Perfect Timing (17 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Las Vegas

T
HE
INSIDE
OF
C
AESARS
P
ALACE
WAS
A
SMALL
CITY
,
I
SABEL
TRYING TO IGNORE
the fact that they were dressed like its resident vagabonds, their worldly possessions tied up in two plastic bags from Joe’s Strip Souvenirs. They didn’t have to meet Fitz for a half hour, though Aidan was anxious, and Isabel told him to go ahead without her. She’d catch up after taking the
bags
up to the room. As Fitz promised, there was a reservation waiting in Aidan’s name. Aidan left her by the elevators, telling Isabel to meet them in the Seahorse Lounge.

The hotel room was a jaw-dropping improvement over their prior accommodations. A fast glance into a Caesars Palace mirror suggested she make an effort to improve her appearance as well. A head of damp hair, cheap sweatpants, and a tacky T-shirt surely fell short of the famous casino’s dress code. Isabel went into the bathroom and used the hair dryer. The result wasn’t much of an upgrade, her hair resembling a mop that’d stood in a corner for a week. She had no makeup with her, just a tube of lip gloss. Isabel was tempted to go to the shops downstairs. Surely one of the boutiques sold a head-to-toe, five-minute makeover kit. But the only money she had was Aidan’s, and she wasn’t comfortable spending it without telling him. Tucking the handful of twenties away, it occurred to Isabel how dependent on Aidan she was going to be. Yesterday, paying for college was her biggest concern. Now, who knew? Scavenging through her purse, Isabel thought she might have some forgotten cash. She only came up with a lint-covered Life Saver and her cell phone, which she’d purposely ignored.

Isabel tossed the phone back into her purse but seconds later guiltily retrieved it. As expected, there were messages from her mother. The first ones were panicked pleas to tell her where she was. By the third, she’d figured it out—or at least her version. Aidan jumped bail and he’d coerced Isabel into going with him. From what she said, everyone assumed they were driving. Good. They hadn’t found Aidan’s truck at the airport. She’d never guess they were in Las Vegas. Damn, Isabel would have never guessed it twelve hours ago. The fourth message was a recap of how Aidan was going to ruin her life. Couldn’t she see how he was using her?
Gosh, Mom, must be a gene I inherited from you . . .
Her tone shifted considerably in the fifth message, a tongue-lashing like Isabel had never heard. She was furious, almost rambling. She’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much to make a decent life for the two of them. And, oh, by the way, the Catswallow sheriff was now looking for her, although Isabel guessed not in Las Vegas. Carrie eased up in the next message, saying that this wasn’t how things were supposed to work out, and would Isabel please come home—at least call? “Come home to what?” she muttered, hitting Delete. “Rick’s house? And you can politely ignore it when he suggests I take the bedroom across the hall. Better yet, maybe he can pick up the tab for college. Imagine what I’d owe him for that? No thanks.” There was one more message, a number Isabel didn’t recognize. But the man’s voice sent a wicked jolt through her—heart rattling.

“Is, it’s me . . . It’s your father.”

She hadn’t heard his voice in nearly six years. Not since their last conversation when he told her he’d halted visitation proceedings. He said he wanted to give Isabel time to adjust. That hopefully she’d come to him. The trouble she was in crystallized. Eric Lang could have called only if he’d spoken to her mother. And for that to happen, Isabel thought she’d have to be dead.

“Listen, Is . . .” He was the only person who called her that. “I heard what’s going on. Well, I heard your mother’s side of it. I’d like to hear your side of things, if you’ll let me. This . . . this sounds serious, Isabel. I know you’re a smart girl, but you need to talk to someone. I can help. You know I can, but you have to let me. Call me back, Is—please.”

Tears pooled in reply. For a moment, Isabel wanted to call him. His voice was so genuine, so concerned, so like the dad she knew the day before that night in New Jersey. The phone rang again. It was Aidan.

“Isabel, are you coming? How long does it take to drop two bags in a hotel room?”

“Sorry, I was listening to my messages.” He didn’t say anything right away.

“And?”

“And it’s about what you’d expect. Do you want me to elaborate?”

“No, not right now. Let’s just talk to Fitz, see what happens.”

“Okay. Aidan?”

“Yeah?”

“My father called. He left a message.”

More silence. “Your father? That’s, um, that’s incredible. Geez, he must have talked to your mother. For that to happen I thought you’d have to be . . .”

“Dead?”

“Pretty much. Are you going to call him back?”

“No, of course not.” She hesitated, twisting a lock of hair around a finger. “Well, it would just be a conversation, right? Maybe. I’d . . . I need to think about it.”

“Oh. That’s, um, that’s surprising.” There was another pause. “I, uh . . . listen, Isabel. I think you should . . . Damn, here comes Fitz. I have to go. Just get down here as quick as you can.”

Her father wanted to help. It was more than Carrie had offered. Isabel stared at the phone, imagining the conversation. Where would it even start?
“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Isabel . . . yeah, it’s been a while. How are you? How’s Patrick?”
And that’s where it stopped. She’d met Patrick Bourne once. Twice, if she counted the night in New Jersey, but that was more of a frantic blur. To this day she had no idea what her mother walked in on. Although she supposed it left zero room for interpretation. Isabel’s second encounter with Patrick Bourne occurred not long after her father moved out. She was twelve and understandably confused by the turmoil. Other than Carrie doing a lot of crying and the overnight upheaval to their lives, no one had filled in the blanks. Not to Isabel’s satisfaction. On a hunt for answers, she took a public transit bus from the neighborhood where they lived to Princeton University, where Eric worked in admissions. Patrick Bourne was a visiting lecturer at the law school, but she didn’t know that. Isabel managed to find her way to her father’s office. She poked her head inside, seeing Patrick there. The two men were drinking coffee, talking. They didn’t see Isabel as she listened at the door. There was an odd cadence to their conversation. It wasn’t the way Eric Lang spoke to the men in their neighborhood or his golf buddies. It wasn’t even the way he spoke to her mother. It made Isabel think of her older cousin, Jennifer, the warm way she talked about her fiancé. David was in the army, stationed in Afghanistan. They hadn’t seen each other for a year. That’s how Patrick and her father spoke, longingly and unsure about the future. The two men were startled to find her there, Patrick leaving quickly, but not before saying he hoped to see her again. He said he was sorry about her parents, very sorry. She remembered thinking that he was tall. His voice was soothing and at the same time in charge—like a teacher whose manner made you take notice. Still, she was unable to come up with a reason why he was so interested in Isabel or her parents’ divorce.

After he left she came around to her father’s side of the desk, spinning in his big leather chair. He took the seat on the other side. A half-dozen spins in he asked Isabel to be still. She did—mostly, just swaying a few degrees left then right. Eric started and stopped. Finally, bluntly, he asked if Isabel knew what the word
homosexual
meant. The chair stopped as if the wheels seized, knowing it as a nasty synonym some of the boys in her school used, sometimes kidding around, sometimes to be mean. Logan Kraft and Chad Hollis, they said it about Ben Strickland, calling him
gay
because he took dance lessons and didn’t care much for sports. And the year before, when she was in the sixth grade, there was incredible fuss over the fact that Miss Lewis, the science teacher, was living with Miss Saperstein, the assistant principal. Isabel didn’t understand that either. Not until Naomi Britton, whose father was a Baptist minister, clarified. The two women didn’t just share an apartment; they shared a bed—like Isabel’s parents. Naomi went on to assure her that the depraved lifestyle meant that their eternal address would be Hell. God and the devil would see to it. So when her father asked what she knew about homosexuality that was her answer. It left Eric Lang with a lot of explaining to do—particularly since God and the devil seemed to be in joint agreement. She listened, her discomfort growing upon asking if he kissed Patrick the same way he kissed her mother. The way couples, men and women, sometimes did in movies she really wasn’t supposed to see. In the end, the facts were more than Isabel was prepared to take in or on. Not long after came the job offer in Catswallow, Carrie assuring Isabel that her father had a new life and they would have theirs.

Considering everything now, a Las Vegas hotel room was the last place she expected to encounter Eric Lang. His voice unearthed feelings that Isabel believed to be long since buried, or at least charred into windblown ashes. She picked up the phone, tempted to hit redial. She could just tell him that she was alive, that he needn’t worry. That whatever her mother believed, well, she had it all wrong—again. He, of all people, should be able to comprehend the thing about Carrie Lang that kept her from seeing the truth. He could tell her mother that Isabel was alive . . . that she was fine . . . that she was—
ohmigosh
—married to Aidan. It froze forward motion, imagining how she’d take to the news. It would be salt in the wound to have married the boy Carrie believed would ruin Isabel’s life, hearing the news via her ex-husband, the one who left her for a man. Isabel cringed, eyes squeezing shut. While Isabel was angry about her mother’s blind loyalty to Rick, she couldn’t humiliate her like that. Now wasn’t the right time for any of it. Yet, Isabel sat on the edge of the bed holding the phone. Her thumb hovered between erase and redial until the joint ached. She hit Save and headed for the lounge.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Las Vegas

T
HE
INTERIOR
OF
THE
S
EAHORSE
L
OUNGE
WAS
DARKER
BUT NO LESS GLITZY.
From what she’d seen of Vegas, Isabel wasn’t sure they were meant for one another. They were definitely out of sync when it came to wardrobe. She was the polar opposite of glitz in gray sweatpants and an orange T-shirt stamped with a silk screen of Sin City’s original Strip. Awkwardness mounted as scores of women passed by. They were stunning: gamblers, tourists, and showgirls—even the locals looked as if they’d been bred for this ultra-sheen lifestyle. They sparkled from head to toe, like Christmas trees parading along in glamorous dresses, breasts spilling over into the next casino. Every woman towered over her and if you turned them sideways, Isabel swore they’d be invisible, except for the breasts and sequins. Bottom line: They made Shanna O’Rourke look like a starter kit.

No one noticed her, but as she finally spied Aidan it was obvious that they’d seen him. Two girls—women—sat on the edge of their bar stools, batting a collective false eyelash in his direction. Another threesome sat at an adjacent table. Isabel guessed a Vegas wager was being made as to which one could hook up. Aidan saw them; she could tell by the casual smile that flirted through the air. It had to be reflex, learned behavior, Isabel finding that she wanted in on the bet, positive which woman had the best chance. She’d almost forgotten she was his wife. He reminded her by leaping from his chair as though she’d caught him fondling the native wares.

“Isabel, I was worried,” he said, meeting her halfway. “What took you so long?”

“Um . . . I was in the bathroom.” She rolled her eyes at her inability to come up with a more attractive excuse. Certainly the only reason these doe-eyed beauties used the bathroom was to reapply lipstick. On the way to the table she heard one girl remark,
“She must be a personal assistant . . .”
“How’s it going?”

“It’s going. So far we’ve talked about music and,” he said with a deep breath, “the trouble I’m in. Fitz says he can take care of it, Isabel . . . all of it.”

“Really? That’s great.” She wondered if he’d told Fitz about them, but from the sincere look of confusion on the man’s face the question was answered. He composed himself, standing, as Aidan pulled out a chair and she sat.

“Ah, Aidan, I don’t under—Isn’t this the young lady . . . your date from the other night?”

“That’s what I was getting to, Fitz. This is Isabel. Isabel Roycroft. We got married this afternoon.”

“Married,” he said, like the word was a cement anchor. He sipped his drink and inhaled deeply. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Aidan said, an arm slinging around Isabel’s chair. But the back was too low, making it an awkward fit.

“You’ll have to excuse my confusion. I didn’t realize the two of you . . . This seems kind of sudden.” As he spoke, he turned his full attention on Isabel. “Your idea? To come to Vegas, get married?”

“No, actually, it was mine,” Aidan said.

“Is that right? Correct me if I’m wrong, guys, but back in Catswallow wasn’t my niece Aidan’s date until five minutes before the big dance?”

Okay, I can totally understand why that’s a valid question.
“Yes, that’s true. Aidan and I . . . You see, it’s like . . .” Isabel sucked in her own deep breath, attempting to explain the upgrade from substitute date to Aidan’s wife. “You see, Aidan and I have been friends for a very long time.” Brilliant reasoning, she thought, wanting to smack herself in the head.

“Friends, I see. That’s nice. Well, I’m sure there have been Vegas marriages based on less.” The silence around the table was palpable.

Aidan leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him. “Like I said, there was a lot to tell you. It’s been a surreal twenty-four hours. I was just saving the good part for last.”

Shouldn’t that be the best part?

Taking better aim, Aidan wrapped an arm around her shoulder, hugging Isabel—kind of the way you would any good buddy. To shore up the effort his lips moved toward her, but she leaned too far and the kiss connected with the side of her forehead.

Fitz shifted in his seat, his gaze jerking from Aidan to Isabel. “I’ll be, how fantastic!” he exclaimed, extending a hand to Aidan. “This calls for a celebration. Congratulations, both of you!” He gave Isabel’s arm a fast squeeze and ordered a bottle of champagne from the passing waitress, who didn’t ask for ID.

Fitz seemed to accept the marriage news, not mentioning it again as he prattled on about the kind of songs Aidan would record, the lightning speed with which they planned to release his first single, and how every executive at C-Note Music was sold on his demo CD. He even agreed that Aidan’s newly acquired tattoo was a savvy marketing tactic. Finally, Isabel interrupted, “Mr. Landrey—”

“Please, it’s Fitz,” he said, filling her champagne glass again.

“Fitz. I know Aidan explained what happened before we left Catswallow—and I swear to you that Aidan did not shoot the man—but I’m wondering how you can be so sure about things. I mean, they did charge him with attempted murder and Rick Stanton—”

“Stanton, your mother’s boyfriend, right?”

“Yes, the man who attacked me, that Aidan was defending me against.”

“Yes, yes, he told me the whole story. Awful circumstance, lucky for you he was there. Don’t give it another thought. I’ve already got my people on it. You can’t run one of the world’s largest record labels without a few piranha-like attorneys. They’ll have Aidan’s situation resolved in a couple of days. I guarantee it.”

“But I don’t understand. How is that possible?”

“Isabel,” he said, in a firmer tone than she’d heard so far. “I’m a powerful man with many connections. It’s my job to make things happen or to make them go away. I assure you, it will go away—all of it. You needn’t worry.” He excused himself from the table, saying he’d be right back.

“Isabel, can you believe this, everything he’s said?”

Really, she couldn’t. But Isabel kept the reservation to herself. The fear that was hanging over him like a guillotine had lifted. Every dream Aidan ever had was about to come true. “It’s wonderful, Aidan. I can’t wait to see California,” she said like it was a trip to the science museum.

He nodded, folding his hand over hers. She stared, thinking how solid it felt. “Everything’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it.” He smiled, but she couldn’t muster the return gesture. “Isabel, are you okay?”

She felt wet eyelashes, blinking fast. “Yeah,” she said, an impassable lump in her throat. “I’m fine. Everything’s going to be fine. It’s just . . . just been a wild couple of days.”

“Tell me about it.” The grin vanished as he rolled his finger over the wedding band, which was a little big, not so secure. “Isabel, I need to tell you something before this goes any further, especially before we go to California.” Aidan’s face was so serious, leaving Isabel anxious about his next thought. “When we got married this afternoon—”

Unlike his first interruption on the VFW dance floor, she was now glad to see Fitz. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear her new husband’s declaration about their spur-of-the-moment marriage.

“Aidan, I spoke with the manager; he’s an old acquaintance of mine.”

Of course he is.

“The stage is free this evening,” Fitz said, pointing to a small platform area that was dark until a moment ago. Bright lights cut through the blue hue of the room. They beckoned to him, like a piece of Aidan that was missing. “I’m wondering if you would treat the crowd to an impromptu performance.”

“There’s no band,” Isabel remarked.

“There are a couple of spare guitars backstage. I’m sure Aidan can find something he’s comfortable with. A small audience in a place like Caesars isn’t a bad place to start. What do you say? I’d really like to hear something you wrote.”

Isabel wanted to say it was a dare, Fitz wanting to see if Aidan was willing and able to perform on cue. She wanted to insist that Aidan not open his mouth until there was a signed contract—in triplicate. She wanted to protect him. But what Isabel had to say didn’t matter. Aidan was up and out of his seat at the mere notion of performing at Caesars Palace. She suspected it was an irresistible lure, not to mention a major step up from the Catswallow VFW. As if to prove he could hit the mark, Aidan firmly planted a kiss on her cheek before heading backstage. “Any requests?”

She felt foolish. Isabel knew all Aidan’s music, the slow love songs that she could listen to while finishing a chem lab and the edgier rock stuff that made the walls in the farmhouse vibrate. There was that Spanish thing he did on occasion. But she’d never bothered to learn the titles—she didn’t have to, he played them for her every day. “Um, do the one you wrote the day it rained so hard we thought the farmhouse would slide off its foundation. You know, when there was all that mud.” He laughed at her awkward interpretation of a beautiful ballad he’d penned on a dreary Saturday last spring.

“Slip Away with Me.”

“Yeah, that one.” He nodded and disappeared backstage. Fitz tapped her on the arm.

“Why don’t you and I move to the back? The manager has a table waiting. I’d like to see how the crowd reacts.”

Isabel knew how the crowd would react. But if he needed proof, it was fine with her. She followed Fitz away from the swell of the main room. A tall cocktail table was set on a riser offering a bird’s-eye view of the small but packed venue. There was general disinterest and a smattering of applause when the manager came out and introduced Aidan—Aidan
Royce
. She leaned over, whispering, “He got his name wrong.”

“No he didn’t,” Fitz said. “Aidan Roycroft is a kid in a whole lot of trouble from some backwater hole in Alabama. Aidan Royce is the next superstar.”

Isabel wondered about this bit of spin. Perhaps he had a point.

For a solid fifteen seconds there was nothing. People continued to drink, laugh, and carry on their conversations as if Aidan was nobody. Then, as predicted, heads began to turn. The chatter petered out to a soft hush. And the hush hung on to the mesmerizing texture of Aidan’s voice. The only sounds left were curious whispers asking, “Who’s he?” Naturally, it was the women who fell first. The ones who’d openly ogled him reveled in their discovery. Not only was the dreamy guy next to them drop-dead gorgeous, but holy crap, he could sing too. A gaggle of older women, definitely not in Aidan’s demographic, became equally aware. Isabel smiled as the men caught on, tuning in to Aidan Royce. It was a proud moment, his voice caressing the room, captivating the audience like a hypnotist and his subjects. But there was also regret. Isabel felt something physical give way, relinquishing to the masses what had belonged completely, selfishly, to her.

No performer was more comfortable onstage than Aidan, deftly switching rhythms to something with a stronger beat. Instead of politely listening, the men swayed in their seats, thrumming fingertips on tabletops at the harder rock sound. It was doubly impressive considering Aidan’s only accompaniment was a lone guitar that didn’t even belong to him. With the entire room engaged, Isabel glanced toward Fitz. He appeared to be taking serious mental notes, confirming the
Eureka!
of his discovery. She settled into her seat, feeling more at ease. Maybe Aidan was right. Maybe everything would be fine.

Well into his third or fourth song, Fitz tapped her on the arm, gesturing that she should follow. They moved to a cylinder-shaped room. There was an aquarium on one side, the other offering a two-way mirror view of the lounge and stage. She could still see Aidan, but the crowd noise dulled, his voice muffled. “What is this?”

“When not using it to feed the fish, they utilize it for security. You can’t have too much security in a casino.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, giving her a long once-over. Isabel had almost forgotten her inappropriate attire and makeup-less face. Curling her toes into the soft rubber soles of her flip-flops, she twisted the gold band around her finger. There was a flutter in her stomach that wasn’t there before. “Isabel, we need to talk.”

“About what?” But her throat went tight, not really wanting to know.

“Do you see that crowd, the way they’re reacting?” She nodded, inching closer to the glass. “That’s nothing, Isabel. That’s without a record on the shelf, zero promotion—not even an afternoon with a good stylist. Imagine what’s going to happen to him when we put the polish on his package.”

“He’s very talented.”

“Yes, he is. And his life is about to change in ways that he can’t possibly fathom.”

She glanced at Fitz, ready to stand her ground. “It’s good then, that I’ll be there for him when it gets crazy. He’ll be surrounded by strangers; he’ll need someone who understands him.”

Fitz smiled. “We hire someone for that.”

“I mean someone who knows him—knows the old Aidan.”

“Perhaps, for however long the old Aidan exists. This business, it changes people. Success changes people, and not always in a good way.”