Perfect Timing (21 page)

Crying harder, she gathered the sheet around herself, retreating—repelling from him in every way. Isabel turned toward the wall. Shoulders slumped, she pulled the sheet tighter. Her head drew back as if pleading upward for an answer. “I’m sorry, Aidan. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.” Slowly, Isabel turned. “I’m not in love with you. Can’t you see that? Do you honestly believe I would have hung around, watched you hook up with all those girls if I was? How pathetic would that make me? It . . . it was disgusting . . . awful, what we just did—like having sex with your brother. I didn’t want this,” she said, her arm flailing toward the used bed. “Marrying you,” she said, firm and sure, “having sex with you! It’s what I always do. Isn’t it, Aidan? Take care of your every need.” He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t get a word between the explosions of her rant. “Running to your rescue, giving into every imaginable need, everything from my advice to my virginity! This time it went too far. You’ll have to find another way to soothe your mistakes and celebrate your highs, because you’re done using me.”

She wiped tears with the edge of the sheet, the anger in her voice clear as furious breaths puffed in and out. It was vivid and real, but he could not,
did not
, want to believe this was the effect of what they’d shared. That he’d done something so heinous it resulted in this. “Isabel . . .” he gulped. “You don’t mean that. You’re just . . . just upset.” He couldn’t move, a wave of self-loathing ripping through him. “We’re going to California tomorrow. We’re going to have everything we’ve ever wanted!”

“No, Aidan, everything
you
ever wanted! You think that’s what I want? Have you even asked me? Of course not! We’re far too busy focusing on you. What makes you think I want to spend my life waiting for you to climb down off your ego or polishing it back up when someone bruises it. And like that won’t be the bane of my existence, being Aidan Roycroft’s pacifier. No thanks.” Yanking the gold band from her finger, she threw it at his naked body. “I want a life that doesn’t revolve around you and your indulgent needs.”

“It wouldn’t be like that, I swear. I won’t let that happen. And what about . . . what I just told, what I said. I love you, Isabel.” He tried to come toward her. She backed away, grabbing her clothes as she went. “Without you the rest doesn’t mean anything. If that’s what it takes, fine. The hell with all of it! I won’t go to California with Fitz. You and I, we can go wherever you want. We can go to Akron.” Her mouth opened, but she had no response, moving another step away. “We can go back to being friends. Just tell me what I have to do to make you stay.” His breaths were anxious, the promise certain. “I don’t need Fitz or C-Note Music or that life—but I do need you.” The tirade stopped and for a moment the Isabel he knew stood before him. It faded fast, the sheet billowing around her as if she were an apparition that was sure to vanish. He couldn’t let that happen. But she was even less interested in alternate scenarios.

“Aidan,” she said, speaking in a blunt tone he recognized. “First of all, put your pants on.” Scooping up the neatly folded jeans, she rifled them at him. “And secondly, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Nobody gives up their dream for somebody else. Especially when it’s a dream like yours and it’s about to come true. Even if you did love me, how long would that last on $1,150, nothing more than a high school diploma between us, and several outstanding warrants for your arrest?”

“I’m willing to find out,” he said, shuffling into the jeans, zipping the zipper, buttoning the button. And for a moment, Aidan thought he had her. Isabel inched toward him, looking tempted and broken, as if she might fall into his arms. Then she shook her head, fists squeezed tight. “You’re good at a lot of things, Aidan. Taking care of me isn’t one of them. Go with Fitz. Go be somebody famous. You’ll be good at that; I know you will. I care about you, but it’s not enough. Don’t throw this chance away to chase after something you’ll never have. I’ll . . . I’ll never love you like that.” Without a tear in her eye, Isabel’s gaze was fixed on him. “Let it go . . . let
me
go. We’re not worth it because
we
don’t exist.” Wrapped in a white sheet, Aidan’s heart firmly tacked to the train that followed, Isabel walked past and disappeared into the bathroom.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Boston

S
HE
NEVER
MADE
A
SECOND
PHONE
CALL
. I
SABEL
DIDN
’
T
KNOW WHAT SHE’D DO
or where she might go if he told her not to come. The hour spent in the Las Vegas airport was the longest of her life. She didn’t think about Aidan. She didn’t dare. Curled in a duct-taped ink-stained chair, Isabel was obliterated by her own actions. She just sat, peeling off nail tips, biting one fingernail until it bled. Isabel watched a parade of CNN crawls, amazed that she wasn’t among them:
Girl Suffers Catastrophic Loss. Loses Boy to Fate . . .
She spent the last few minutes staring at an exhausted, bawling, hysterical child. She was envious and devoid of sympathy.

Boston was cool. It already felt like fall. It was the first thing to hit her as she stepped from the maze-like Logan Airport. She thought about city streets and how warm sidewalk grates would soon be well-staked territory. During the flight, Isabel tried to calculate the magnitude of the last two days. There was no scale large enough. Cause and effect, she felt like a science experiment run amok. In the end, there were only two proven facts: one, Aidan loved her . . .
like a wife
. And two, she was homeless. The span in between those specifics was cavernous. Isabel forced her attention onto a man with a thick Middle Eastern accent. He asked where she wanted to go. Nuggets of black eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. She blinked blankly into them, uncertain how she’d arrived inside the cab. Isabel repeated a return address label in a deadpan tone that sounded like familiarity. In truth, she had no idea where she was going. Fortunately, he did, speeding toward Charles Street and Beacon Hill.

Standing at the door of an immaculate brownstone, Isabel wondered which was worse: her appearance or her story. Except for dozing on an airplane, she hadn’t slept in two days. Back to wearing filthy jeans and the T-shirt of the Vegas Strip, surely she looked like she’d rode in cargo. Then there was her story, which by comparison, made her appearance look pretty damn good. The brownstone’s fancy carved door and neatly potted urns were inviting and homey. They reminded Isabel just how homeless she was. It didn’t matter. Home was a person, not a place. And he was decidedly gone. So with that nonnegotiable fact, Isabel scraped together her courage. It was starting to feel thin, like a cotton sweater in the arctic. Aware of the alternatives, which included seeking shelter at some church-run facility, she tapped at the door. Maybe she could just ask for directions. On the second attempt she knocked harder, realizing it wasn’t quite six in the morning. She’d lost track. While debating between the cold streets and ringing the doorbell, which seemed too bold a move, lights began to turn on. She heard footsteps, thundering footsteps. The door flew open and before Isabel could speak a man pulled her inside.

“Isabel! Thank God. I was so worried!” He was holding her . . . crushing her. She could feel a heart pound. It wasn’t hers. That was impossible. It was in too many pieces. He finally let go. Isabel backed up and gazed into a manly mirror image. She watched him get hold of himself. It was where her calm came from, and even years later it was strange to see it ruffled.

“Dad,” she said, but it sounded foreign and lost, like she might have addressed the cab driver the same way.

“I saw that you called. I called back right away but you didn’t answer. I’m so glad . . . relieved that you came.” A hand reached out and grazed along her chilly arm. It was as if something lost had been returned, though his uncertainty showed. And why shouldn’t it? Along with the last two days there were the past six years.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I—”

“You did the right thing, Is. You absolutely did the right thing.”

She nodded, feeling slightly surer about not having to master the fine art of panhandling. For the first time Isabel saw that they were not alone. Patrick stood near the bottom of the staircase, wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. Isabel’s face burned. Her early morning arrival had drawn them out of bed.
What did you expect? It’s five-thirty in the morning . . . And it’s who he is.

“Hello, Isabel.” The greeting was emotionless, which she guessed was intentional and something Patrick was good at, being he was an attorney of some sort.

“Hello,” she answered back, matching his unreadable tone. She concentrated on her father, who was dressed, though he looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. Isabel decided this image worked best, bypassing a flood of discomfort. She turned toward him, ignoring Patrick. “Like I said, I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t go back to Catswallow. I know what Mom told you, but she’s wrong. Rick Stanton, her boyfriend, he said that Aidan attacked him, that he shot him. But that’s not what happened. No one believes anything I’ve said. We were going to California, but the flights were full, so Aidan asked me to go to Las Vegas, and Fitz Landrey . . . And, oh God,” she gasped, a hand raking through her hair, unsure how she’d ever get the entire story out. “Aidan and I, we got—”

“It’s all right, Is. Just take your time, gather your thoughts.” Her wild-eyed glare met a look that was all fatherly intent. And for one hideous second she thought he was going to side with Catswallow, accusing Aidan of everything they were trying to pin on him.

Patrick stepped closer, forcing himself into her line of vision. “Isabel, may I ask you a question?”

“Patrick!”

“Eric, we talked about this. We agreed if Isabel came to you that you’d let me—”

“Yes, but does it have to be this second?”

Her gaze volleyed between them. “What?”

“Isabel,” Patrick said, his voice lawyerly and direct. “Did Rick Stanton try to rape you?”

She was stunned and embarrassed. The mere idea of this man asking such a question caused her to repel back. She couldn’t share that horrible experience with him. Why would she? Then Isabel looked at her father, grasping the reason. He couldn’t manage the question. She knew this about him. At the age of twelve it would crush him to know she fell off her bike and skinned a knee. Seeing her hurt, it was the only time that calm demeanor turned flappable. “Did the Catswallow police or my mother tell you I made it up? That I lied to protect Aidan?”

“We heard something to that effect. But your father felt there had to be more. We had the police report faxed here yesterday. We read your statement, Isabel. We’d just like to hear it, again, from you.”

This surprised her on many levels. Not only that they’d go to such lengths to learn her side of things, but because there was such unity in his
“
we.”
It was comforting, people who were willing to listen, or at least not turn a blind eye to the facts. “Yes, he did.” Her reply was unwavering, making firm eye contact with Patrick. There was a golden brown flex to his irises, his face, which was strikingly handsome, was filled with question. Patrick’s expression shifted, the two men exchanging a look as if this one phrase made things crystal clear. But it also opened a floodgate for which Isabel was unprepared. Thoughts of Stanton’s attack barreled back—what would have happened if Aidan hadn’t been there, the images in her head rolling randomly from her mouth. “Everything I told Mom and the police, it’s exactly what happened. When I got home, Stanton was there, lying on the sofa, his belt and pants undone,” she said, recounting the details. “He said he’d been
entertaining a fantasy, starring . . .
me
.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said stuff like that, but it was definitely the most direct. He was drunk, which only added to his nerviness. Rick said he paid for my dress and the beauty salon and that I owed him. He . . . he made it clear what he wanted . . . expected. You have to know him . . . see him,” she said, speaking to both men. “He’s a big man. I couldn’t get away. He had me pinned to the wall, kissing me. His hands were everywhere,” she told them, offering her bruised wrists as proof. Eric’s face paled, a closed fist pressing to his mouth; Patrick moved closer. “If Aidan wasn’t there, Rick Stanton, he would have absolutely . . .” The pitch of Isabel’s voice hit a shrill, unable to finish the story, sobbing, coming undone as she fell into her father’s waiting arms.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW IF HOURS OR DAYS HAD PASSED
. Time was that elusive. Isabel woke to a strange bed wearing a T-shirt she didn’t recognize, the air heavy with the scent of lavender. It soothed her for a second before sitting up. She smelled different too, like shampoo, fragrant shampoo. Any sharing of skin, any remnant of Aidan was gone. Isabel hugged her knees to her chest, eyes closed, soothed by a clear vision of him. The last thing she did recall was a hot shower, reality reforming in her head. After her breakdown in the foyer, they moved into the living room, where Isabel conveyed the rest. As the facts came clear, she thought her father was going to bolt from the brownstone, hijack a plane to Catswallow, and finish Stanton off. At one point, Patrick had to physically restrain him. He was the voice of reason, even using humor to assuage the anger. “Eric, I appreciate your feelings, but consider what you’re suggesting. You, an openly gay man, want to storm ultraconservative Catswallow, Alabama. Go there and accuse a favorite son of attempted rape and false swearing to a DA. A former star of the Crimson Tide no less. A man who, from what Carrie has said, will be paralyzed.” Her father returned to the sofa as Patrick sat in a chair where his stature pulled tight, his bearded face doubtful. “Did you not hear the part where the town’s most popular heterosexual boy, its very own Conrad Birdie, is being railroaded for the crime? Yes, Eric, that would end just splendidly. Let me know what tree to find you swinging from.” And with that, humor evaporated.

Isabel reiterated the gun portion of the story, that she had no idea how Rick Stanton ended up with a bullet in him. A fervent pace slowed as she told them about Aidan. She came clean with everything—everything less the particulars of her Academy Award–worthy farewell scene. Isabel explained how she and Aidan went from best friends to a chapel on the Vegas Strip, describing their impromptu marriage, “On the surface, you’d say it was completely unexpected. Underneath, it felt exactly as it should be.” Isabel paused, waiting for the rolling of eyes and shaking of heads. She assumed their disbelief, remarking that she didn’t guess they’d understand how something like that could even make sense. From the leather wing chair that Isabel presumed to be Patrick’s spot, he listened.
On a side table were reading glasses that she could not see her father wearing and a novel by Proust that she could not envision him reading. For the second time since she’d arrived Patrick Bourne caught her off guard. He insisted that theirs was a no-judgments home—at least as far as consenting relationships were concerned. Taking in the comfort of the room, plush furnishings, woven throws, and even-tempered voices, Isabel saw that this, their brownstone, was just that—home.

Looking as though it hadn’t registered the first time, Eric said, “You’re married?” The last time they were in a room together she was thirteen and not really thinking about marriage. In fact, she was about as ugly and unyielding as a daughter could be. And for the first time, Isabel felt shame shadow that mindset. When Eric asked about the marriage, Isabel reached for the sack from Joe’s Strip Souvenirs. From it she produced the piece of paper that proved as much. She was almost as surprised as him to see it. Equally engrossed, both men listened as Isabel explained Fitz’s involvement. It was Patrick who summed things up, “So you left Aidan to protect him, to assure everything this Fitz Landrey promised, and to keep him out of jail.” She only nodded.

Not long after, Eric showed her to a bathroom, handing Isabel a stack of thick towels—more than one person could need, asking if she wanted something to eat. Sleep, she told him. She just wanted to sleep. Isabel had shuffled around the unfamiliar bathroom, cringing at her haggard reflection. She searched for pain reliever, the cursory kind that came in a bottle. Her head felt as if it weighed more than her entire body. She looked through the medicine cabinet, accidently knocking a half-dozen prescription bottles into the sink. Shoving them back inside, she hung on to a bottle of Excedrin PM. Even their choice of pain reliever was better than her mother’s.