Perfect Timing (30 page)

“This isn’t the time or place. I get that,” Aidan said, an ugly glare passing between them. “Isabel and I . . . Look, I’ve made plenty of mistakes when it comes to us.” He pulled the ball cap from his head. It was a symbolic effort, as if opening himself up to any argument Patrick Bourne wanted to make. “I’m incredibly sorry for what’s happening to Isabel’s father, to both of you. But you don’t understand what’s happening here, so let me be blunt: I love Isabel. I’ve been in love with her since we were kids back in Catswallow. I’ve spent years honoring Isabel’s wishes. But I can’t do it anymore. I . . . I had to take a chance—long shot that it is. She needs to know that. The divorce was a mistake.”

Patrick sneered, backing up a step. “Are you for real? What’s the matter, did you run over all the women in the fast lane? Maybe you’re having a quarter-life crisis, a sudden urge to improve your image? Forget it—hire a better publicist. You’re not doing this. When that man in there dies, which is almost a certainty, Isabel becomes my responsibility,” he said, pounding a thumb to his chest. “And I promise you, on Eric Lang’s last breath and mine, I won’t allow you the opportunity to make this worse. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I hear you. I swear, nothing could be further from my mind. Our timing, it’s always been an issue—never, exactly, perfect. But I’m glad I showed up when I did. Just let me be here for her, let me help. Let me prove to you that I have no intention of hurting Isabel.”

A fierce look softened as if he might grant Aidan an inch of trust. Then it vanished. “Get out. Take your ego, and your money, and your fame and get the hell out of her life before there are two dead men on this floor. She doesn’t want anything to do with you!” He turned, stalking toward Eric’s room.

Looking past Patrick’s frame, Aidan saw that there was every chance he was right. A chunk of his soul rattled and cracked, watching Isabel find comfort in Nate Potter’s arms. Maybe it was where she belonged. Maybe he wasn’t anything more than Patrick saw, a self-absorbed ass who had fact and fantasy so confused he couldn’t grasp basic reality: Isabel didn’t want him on their wedding night. She didn’t want him now. Humiliated, he stood in the empty waiting room as Patrick turned back, taking a last pass at him. “Believe me, she got your message seven years ago.” It was all Aidan could do to move his eyes from Isabel and Nate and onto Patrick. “Hear hers and go back to wherever you came from.”

From nowhere or from deep inside, Aidan wasn’t sure which, he asked, “What message?”

Patrick barreled back around, storming across the waiting area. He came at Aidan, shoving him hard into the wall. “You fucking prick. You’re right. Your timing is incredible. Tell me something, is it fate or do you make it a point to be a party to the worst moments of Isabel’s life: her father’s death, Rick Stanton nearly raping her, and the one where you so eloquently conveyed that she meant nothing to you. Lucky me, I got to deliver your heartfelt kiss-off. I’ll never forget the look on her face. Isabel stood there, her own divorce papers in hand, signed for the sole purpose of keeping your sorry ass out of jail.” His head shook, sneering. “You couldn’t even allow her a moment of dignity. You had to plow ahead on your own, wanting out of the marriage so instantly, so badly!”

For a moment it didn’t register. Aidan was divorced from Isabel. It was a fact he did not dispute. But as Patrick let go, backing off, the wording rang in his ears. “What the fuck do you mean,
I wanted out . . . 
?”

Hit him. Aidan was sure that Patrick’s intent was to hit him. But as he reared back, taking aim at the forked tongue of the snake, Isabel rushed from her father’s room. “Patrick!” she called as a swarm of medical personnel thundered past, oblivious to Aidan Royce.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

E
RIC
L
ANG
DIED
QUICKLY
,
AND
HIS
DAUGHTER
TOLD
HERSELF
TO BE GRATEFUL
. He didn’t linger or waste away for months like many victims of lupus. He died of a sudden stroke. The massive blood clot that killed him was the more merciful of many plausible scenarios. While Isabel and Patrick did not get their wish, Eric got his. It was quick and painless.

Privately, she’d considered this day, thinking it would be reflective. Something dignified, as that is what Eric would have wanted—maybe the Sox game playing in the background at a gathering in his honor. But with every ring of the phone the vision lost traction. It wasn’t a complete surprise when her mother called saying she wanted to attend the funeral. The two were high school sweethearts. She was married to the man for a dozen years. They shared a child. She’d never stopped loving Eric Lang. The ferocity with which she pushed him away proved it. Indifference, not hate, was the opposite of love, and it was one emotion Carrie never could claim. Gently, Isabel approached Patrick, asking how he would feel if her mother was there. Standing in his and Eric’s bedroom, his generous nature never faltered. “Your mother couldn’t make peace with it during his life. Let her come and make peace with it now. Your father would be glad for that.” Then he handed Isabel a blue suit and gold speckled tie, “This one, I think.” But the request took a turn for the surreal when Carrie told Isabel that she would need two hotel rooms. The entire Stanton clan, including Rick, Strobe, Trey, and Jack was piling in a very customized Stanton Motors van and driving north. It made logistical sense. Rick couldn’t care for Jack alone; his wife couldn’t manage him and his wheelchair, not in a big city, not without help. Resigned to it, Isabel made a reservation at a hotel with a beautiful waterfront view.

After speaking with Mary Louise, surreal took a turn for the bizarre. Coming out of her father’s hospital room, Isabel suspected she’d endured some sort of mental break. The waiting room was vacant, Aidan gone. She’d read how the mind could go to astonishing lengths to protect itself from pain: men lost at sea for weeks, satisfied by repeating favorite recipes aloud, able to smell the food. Traumatized children retreating to a world of fantasy, immersing themselves in make-believe. Maybe that happened to her. Maybe in the midst of a horrific moment, Isabel’s mind projected a person whose presence had, once, so thoroughly protected her. She was quick to accept the theory, especially when Patrick never mentioned his name. But Mary Louise set things straight: Aidan Royce’s presence wasn’t a figment of her imagination. If he was, then they’d all been sucked through the same matinee idol portal.

On the morning of the funeral, as she waited for Patrick, Isabel found she wasn’t the only one wondering what had become of Aidan Royce. Flipping past a TV channel dedicated to celebrity gossip, a perky blond anchor—perky hair, perky breasts, perky gleam—reported from California. Apparently, Aidan Royce was MIA there too. Rumor had it that even C-Note Music couldn’t get in touch, anxious to re-sign their biggest icon. Sources reported that he and his attorney fiancée were entertaining options as they vacationed on a private island somewhere in the South Pacific. The anchor went on to say that the DUI and assault charges had been dropped. It was the second time, to Isabel’s knowledge, that charges against Aidan had come and gone without incident. As Patrick came downstairs, Isabel rushed to turn the television off. He’d never been a fan.

“Isabel, are you ready?” His image was striking, never a hair out of place, the beard always trimmed to a scholarly look. He looked particularly dignified this day in a black suit and silver tie. He was calm, centered, and flawless, the essence of Patrick Bourne. And if Isabel had to endure this day, she knew it was a blessing to have him by her side.

“Ready as ever,” she said, pulling a sweater on over a dark blue dress. Like many wardrobe choices, Patrick helped her pick it out. In the midst of their common misery, the two had taken refuge in the mall in Boston’s Prudential Center. For a short while they roamed from store to store, the public place offering half-off sales and a sense of normal. Everything was fine until Isabel tried on the dress, a wrap-around style that flattered her. She asked Patrick what he thought.

“It’s lovely. Your father will . . . Would,” he corrected. “Eric would have thought you look lovely . . .” He turned and rushed out of the store. Isabel found him a short time later, visibly shaken, his vibrant brown eyes edged in red. He stared into a store window overrun with Red Sox paraphernalia. Patrick, who owned season tickets, didn’t give a damn about the Red Sox.

The church service was beautiful and without incident. Carrie arrived just before it began, relegated to a rear pew. It wasn’t a marker of her importance but because that’s where the narrow aisle dictated she and Rick sit. Trey avoided eye contact while Strobe offered a sympathetic smile. They corralled Jack, keeping him quiet during the service. The small church was crowded. Episcopalian, Isabel thought. Patrick attended there regularly; her father was never much for God. Staring at the casket, Isabel prayed he was wrong about that.

Aside from her mother, the church was filled with Eric’s co-workers, professors, and students from Boston University. Patrick also had ample supporters, both friends and colleagues. Nate sat next to Isabel with Tanya and Mary Louise seated behind them. There was a smattering of relatives, including Eric’s sister, who Isabel had not seen in years. Patrick leaned over and asked if that was Denise. While the two had never met, he recognized her from photographs. Isabel nodded, appalled by her pious presence. Closing her eyes as organ music grinded, Isabel thought how truly ashamed she was to be related to her. Nate held tight to her hand—or she to his—as they made their way to the gravesite.

This part was a private gathering, even Carrie saying she would see them afterward. With so many people in the church Isabel was glad for the tiny group. There was the real possibility that Patrick’s stoic nature would be permission for hers to come undone. She managed to hold it together, even as they said their final goodbyes. Mercifully, it was brief, as she could not imagine her father wanting anyone lingering for the sake of tradition. “Doing okay?” Nate asked, helping her into the waiting limo. “As long as you’re here,” she said. But as she answered, Isabel’s eyes skimmed the cemetery’s edge, finding nothing but the dead.

Patrick made arrangements for a gathering at the Back Bay Bistro, his choice as eclectic as it was intentional. The restaurant was the perfect complement to himself and Eric, an informal ambiance with an upscale wine list—a TV at the bar, which could be seen, if seated just so, from the dining room. Fate was kind enough to color the moment, the Red Sox playing an odd day game. An hour in and Isabel lost Patrick to the swell of well-meaning guests. Nate had to stop by the hospital, he’d rejoin them shortly. Isabel said goodbye to Tanya and Mary Louise, who needed to get back to Providence. They’d brought a suitcase of belongings, Mary Louise saying that she’d taken Rico home for the time being. Isabel was appreciative but unable to envision Mary Louise negotiating a litter box. They didn’t mention the radio station, though Isabel knew they were dying to ask about Aidan. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had. She had nothing to say, other than it was another episode of unpredictable behavior from one of the world’s biggest artists.

And that’s how Isabel was starting to think of him. Not as her best friend from Catswallow or momentary husband or even someone there to protect her from the unthinkable, but someone bigger than life who’d wandered into an all too real situation. Aidan managed to get her to Mass General before Eric died, and perhaps that was all he was meant to do. He owed her nothing—including a one-night-only show. If that wasn’t clear via Aidan’s sudden appearance and even more abrupt departure, Anne Fielding had crystallized things. After her visit, when no one was looking, Isabel googled them, finding dozens of images that illustrated the relationship Anne described. Isabel saw the glamorous couple at red-carpet events, moving on to candid photos depicting more private moments. She’d clicked it closed, feeling like a pathetic voyeur. Cursing misty eyes and a wedge in her throat, she’d blamed herself for breaking the rules of indifference.

Standing alone in the crowded restaurant, there was no choice but to move on to the other side of her family. Carrie had kept a polite distance from Patrick, which also meant that Isabel had barely spoken to her mother. Trey and Strobe lingered near Rick, Carrie meeting her halfway.

“Isabel,” she said, hugging her daughter tight. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. Patrick’s been a tremendous help.” She didn’t think before she said it, the statement being a natural response. “Nate’s been great too,” she quickly added. “I’ll introduce you as soon as he gets back.”

“I’d like that. You’ve been talking about him for what, a year now?”

“He was Dad’s doctor before . . . And we were friends before anything . . .” She fidgeted, tugging at the dress, arms folding and unfolding. “We’ve been dating for about eight months.”

“Oh, that is a while. Do you think he’s the one, that the two of you . . .”

“Things are serious. Nate, he’s asked me to move in with him.”

Carrie nodded. “That’s a big step. And are you?” Isabel replied with a queer look, considering the question rhetorical. “Well, I look forward to getting to know him.” She glanced around a room full of strangers. “How is Patrick doing?”

“He’s devastated. This is difficult for him. It will be for a very long time.”

“Yes it will. From experience, I know how hard it is to lose your father. I’m very sorry this happened to him. Isabel, we’ve managed to fix so much between us. I’m grateful for that. And now . . . well, with your father being gone, I want you to know that I’m here for you, one hundred percent.”

She was grateful too, though looking toward Carrie’s entourage Isabel was still unsure how to factor in a certain percentage. She guessed it was the kind of thing you learned to live with. Rick offered a curt nod as Trey made an incidental offer of condolences. He was the image of his father, towering over Isabel. She took a step back. Strobe bridged the gap, hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry, Bella.” His boyish build hadn’t changed, though every time she saw him there was less blond hair on his head. Jack shot out from the back of a booth, scattering crayons.

“Isabel!” he said, barreling toward her. There was comfort in his small embrace, his inability to grasp the situation. Isabel glanced around at the loosely related group and the boy who wove the bond. Jack was adorable, more an image of their maternal grandfather, and she was thankful for that. “Are you going to come sightseeing with us? Daddy says he’ll get me a real musket. Maybe we can go today if we get out of here in time. That’s what Daddy said!”

Daddy.
Isabel looked toward Rick, reminded of what she and Jack didn’t share.
You son of a bitch,
you’ve parlayed my father’s funeral into a sightseeing trip.

He read her mind. “He’s only six, Bella. Can’t expect to drag the boy on a road trip like this and not offer him something fun in return.”

“No, I guess you can’t.” In the same instant, Jack gave Rick’s comment credibility by knocking over a glass of soda. Half spilled onto the floor while the other half dripped down his dress clothes. A waitress swooped in, sopping up the mess as Carrie headed to the restroom with Jack. She offered a wary glance back, leaving the mismatched group behind. Isabel breathed deep, decidedly alone with the wheelchair-bound Rick and Trey, who stood with the presence of a pit bull. Displaying a true Stanton trait, he guzzled the last of what was surely his fourth or fifth beer.

“So that’s him?” Trey slurred. He swung his empty beer mug in Patrick’s direction. “That’s your daddy’s, um . . .”

“Yes, that’s Patrick,” Isabel said, wondering why she bothered answering.

Trey looked on, staring. “Geez, looks like a regular fellow to me. You’d never guess . . .”

“Guess what?” she snapped. “Guess that across the room from you stands the most intelligent, caring, well-respected man I’ve ever met?”

“Take it easy, Bella,” Rick said, a hand thrusting at her. She instantly skirted back. “Trey didn’t mean anything by that. You’ve got to remember, you live in a much more liberal part of the country. Folks in our neck of the woods . . . well, it’s not to say his kind don’t exist, but they’re not as
integrated
. You should understand that.”

His dominant tone was too much and everything else that occurred in Catswallow barreled back. Rick was still an imposing man, even from a permanent sitting position. Isabel stared at his paralyzed body as flashes of what, before the shooting, it had tried to do to her. Even for Jack’s sake, civility was elusive. Currently, air was elusive, Isabel having trouble moving any in or out, her own legs feeling unsteady. Isabel could hear Rick’s voice, hot and thick in her ear. But it wasn’t him. It was Trey, loud and angry, his voice matching his father’s—an evil surly pitch.