Perfect Timing (5 page)

Holding a fist full of clean underwear, she threw it back onto the bed. “We’re just friends. Let it go! Maybe if I tattoo it across my forehead I’d convince you!”

“Only if you’re willing to look in a mirror. Think about how it looks—”

“Oh, like I give a shit what anybody in this town thinks. Aidan and I know exactly what we are to each other.”

“Fine. You’re an adult—on paper. If this is what you want to tell yourself.” Carrie walked the scant three paces to the edge of her daughter’s bedroom. “But I see the kind of man Aidan is becoming. Whether it’s some nightmarish betrayal or his ego, he’ll use you until he decides to show his true colors. I love you, Isabel. You deserve someone special, someone who thinks the world of you. Hokey as it may sound, someone who’ll put you on a pedestal for the rest of your life. Is that so awful of me? I don’t want you to end up like this,” she said, swinging her arms wide.

“I know, Mom.” Out of words and warnings, Carrie retreated, Isabel going back to silently tucking everything away.

CHAPTER FOUR

Catswallow, Alabama

S
ECOND TO ERIC LANG, AND NOW IN ADDITION TO RICK STANTON,
Carrie had always been in love with the South. It was a distant, amorous affair. The kind where flaws were shadowed by wide leafy magnolias and the feel of romanticism was as inherent as the heat. In the days leading up to the gala this was a benefit. Carrie embraced one small town’s custom, in turn, talking less about Aidan. At least Isabel hoped this was the circumstance. The only other possibility was that she was vicariously reliving her past. Isabel had considered this after finding an old photo album peeking out from beneath her mother’s bed. She couldn’t resist, flipping through its taboo pages. Pictures unfolded like a fairy tale, Carrie and Eric as high school sweethearts and at their college homecomings, the military balls they attended during her father’s days in the Coast Guard. There were candid shots from their wedding, her parents slow-dancing into the future. The last picture was particularly bright and shiny, showing a very pregnant Carrie and a beaming Eric. His arms barely fit around her. Isabel closed the album, pushing it far under the bed.

On the night of the gala Carrie fussed with the snug bodice of Isabel’s dress, bedazzled by her daughter’s appearance. If she was thinking about her former life, she hid it well. Her only fairy-tale thought seemed to be about the arrival of a pumpkin and a couple of field mice. “Doesn’t she look beautiful, Rick? Just stunning,” she said, admiring Isabel’s reflection.

“Too good for the trash she’s goin’ with, if you ask me.” He reached into the refrigerator, filling a glass from what appeared to be bottled iced tea. Isabel pursed her lips, corralling a smile. “What in the hell?” he said, all but spitting the concoction across the room.

She couldn’t contain it, bursting into laughter. “Isabel,” Carrie said, shaking her head. She looked in Rick’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s Aidan’s signature preperformance elixir.”

“Lighter fluid and honey?” he asked, retrieving a well-marked bottle of bourbon from the cabinet.

“Almost,” Isabel said. The potion, a combination of iced tea, grapefruit juice, and honey, was fairly disgusting without its secret ingredient, which she would add just prior to showtime.

Rick and his fresh drink disappeared onto the porch, laughter fading as Isabel gazed into the mirror. Maybe
stunning
was the right word for the girl who looked back. Catswallow’s best stylists worked a small miracle with every feature that fell short. Instead of swampy green, her eyes were bold and intense. A sprinkle of freckles were banished beneath a layer of powdery cover-up, and a nose, which she saw as a tad too long, was a pleasant complement to her face. And when, Isabel wondered, did she develop cheekbones? Though she was admittedly at a loss when it came to fashion, her hair lent itself to occasions such as this. Cascading ringlets were pinned delicately to her head, falling like beautiful curled ribbon. Between the hair, makeup, and the nail tips that looked strikingly real, there was a stab of panic. Would Aidan even recognize her? The dress, magazine worthy, was sheer luck, having just been returned to a boutique in Birmingham. Isabel thought the returning customer might have been Shanna O’Rourke, and was relieved to overhear the clerk say that its previous owner, a girl from Birmingham, was “too far along to squeeze into it.” Isabel brushed a hand over the milky lavender skirt that flowed in sexy sheer layers. She’d never imagined wearing anything like it, not even in a dream. The saleswoman insisted otherwise, claiming the style flattered her natural curves. Needing no alterations, she said it looked custom-made for Isabel. She had to disagree when she saw the $800 price tag. To her surprise, Carrie had happily handed over a credit card, insisting the money wasn’t a problem.

“Isabel,” Carrie said, her tone less light. “Look, I understand the temptation. I’m not blind. If any girl your age were to custom-order the most magnetic, talented—God help me—good-looking male on the planet . . . Well, they’d get Aidan Roycroft parts in the box. Despite my feelings, I get it. But don’t let the sheen fool you. You’re smarter than that.”

She nodded. Carrie Lang was immune. In an eleventh-hour attempt to keep her mother from a night of nail biting, Isabel pleaded her case once again. “Mom, I told you, I’m just helping him out. It’s not like this is a real date. It’s one night. Besides, Aidan doesn’t look at me that way.”

“Of course he doesn’t.” Busy smoothing the dress, she stopped. “That’s not what I meant.” A stark stare jerked to her daughter’s reflection. “He should be so lucky. But I see what Aidan wants. Irresponsible hookups and girls who party twenty-four, seven. I’m only saying that’s not you, Isabel. You’re more practical, traditional . . . sensible.”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled, deciding how many synonyms there were for
dull
.

Like a mole head from a carnival game, Rick popped back into the living room, where a lingering gaze passed over her. A shiver rushed down Isabel’s back. It made her want to change into a T-shirt and baggy sweats. “You give her a time to be home, Carrie? My boys never went anywhere without a curfew. ’Course I never could get Trey to adhere to it,” he said, downing more of his drink. “Tomcat and all that he was at her age.”

Like father like son
rolled reflexively through Isabel’s brain.

“If she were my girl, I’d have that set in stone, be puttin’ a glass slipper on her—somethin’.” While Isabel ignored the comment, there was a vision of Rick hauling ass out to his man-size SUV, retrieving a rifle, maybe a chastity belt.

“Isabel and I talked about that, about Aidan, specifically,” her mother said, shooting her a wary glance. “But there are a lot of post-gala activities and—”

“And exactly what activity she’ll be participating in, that’s what I’d be concerned to know. Guys like Roycroft have a way of sending even smart girls like Bella ass-over-teakettle. The next thing you know, she’s on public assistance, her life chained to a place like this,” he said, his glass sweeping through the trailer air, “hunting him down for child support.”

“Seriously?” Isabel said, incredulous.

“How the hell do you think Roycroft got here? That kind of behavior is inbred. Trust me, Bella. There’s more men looking to avoid that kind of responsibility than to take it on. I’m proud to say I’m one of the few who takes care of what’s mine.”

“I see,” she said coyly. “So tell me, Rick, exactly how close did Strobe come to being your bastard son?”

“Isabel!” Carrie said. “Rick only wants to make sure you’re safe. He’s only trying to point out the obvious.” She smiled at him, apologizing. “Sorry, honey.” The endearment caused Isabel to blanch. The last time Carrie referred to someone as
honey
, she was married to him. “It’s been too many years since she’s had a solid male role model. It’s hard for her to appreciate.”

“No harm done. I could see where she’d be lacking after hearing about her daddy’s . . .
choices
.”

Before Isabel could tally the differences between Rick and her father, which, oddly, were stacking in Eric Lang’s favor, there was a knock at the door. Rick’s face was not the first one she wanted Aidan to see, but it couldn’t be helped as he was closest. There was the exchange of manly grunts, Aidan brushing past. A swallow rolled through Isabel’s throat. If she looked good, he looked a thousand times better. This, apparently, was what Aidan wore well. It was a standard black tuxedo, but he’d put his own spin on it with a pewter-colored vest, no tie, and an open wing-tip collar. Instead of shiny black rental shoes, he wore cowboy boots. Aidan bought them from a roadside vendor on their way to a show in Selma, a fine-looking pair of two-tone imitation-snakeskin boots. He always said when he made it big, really big, he’d own the best pair money could buy.

Isabel didn’t know how many seconds had passed. But it was more than a few since Carrie was deep into a narrative of the drunk drivers she x-rayed on an ordinary Saturday night. Aidan didn’t say a word, and Isabel thought she’d better. “You look nice.” It hit the air with the sound of obvious information, as if saying that the sun rose. He still didn’t speak, Isabel guessing he was saving his voice. On the other hand, maybe Aidan had taken one look at her and decided that this was the dumbest idea he’d ever had. Suddenly her hair felt too big, the dress too tight, thinking her lipstick looked as if she swiped it off a hooker. Naturally, Rick was right there with an
attaboy
.

“Uh, usually it’s customary to compliment the female, especially when she spends an entire day gussying up for you. You really are cut from the same cloth as your skirt-chasing daddy, aren’t you?”

Aidan’s eyes veered from Isabel and onto Rick. His mouth twitched and the silence turned ugly. “Isabel, you ready?” he said, shoving a plastic container at her. Inside was a beautiful spray of white roses surrounded by violets, a shade deeper than her dress. She’d been fully prepared to receive Shanna’s already ordered bright orange corsage. It was to be expected, having guided Aidan past the soft pink roses in the flower shop, trying to convince him that someone so blond and fair would benefit from a kick of color.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing the iced tea bottle and his boutonniere from the refrigerator. Handing Aidan a cellophane-wrapped rose, he didn’t stop to put it on as he opened the door and they headed to his truck.

HALFWAY TO THE BANQUET ROOM AT THE VFW, WHICH CATSWALLOW
residents had spent days transforming into a secret theme, Aidan’s mood shifted. He hadn’t said a word about the way she looked. Isabel ignored a swell of disappointment, reminding herself that this was no more than a friend helping out a friend. “Isabel, look in the glove compartment.” She did, guessing it was a new CD, finding a fat envelope. “Open it.”

She shrugged, peeling back the sealed flap. She looked at Aidan and back at the envelope. “Where . . . where did you get this? Is it real?” Onto the lap of her milky lavender gown, Isabel dumped more hundred-dollar bills than came in a Monopoly game. Only these were real, like from a bank heist, and suddenly she was wary of exploding dye. “How much money is here?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” he said with a teasing grin.

“But I don’t . . . Where did you . . . ?” It was more money than she’d ever seen, sure that the same was true for him. “Aidan, you tell me right now where this money came from!” Isabel didn’t really believe he’d done anything wrong, but with Aidan you could never be completely sure. He pulled onto the side of the road. The grin disappeared.

“I inherited it. The check came registered mail from some lawyer in Boca Raton—a life insurance policy. I cashed it because I wanted to know what it looked like. Hell, I wanted to know if it was real.”

“Inherited it from who?” As far as Isabel knew, Aidan’s relatives were poorer than Aidan.

“My father.”

“Your father? But that means he’d have to be . . .”

“Dead. Yes, that’s what the letter said.”

And Rick’s comment seemed all the more vicious. Considering the news, she also fought a wave of guilt about Aidan not noticing her appearance. “Dead? Oh, Aidan, I’m so sorry—”

“What for?” he snapped. “He was just a man who called once or twice a year to see if I was still alive. That’s not a father. I never knew the guy. He never cared to know me.” His eyes jerked between Isabel and the money. “It’s not like I got mail from him on a regular basis.”

She ignored the comeback. “Yes, but in the back of your mind, surely you thought that someday—”

“No, Isabel. I didn’t. And that, right there,” he said, poking at the cash, “is about the nicest damn thing John Roycroft could have done for me. Do you understand what this means?” Isabel shook her head, though she was sure of the answer. “It means that I’m out of here. This money is my ticket to New York or L.A. or Nashville. Anywhere they make music. Anywhere that isn’t here.”

“Aidan, that’s . . . that’s incredible.” Isabel put the money back in the glove compartment as Aidan pulled back onto the highway.

“You’re the only person I told. My mother wasn’t home when the letter came. From what it said, he left her his condo in Boca.” He nodded, satisfied. “She’ll be a hell of a lot better off with that than she ever was with him. Anyway, I wanted to tell you first, before the night gets crazy on us. I played this gig last year and you won’t believe the trouble one cracker-box town goes to.”