Perfect Timing

by Spinella, Laura

  Aidan’s mother sat behind him, shoulders jerking as she sobbed into a wad of tissues. This had to be killing Aidan. It was generally all Stella Roycroft could do to handle the day-to-day stuff. Last winter, Aidan’s truck skidded on a patch of ice and hit a guardrail. He ended up with a mild concussion, but it was Stella who left the hospital with a sedative. It was one reason Aidan didn’t depend on her for much of anything. Isabel was unsure how much help she was going to be.

  A few moments later, when the judge actually granted bail, setting the price of freedom at $80,000, she knew exactly how much help—none. Stella Roycroft didn’t have that kind of money, not even the ten percent she would need to post. Aidan turned and said something comforting, her arms thrusting around him as if he was headed to the gallows. Her cries escalated, carrying on about how they should have moved to Boca Raton years ago, that she should have given John Roycroft one more chance. Isabel heard him say, “It’s all right, Mom. Just go home. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  The exchange was upsetting from so many angles, not the least of which was that, right now, someone should be comforting him. A guard pried them apart, putting handcuffs back on Aidan. Facing the courtroom he looked around, and Isabel knew he was looking for her. In one fast motion she stepped into the light. She’d been looking at Aidan for a long time. She knew every expression his ridiculously handsome face made. This was new, and she realized that this was fear.

  Needing to make a decision fast, Isabel climbed back into the Caddy Escalade, curious as to how much trouble she’d be in if she drove it over the state line and sold it to a wholesaler for cash. It would serve Rick Stanton right. But then she figured if there were a charge for brainwashing, they’d slap that on Aidan too. She thought about Stanton’s money clip, but surely it was locked in the evidence room. There was the twenty-four-hour pawnshop on Beaumont Street, though all hers and Aidan’s possessions combined wouldn’t make a dent in the sum. Isabel knocked her head against the steering wheel. It jarred something loose. I’m an idiot. “Thank you, John Roycroft,” she whispered, grateful for a man Aidan never knew. She turned the key, screeching toward the farmhouse and Aidan’s truck.

  PAYING AIDAN’S BOND IN CASH MADE THINGS A RELATIVELY EASY PROCESS. Isabel signed a few papers and handed over $8,000. The desk clerk told her to wait on the other side of the glass partition. She felt as if she hadn’t seen Aidan in weeks. Isabel glanced at the clock; six a.m., surely Carrie would be home soon. She had until then to get Rick’s vehicle and herself back. It didn’t leave much time for the two of them to figure out what came next. The idea of Isabel and Aidan conferring over a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch when Carrie walked in wasn’t terribly plausible.

  A buzzer sounded and Aidan walked through the door. He didn’t look bad, just worried, even a wrinkled tux unable to completely dishevel him. Isabel wanted to fall into his arms. But she was unsure if he expected the same, the horrible portion of the night having greater sticking power than any notion of them as a couple. She offered a sympathetic smile, keeping the grand gesture to herself. It proved to be a wise choice when he didn’t even smile back. He walked out of the sheriff’s station, Isabel following. Aidan blinked into the bright light of day. “This way,” she said, motioning toward the Caddy. He stopped, the blink morphing into a wide-eyed look of confusion. “If we get it back in the next twenty minutes, I don’t think they’ll add grand theft auto to your rap sheet.” He got in and they drove toward Fountainhead.

  “How long did it take you to remember the money?”

  “A few minutes longer than I would have liked. I’m not at my sharpest at four in the morning.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “The rest is in my purse.”

  After a moment, Aidan’s body wrenched forward, his head turning sharply toward Isabel. “I understand why you did it. Like I said at the farmhouse, I’m an awful coward. You stayed behind in the trailer to do what I couldn’t. Just so we’re clear, I will take responsibility for shooting Rick Stanton. I’d never let you . . . It should have been me,” he insisted with warrior determination. “I wanted to confess back there, at the arraignment, but my lawyer said it was suicide. He told me I needed to stay calm until he could arrange a plea bargain. But I am curious; I never heard a gun fire before you came out. Did . . . did you muffle it somehow?” Isabel glanced between Aidan and the road. Then the obvious fell from the sky and through the Caddy Escalade sunroof, smacking her on the head. She screeched onto the side, gravel pinging against the SUV, dust clouding around them. “Here’s how I think we should say it went down,” Aidan said, plotting her alibi. “The simpler, the bet—”

  “Aidan,” she said sternly, making sure she had his full attention. “You’ll confess to no such thing because I didn’t shoot Rick Stanton either.” He stopped talking, though his mouth hung wide. “I robbed him, I checked his breathing. I called 911. But I swear to you, I did not shoot him.”

  Thoroughly confused drifted to clearly relieved. “Then how . . . ?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t really had time to think about it. Rick’s shooting was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

  He started to say something else but sighed, nodding absently. “Good. That’s good, Isabel. I didn’t want you to have to live with that. It’s bad enough, everything that did happen.” She pulled back onto the road. “How long do you think it took for that ambulance to arrive?”

  “I’m not sure. There was a wreck on Old Station Road. The county only has one ambulance,” she said, knowing this from her mother’s hospital talk. “If it was at the scene of the accident, it probably slowed their response. Why? What are you thinking?”

  Aidan’s hands, less swollen but still bruised, scrubbed over his face. “I’m thinking that somebody had enough time and motive to shoot Stanton before that ambulance arrived. The question is, other than me, who wanted that chance?”

  And right there, glancing at his ink-stained fingertips, was the mother of all quagmires. Who, other than Aidan, would the police even think to look for? They drove the rest of the way in silence, turning into Fountainhead, bypassing the cutoff to Aidan’s trailer. She knew he didn’t want to go home. Returning the Caddy to the exact place she’d found it, Isabel was relieved to see that her mother’s car wasn’t in its spot either. “Aidan—”

  “Yeah, I know. What am I going to do? You wouldn’t think something so great and something so awful could happen in one night.”

  Aware of the negatives, she was unable to pinpoint if the something so great was Fitz Landrey, the record executive who promised him a future, or them. For now she thought it best to avoid the subject entirely. “Actually, I was going to say, what are we going to do?” He stared out the open window as a fly buzzed through, summer heat and irritation already mounting. “I . . . couldn’t believe the other things they wanted to charge you with. You know I did everything I could to convince them otherwise, that I’d never . . .”

  “Isabel, you don’t have to say it.” He didn’t turn from the window, but his hand reached over, blindly covering hers. “I trust you with my life.”

  “I wish . . . I wish it had happened. I wish Stanton had done it, that you hadn’t gotten there before he—” Aidan’s head whipped back, his face incredulous. Staring at him through filmy tears, Isabel was at peace with the notion. “If he had, we’d have all the proof we need.”

  Aidan’s body moved toward hers, his hands cupping hard around Isabel’s face. “Do not . . .” He paused. There wasn’t even a twitch to his mouth, his lips pursing so hard. “Do not ever say that or think that again.” She’d never heard his voice make such a sound. “Do you hear me?”

  She nodded and he let go, turning his gaze to the tin can horizon. He was so very quiet, though Isabel could feel the scorching anger radiating from him. The rest of the story, the part he didn’t yet know, would send an icy chill up his spine. “Aidan, I have to tell you something els
e . . . something important.” His head moved slowly, looking at Isabel as if she were about to tell him the whole Fitz Landrey thing was a practical joke. “My mother is pregnant.” She said it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “She’s going to marry Rick Stanton.” A practical joke might have gone over better. There was a fierce wide blink, as though he couldn’t bring it into focus. “I know; it’s, um, weird . . . unbelievable. She said she was going to tell me after the gala. I found out—well, it doesn’t matter how I found out. But she is . . . pregnant,” Isabel said, still trying to absorb the fact. “I’ve tried to tell her, Aidan, everything. But because of her . . . her situation, despite anything I’ve said, she believes . . . To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what she believes. Circumstance is demanding that she take Rick’s side.”

  “You’ve got to be . . .” But he saw that she wasn’t, slinging his head hard against the seat. “That’s just great. Perfect. Your mother and Stanton can stand arm in arm at my sentencing. How many public officials do you think Stanton will have in his pocket by then? How freakin’ old do you think I’ll be by the time they let me out?”

  Isabel wanted desperately to reassure him that none of this would happen, but Aidan had had enough hours to process the facts. He understood Stanton’s influence and his endless connections. It was hopeless. Maybe that was why Isabel said the next thing that popped into her head. “Walk away from it, Aidan. All of it. You didn’t do anything wrong and you still have $2,000. It’s enough to get you out of Catswallow and clear to the other side of the country. It’s not like you don’t have somewhere to go.” It was an outrageous solution, but so was the entire situation. To her amazement, he replied with something even more extreme.

  “Only if you come with me.”

  “If I what?” She heard him but stalled. A part of Isabel wanted to give her mother another chance. Maybe she’d come home and come to her senses. Glancing down the gravel road, early waves of heat skewed the horizon. It was a predictable effect that she guessed was unavoidable. With only minutes to decide, Isabel debated a choice that would turn a rift into a ravine. “Aidan, I—”

  “Come with me, Isabel. There’s no way I’m leaving you here. What’s here for you? Why would you stay? There’s the farmhouse, but this,” he said, motioning toward a sea of manufactured homes, “has never been where you belong. I’m sure as hell not leaving you here to move in with your mother and her new husband.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. Isabel couldn’t get her mind around the concept. She couldn’t believe that Carrie would demand as much. He was right about the farmhouse. Despite Carrie’s snug-as-a-bug efforts it was the closest thing to home she’d known since they left her father and New Jersey. Dad . . . As fast as Eric sparked in her head, she snuffed him out. She belonged with Aidan. And whether he was asking out of friendship or fear, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him go alone. “All right,” she said, nodding, as if he’d only asked her to take a ride to Tremont for ice cream. “Let’s go.” Isabel dropped the keys onto the seat of Rick’s vehicle, the two of them running for Aidan’s truck, which was still at the farmhouse. They’d take it to the airport. They wouldn’t be adding grand theft auto to the only crime he was about to commit: jumping bail.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Providence, Rhode Island

  Present Day

  ISABEL SLAMMED THE DOOR TO HER APARTMENT AND FLIPPED THE DEADBOLT OVER. She leaned her weight against it, trying to keep the day from following. And because she could, she kicked the cat-shaped draft stopper across the room. From his sofa perch, Rico eyed her. He offered a token Halloween greeting, his raccoon tail ticking as though she’d wounded a close cousin. “Sorry,” she grumbled, straightening the stuffed cat. “But you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.” If cats could gesture, Rico would have offered a middle-finger salute, hopping down and slinking toward the kitchen.

  Not even the cat wanted to lend a sympathetic ear. It didn’t matter, she didn’t have time to chat; Mary Louise and Tanya would be there any minute. They’d accomplished nothing that day, Mary Louise running off to a doctor’s appointment with Joe, and Tanya leaving to pick up a sick kid at school. Seeing messages on her machine, Isabel considered a fanciful solution. Maybe kismet had called with a message from Taylor Swift saying she didn’t have a thing planned for the third week of August. She snorted a laugh, flipping through the mail. “Ha! And I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.” Isabel fired junk mail, a newsletter from a Vegas tattoo parlor, into the wastebasket. The damn undeterred thing had followed her everywhere. Hitting Play, she hit Skip upon hearing Carrie’s voice. Surely she’d seen the loop of a handcuffed Aidan and was calling to validate old opinions. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m all set.” While they’d become expert at avoiding any mention of the Catswallow debacle—like a relative with a prison record—this, she suspected, Carrie could not resist. She moved onto the next one. It was from Nate. It wasn’t the “Call you later” she was expecting, not on her landline. There was a flash of panic, thinking he was calling in his professional capacity. But he’d never break patient-doctor confidentiality—not even for her. His next sentence confirmed as much, saying he was calling about Grassroots Kids. His mother, who was friendly with the Providence city attorney, had called with a heads-up. Unless Grassroots Kids began construction within sixty days, the city would invoke its right to sell the land. “Are you kidding?” He didn’t interrupt to say that he was, reminding Isabel they hadn’t settled on an architectural rendering, let alone secured the money to start building. Isabel sat down on a bar stool, listening harder. The probable land sale was tied to the grandfather clause that won them the prime location in the first place. Since the building no longer existed, the city council had the right to rescind the clause, and they planned to do just that. Nate called it a bitch of a catch-22. As the news sunk in a hand pressed to her cheek. “And here I thought déjà vu junk mail was the kicker.” Nate said he was sorry to leave the message, but he thought she’d want to know. He was crashing after fifteen hours at the hospital but she should call if she wanted to talk—it didn’t matter what time. Isabel grabbed the phone. Of course she wanted to talk. Nate would have great input about which thing she should tackle first—the radio station buyout, an idea for a mega promotion, or Grassroots Kids.

  Poised to dial, second thoughts interrupted. Maybe he’d say none of the above, telling her that the answer was staring her right in the face, and pointing out that she was just too much of a coward to pursue it. On the other hand, Nate would never say such a thing, because Nate didn’t have a clue about Aidan and Isabel. Coming full circle, she put the phone down. Quietly, as if not to emphasize the one guilty omission that marred an otherwise mature, steady, focused relationship. Isabel closed her eyes, shaking her head at the absurdity. If the phone hadn’t rung last night, if Nate wasn’t called away—had this day never happened—she’d be busy giving the landlord notice. Isabel would be poised at the edge of the rest of her life. Glancing at the trash can, she tucked it tighter under the bar and out of sight. She’d call Nate later, after Tanya and Mary Louise left. By then there’d be a savvy list of ideas that she could talk over with him, none of which would include Aidan Royce. Seeing one last message, Isabel listened to a meaningless advertisement from Stanley Steemer. It was running a summer special: three rooms for $99.

  She headed to the bedroom changing into sweatpants and an REO Speedwagon reunion T-shirt, mulling over a day’s worth of bad karma. There was plenty to go around. Her thoughts wandered past pop-up images of Aidan Royce. For instance, she ventured, flinging her work clothes into the hamper, she could have called her mother back, enduring an, “I told you so,” conversation. Along with the past, they also avoided present-day conversation about Aidan. Despite those two taboo topics, they’d made positive mother-daughter strides, Isabel even visiting Carrie Stanton and her wheelchair-bound, seasoned state senator husband on occasion. That only came after Jack was born, Car
rie all but begging Isabel to consider a relationship with her half brother. After soul-searching that rubbed so raw it left a blister, Isabel acquiesced, returning to Alabama for two Thanksgivings and a few of Jack’s birthdays, the most recent early last spring. That trip had started out promising; Rick, accompanied by Trey, was in Montgomery, tending to state business. For two days the future was different, Isabel, her mother, and Jack acting like the family they might have been less Rick. They ate dinner together, Jack’s mother and his big sister tag-teaming him about eating his vegetables. Admittedly, however, dinner would not have been served in a well-appointed kitchen or a home where the housekeeper had just left for the day. At night, Isabel read to Jack the same books her mother had read to her. Mercifully, he didn’t resemble Rick, making it easier to ignore his paternal DNA. Jack even insisted that Isabel drop him at Cannon River Academy. He held tight to her hand through the private pristine campus, all the way to his classroom, where Jack offered a proud toothless smile and “’Sabel” to Mrs. Babcock, his teacher.

  That day, Isabel and Carrie had gone to the Summit, Birmingham’s most upscale shopping area, her mother insisting on a lavish spa treatment after lunch. On the way home, there was lively chatter about their purchases, the two of them agreeing that their mutual curves were ill-suited for the pencil skirts they were showing. They shared dark chocolate truffles left over from dessert, joking how the indulgence was a detriment to their seaweed-scrubbed faces, never mind ending any hope of wearing trendy skirts. Pulling into the driveway, Jack came running. He and his sometimes sitter Leighanne were kicking a soccer ball. Rick, who’d also arrived home, watched from his wheelchair. His chin cocked in Isabel’s direction before heading up the ramp, seeing his wife and son inside. Not eager to follow, she turned to the bubbly blond college student who was tucking money in her backpack. “Rick paid you?”