Perfect Timing (22 page)

Now shuffling from the bed, Isabel saw that it was dark. But whether it was that night or the next, she wasn’t sure. There was a light on in the hall, muffled voices coming from downstairs. Finding a lamp, she turned it on. She glanced around a room that seemed decorated in anticipation of her, maybe a younger her, with sweet rosebud wallpaper and bright white furniture. The décor was magazine perfect, the attempt to make her feel at home obvious. The result, however, was a bit off. It really wasn’t Isabel at all. She looked around again. It was an arrogant assumption. Maybe Patrick had a daughter too, one who was off at college with Isabel invading her space. She knew nothing about Patrick, and Isabel was proof that it was feasible. If he did have a daughter, what would that make them? Stepsisters, she guessed, in the most modern terms. Isabel sat on the end of a chaise, a twinge of jealousy sitting down with her. What if Patrick’s daughter accepted the two of them years ago, her own father closer to her than Isabel? She shook her head. Enough difficult facts were in play; she needn’t borrow any. Draped over the back of the chaise were her sweatpants, neatly folded and smelling freshly laundered. Isabel tugged them on and padded toward the stairs. Eric’s and Patrick’s voices came from the first-floor study, a room she’d passed on her way through the foyer. Isabel didn’t make her presence known, eavesdropping from the bottom step.

“For the last time, Patrick, I don’t want you to go. She’ll be fine. And this is your home.”

“So is the Cape,” he said, his voice too casual. “I’ll only be at the beach house. It’s temporary, and this is too important.”

“Isabel is a strong girl. She can handle us.”

“Can she, Eric? She hasn’t been able to handle it for nearly six years. You just got her back. I won’t interfere with that. I’m the reason you lost her in the first place.”

He cut him off, “No, Patrick. I’m the reason I lost her in the first place.”

“Regardless, consider the incredible circumstance it took for Isabel to come to you. She didn’t decide to suddenly give us a chance and show up for Thanksgiving dinner. She’s been traumatized, nearly raped. And not to change the subject, but please tell me you understand why I was so abrupt with her earlier.”

“Yes, I suppose. Though it about killed me to hear her say it, what almost . . .”

“Well, it wouldn’t have killed you any less when she wasn’t exhausted or as fragile. I had no choice. You don’t spend years in my profession and not know the most opportune route to the truth, cruel as it may have seemed. As her father, it’s your job to trust what she tells you.” Then in his lawyer voice, which was now obvious, he added, “I’m not her father, and we had to be sure. I won’t let anyone use you, Eric. Not even your own daughter.” Isabel’s eyes widened at the protectiveness with which he spoke. She’d heard it before, experienced it herself. The day Stanton came to the farmhouse, Aidan grabbing her wrist in the truck. Patrick’s maturity expressed in words what she felt in his grip. “But after listening to Isabel, hearing it firsthand . . .” Her breath didn’t move awaiting judgment. “I don’t have any doubts either.”

“And you don’t think being here would be helpful to both of us?” There were a few seconds of silence and she heard Patrick sigh. All this time and Isabel could still distinguish her father’s sigh from another person’s.

“Maybe. I don’t know. This is difficult for a lot of reasons. You know I want to be here, and not just for Isabel.”

“Let’s not go there.” Uneasy laughter rumbled from her father. “One crisis at a time, okay?” And Isabel wondered about that.

There was another bout of silence, a throat cleared. “Just take some time, see how things go. A few weeks or whatever it takes, I won’t be far. You know that.” Intimate quiet followed and Isabel backed away. It was still disconcerting, though less confusing. She shook her head, embarrassed—at herself. Isabel was the one out of line, eavesdropping on a private conversation. There was shuffling, maybe a suitcase being moved. “Listen, aside from what happened with Stanton, which we’ve had time to absorb, Isabel did arrive with unexpected news. Perhaps you’d better start there, find out more about her impromptu nuptials and this Aidan.”

“What’s your gut telling you?”

“Rationale, experience . . . society, that all tells me it’s a doomed preposterous relationship, an absurd marriage.” Isabel took a massive step toward the study, ready to defend everything she felt for Aidan. But then Patrick said something else, repeating her words, “‘
Unexpected on the surface, but exactly as it should be.’
Where have I heard that before? I’ve lived awhile now, Eric, witnessed more than most people, decided a few fates. I saw the look in your daughter’s eyes, heard the sincerity in her voice. I can’t speak for this Aidan, but she feels no differently about him than I do about you. In which case, rationale, experience, and society can all go to hell.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Boston

T
IME
WAS
A
FUNNY
THING
.
I
T
LEFT
YOU
WITH MEMORIES
;
IT ALLOWED YOU TO FORGET
. Isabel had forgotten that her father was allergic to peanuts but remembered that he was a huge Red Sox fan. So for many reasons, she supposed Boston suited him. He was passionate about modern art, David Hockney especially, something Isabel was reminded of roaming around the brownstone. All three floors were an eclectic blend of Patrick’s finer sensibilities, complemented by her father’s love of Hockney’s work, conceptual and personal. Eric Lang was the dad on the block who could teach you how to swing a bat while coaching you on the importance of diversity. Peeking into the study, Isabel was reminded how good he was at his job. In her first days at the brownstone Eric only left to keep interview appointments at Boston University, where he was now dean of admissions. She’d also forgotten his lack of fashion sense, maybe a little color-blind, unable to coordinate suits, shirts, and ties. On her fourth morning there she found him fussing in front of his bedroom mirror, debating between a green striped tie and a brown speckled one. Neither matched the blue suit he was wearing. Initially, he appeared grateful for her assistance. But as she dove into the closet, his voice took a nervous turn, “Isabel, don’t. Never mind, I can . . .”

The walk-in closet was neatly divided, its impact immediate. Everything in this closet belonged to a man.
Duh . . .
Patrick’s clothes were meticulously arranged, pants that would be inches too long and a waist size too small on Eric hung next to an array of expensive suits and laundered shirts, all of which were coordinated by color and season. Her father’s side didn’t look much different than it did in New Jersey. Suits, fewer in number than Patrick’s, hung haphazardly, bunched sweatpants and sweatshirts stuffed on a top shelf. Patrick knew what he was doing by going to the Cape. It allowed Isabel to, at least temporarily, erase him from the equation. The reality of the space validated the facts. A fact she was incapable of dealing with before then. Isabel backed out of the closet, snatching a tie as she went. She backed right into her father. She turned and faced him. Identical swallows swam through their throats. What more could he say? Isabel held up the tie, which by chance was a perfect match. She smiled. “Patrick usually helps with this, doesn’t he?”

And that was where threads began to weave into fabric. From there they talked in short bursts, her father slowly letting her in on things that were beyond Isabel’s comprehension at twelve or thirteen. They were things she might have realized had she read the letters. Most, he told her, were just,
“Hi, how are you,”
notes
.
Others, he said, went into finer detail, admitting to her what he could not admit to himself. At least not until it was too late. “You have to remember, Is, it was a different time. People weren’t as open or accepting as they are nowadays. As it is, your Aunt Denise, my own sister, considers my life nothing more than a sinful choice. She hasn’t spoken to me since . . . well, since I moved here.” He’d married Carrie at twenty-one, hiding his true sexuality from her and himself. It was something about which he still harbored great guilt, but insisted he did not regret. “It gave me you, Is. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.” Eric Lang explained that back in New Jersey he was wholly committed to his life. Or so he thought, until a visiting lecturer arrived from Boston. Yes, the affair had been ongoing, and something for which Eric took complete responsibility. But the night Carrie found them together it was Patrick who’d come to break things off. As much as he wanted to be with Eric, he couldn’t accept what he was doing—having an affair with a married person. From there, she supposed, goodbye escalated into something more. And what Carrie walked in on, well, he insisted that her mother had every right to every feeling. Eric said it took that event to realize the gross unfairness of the circumstance, not to Patrick or himself but to his wife. “What I did to your mother, I’ll never forgive myself for that. But in many ways, I suspect I’ve paid for it.” In return for his candor, Isabel talked about her perceptions. Had she always known this about him, had there always been a
Patrick
, her response would have been far more everyday and not so acute. But learning it with models of traditional families set in her head, they agreed, had made things significantly more difficult.

Eric took that conversation as a cue, coming home early from work. He was quiet at first. There was too much on his mind and he didn’t know where to start. Isabel knew this because she felt the same way. Since Patrick left they’d been living in a safe, if not bogus, hollow of normal. In addition to Patrick’s absence there wasn’t a word, not one conversation about the circumstance that brought her there. But the look on his face said time was up. Perhaps she’d sensed the pending conversation, having made lasagna for dinner. It was old comfort food for both of them. She set the table in the dining room, the two of them managing a few bites and more benign conversation. Eric talked about college, asking if her plans were flexible. Maybe instead of a small satellite campus, she’d consider one of New England’s many colleges. It was late, but he had solid connections in admissions. If she was interested, he’d be glad to make some inquiries. “Of course,” he said, moving on to his point, “much of that depends on what you plan to do about Aidan.”

His name resonated, Isabel shoving the plate away. Lasagna was a damn waste of time. “Nothing.”

He waited, sipping a glass of wine. It wasn’t Proust but an interesting switch from the black and tan beer he always drank. “You can’t do
nothing
, Is. You’re married to the boy . . . man,” he corrected, allowing Aidan the benefit of the doubt. This, she assumed, was out of respect for Aidan doing to Rick Stanton what her father would have done, and keeping his daughter from certain harm.

“I don’t know,
nothing
sounds pretty doable.”

“I can tell you from experience that mindset only works for so long.”

She also knew it wasn’t going to work with Fitz Landrey. A look at the Catswallow online police blotter proved as much. The charges against Aidan were still pending along with the warrant for his arrest. She had a good idea what it would take for them to go away. “Dad, does Patrick handle divorces? He handled yours, right?”

He put down the wineglass and leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “I guess that’s an obvious assumption. But no, Isabel, Patrick didn’t handle my divorce. For one, he’s not that kind of lawyer. Patrick’s an investigative attorney for the government, the Department of Immigration.” Her eyes widened at the information. “More to the point, he would have considered it highly unethical.” He smiled, sipping more wine. “You have to know Patrick. He’s undoubtedly one of the most honest people I’ve ever known.” She supposed he said this in defense of that night in New Jersey when the wheels came off their lives. “But that’s not what you asked, is it?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Is that what you want, to divorce Aidan?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

“That’s not true. There’s always a choice,” he said, voicing experience again. “You don’t have to let Fitz Landrey blackmail you, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Worse than that is the lie Rick Stanton is perpetuating. To think what that son of a bitch is going to get away with, what he . . .” He paused, regrouping. “I feel for your mother in this situation. I really do, but not at the expense of the truth.”

“Dad, I appreciate what you’re saying, but between Fitz Landrey’s power play and Rick Stanton’s word, I don’t see where we’d have a prayer.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy, Is. Or even turn out the way you want. It’s definitely a risk. But you can stand up to Landrey and Stanton. I’d back you all the way, so would Patrick.”

“I thought you said he’s not that kind of attorney.”

“He’s not. But lawyers know lawyers. I’m sure he’d find Aidan one of the best defense attorneys in the country.”

It was tempting. Isabel thought a few days without Aidan would give her some perspective. It did, just not the one that would have helped. Isabel hoped that she wouldn’t miss him so much. Or realize that being married to Aidan wasn’t as nifty as it sounded in Vegas. But all she could hear was Aidan’s voice, telling her that he loved her. That he’d always loved her. All she’d considered while awake or asleep were those moments when she allowed herself the fleeting pleasure of being Aidan’s wife. He was right; it was incredible.
Miss him.
How obtuse. You miss fresh air, a favorite sweater, a friend. Since leaving Las Vegas she’d done little more than watch the gap in her soul grow wider and deepen.

In the dim dining room, Isabel looked across at her father. He looked tired. Actually, he’d looked weary since she arrived, paler than she recalled. Frankly, he didn’t look well. While his features still matched hers, though the hair was darker, gray at the temples, there was something decidedly different in his face. Whatever it was, Isabel took it as her cue to be a big girl, maybe even a married woman. She retrieved her cell phone, which she’d purposely let die. Today she ventured out to a Verizon store and bought a charger. Isabel plugged it in and put the phone on speaker. There, inside the brownstone, they’d had time on hold. They were about to be brought up to speed. The first messages were from her mother. Eric said to skip them; he’d do her talking with Carrie for now. That sounded like a plan and she accepted the reprieve. In between there were numerous messages from Aidan. First, he begged her to listen, to give things another chance. “Please, Isabel, just call me back. Tell me where you are. I won’t let you leave like this. I don’t believe what you said.”

Eric tipped his head, looking perplexed. “Is, what exactly did you say when you left him?”

She didn’t answer. Some things were just too personal. There was a span of time between the fourth and fifth message—almost a day. Isabel assumed the latter message came from California. It began differently, Aidan demanding to know where she was, informing Isabel that if she’d gone back to Catswallow he’d be on the next plane to get her. There was a flash of panic as the call abruptly ended, Isabel picturing the Catswallow sheriffs, guns drawn, manacles readied. Then she saw the next message, left only minutes later. Aidan said he just got off the phone with her mother who told him that she was not in Catswallow. His guess was that she’d gone to Boston. There was a shift in his voice at the end of the message. Aidan told her what was happening in California. A limousine took him from the airport to C-Note studios, and that despite the sun on his face and the very real sway of palm trees, he believed he was dreaming. As upset as he sounded there was a gust of happy fascination. In the last message there was a lot of noise in the background. Aidan talked about a photo shoot and the zillion people buzzing around him. He’d done a magazine interview. Along with his first single, it was to be the launch for a massive C-Note campaign introducing Aidan Royce to the world. Isabel smiled, picturing his suave exterior, sure that he was bursting inside from head to toe. After that the sentences slowed, the wave of exhilaration gone. He reverted to talk about them. “Isabel, please . . . this is crazy and nuts and wild . . . and it’s nothing—”

Fitz Landrey boomed from the background, “Aidan, let’s get a move on. They’ve just finished mixing the last song we’re considering for your first single. We need your input—pronto.”

She hit End, not wanting to hear anymore.

“Listening to that, Is, I’d say Aidan really wants to talk to you.”

There was a soft hum from her throat. Yes, there was genuine upset, but there were also gusts of happiness, bordering on delirium. And why not, how many people saw their wildest dream come true? Even if she had an army of lawyers would she seriously take that risk? Force a showdown between the life on the other end of that phone and the fast track to an Alabama correctional facility? And for crimes he didn’t commit. No, she wouldn’t be that person—not twice. It would only make Isabel slightly more selfish than when she took her best shot at destroying the man sitting across from her. “Dad?”

“Yeah, Is,” he said, poking at his lasagna.

“You, um, said that Patrick knows other attorneys.”

“Dozens, I’m sure. Maybe not personally, but he can find what you’re looking for. Should I call and ask him for the name of a top-notch defense lawyer?”

She shook her head. “No, ask him for a decent divorce lawyer.” He put down his fork, not looking terribly pleased. “And ask him one more thing.”

“What’s that?” he said softly.

“Ask him to come home.”