Perfect Timing (13 page)

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

I
SABEL
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, Carrie 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?”

“Yep, I’m all taken care of,” she said, smiling. “Your step-daddy sure is generous. He asked if I wanted to intern for him this summer.”

“Did he?” Isabel said, taking in the girl’s tight T-shirt, low-slung jeans.

She cracked her gum and smiled. “He did. He even asked if I’d be interested in serving as his personal assistant,” she said, sliding into her cute-as-her convertible. “I wouldn’t mind bragging about that. Leighanne Dunbar, personal assistant to Rick Stanton, state senator.”

Isabel didn’t reply. Caution and warning would fall on deaf ears. Besides, it was residual fear, the senator’s permanent sitting position eliminating any physical threat. “Well, good luck with that.” She turned and headed toward the house. Halfway there, Isabel stopped. She didn’t want to go inside, not with that tidbit on her mind, positive what was on Rick’s. Looking at the beautiful house, thinking about the prestigious private school Jack attended, Isabel found herself at the juncture where she couldn’t make peace with the price. She tried to force herself, even negotiate. In a few hours she could escape to Strobe’s for the night. Over the years he’d been amiable, if not inviting, insisting Isabel stay with him when she visited. It worked out well, each glad for an ally. Strobe remained the underdog of the Stanton clan and the two of them made for a lovely pair of black sheep. But Strobe wouldn’t be home for hours, giving Isabel no choice but to go inside. She took another step, hearing Rick’s deep belly laugh, charming his son and taunting her. Glancing through the open car window she saw Carrie’s keys in the ignition. She pulled out her cell phone. “Mom, I’m going for a ride . . . I don’t know, a while.”

It seemed unlikely that a person could drive for an hour and never consciously decide where she was going. Yet, Isabel did just that, ending up in a place walled in comfort. She stood for a time in misty rain, shoes sinking into the muddy red-dirt driveway of the farmhouse. Tentatively, she approached its rotted front porch. Along with the floorboards, indifference weakened, meeting with a momentary lapse. Isabel was overwhelmed by the notion that if she went inside Aidan would be there. She’d find him sitting on one of those old crates, strumming a guitar—like he’d never left. Smelling air that she attributed to the unique combination of apple orchard and graveyard, Isabel nearly swore she could hear the chords. Maybe it was that Spanish thing he only played there. Almost too easily it led to Aidan’s wide lazy grin, the one that said,
“Isabel, quit with the debate team talking points and tell me what you think of this . . .”
She reached for the rusty knob and the music stopped. She didn’t go in. On her abrupt retreat, Isabel saw a Sold sign, passing construction vehicles that were on their way up the drive. It rattled her, imagining other people, strangers, calling the farmhouse home. In the rearview mirror her eyes met with a road that ran like a gray snake, glancing one last time toward the past.

Afterward, Isabel cut the trip short, saying a fast goodbye to Jack and her mother. Carrie was disappointed but didn’t question it, Isabel forgoing the obligatory grunt at Rick. Instead of driving her to his house, Strobe drove her to the airport. While they’d never discussed
that night
, he did make a telling remark. Grabbing her suitcase, he held on until there was solid eye contact, airport noises roaring in the background. “If it helps, Bella, my daddy got what he deserved that night. Never let it bother you—I don’t.” During the flight to Providence, Isabel debated if she’d heard right, amazed by what Strobe had all but confessed.

Not unlike her trip to the farmhouse early last spring, this day had only aggravated the past and Isabel was angry about that. In the small hall of her apartment, she took a cleansing breath, stopping in the bathroom to pop two Excedrin. After an exchange of food for ardent meows, Isabel passed on anything that could be construed as dinner. But she did spy a stash of beer in the back of the fridge. Still not her beverage of choice, it was something new since Nate. She grabbed one, popping the top and guzzling a long mouthful. It hit the back of her throat, cold and bittersweet. The doorbell rang, Tanya and Mary Louise arriving together.
Wonderful . . .
Tanya also brought all her children, including the one who vomited a couple of hours ago.

“You don’t mind, do you, Isabel?” Tanya hustled past with Lucy straddling one hip, two pizza boxes in her free arm. Her boys, Josh and Eddie, followed. Mary Louise brought up the rear, carrying a plate of sushi and tofu disguised as something mirroring meat. “I couldn’t afford a sitter and none of their dads were home.” Four-year-old Lucy was a keen shade of green, clinging to her mother, whimpering. “I’ll just lay her in your bed. It’s closest to the potty, right?”

“Close as anything else,” Isabel said. Tanya deposited the feverish-looking child onto the bed. In a 700-square-foot apartment, they’d probably all be diving for the commode before the night was over. But she couldn’t object, Tanya would only think she was slacking off if she’d stayed home. It all went to her well-meaning but questionable judgment. “Have the boys eaten?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. The boys are all fed. They’re going to play on your jungle gym. We won’t even know they’re here.”

She didn’t mind. Eddie and Josh were great kids, though not without their issues. Josh suffered from acute asthma and Eddie was diabetic. Many days, it was all Tanya could do to juggle her kids’ medical appointments and work. Besides, Tanya’s boys liked to visit. There was a great recreation area, all of it visible from Isabel’s living room window. Tanya lived in subsidized housing where the amenities weren’t as nice—or existent. Isabel had only been there a few times. There were no trailers, but the air of desperation was the same. Places like that led to a coarse reminder of the moments before Aidan arrived and him beating Stanton to a pulp, followed by Rick’s shooting. Once there, it was a slippery slope, moving on to Aidan’s arrest before the two of them ran away from everything. Currently complementing that was the present-day image of Aidan in handcuffs, nearly identical to the scene from the Catswallow sheriff’s station. Opening another beer, Isabel suspected you couldn’t make up a scenario like that.