Perfect Timing (35 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I
SABEL
ONCE
BOUGHT
A
TICKET
TO
AN
A
IDAN
R
OYCE
CONCERT
.
I
T
WAS HER LAST
year in college. He was playing a sold-out performance in Connecticut. It was as near to Boston as he’d ever come. It was a good seat, eighth row center. She’d bought the ticket online, paying a small fortune, money she didn’t have at the time. Isabel had lied to Eric and Patrick about where she was going. She lied to herself thinking she’d go through with it. Maybe it was lingering curiosity, wondering if the past would make her stand out in the present. After fighting miles of backed-up traffic, car windows soaped with
Aidan Royce Rocks!
she watched hordes of fans stream toward the arena. Almost everyone was clad in T-shirts advertising the Royce brand. Isabel sat in a twenty-dollar-an-hour parking lot, stunned and awed. Aside from being married to Aidan Royce for less time than it took for his first record to turn gold, she was no different than the thousands of others who’d paid the price of admission. It was humiliating and sobering. She never got out of the car. Afterward, Isabel pacified herself with the idea of Aidan looking into that packed audience and seeing one empty seat. Maybe he’d wondered who passed on the opportunity to share the same breathing space.
I did, Aidan, because I still refused to be one of them.

Tonight she would sit, marginally willing, basically required, mezzanine level in the giant outdoor venue. It was a private box with a bird’s-eye view of the stage, Isabel still trying to grasp the unlikely turn of events. She’d hung up on two phone calls from Kai Stoughton, a man who claimed to work for the Royce brand. It had to be an on-air prank, compliments of Providence Power. Making
104.7—The Raging Fever FM
direct competition also made it a prime target for rock radio’s adolescent humor. Eventually Mr. Stoughton gave up on Isabel, going directly to Rudy Shaw, who took the call and verified the facts: Aidan Royce was, indeed, prepared to do a one-night-only performance to promote the station format change. She’d asked. He answered, but the result wasn’t sitting well, particularly after tickets for the private box seats arrived. Her reaction was staid, mumbling under the delighted squeals of Tanya and Mary Louise: “Great, now I can owe you for the rest of my life.” Regardless of what the concert would fix, that was how she felt. Adding to the annoyance, spread out before her, was the reality of a packed football stadium. No indoor venue could accommodate, emphasizing the draw of Aidan Royce. The show had sold out in minutes, prompting a wild demand from what seemed like an endless well of fans. With
104.7
holding a large number of giveaway tickets, ratings were launched into the stratosphere. Mission accomplished. She huffed, sinking into her seat. Admittedly, it was impressive. Aidan’s people ran things with the precision of a small military undertaking. Isabel tried to make peace with gratitude. Aidan was doing a good thing, and she had no business feeling slighted. But in his grand effort to help, it was also clear that he was avoiding contact with her. In the days leading up to the concert they’d heard plenty from his entourage, but Isabel hadn’t heard a word from Aidan.

Of course, perhaps avoidance, not to mention guilt, was just on her mind. She’d left Nate a message, telling him about the concert and apologizing for her hesitance. They hadn’t spoken since he’d made his point about running away. It wasn’t fair, not to him, and she needed to permanently put away the past. Tonight, Isabel had hoped to do that. But in her purse was his reply to her ambivalence. It was a note that ended the need for any further speculation about a future with Nate.

Isabel,

Sometimes, the rational, levelheaded choice has little to do with the truth. No worries, as our situation has prompted me to make a decision of my own. You know how it is, how first loves never completely fade and all that nonsense. Despite what we shared, I need to know if the past can be repaired—I hope you’ll do the same. I think it’s where we both belong. Under the heading of Happiness, it’s an important lesson I learned from your father.

Take care,

Nate

There was commotion from the private box entrance and Isabel turned, thinking he might have had a change of heart. Upon seeing Tanya, her guilt intensified. Nate had been the easy answer, and he deserved so much more. Perhaps enduring the evening alone was karma’s well-deserved punishment.

“Sorry,” Tanya said, squeezing past Joe’s casted leg and Mary Louise, who sat to Isabel’s left. “The boys got into a wicked wrestling match, and Lucy had a sticky mess of something in her hair—I’m not sure if it was glue or gum. Anyway, here I am!” As Tanya plopped down, Isabel smiled. No one would guess she was the mother of three, wearing non-mom jeans and a fringe-trimmed blouse. Having struggled without Patrick’s fashion input (though rock concert attire was decidedly out of his element), Isabel was glad to have gone on instinct, choosing a bold-print dress and fishnets. If she was going to feel out of place, she didn’t want to look it.

With Tanya settled in her seat, Isabel turned her attention to the crowd. The sight was intimidating and bizarre. The adulation people were willing to bestow on one man. She was definitely in the minority, the only person who’d ever wished Aidan a case of laryngitis.
“Five o’clock on a Sunday, would you quit with the music so I can finish my calc homework—and you can copy it!”
She’d also bet that she was only body present who’d have the nerve to remind Aidan that, despite the crowd, the world did not revolve around him. Isabel leaned forward, pressing against a tide of adoration. Of course, there was the iced tea, honey, and grapefruit juice mixture, its secret ingredient still a secret. She’d almost forgotten that. Not a person in his entourage would be able to re-create it, not even Aidan. She’d come up with it after he performed at the West Alabama State Fair in Tuscaloosa, before an evening gig at a popular Talladega bar. He was exhausted, fighting a cold, unsure if he could go through with the second show. He also couldn’t afford to cancel. Between the two venues he’d have enough cash for the rent and electric bill. Aidan and his mother were on the verge of eviction, already sitting in the dark with Stella decidedly between jobs. At a loss for a real remedy, Isabel mixed the liquids with a glop of honey and poured it over a ton of ice. At the last second, unbeknownst to Aidan, who lay prone on the sofa, she’d spied something that ensured a burst of energy. Impulsively, she dumped it in. To her amazement, it worked—a clever potion enhanced by the power of suggestion. He performed beautifully. It became a tease between them, Isabel unwilling to share the secret ingredient that fortified the concoction he came to rely on.

She looked on, drawn to the recollection, distracted by frenzied fans. Anticipation nearly crushed the arena as they sat through two opening acts. Finally, teaser music pumped in, Isabel pushing back in her seat as if she was about to embark on a death-defying amusement park ride. It surrounded her, expectation married to the idea of things coming completely unhinged. For the crowd it was a concert. For Isabel it was an apt description of any past she and Aidan shared. A cannon-like bang grabbed their collective attention, signaling the start. The thrum of music intensified as the opening chords to one of Aidan’s most popular songs grew louder. There was a fantastic flash of fire, an explosion really, as a black curtain dropped. He was there. From the volume of ear-piercing screams everyone saw Aidan Royce—rock god. Isabel felt like the calm in the room, seeing only Aidan Roycroft—at work. The noise was stunning. It definitely wasn’t where she’d want to clock in every day. It was frantic and unnerving. Whether five hundred or fifty thousand people were anticipating his every move, she never could fathom how he wasn’t scared to death. Isabel made a conscious choice to focus on his guitar. It was a neutral object, avoiding Aidan’s face, his body clad in dark jeans, a vintage-looking T-shirt, and cowboy boots. Surely, they were genuine snakeskin, the best that money could buy. Her concentrated stare lasted only seconds before ticking to his hands, the way he moved them. Isabel had inadvertently studied it for years, familiar as her own reflection. She was comfortable with it. Unsettling as the scene was, a smile curved around her lips. Her mood shifted, along with her body, inching forward, letting the atmosphere sink in. She remained on the edge of her seat, not quite willing to stand with the masses.

After repeating the intro a few times, Aidan cavorted with the band, whipping an ocean-deep crowd into irreversible ecstasy. She recognized the tactic. Aidan wanted them in the palm of his hand before he began, in case he screwed up or forgot the words. He never would, but that’s how you became the staggering talent that was Aidan Royce. He tempted them for a moment longer, saying there wasn’t anywhere he’d rather be, thrilled to be the headliner for
104.7
’s switch-to-rock coup. Isabel almost believed him. From the roar of the crowd, they certainly did. He asked how everyone in New England was doing tonight.
Well, I expect they’re high as a kite. Not only is Aidan Royce standing in front of them, he insists this rare venue is where he wants to be!
Her brow crinkled at that, but there was too much noise and excitement to think it through. As Aidan took his place at the center mic, his voice hit her ears and any misguided notion of enjoyment faded. Hearing him through a sound system was one thing, live landed Isabel somewhere else. He began with a signature song, “One Guitar.” She’d listened to it since the radio station switch, but Isabel hadn’t heard the words. It was a song about a kid from nowhere with a destiny he couldn’t place. Randomly, the guy in the song picked up a guitar, finding his future. She was with Aidan when he bought his first guitar at a yard sale in Catswallow. They went straight to the farmhouse with it. It was like watching a great painter being handed his first brush. He just knew what to do with it. Isabel smiled at the yesteryear thought. Even in Aidan Royce’s mega world, they were the only two people who shared the memory.

The song built and climaxed, Aidan crooning to the crowd he’d captivated. The clamorous screams didn’t subside, not a decibel, as he drifted into something with a harder rock edge. He always preferred the loud stuff, but she suspected he saw the wisdom in the ballads. It was an effective tease, making the women in the audience wait four numbers in to hear an Aidan Royce love song. He introduced it, asking, “Do you want to hear something real pretty?” He used to ask Isabel the same thing. She’d shrug and say, “In a minute.” This, adherent screams, was probably the response he had in mind. The wispy ballad was from his most recent CD, so it struck her as odd when she heard something familiar. Isabel applied the lyrics to different women, thinking of Miss October, Fiona Free, and Anne Fielding. But she couldn’t get any of them to fit inside the words. Whoever his muse, the affect was compelling. The song was overrun with regret, every woman in the crowd poised to help him get over it. On his last pass through the chorus, she wondered how he could tell the difference: women drawn to his image versus the one who was drawn to him. It was a problem, she supposed, that went all the way back to Catswallow. He put down the guitar, the band backing him up on the next song. His focus was on the audience, his gaze tipping in her direction. Isabel felt her face grow red, embarrassed by the lure. Aidan didn’t know where she was sitting, nor did he care. The fishnets snagged on the fabric of her seat, reminding her that Aidan had his place and she had hers.

Halfway through, she managed to find her own rhythm, content to watch him work. His charisma and talent drove the show, but it was Aidan’s command that kept things mesmerizing. Numerous fans cried out, “We love you, Aidan!” He replied, very much like he meant it, “I love you guys too!” Isabel was amused. It was the only way she’d never loved Aidan. At one point, he whipped out a cell phone, snapping pictures from his point of view. The crowd went crazy for it, but Isabel was struck by the irony. They were watching something so singular while his photos—from Beijing to Boston—had to capture the same repeated blur. Wiping sweat from his effort, Aidan tossed a towel to a vocal cluster of fans. That turned a little ugly, women tearing at the prospect of taking sweaty DNA home. Isabel wriggled her nose, recalling his stinky gym bag, vapor-like and repugnant. While she wouldn’t fight a single one of them for any physical memento, what she did find herself hopelessly deprived of was being with Aidan.

As he continued to perform, she was confronted by an odd memory. Driving to Sandy Springs to buy an amplifier, they got lost. Actually, Isabel got them lost. She was so frustrated with the back roads and the map she wanted to cry, maybe she did. She was sure they would run out of gas and be stranded in the middle of nowhere. It was a hundred degrees and she was dying of thirst, aside from having a pounding PMS headache. Stubbornly determined, she hadn’t mentioned a word of it to Aidan. He pulled over, insisting she give him the map. In less than ten minutes he delivered them from nowhere to a gas station. It was nothing short of a miracle in her opinion. Silently, Aidan got out of the truck and stalked inside. She thought he was really mad. A few minutes later, he came out with foolproof directions, a can of soda, and a candy bar. In the bottom of the bag was a box of Midol. He never said a word. He just got back in the truck and started driving. Proving, Isabel supposed, that she needed Aidan as much as he did her.