepared to receive Shanna’s already ordered bright orange corsage. It was to be expected, having guided Aidan past the soft pink roses in the flower shop, trying to convince him that someone so blond and fair would benefit from a kick of color.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing the iced tea bottle and his boutonniere from the refrigerator. Handing Aidan a cellophane-wrapped rose, he didn’t stop to put it on as he opened the door and they headed to his truck.
HALFWAY TO THE BANQUET ROOM AT THE VFW, WHICH CATSWALLOW residents had spent days transforming into a secret theme, Aidan’s mood shifted. He hadn’t said a word about the way she looked. Isabel ignored a swell of disappointment, reminding herself that this was no more than a friend helping out a friend. “Isabel, look in the glove compartment.” She did, guessing it was a new CD, finding a fat envelope. “Open it.”
She shrugged, peeling back the sealed flap. She looked at Aidan and back at the envelope. “Where . . . where did you get this? Is it real?” Onto the lap of her milky lavender gown, Isabel dumped more hundred-dollar bills than came in a Monopoly game. Only these were real, like from a bank heist, and suddenly she was wary of exploding dye. “How much money is here?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” he said with a teasing grin.
“But I don’t . . . Where did you . . . ?” It was more money than she’d ever seen, sure that the sa
me was true for him. “Aidan, you tell me right now where this money came from!” Isabel didn’t really believe he’d done anything wrong, but with Aidan you could never be completely sure. He pulled onto the side of the road. The grin disappeared.
“I inherited it. The check came registered mail from some lawyer in Boca Raton—a life insurance policy. I cashed it because I wanted to know what it looked like. Hell, I wanted to know if it was real.”
“Inherited it from who?” As far as Isabel knew, Aidan’s relatives were poorer than Aidan.
“My father.”
“Your father? But that means he’d have to be . . .”
“Dead. Yes, that’s what the letter said.”
And Rick’s comment seemed all the more vicious. Considering the news, she also fought a wave of guilt about Aidan not noticing her appearance. “Dead? Oh, Aidan, I’m so sorry—”
“What for?” he snapped. “He was just a man who called once or twice a year to see if I was still alive. That’s not a father. I never knew the guy. He never cared to know me.” His eyes jerked between Isabel and the money. “It’s not like I got mail from him on a regular basis.”
She ignored the comeback. “Yes, but in the back of your mind, surely you thought that someday—”
“No, Isabel. I didn’t. And that, right there,” he said, poking at the cash, “is about the nicest damn thing John Roycroft could have done for me. Do you understand what this means?” Isabel shook her head, though she was sure of the answer. “It means that I’m out of here. This money is my ticket to New York or L.A. or Nashville. Anywhere they make music. Anywhere that isn’t here.”
“Aidan, that’s . . . that’s incredible.” Isabel put the money back in the glove compartment as Aidan pulled back onto the highway.
“You’re the only person I told. My mother wasn’t home when the letter came. From what it said, he left her his condo in Boca.” He nodded, satisfied. “She’ll be a hell of a lot better off with that than she ever was with him. Anyway, I wanted to tell you first, before the night gets crazy on us. I played this gig last year and you won’t believe the trouble one cracker-box town goes to.”
Needing to move on from an answer about how long Aidan might hang around Catswallow, she said, “Hey, um, Katie Banks heard the gala is going to be a Spanish theme. You know, flamenco dancing and the running of the bulls. Kinda strange, but I suppose getting a bull is no big deal around here. Anyway, if it’s true, if Katie’s right, you could sing that Spanish song you’re always working on at the farmhouse. Might be a nice touch, it’s so emotion packed—like an opera.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no way.” Shifting in his seat, Aidan shrugged at her puzzled look. “That song isn’t meant for a crowd. And the translation . . . well, I’m not sure if it works in English. Anyway,” he said, retuning the radio, “whatever the theme is, you can bet it’ll be over-the-top. I think they do it because, underneath, they know there’s got to be something better than Catswallow. And this year, they couldn’t be more right.”
“In that case,” Isabel said, focused on the passing scenery, “maybe the theme is bon voyage and have a nice life.”
SHE WAS UNCANNILY CLOSE. Every year the Catswallow gala committee put forth a mind-blowing effort trying to outdo the one before—Disney, New York City on New Year’s Eve, Hollywood, even a NASCAR-themed gala spectacularly done in white gloves and tails. This year was no exception, taking the recent Catswallow grads on a cruise around the world. Each table was dressed as a port of call, with Isabel docked in the Hawaiian Islands. Coconut cups and leis denoted her table, with mini lava cakes for dessert. But soon the world was moving as Cozumel mingled with the Greek Isles and a couple of girls traveled from St. Kitts to flirt with Lisbon. The partygoers in Hawaii drifted off too, leaving Isabel at a table filled with plates of chicken Kiev and poi, the native offering. Aidan went to work the moment they arrived, Isabel understanding his focus. She’d tagged along to enough country fairs and bar gigs to know the routine. He was in show mode, earning every dime he made. Sitting at the table, she closed her eyes and listened, something she rarely did. His voice was smooth, like twenty-year-old Tennessee whiskey over ice. At least that was the way she’d heard it described by one woman at a honky-tonk in Jasper. Tonight he entertained a peer-filled crowd with popular songs, slipping into one of his own every third or fourth number. All his music sounded like a bona fide hit. It hit her ears differently than when he practiced at the farmhouse, more finely tuned. Maybe it was the acoustics or the lights. Or maybe it was just Aidan in his element. At the farmhouse he could be less than sure, something that never showed in public. After playing a melody he’d written, Aidan would ask for a critique of the lyrics that were a work in progress. “Hmm, I’m not sure . . . Dig deeper, Aidan. Connect it to something that really inspires you.”
Currently, he was the definition of confident. Aidan was in full rocker mode as he traded an acoustic guitar for the electric one, igniting a ring of fire that engulfed him and the crowd. Isabel admired him in the spotlight, the air heavy with hairspray, poi, and talent. It was fun for a while, listening to Aidan sing as he smoothly alternated with master of ceremonies duties. Always spot-on with the manners Stella instilled, he thanked the committee members, even noting Esther Womack, who’d served since the gala’s inception in 1946. But eventually a sigh overshadowed the show, Isabel knowing it wasn’t her favorite way to spend time with Aidan. She’d rather sit on the front porch of the farmhouse and watch the sun set, crickets dictating the melody. Or take a ride to Tremont for soft-serve ice cream, Aidan harmonizing with the radio the entire way. The longer she watched, the more restless she felt. Along with admirable fascination came the reality of Aidan’s imminent departure. Before tonight’s windfall of cash, leaving tomorrow wasn’t an option. But soon Catswallow would be his prior address, with sunsets downgraded to a scientific fact and ice cream just fattening. Watching the girls watch him, guys looking on with enviable awe, she knew it was the right thing for him to do. For anyone else success and fame might have the luster of a dream, but Isabel knew it would happen as well as she knew her own name. The same guilt she felt in the truck edged back. She wasn’t being terribly fair or even a decent friend. Money was his only obstacle, and while it wasn’t a king’s fortune, a crafty guy who could survive on boxed macaroni-and-cheese could live off $10,000 for some time. Isabel sighed again, needing a break from Aidan’s unfolding future—the one that wouldn’t include her. She headed toward the ladies’ room, which she’d put off since deciding that evening gowns should come with how-to-use-public-restrooms instructions. She took a last glance at the stage before running headlong into Kyle Marsh.
“Bella, you, um, you look incredible,” he said, handsome enough in his tux. It was amazing how rented clothing could give the average boy the sheen of a man. “Would, um . . . Do you want to dance, being as your date’s kind of busy?”
Aidan, who’d nodded in her direction, was well into the second chorus of Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” A crowd of girls puddled around the base of the stage, ogling him. She shrugged, shifting in her heels. “Sure, Kyle, but won’t your date mind?”
“Katie? Nah, she went to the parking lot to smoke a joint. It’s fine.”
Isabel guessed that smoking pot wasn’t on Kyle’s to-do list, having won a full ride to the Citadel or West Point. She made a mental note to ask which one if they had to make small talk. But the beautiful ballad didn’t invite conversation and the two of them just danced. A few moments in, as she was swaying comfortably in Kyle’s arms, the music changed. It hadn’t stopped, but Aidan wasn’t singing anymore. The music had switched over to a CD, the real Aerosmith filling in. She moved with the melody, drifting to some dreamy place, positive that Aidan sang it better.
“Hey, Marsh, your date’s looking for you.” Startled, Isabel opened her eyes, finding Aidan standing next to them. “She looks really
pissed, man. I’ll take over, okay?”
Kyle glanced toward the door but didn’t let go. “It’s fine, dude. Katie’s not into me, we’re just friends—you know how it is,” he said, his chin cocking at Isabel.
Aidan’s eyes flicked between them and the stage, a hand running roughly over his mouth before moving onto Kyle’s shoulder. Isabel recognized the grip; it was the same one that took hold of her wrist in his truck. “No, really, take off, man.” They stopped dancing and Kyle, who boasted an athletic build but lacked Aidan’s presence, let go.
“Whatever.” He took a healthy step back. “But you can’t have it both ways, Roycroft. Get a clue.” Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets, disappearing into the crowd.
Aidan only stared, as though he had no intention of dancing. The I feel pretty moment faded, eclipsed by the whole hair, dress, whorish lipstick concept. Awkwardness intensified, the two of them standing still in the middle of a swaying dance floor. The tension broke as Aidan grabbed her around the waist. And again, there was nothing pleasant about it. “Why were you dancing with him?”
“Uh, because he asked and my legs were starting to cramp.”
“You know I’m working this thing. I’m not letting you sit there by yourself on purpose.”
“I know.” But Isabel barely heard him, caught in the awesome sense of déjà vu that danced along with them. It was surreal; she knew it well, but she and Aidan had never danced before. It was like being pulled into a parallel universe. Her feet stopped moving, impeding the sensation, like a music box winding down. Aidan jerked her closer and everything wound tighter.
“Isabel, what are you doing?”
She willed her feet to move. As she did, déjà vu derailed. Breathing Aidan in, Isabel closed her eyes, her feet finding their footing while trying not to step on his. He smelled like Southern summer air, warm wrapping around her like the sun on her face. They’d been this close before, years of homework, playing tag Frisbee, sharing a bowl of mac-’n’-cheese. This was different, the simple solidness of his arms shifting boundaries. Anxiousness faded, Isabel feeling so very . . . safe. Her head drifted onto his shoulder, déjà vu marrying with current events. Like a roller shade, her eyes snapped open as her head jerked back. I know this place! I know it from my dreams.
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