Perfect Timing (29 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Boston

W
HETHER
IT
WAS
TIMING
OR
FATE
OR
THE
SITUATION
HE’D SET IN MOTION
, Aidan didn’t question it. Isabel truly needed him, and he was determined to move heaven and earth to help. Her instinct was to drive, but Aidan held tight to the keys, countering. “I can get you there faster,” he said, dialing Henry. But his plane was sidelined for routine maintenance and unavailable. It was unacceptable. Superstardom had its advantages, and Aidan didn’t hesitate. He called Kai, telling him to find alternate transportation—pronto. By the time they arrived at the airport a small private plane was waiting. Aidan was relieved when Isabel didn’t argue, doubly so when she didn’t object to him boarding with her. In an instant circumstances had changed, even from their days in Catswallow when she had the answer to everything. For the first time, Aidan was in control, Isabel willing to depend on him for something. Something as important as this.

The small twin-engine charter was modest, the rumble of engines keeping conversation to a minimum. She conveyed a few details during the bumpy flight, filling in the years he had missed. Isabel reconciled with Eric Lang years ago, telling Aidan about her relationship with him and Patrick Bourne. “I was so stupid . . . so wrong.”

“You were a kid,” he insisted, “you didn’t understand. Certainly, your mother was no help.”

Still, she couldn’t completely shake the shame on her face. “Patrick is amazing, kind, funny . . .” And through the shame she smiled. “They turned out to be the two most capable parents a person could ask for.”

“I’ll be damned, two competent, present parents. There really is such a thing.”

“There really is. Right under my nose the entire time. And when I think of how much of it I wasted.”

“But you did find it, Isabel. I’m glad you did,” he said. “Even if I’m a little envious.” But he wasn’t sure she heard, having turned toward the window. Slowly, she looked back.

“Boston, that’s where I went when I left Las Vegas . . . that night.”

She couldn’t hear the hum from his throat or thought in his head:
I know what night, Isabel, like I could ever forget.
She went on to say that they’d been lucky. Medication had kept her father’s disease at bay. She talked about how lupus could be unpredictable, difficult to manage. She credited a terrific team from Mass General for overseeing Eric’s care, Aidan listening and absorbing until she got around to Nate Potter.

“He’s your father’s doctor?” he asked, hoping that maybe he had it all wrong.

“Yes, and . . .”

“And something more?” She nodded; he breathed.

“Before all this, everything at the radio station, life had its challenges, but overall it was pretty perfect. Nate had just asked me to come live with him in Boston.”

And for a moment, breathing was pointless. “I see.”

Isabel’s fingers wove through her hair as she spoke, explaining that Patrick had been trying to reach Isabel all day. In the ruckus of the radio station crisis, with Tanya and Mary Louise on the verge of joblessness, his messages were lost in the shuffle. There was guilt in her voice, though it didn’t match the wave of bad karma Aidan was feeling. If she knew he was responsible for the radio station chaos—well, he suspected Aidan Royce would be freefalling from about ten thousand feet. At the moment he appeared little more than his hype, nothing but a spoiled self-absorbed rock star. No better, slightly worse, than the teenage boy Isabel had so often directed and corrected. He looked past her into blank blueness. Regardless of Nate Potter, Aidan was determined to prove otherwise.

As the plane neared Logan, Isabel conveyed the brunt of her conversation with Patrick. The disease had flared radically and Eric was admitted to the ICU of Mass General last night. Upon landing in Boston, Aidan didn’t burden her with any more questions. Instead, he took charge of the situation and made certain that a car was waiting. Isabel said nothing as they walked through the crowded hospital, stares and comments following.
“Hey, aren’t you . . .”
exclaimed the first fan, a woman who followed Aidan and Isabel around the revolving door.
“Oh my God, it can’t be . . .”
said another, trailing them as the man she was with was wheeled in the opposite direction. Aidan flipped up the collar of his jacket, sticking close to Isabel, yanking the ball cap low. From behind dark sunglasses he kept them moving. As they boarded the elevator, two women pirouetted off in unison.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .”
one stammered, pointing at the tattoo—a permanent calling card.

“You know, I’m not,” he said. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure why people keep asking.” Aidan rammed his fist against the elevator buttons. Never did he wish more to be no one. He recanted as the floor clicked by. Being someone got them to Mass General in record time.

He thought Isabel, rightfully distracted, was oblivious. But before the elevator doors opened, she said, “Sorry, I should have picked a less conspicuous spot.”

“Who knew?”

“I did,” she said, moving quickly down the corridor.

At the hall’s end, they had to be buzzed inside. Moving toward the ICU desk, Aidan was relieved to find it relatively empty. Isabel hung a sharp right as a tall bearded man emerged from a room. Patrick Bourne appeared as Aidan might have imagined: the type who didn’t ruffle easily. Yet, in this instance, he seemed ruffled all the same.

“Isabel, thank God,” he said, rushing toward her. She fell into his arms—or he into hers. Aidan lingered behind, unsure if he belonged. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Patrick said, a quake in his voice. “He’s going to be furious with me for calling you, but it was the right thing to do.”

“How is he?” she asked, eyes flicking toward the door. “Never mind, I’ll just go see for myself.” She smiled. “Don’t worry; I’ll take the hit for coming.” But before there was forward motion, Patrick had his hand firm on her arm.

“Isabel, wait.” There was universal caution in his voice
,
and she pivoted sharply as Aidan drew closer. “I didn’t tell you everything on the phone. In case you were driving, I wanted you to have a clear head. Eric is significantly more ill than I let on.”

“What? How . . . how sick?”

“Things haven’t been good for the last few weeks. I argued; Nate argued. We insisted he tell you, but he refused. You knew this was a possibility, that eventually the meds could stop working or the lupus could spiral out of control. Unfortunately, both things seem to be happening at once. I . . . I’m sorry.”

Isabel’s head cocked. “You’re sorry. Sorry you didn’t tell me? Or sorry there’s nothing anyone can do?”

“Both,” he said, folding her into an embrace. Aidan watched what Isabel couldn’t see, the morose pain on Patrick Bourne’s face. His eyes closed tight, his lanky body cocooning hers. It seemed meditative, a gathering of strength. He breathed deep before letting go, delivering the rest. “The past two days have been a domino effect. It began with a terrific headache. Last night there was paralysis, which brought us here, and now there’s some loss of vision. They’re doing what they can, but the outcome doesn’t look good.”

“No!” She retreated fast, backing into Aidan. Doubt vanished. This was exactly where he belonged. Instinctively, his hands clasped her shoulders. Patrick’s eyes brushed over his, an unaffected glance telling him he was no one. Aidan’s hands gripped tighter. “You said he was in the hospital. You didn’t . . . You didn’t say he might die!”

“I thought it best to relay the worst of it once you were here. There was no point in—”

“Where’s Nate?” she demanded, and Aidan nearly let go. “He would have told me if it was really that bad. He would have . . .” She paused, hands wringing together. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

“Over the years, your father and I talked about what he wanted or, more to the point, didn’t want if we found ourselves in this moment. He’d say, ‘I’m a lucky man, Patrick. If I’m really lucky I’ll die of old age. If not, I’d like to get hit by a line drive at Fenway or struck by lightning—something quick. But if it doesn’t go that way . . .’” Patrick took another deep breath, this one shaky on the exhale. “He said if it came down to this, exactly this, he didn’t want to linger. He didn’t want to suffer. I’ve been talking to doctors nonstop; Nate included.” Aidan looked toward the glassed room, getting a glimpse of the man in the newspaper photo. “Right now, the only thing we can do is honor his wishes.”

With Aidan behind her, Isabel placed her hands in Patrick’s. “This is impossible! I saw him only a few weeks ago. He looked tired but okay. We had a great time, the four of us . . . your birthday dinner.” Aidan watched her hands lock tighter with Patrick’s. “You insisted on cooking yourself because you had a new recipe. You said you were dying to try it, butterflied prawns in oyster sauce . . .” The ramble stopped, her hands breaking away. “You cooked because he was too ill to leave the brownstone!”

“More than anything, he wanted to spare you from this. He kept insisting that it was a bad flare and that it would subside.” Aidan could feel her body tremble beneath his hands. He wanted to gather her tight in his arms, but he didn’t dare move.

She was quiet, a groan of realization seeping from her throat. “You’re sure?” she said. “Nate . . . he’s sure? I know you, Patrick. You’re so good at taking care of him. There must be something you can do,” she pleaded. “You love him. You don’t want him to die.”

Aidan was amazed by what he was witnessing. The bond Isabel shared with these two men. The miraculous recovery of a relationship with a father whose letters she’d burned. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” he said, his mouth pressing into the top of her head. On his words, Patrick Bourne’s fraught face met with his, as if seeing Aidan for the first time.

“I . . . I want . . . I need to go in. Is he conscious?”

“In and out. They have him sedated.”

“Is he in a lot of pain?”

“No, he’s comfortable. Nate’s seen to that. I’ve made sure of it.”

Barely a body width separated Aidan from Isabel. She inched back, pressing tight to him. Aidan would have given anything to hang on, anything to change her immediate future. She broke free, marching to the door of Eric’s room, turning back around.

“How long until . . . ?”

“We don’t know.”

Isabel pushed her posture tight, a nod of solidarity passing between the two. Then she disappeared inside. Aidan watched as Patrick’s hands scrubbed over his bearded face, rubbing around the back of his neck. Rumpled dress clothes cloaked his tall frame. A sure sign that he’d spent the night in them. On the ring finger of his left hand was a white-gold band. You couldn’t miss it. That and the sober look anchored to his face. With Isabel gone, Aidan wasn’t sure how to proceed. He started to say something. But the moment was too personal, his presence too complicated. He headed for a single chair set in a dim corner of the waiting room.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He spun back around. Patrick’s hand was still crooked around his neck, his voice as sharp as his glare. They’d spoken once, years ago. Aidan had called the brownstone, Patrick answered. In a sharp exchange he told Aidan that he was speaking as Isabel’s legal representative, and that Aidan could go to hell. He supposed it made formal introductions a moot point. “It’s, um, it’s a long story. I . . . Let’s just say I thought Isabel needed me. Thankfully, I was there when she really did.”

Patrick’s face turned more serious than it had in the minutes before. And Aidan was surprised that this was possible. “I don’t understand. I can’t imagine any reason Isabel would want you here. Have you been in contact with her?”

“Not before five o’clock today. I came to see her about something—something that doesn’t matter compared to this. I just happened to be at the radio station when you called.”

“You just happened . . .” he said, a hand sweeping past. His tone was decisive, in charge. “And she asked you to come with her?”

“I brought her here,” he said, avoiding a direct reply. “I was able to get us a quick flight up, a fast ride to the hospital. I wanted to help, to make sure she’s all right.”

Patrick took a step in his direction, giving Aidan the distinct impression he was about to receive a hard right cross to his jaw. But instead of connecting to his face, Patrick’s fists drew to his waist. “You want to help? Make sure she’s all right?” he asked, incredulous. “Seven years later, and you want to what? Make sudden amends for being a complete ass?”

“Excuse me, but how was I—”

“Thanks, but Isabel’s done fine without you. She’ll get through this . . . Nate,” he emphasized, “will get her through this. She doesn’t need you.”

“Just the same, I’d rather let Isabel make that call.”

“You devastated her once.” Sure that Patrick was referring to his and Isabel’s wedding night, Aidan looked away. He could only imagine what it took for her to confide something so awful, not only to her father but to Patrick, two men she’d disavowed before that night. “You won’t hurt her again,” Patrick said. “Especially in the middle of this!”