Perfect Timing (23 page)

ACCLIMATING TO ERIC AND PATRICK, WHO WERE LEGALLY MARRIED IN THE STATE OF
Massachusetts, proved more fluid than Isabel imagined. Perhaps it was their acceptance of her that made it so seamless. After all, she was the third person in a household built for two. Patrick had no children, Isabel’s first assumption being correct. The bedroom had been decorated in hopeful anticipation of her. About a week after returning from the Cape, Patrick leaned against the doorframe as Isabel put away the clothes they’d shopped for that afternoon. “We dressed this space for a thirteen-year-old girl. It could use some updating, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s fine . . . pretty. I don’t want to be any more trouble than I already am.”

He didn’t move into the room, his tone didn’t warm beyond two people just getting to know one another. That was his way. He was thoughtfully reserved, compassion seeping out from under a refined edge. Above all, Patrick Bourne possessed a debonair confidence that simply pulled you in. “Don’t think that way, Isabel. You’re Eric’s daughter; from the beginning I’ve been prepared for that. I don’t have any firsthand experience with parenthood, but I don’t have any illusions either. I’m here to help, just as much as he is.” It didn’t take many more conversations before Isabel found herself confiding in Patrick. She asked if he would help retain a lawyer to handle the divorce. If that was truly what she wanted, he would not assist but see to the matter himself. “Why bring a third party into this?” he said to Eric as Isabel listened. “I can file the papers, quick and efficient.” Her father disagreed, urging Isabel to be honest with Aidan before taking such a drastic step. She could not, in good conscience, take the risk or advice.

It took a few weeks to move the matter forward, but on the same day Aidan’s first single was released the papers were ready. Isabel and Patrick were home alone, reviewing the blue-backed petition in the study. After explaining the details, he showed her where to sign. Like a dive from a cliff, Isabel did so without pause—otherwise, she’d surely think second thoughts. Patrick would file it later that day. The doorbell rang and he excused himself. Holding on to the paperwork, Isabel followed to the edge of the study. A man entered the foyer, introducing himself, a large envelope in hand. Vince Ederly said he was looking for Isabel. He peered down the hall, making eye contact from a dozen feet away. She didn’t respond. Patrick took charge, ushering him toward the door. From there she heard her name and Aidan’s, Patrick having forced Vince onto the front stoop, where she couldn’t hear anything else. After he left, Patrick stood with his back to Isabel, examining the envelope’s contents. He turned, Isabel fraught with the sinking feeling of a doctor delivering devastating news. In his hand was a blue-backed document that mirrored the one in hers. Gently, he offered a layman’s interpretation of what Aidan had done. He’d trumped her petition with a divorce of his own, a detailed note agreeing with her most private wedding-night conclusions. Isabel was right. She was always right; he did want that life more than them—a few weeks of his new reality woke him up to as much. A quick divorce was for the best. He wished her well. Isabel was visibly shaken, internally annihilated, and Patrick reached out, offering the comfort any parent would.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Providence, Rhode Island

Present Day

B
LISSFULLY
INDIFFERENT
,
R
ICO
HAD
EXERCISED
HIS
INHERENT
RIGHT TO CATNAP
, curled in Isabel’s lap. Everything that occurred during those confounded August days had no effect on him. Well, other than the misguided flub of his namesake. In stark contrast, Mary Louise and Tanya remained keenly aware. Hunkered down on Isabel’s kitchen floor, Mary Louise had wrung a dishtowel tighter with each twist of her tale. Tanya sought refuge against the stove, knees balled to her chest. Her white-knuckle grip didn’t ease, and her wet face dipped to her jeans as she was moved to tears by the familiar end to another marriage. At least that one wasn’t hers.

“To this day, it’s the one thing my father and I disagree about, how I handled things.” Determined to remain indifferent, she moved on to the details of a positive post-Aidan life. After settling in Boston, she attended Northeastern University, which was commuter distance from the brownstone. Isabel made friends and found her footing, getting a degree in social science and political thought. There were ideas about graduate school, but when a radio station internship at NPR led to the job at
98.6—The Normal FM,
the urge to be on her own won out. The framework for Grassroots Kids, which was her thesis project at Northeastern, temporarily took a back burner. She moved to Providence and got an apartment, remaining a frequent visitor to Boston and the brownstone. Then, about a year ago, at a black-tie fundraiser for Mass General that Patrick chaired, Isabel met Nate Potter. He was her father’s new doctor, Eric having been diagnosed with lupus only weeks before Isabel’s arrival in Boston. Since then, Patrick had been on a continuous hunt for the best and brightest. At the fundraiser he was introduced as Dr. Potter. But it was Nate, newly single nice guy, who’d asked Isabel to dance. At first there was
just coffee
, the two negotiating the extenuating doctor-patient circumstance. So taken with each other, they agreed early on that Eric’s condition would be the one off-limits subject. It worked out fine, Isabel and Nate easily sharing everything else. Everything less the one other off-limits subject. And it wasn’t because Aidan was a taboo topic; he was simply a piece of the past to which she was, by then, indifferent. “Until today’s turn of events at the radio station it had no place in my life. It wasn’t worth telling—to you guys or to Nate.” They nodded in what seemed like thoughtful agreement until Mary Louise brought the point back around.

“And you’ve never wanted to pick up a phone and call Aidan?”

“Actually, I did,” she said, never having admitted that part out loud. “I needed to know how he could . . .” She stopped, clearing her throat, forcing a smile. “Well, maybe I just wanted the last word. Either way, it didn’t matter. The number had been changed. And consider this, Aidan’s never picked up a phone to call me. It kind of speaks volumes.”

“And the attempted-murder charge against Aidan, and Fitz’s demand?” Mary Louise asked.

“Interestingly, they were dropped regardless,” she said, feeling the welt of a scar that traveled deep into pride. “In the end,” she said, owning it, “my great sacrifice wasn’t even necessary.”

“Ouch! Talk about adding insult to injury.”

“Even so, I don’t know how you could keep something like that to yourself,” Tanya wondered. “I mean, he’s not your average ex—believe me, I know average. Aidan Royce is so . . . so . . .”

“In your face?” Isabel shrugged, the idea being old news. “You grow up; you accept it for what it was. Remember, Aidan Royce wasn’t quite Aidan Royce back then. He was a headstrong, closet-insecure nineteen-year-old boy who, in a fleeting moment of passion, said that he loved me. It’s how any guy would process things at that age—in moments. First ours in Las Vegas, then, just as fast, the life that he left me for.” She sighed, offering anecdotal clarification. “The first time I saw Aidan with another woman, Patrick and I were in the checkout line at Stop & Shop. A package of biscotti, a carton of milk, two prescriptions, and tampons,” she said. “That’s what was in the basket. It was only a couple of months after I’d arrived in Boston. I was joking with Patrick when I saw them together—on a magazine rack. At the time, laughter and my heart plummeted right through the high-traffic linoleum floor. Aidan was on the cover of
Rising Star
magazine, a candid shot of him lip-locked with Fiona Free.” She smiled at Mary Louise. “The starlet who was
not
the muse behind his tattoo.” In return, there was a sheepish glance. “Anyway, they looked like rocker Barbie and Ken. Aidan had one hand around her, a drink and the good life in his other,” Isabel said with a mocking smile. “It only proved to be the first of many such photos, sincere and steady behavior that said Aidan’s feelings were something less than till death do us part.”

“But still . . .” Tanya said, drawing a dreamy breath. “I don’t know if I could keep something like that to myself.”

“Tanya’s right. I think I’d shout it to the world, maybe write a tell-all book.”

“And forever label myself
one of them
? No thank you. I put the right perspective on it years ago. As Patrick pointed out in the middle of that grocery store, either, A) I would have been holed up in a hotel room, waiting for Aidan to return from said party and God knows what temptation. Or B) the photo op would have been a nonexistent, nonevent had Aidan’s arm been wrapped around me. He told me to take solace in C. At least he wasn’t awaiting trial from the confines of an Alabama correctional facility.” Isabel’s gaze, having lost focus, jerked back to Tanya and Mary Louise. “I never wanted that, no matter how it ended. So I left him there, on the magazine rack in the Stop & Shop, right where all Aidan’s fans could find him. It was a turning point and a giant step toward indifference.”

Isabel didn’t bother telling them the rest, how days later indifference was facilitated by a new and disturbing event. Isabel, Eric, and Patrick had gone to the Cape, just a weekend away from everyday life and magazine racks. Upon returning to the brownstone, they found an ugly reality had slipped inside. There’d been a break-in, the brownstone ransacked, walls spray-painted with homophobic slurs. It was beyond disheartening, the study in ruins, much of Eric’s art destroyed. The police concluded that the break-in was aimed at Patrick. They suspected it was retribution, undesirables or their stateside counterparts retaliating for a case he’d prosecuted. In the aftermath, Isabel’s respect for Patrick grew and deepened. It was a dangerous job with words like
terrorism
and
national security
cropping up regularly. It enhanced her perspective, keeping her focus on things that mattered and dismissing people who didn’t.

“So,” she said, standing, dumping a disgruntled Rico onto the floor. “Now you know that despite Aidan Royce, life did go on. He doesn’t mean anything to me. He hasn’t for a very long time.” Glances passed from woman to woman. “The only reason I told you is because . . . well, because I’m willing to see if Aidan will help us out. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up earlier.”

“Bring what up earlier?” asked Tanya, swiping a stray tear.

“Oh, Isabel, you can’t,” Mary Louise said, also standing. “After everything you’ve told us. After how he . . .”

“Dumped me? It’s okay. I’ve had plenty of time to develop a thick skin,” she said, fingers grazing over the evidence.

Tanya scrambled to her feet. “You’d seriously be willing to ask Aidan if he’d be our ticket out of this mess? That would be, um . . . We can’t ask you to do that. Can we, Mary Louise?”

“You can,” Isabel said, putting up a hand to halt any incoming protest. “And I will ask . . .
him
 . . . Aidan . . . his people.”

“But could he . . . would he help us out?”

“I have no idea. I really don’t.” She looked at the matched set: marriage license, divorce decree, and curt letter from Aidan, each bearing his unmistakable signature. Sequestering a twinge of spite, she picked up the drink Mary Louise had poured and downed it. “I won’t let this happen to the two of you. Not if I can help it.” She plopped the empty glass onto the bar top. “As your boss, I’ve made an executive decision.” Isabel’s management style was more laid-back than governing, and their faces were perplexed. “We’re going to contact Aidan Royce and that’s final.”
Final, unless I can get a psychic to contact Elvis . . .
She shrugged off the cowardly option and focused on the plausible as her co-workers mumbled words of appreciation. Tanya picked up the strip of photos. “Hey, we’re looking for ratings, right? Just ratings.”

“Unbelievable ratings, the kind of numbers they’d draw in markets like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles.”

“If
104.7—The Raging Fever FM
was to host an Aidan Royce concert, that part would be a sure thing,” Mary Louise said, looking at Tanya, their expressions plotting. “So what happens to all the money?”

“Aidan cashes in, buys a new private jet or whatever,” Isabel said, cringing at the idea of enhancing her ex-husband’s profit margin.

“You’re right, Mary Louise, the proceeds would be incredible.”

“People will pay top dollar to see a show like that. And forget Providence venues,” she said, referring to the 1,200-seat setting where they held most events. “Aidan Royce sells out stadiums.” Mary Louise’s expression grew ultraserious, the same way it did when she was figuring her to-the-penny share of the lunch check. “I can hardly do the math—millions, it must be millions.”

“I’m sure an army of accountants keeps a tally,” Isabel said. “Aidan was a whiz with numbers, but he never could be bothered.”

“Isabel!” Tanya said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“The phone message from Nate: Grassroots Kids . . .”

“The money you need,” said Mary Louise. “We’re only looking for ratings, but Grassroots Kids needs the cash!”

Isabel didn’t think her eyes could open so wide and remain in her head. “Oh no. No way. You can’t possibly be suggesting that I ask Aidan . . .”

“Why not?” they replied in unison.

“No one could argue the worthiness of the cause,” Mary Louise said, pointing to the answering machine. “I should think Aidan Royce would be thrilled to help out.”

“Aren’t you always saying that philanthropy is key? If anything, Grassroots Kids should be even more incentive. Celebrities love to pin their name on a cause. Think George Clooney,” said Tanya. “Name one tragedy where people like that didn’t line up to answer telephones or perform on cue.”

“Yes, but Grassroots Kids isn’t a tragedy on a national scale.”

“Maybe not,” Mary Louise said, fingers tapping on the papers that detailed Isabel’s past. “But how could he possibly say no once you explained the circumstances?”

“Explain the circumstances . . .
to him
,” she repeated, looking at the papers. “But that would mean actually speaking with . . . Seriously, I was thinking more third-party contact, like his booking agent or manager.” Under normal circumstances those would be her go-to sources. But this wasn’t a normal request, a single conversation pitting indifference against contact. A sigh labored out. She didn’t want to think about him. Aidan was uninvited, doing it again, taking up every inch of breathable space—and he wasn’t even in the room. She didn’t say yes or no, just saying that she needed to think about it, more than ready to end the evening.

Not long after, the two women, with three children in tow, were ready to head home. Mary Louise put aside their earlier argument and insisted on following Tanya, helping her get the children into bed. Isabel was relieved to see that much had already repaired itself. She’d done the right thing. As they shuffled out the door, Isabel bid goodnight to an achy story that had no better end than it did back in Vegas. But before the door closed, Tanya poked her head back through.

“Isabel, can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure,” she said, rubbing a hand around her neck, leaning against the frame. Everything about Aidan exhausted her. It always had.

“It’s kind of personal.”

“What hasn’t been in the last few hours?” She laughed. “It’s fine, Tanya, whatever you want to know.”

“Okay, well, just remember you said that.” Isabel inched back, wondering where Tanya was heading. “Before, you said,
‘Aidan said he loved me . . . in the moment.’
Exactly what moment are we talking about?” Isabel shook her head, not quite following. A bob of red hair and the lingering scent of pepperoni and Pine-Sol drew closer. “Specifically,” Tanya insisted with the bluntness that defined her. “What were you and Aidan doing when he said that to you?”

Isabel felt something inside push against her. “I don’t remember.”

“Yes you do.”

“How would you . . .” Lips pursed, her hand tightened around the doorframe, tempted to slam it shut. Instead, a dull delivery made “We were in bed” sound like
We were in church
. “Look, let’s just concentrate on getting Aidan to perform for
104.7.
If we make that happen, it would be the one positive to come out of a very dusty, very doomed relationship. It doesn’t matter when he said it.”