Perfect Timing

by Spinella, Laura

  “Since when?”

  “Since I got the graphic visual on what Isabel wants, her feelings for you.”

  There was a slight shake to Nate’s head. “And how did that come about?”

  “You were together, after the funeral, in the doorway of the brownstone.”

  His dark eyes widened. “Are you having her followed? Are there Polaroids I should know about?”

  “What? No! Of course not. I knew where Eric lived. Years of a repetitive return address label. Ask Isabel. I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the restaurant. I went to the brownstone to tell her what I just told you, that I’ll do the concert, and thinking maybe . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what else I was thinking.” Nate only stared, prodding more explanation. “I got where it was going before the two of you went inside.”

  “I see,” Nate said, leaning back. “I suppose it was obvious enough, not the kind of moment even you’d interrupt.”

  “Yeah, huge as my ego may be, we’re good. If you have Polaroids, I don’t need to see them.” He stayed on task by focusing on the benign objects scattered across Nate’s desk. Aidan used them to blur intimate visions: paperweight, prescription pad, lots of papers, a note in bright red pen: Jenny Called . . . “Beyond that, I can see that you’re a good person. That you’ll take care of Isabel, you won’t do anything to hurt her—ever.” It wasn’t a statement, more of a demand for reassurance. “Isabel, she’s smart and she’s capable, she doesn’t deserve anything less in return.” Having said his piece, he should have left. But Nate’s physician serenity got in the way, trustworthiness a lure. “Mostly, I can’t tell her because it would kill me to see her again, knowing I’ll never be that guy . . . that I’m not you.”

  The folder slipped from Nate’s hand, catching it with his other. He shifted in his chair, pressing forward. “Aidan Royce wants to be me? Even with my respectable position and comfortable life, it’s not yours. Trading places doesn’t seem like a must-have for a guy like you.”

  “I’d be the fucking dogcatcher—a very happy single-wide resident of Catswallow, Alabama—if that’s the guy Isabel was in love with.” And through his considerable pain, Aidan smiled. “Rock stars don’t get many fantasies. Downside of the trade. That one will always be mine. Success, money, fame . . . the endlessly spinning crap that goes with it. Isabel is the only thing I ever really wanted. That hasn’t changed since I was a kid,” he confessed. “For a while, I convinced myself it could happen. If I could just make her see that any divorce was a mistake. That given the right circumstance, the timing would be perfect.” He rose from the chair. “It was an egotistical arrogant assumption. So if you could tell her . . . about the concert.” Aidan was to the door, one step away from the beginning of the end.

  “Wait.” He turned, Nate stood behind his desk, the folder in a choke hold. “You should know, the same night you saw us at the brownstone, Isabel told me she’d move to Boston, come live with me.”

  Okay, maybe I missed the sadistic streak. Aidan gulped hard, fists clenching. “Congratulations.”

  “And here’s what you missed after the door closed.” He tossed the folder onto the desk, loose papers fluttering. “I made the enlightening error of suggesting that moving in with me was code for running away from you.” A breath fell from Aidan, listening harder. “Isabel insisted it was absurd. Halfway up the stairs, on the way to her bedroom, she insisted that she needed to think about it. That was a week ago. I haven’t heard from her since. As much as I wish otherwise, I’m not that guy.” He sat, busying himself with the papers on his desk, glancing back. “But I think there’s every chance you are. Talk to Isabel.”

  Aidan moved forward, his fingers digging into the back of a leather chair. “I can’t. Every time I get within twenty feet of her it blows up in my face.”

  “Not my problem,” he said, reaching for the largest stack. Nate looked up, perplexed. “Jesus Christ, you’re Aidan Royce. How is confidence an issue?” Aidan didn’t reply, Nate pushing back in his chair. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m sure as hell not brokering an audience with your ex-wife.”

  My ex-wife . . . That’s where he needed to start. Aidan needed an audience with the one person less willing to see him than Isabel. “Fair enough. But would you broker one with Patrick Bourne?”

  “I SUPPOSE KEEPING BUSY, GETTING BACK TO WORK HELPS . . . SOME.” He struggled for small talk, the setting riddled with awkwardness. “I admit; I was surprised you agreed to see me.”

  “Not half as fucking surprised as me.” Patrick didn’t indicate that Aidan should sit, the two standing at opposing angles in an office far more intimidating than Nate’s.

  “I understand that you have a great deal of respect for Nate Potter, so I appreciate . . .”

  Patrick’s tall frame leaned against a bookcase, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. His face was drained of color, every indication being that Aidan Royce was aggravating an already cumbersome workday. “While my respect for Dr. Potter is tremendous, not even he could convince me to talk to you. He asked that I do it for Eric. I can’t imagine he would say such a thing without a hell of a reason. Now, what do you want?”

  To answer directly seemed like the long way around, and Aidan decided to go with his gut. Of course, there was every chance his gut would lead to the punch in the face he’d narrowly avoided during their last encounter, but he could think of no other way. “I need a lawyer.”

  There was a snort of laughter, Patrick turning toward a credenza. With a room-rattling thud a giant phonebook landed on top of his desk. “Try the Yellow Pages. I don’t do entertainment law, and my involvement with scum generally results in deportation. Of course, if you’d like, I’d be glad to expedite the paperwork on that front.”

  While Aidan was chary of Patrick’s state of mind, he was determined to stand his ground. “I may not be able to prove much to you, but I don’t think my citizenship is in question. I asked for a meeting so you could clarify something.” Aidan produced a blue-backed document, dropping it atop the phonebook.

  Patrick glanced at it. “You need me to clarify the document legally nullifying your marriage to Isabel? Catch up, Aidan, that’s old news.”

  “No, I got that part seven years ago, C-Note lawyers assured me our divorce was ironclad and well executed. I want you to clarify a more recent statement. The one you made in the hospital ICU. You said, I wanted out of the marriage. Look closer, Patrick. That petition was generated via Isabel’s attorney, which was you. She divorced me. Not what you indicated, not the other way around.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Patrick snatched up a pair of reading glasses and the document. He flipped through, scanning furiously. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the safe where it’s been since it arrived in California—from Boston. I couldn’t ask you to explain at the hospital. But I’m asking now. I assumed you wouldn’t take my word, so I personally flew back to L.A. to retrieve it,” he said, pointing. “Now that we’re both caught up, would you explain how I wanted to end the marriage?”

  He snapped off the glasses, his stare bearing down on Aidan. “I did generate this . . . Isabel signed it—but only to keep you from going to jail!”

  “Okay, explain that part first,” Aidan said, waiting anxiously.

  Patrick looked up from the papers he held. “According to Fitz Landrey, the last thing your rocket to fame required was a teenage bride. He was prepared to abandon everything he’d promised if you and Isabel remained married. He wanted any liability she represented gone. He also held a significant trump card, enough that she wouldn’t consider any other option. In addition to Isabel being responsible for your noncareer, Fitz also assured her that you’d go to jail for Rick Stanton’s shooting. Even I had to admit, he had her from every angle. I was prepared to do whatever she wanted, but any courtroom trial would not have ended in your favor. She knew that.” They traded a
stunned look, Patrick shaking his head. “But here’s the thing, I never filed this petition because . . . Wait,” he said, crossing the room to a wooden filing cabinet. Moments later he returned, plunking down a similar set of blue-backed papers. “These arrived the morning, almost to the moment, Isabel signed those. After your curt dismissal, considering what she was willing to do to save your ass . . . Well, it was clear that you’d made your choice, and certainly not for the same reasons she’d made hers. I was appalled by your heartlessness. When I spoke with your attorney—”

  “When you spoke with my what?”

  “Your attorney,” Patrick said, his voice growing as quizzical as Aidan’s. “We had an in-depth conversation on the matter, and he assured me of your wishes. At that point, there was really nothing for Isabel to do except sign and salvage a moment of dignity.” Aidan picked up the documents, carefully, without the advantage of Patrick’s legal eye examining them. “Those are copies. Isabel has the originals. As you see, the letter . . . it’s extremely personal. Telling her you’d decided she was right, that a marriage could only work if two people were in love. You said your wedding night proved as much. Only a conversation you would know about, Aidan.”

  “Only a conversation I would know about unless, in a moment of despair, I confided it to someone else. Someone who had nothing to lose and everything to gain.” Aidan stared at his signature, which he did identify but couldn’t explain. That didn’t matter, as his ability to speak was stunted.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Patrick said.

  Aidan could barely make his eyes move, forcing them from the papers onto him. “What?”

  “I make a living, even life and death judgments, by reading peoples’ body language, their raw reactions to situations. And I’d almost swear you’ve never seen those documents before.”

  “Well,” Aidan said, swallowing hard, calculating what fame and money had cost him. “I’d say you’re damn good at your job, because I haven’t.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ISABEL ONCE BOUGHT A TICKET TO AN AIDAN ROYCE CONCERT. IT WAS HER LAST year in college. He was playing a sold-out performance in Connecticut. It was as near to Boston as he’d ever come. It was a good seat, eighth row center. She’d bought the ticket online, paying a small fortune, money she didn’t have at the time. Isabel had lied to Eric and Patrick about where she was going. She lied to herself thinking she’d go through with it. Maybe it was lingering curiosity, wondering if the past would make her stand out in the present. After fighting miles of backed-up traffic, car windows soaped with Aidan Royce Rocks! she watched hordes of fans stream toward the arena. Almost everyone was clad in T-shirts advertising the Royce brand. Isabel sat in a twenty-dollar-an-hour parking lot, stunned and awed. Aside from being married to Aidan Royce for less time than it took for his first record to turn gold, she was no different than the thousands of others who’d paid the price of admission. It was humiliating and sobering. She never got out of the car. Afterward, Isabel pacified herself with the idea of Aidan looking into that packed audience and seeing one empty seat. Maybe he’d wondered who passed on the opportunity to share the same breathing space. I did, Aidan, because I still refused to be one of them.

  Tonight she would sit, marginally willing, basically required, mezzanine level in the giant outdoor venue. It was a private box with a bird’s-eye view of the stage, Isabel still trying to grasp the unlikely turn of events. She’d hung up on two phone calls from Kai Stoughton, a man who claimed to work for the Royce brand. It had to be an on-air prank, compliments of Providence Power. Making 104.7—The Raging Fever FM direct competition also made it a prime target for rock radio’s adolescent humor. Eventually Mr. Stoughton gave up on Isabel, going directly to Rudy Shaw, who took the call and verified the facts: Aidan Royce was, indeed, prepared to do a one-night-only performance to promote the station format change. She’d asked. He answered, but the result wasn’t sitting well, particularly after tickets for the private box seats arrived. Her reaction was staid, mumbling under the delighted squeals of Tanya and Mary Louise: “Great, now I can owe you for the rest of my life.” Regardless of what the concert would fix, that was how she felt. Adding to the annoyance, spread out before her, was the reality of a packed football stadium. No indoor venue could accommodate, emphasizing the draw of Aidan Royce. The show had sold out in minutes, prompting a wild demand from what seemed like an endless well of fans. With 104.7 holding a large number of giveaway tickets, ratings were launched into the stratosphere. Mission accomplished. She huffed, sinking into her seat. Admittedly, it was impressive. Aidan’s people ran things with the precision of a small military undertaking. Isabel tried to make peace with gratitude. Aidan was doing a good thing, and she had no business feeling slighted. But in his grand effort to help, it was also clear that he was avoiding contact with her. In the days leading up to the concert they’d heard plenty from his entourage, but Isabel hadn’t heard a word from Aidan.

  Of course, perhaps avoidance, not to mention guilt, was just on her mind. She’d left Nate a message, telling him about the concert and apologizing for her hesitance. They hadn’t spoken since he’d made his point about running away. It wasn’t fair, not to him, and she needed to permanently put away the past. Tonight, Isabel had hoped to do that. But in her purse was his reply to her ambivalence. It was a note that ended the need for any further speculation about a future with Nate.

  Isabel,

  Sometimes, the rational, levelheaded choice has little to do with the truth. No worries, as our situation has prompted me to make a decision of my own. You know how it is, how first loves never completely fade and all that nonsense. Despite what we shared, I need to know if the past can be repaired—I hope you’ll do the same. I think it’s where we both belong. Under the heading of Happiness, it’s an important lesson I learned from your father.

  Take care,

  Nate

  There was commotion from the private box entrance and Isabel turned, thinking he might have had a change of heart. Upon seeing Tanya, her guilt intensified. Nate had been the easy answer, and he deserved so much more. Perhaps enduring the evening alone was karma’s well-deserved punishment.

  “Sorry,” Tanya said, squeezing past Joe’s casted leg and Mary Louise, who sat to Isabel’s left. “The boys got into a wicked wrestling match, and Lucy had a sticky mess of something in her hair—I’m not sure if it was glue or gum. Anyway, here I am!” As Tanya plopped down, Isabel smiled. No one would guess she was the mother of three, wearing non-mom jeans and a fringe-trimmed blouse. Having struggled without Patrick’s fashion input (though rock concert attire was decidedly out of his element), Isabel was glad to have gone on instinct, choosing a bold-print dress and fishnets. If she was going to feel out of place, she didn’t want to look it.

  With Tanya settled in her seat, Isabel turned her attention to the crowd. The sight was intimidating and bizarre. The adulation people were willing to bestow on one man. She was definitely in the minority, the only person who’d ever wished Aidan a case of laryngitis. “Five o’clock on a Sunday, would you quit with the music so I can finish my calc homework—and you can copy it!” She’d also bet that she was only body present who’d have the nerve to remind Aidan that, despite the crowd, the world did not revolve around him. Isabel leaned forward, pressing against a tide of adoration. Of course, there was the iced tea, honey, and grapefruit juice mixture, its secret ingredient still a secret. She’d almost forgotten that. Not a person in his entourage would be able to re-create it, not even Aidan. She’d come up with it after he performed at the West Alabama State Fair in Tuscaloosa, before an evening gig at a popular Talladega bar. He was exhausted, fighting a cold, unsure if he could go through with the second show. He also couldn’t afford to cancel. Between the two venues he’d have enough cash for the rent and electric bill. Aidan and his mother were on the verge of eviction, already sitting in the dark with Stella decidedly between jobs. At a loss for a real remedy,
Isabel mixed the liquids with a glop of honey and poured it over a ton of ice. At the last second, unbeknownst to Aidan, who lay prone on the sofa, she’d spied something that ensured a burst of energy. Impulsively, she dumped it in. To her amazement, it worked—a clever potion enhanced by the power of suggestion. He performed beautifully. It became a tease between them, Isabel unwilling to share the secret ingredient that fortified the concoction he came to rely on.

  She looked on, drawn to the recollection, distracted by frenzied fans. Anticipation nearly crushed the arena as they sat through two opening acts. Finally, teaser music pumped in, Isabel pushing back in her seat as if she was about to embark on a death-defying amusement park ride. It surrounded her, expectation married to the idea of things coming completely unhinged. For the crowd it was a concert. For Isabel it was an apt description of any past she and Aidan shared. A cannon-like bang grabbed their collective attention, signaling the start. The thrum of music intensified as the opening chords to one of Aidan’s most popular songs grew louder. There was a fantastic flash of fire, an explosion really, as a black curtain dropped. He was there. From the volume of ear-piercing screams everyone saw Aidan Royce—rock god. Isabel felt like the calm in the room, seeing only Aidan Roycroft—at work. The noise was stunning. It definitely wasn’t where she’d want to clock in every day. It was frantic and unnerving. Whether five hundred or fifty thousand people were anticipating his every move, she never could fathom how he wasn’t scared to death. Isabel made a conscious choice to focus on his guitar. It was a neutral object, avoiding Aidan’s face, his body clad in dark jeans, a vintage-looking T-shirt, and cowboy boots. Surely, they were genuine snakeskin, the best that money could buy. Her concentrated stare lasted only seconds before ticking to his hands, the way he moved them. Isabel had inadvertently studied it for years, familiar as her own reflection. She was comfortable with it. Unsettling as the scene was, a smile curved around her lips. Her mood shifted, along with her body, inching forward, letting the atmosphere sink in. She remained on the edge of her seat, not quite willing to stand with the masses.