Perfect Timing (4 page)

“Some. I knew his mama better.” The upturn widened. “In fact, his daddy and I had a scuffle over that very topic outside Cowboy Bill’s,” he said, referring to Catswallow’s busiest bar. “Nasty right cross your daddy had,” Rick said, a burly hand grazing his jaw. “’Course, not near as mean as mine. But yeah, I knew him. And you, boy, are the spittin’ image. I’d bet you’re just as smart-mouthed too.” His taunt paused and he looked squarely at Isabel. “I can tell you this much, Bella, if he’s got John Roycroft’s blood in his veins, you’d be safer in the Crimson Tide locker room than alone with him. Now let’s go.” He closed the distance, touching Isabel’s arm. Aidan moved the length of the room in a split second, jamming himself between them like a cement wedge.

“If Isabel needs to go home, I’ll see that she gets there.”

Odd ideas pulsed through her, not the least of which was requiring transportation assistance. She walked, Aidan walked; sometimes they drove in his truck. It didn’t dictate a plan of action, certainly not an escort.

“That right, boy?” His linebacker frame stood inches taller and at least half a foot wider than Aidan. It was a fact that, suddenly, had Isabel concerned. “Seeing as the young lady’s mama asked me to find her, I expect it’s my responsibility to get her home. My vehicle is outside.”

“Great, so’s mine. Follow if you want.” Aidan locked a vice grip around Isabel’s arm, ushering her toward the door. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“One sec, Roycroft.” The bellowing vibration made them stop and do a double pivot. “Won’t help your cause any when Carrie hears that aside from hiding out in your love shack—alone—you’ve been doin’ it with a cooler full of beer. I’ll see her home.”

The observation seemed arrogant, especially since it was the same beer Rick offered her yesterday. “He hasn’t been drinking . . .”
much
, she insisted. “For your infor—”

“Shut up, Isabel.” And this was far different from the
shut up
she was issued earlier. It was commanding and in control. “I don’t give a fuck what you tell Carrie. I’m taking her home.” As if she might be unclear about the direction, Aidan hung on to her arm, moving them outside. Rick watched from the porch as the creaky doors to Aidan’s truck opened, the two getting inside. There was a harsh look on his face during a silent ride. It didn’t go with the Aidan she knew, or even an image bound to him like a fingerprint. As they pulled up to the Lang trailer, a two-bedroom model with a tidy front porch and central air, Isabel reached for the truck door handle. Aidan came across the seat, grabbing her wrist. The action was not pleasant nor cautionary nor territorial. It was protective. And with it came a feeling so powerful Isabel did not know it from anywhere: a book, the movies, or real life. He didn’t speak, but he also didn’t let go. Not until Carrie Lang was in full view, coming outside.

CHAPTER THREE

Catswallow, Alabama

I
T
WAS
LATE
WHEN
C
ARRIE
AND
I
SABEL
ARRIVED
BACK
FROM
B
IRMINGHAM
. As promised, Rick’s sons met them there. It wasn’t Isabel’s first encounter with the Stanton offspring, and each time they met she felt as if she’d landed in the audience of a cutthroat game show. As everyone took a seat, the green flag dropped and their amazing race began. Strobe was the older son. Different from his father and brother, he was book smart and a physical opposite. He had a slight build and a boy’s body, but an intellectual’s brain. He also possessed a subtler, watch-your-back presence compared with his father or Trey, both of whom led with their size. Isabel assumed he took after his mother, who, according to her mother, Rick Stanton divorced years ago. Trey, on the other hand, was Rick’s
son
—which wasn’t to say that Strobe wasn’t. It was just that one was clearly cut from the same cloth while the other appeared to be a genetic mutant. Rick had given each a dealership when they turned twenty-one, then he let the bloodbath commence.

Out of the gate, conversation began with a comparison of sales figures, a round that always went to Strobe. It was a fact that riled both Trey and Rick, men who relied on fast talk and friendly handshakes. Round two was dedicated to name-dropping. It was a point earner that had intensified with Rick’s bid for state senator. As part of their due diligence the boys worked the voters, tapped as Rick’s fundraising committee. Trey thought he had the constituent category in the bag when he announced that Catswallow’s NRA and its very active Christian Coalition were both on board. In return, card-carrying members would be offered an enticing Stanton Motors discount. The hint of a bribe didn’t matter as a thunderous slap of approval was applied to Trey’s back, one that would have broken a vertebra in Strobe’s. That didn’t matter either as Strobe countered with a commitment from Southern Alabama’s Junior League. It was a force guaranteed to draw a large and slightly more diverse group of voters. With rounds one and two going to Strobe, the competition segued to a swapping of he-man stories about whatever unsuspecting wildlife was in season. It was where Strobe, whose hunting skills were more cerebral, lost traction, Rick throwing the contest in his younger son’s favor.

While all this happened, other parts of the evening took a different turn and Carrie Lang became the focus. Rick openly bragged about her as the younger Stantons responded with preprogrammed phrasing: “Ms. Lang, I do believe my daddy is smitten,” and “Ma’am, we really enjoyed your company this evening.” Downing a second Diet Coke, Isabel watched her mother revel in it, so animated that she would have won a matching washer and dryer had it been up for grabs. Though normally she only cooed at Rick, tonight she acted downright
motherly
toward his sons. Given a holiday gathering, she might have knitted them sweaters, Isabel thought. It wasn’t reality TV or a game show, more like a cursory interview, and Isabel would later spend the ride home trying to put a reason to it. She thought about this and something else. Something she’d been trying to convince herself was a misunderstanding between Rick’s hand and her brain.

After the Stanton boys left, Carrie excused herself to take a phone call from work. Rick paid the bill. Tucking his money clip away, Isabel felt his fingertips graze along her bare leg, right to the edge of her skirt, maybe underneath. When they arrived at the restaurant, the Stanton boys insisted that Carrie sit in between them. That put Isabel next to Rick. Had they all been sitting there when the check arrived, Isabel might not have thought twice. His touch was that slight, that “
pardon me
”
–
oriented, and at such a tight table. But with only the two of them and the check, well, there was elbow room to spare. As his fingers surfaced, wallet in hand, Isabel’s head ticked in his direction. Rick looked blankly at her, as though he couldn’t grasp her expression. She said nothing on the ride home, even less after Rick left.

It was a difficult call. Realistically, the man hadn’t done anything but accidentally brush against her leg while paying for her dinner. He’d also spent much of the night making Carrie Lang feel like queen for a day—something Isabel thought about detailing on an envelope marked return to sender.
Hey, Dad, Mom’s found a great guy too, thinks the world of her. Is finally indifferent to you . . .
But before she could decide what she saw or felt, the Diet Cokes hit bottom and she headed for the bathroom. As she mulled things over, all thoughts and actions were interrupted as Carrie knocked on the door.

“Isabel, we need to talk.”

Okay, maybe I won’t have to walk this very fine line after all.
She stopped peeing midstream and listened.

“I want to talk about Aidan.” That wasn’t a promising start. “Maybe now is the right time to cut back on the time you spend with him.” A terrific silence penetrated the bathroom door, like an ax. “Think about it, Isabel. You’ll be heading to college.”

“By way of the commuter lot.”

“That’s not set in stone.”

“Why?” she said, holding back the rest of the Diet Cokes and reaching for the toilet paper. She yanked up her underwear and pushed down her skirt as she flung the door open. “Did the hospital make good on the raises they owe you?”

“Well, no, not a raise.” There was an awkward glance, reminding both of the promised future that never materialized. “But there may be other options, plausible ones. We’ll talk about that later. Right now, let’s focus on Aidan. My point being that he’s not going to college. Realistically, he’s not going anywhere but Cowboy Bill’s—perhaps as its entertainment, ultimately as its best customer. Certainly, he’ll take a stab at the music thing; play every seedy bar between here and the Rocky Mountains. He might even hang in there until his perseverance, wallet, and hairline runs thin. But in the end he’ll be back, looking to relive his glory days with whoever waited around. I don’t want it to be you.”

“That’s ridiculous—all of it!”

“Is it? From what I heard about today’s scene, he can check Shanna off his short list.”

“Is that what this is about, Aidan and Shanna’s argument? You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

“No, I wasn’t. But it’s all over town. And Rick, he felt obligated to tell me the rest. The circumstances when he found you, the farmhouse, the beer.”

“Great, now we’ve crossed over to totally insane.”

“Isabel, I have to butt in here, at least say my piece. Rick is only looking out for your best interest. He cares about you . . . like a daughter.”

Moving toward her bedroom, she stopped and turned. “A daughter? Is that what you think?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, on occasion, I’ve gotten a different vibe from your good ol’ boy, Mom. I don’t think Rick’s interest is entirely fatherly.”

There was a rapid blink from Carrie, as if trying to bring the innuendo into focus. “Isabel Lang, I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. I know Rick. Trust me when I say he’s an honorable man.”

Poised to go on, Carrie’s quick defense made her hesitate. Random remarks and a gesture that, by her own admission, was subject to interpretation were weak accusations. “About Aidan,” she said, choosing her battle, “the beer wasn’t his. I brought it to the farmhouse. So if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

“Beer is not what concerns me. It’s more complicated than that. It’s your unwillingness to let go of a relationship that, by now, you should have outgrown. That ugly scene at Higher Grounds, what does it say about Aidan? I heard it from three different people, his public lover’s quarrel with Shanna O’Rourke.”

“It wasn’t a lover’s quarrel,” she snapped. “Aidan isn’t in—” It was the wrong path. “Shanna O’Rourke is a shallow, overly pretty, self-absorbed—”

“And Aidan is . . . ?” Carrie countered, a hand sweeping past. “I understand that after Shanna caught him cheating he dumped her, right there, in the middle of Lovett Street. If you ask me, Aidan could benefit from a lesson in
honorable
.”

A hand flew to Isabel’s forehead. “This is so twisted I don’t even know where to start! Shanna is not completely innocent. If you could just look at it from Aidan’s point of view.”

“I’d rather look at it from yours. Can you honestly tell me that you didn’t go running to that farmhouse to comfort him, cocktails in tow?” And Isabel had no quick comeback for that. Carrie sighed, reaching out. Warm motherly fingers brushed through her daughter’s hair, an empathetic smile edging onto her face. Isabel pushed her hand away, the gesture making her feel hopelessly awkward, hugely transparent. “Isabel, I’m concerned about the choices you’re making to keep Aidan in your life. What you’re willing to do for him. How far you’d go to . . .”

“It’s not like that,” she said quietly. “Not at all.” She shook off Carrie’s accusations, focused on the things she and Aidan did share. They were rock-solid things that didn’t compare with something as intangible as romance. “Newsflash, Mom, not every relationship boils down to a sexual encounter. That’s not what Aidan and I are about.” But the delivery was lukewarm, and she tried again. “It’s so much more than that.”

“Isabel, it’s all right. I understand how you feel. I can appreciate what it’s like to love someone unconditionally. In return, they use you as a support system but are totally deceptive about what they’re capable of giving.”

“Are we talking about Aidan and me or you and Dad?”

It was a complicated connection, Isabel’s astuteness surprising Carrie. She watched her mother tense, the fabric of her voice weaving into a patterned blend of hurt and humiliation. “Fine. But you could benefit from my experience. Look how many years it’s taken for me to fall in love with someone else.”

There was a hairpin turn. “In love? You’re in love with Rick?” She wasn’t sure why the shock value was so great. Somewhere in her head, Isabel believed Carrie Lang’s fate was sealed. She would always love her father, a man she couldn’t have. Isabel hesitated, trying to fit Rick, a man whose presence equated with a crowd-filled stadium, into their quiet corner-table life.

“This isn’t the conversation I envisioned when we talked about it. But, yes, we’re absolutely in love.”

“That’s um . . . That’s kind of sudden, isn’t it?”

“We’ve been together for eight months. See that? You didn’t even notice—how long we’ve been together or how serious things are.” Isabel nodded, racking her brain for the clues she missed. “So maybe,” Carrie said, her tone gentler, “you can trust me a little when I tell you that I
get
someone like Aidan.”

Isabel retreated into her room, her argument suddenly feeling weak. Her mother was right about one thing. Isabel didn’t know anything about being in love. But as she recalled, Carrie didn’t see Eric Lang’s bombshell coming either. She supposed love could have that effect—leaving a huge margin for error. Isabel couldn’t share any reservations about Rick. Not now. While they might be having this anchored conversation, Carrie’s declaration said she was floating on a cloud, and Isabel would not be the one to paint a black horizon. She backtracked. “I’m happy for you, Mom. But really, Aidan and I, we’re friends. Don’t worry about me—”

“Don’t worry about you?” Carrie had followed her into the bedroom, eyes widening at the remark. “You’d do better asking me to add your father and his
soul mate
to my Christmas card list.” She arched a brow, the sarcasm penetrating through. “Isabel, do you remember how you used to swing so high, out in the backyard? I’d come out to the patio and tell you not to because I was afraid you’d fly off and break an arm or worse.”

“I remember,” she said, recalling the tidy brick house in New Jersey, its grassy fenced yard. The vision came with warmer feelings than she wished.

“Someday you’ll understand it’s only instinct to keep even your grown-up children out of harm’s way.”

“Mom, I hear what you’re saying. But Aidan and I, we’re just friends. That’s all. I swear.” And she could swear to this because it was the truth. Isabel bit her lip, hoping the poignant moment might be a softer spot to relay the rest. “Um, since we’re on the subject, you should know. I agreed to go with Aidan, to the gala . . . as a favor.”

With her girlish figure and hair like Isabel’s but brown, Carrie usually looked younger than her thirty-nine years. Not at the moment. At the moment she looked troubled and worn through. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” Carrie’s eyes pinched tight, a hand wringing around her neck. “He’s using you, Isabel. Can’t you see that?”

A week’s worth of clean wash sat on Isabel’s bed and she deflected the accusation by turning away, stuffing socks in her shirt drawer and shirts in her junk drawer. “Look, I said I’d go, and I will. I’ll pay for the dress myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“A wardrobe budget isn’t the issue. But this thought might be: You turned down not one but two lovely invitations to Catswallow’s big shindig. An event you couldn’t have cared less about. What suddenly put it on your to-do list?” She had no reply. “Exactly. You have a lot of self-worth, Isabel. You’re intelligent, incredibly rational about most things. By agreeing to go, consider the message you’re sending to Aidan.”