Perfect Timing (6 page)

Needing to move on from an answer about how long Aidan might hang around Catswallow, she said, “Hey, um, Katie Banks heard the gala is going to be a Spanish theme. You know, flamenco dancing and the running of the bulls. Kinda strange, but I suppose getting a bull is no big deal around here. Anyway, if it’s true, if Katie’s right, you could sing that Spanish song you’re always working on at the farmhouse. Might be a nice touch, it’s so emotion packed—like an opera.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no way.” Shifting in his seat, Aidan shrugged at her puzzled look. “That song isn’t meant for a crowd. And the translation . . . well, I’m not sure if it works in English. Anyway,” he said, retuning the radio, “whatever the theme is, you can bet it’ll be over-the-top. I think they do it because, underneath, they know there’s got to be something better than Catswallow. And this year, they couldn’t be more right.”

“In that case,” Isabel said, focused on the passing scenery, “maybe the theme is bon voyage and have a nice life.”

SHE WAS UNCANNILY CLOSE
. Every year the Catswallow gala committee put forth a mind-blowing effort trying to outdo the one before—Disney, New York City on New Year’s Eve, Hollywood, even a NASCAR-themed gala spectacularly done in white gloves and tails. This year was no exception, taking the recent Catswallow grads on a cruise around the world. Each table was dressed as a port of call, with Isabel docked in the Hawaiian Islands. Coconut cups and leis denoted her table, with mini lava cakes for dessert. But soon the world was moving as Cozumel mingled with the Greek Isles and a couple of girls traveled from St. Kitts to flirt with Lisbon. The partygoers in Hawaii drifted off too, leaving Isabel at a table filled with plates of chicken Kiev and poi, the native offering. Aidan went to work the moment they arrived, Isabel understanding his focus. She’d tagged along to enough country fairs and bar gigs to know the routine. He was in show mode, earning every dime he made. Sitting at the table, she closed her eyes and listened, something she rarely did. His voice was smooth, like twenty-year-old Tennessee whiskey over ice. At least that was the way she’d heard it described by one woman at a honky-tonk in Jasper. Tonight he entertained a peer-filled crowd with popular songs, slipping into one of his own every third or fourth number. All his music sounded like a bona fide hit. It hit her ears differently than when he practiced at the farmhouse, more finely tuned. Maybe it was the acoustics or the lights. Or maybe it was just Aidan in his element. At the farmhouse he could be less than sure, something that never showed in public. After playing a melody he’d written, Aidan would ask for a critique of the lyrics that were a work in progress.
“Hmm, I’m not sure . . . Dig deeper, Aidan. Connect it to something that really inspires you.”

Currently, he was the definition of confident. Aidan was in full rocker mode as he traded an acoustic guitar for the electric one, igniting a ring of fire that engulfed him and the crowd. Isabel admired him in the spotlight, the air heavy with hairspray, poi, and talent. It was fun for a while, listening to Aidan sing as he smoothly alternated with master of ceremonies duties. Always spot-on with the manners Stella instilled, he thanked the committee members, even noting Esther Womack, who’d served since the gala’s inception in 1946. But eventually a sigh overshadowed the show, Isabel knowing it wasn’t her favorite way to spend time with Aidan. She’d rather sit on the front porch of the farmhouse and watch the sun set, crickets dictating the melody. Or take a ride to Tremont for soft-serve ice cream, Aidan harmonizing with the radio the entire way. The longer she watched, the more restless she felt. Along with admirable fascination came the reality of Aidan’s imminent departure. Before tonight’s windfall of cash, leaving tomorrow wasn’t an option. But soon Catswallow would be his prior address, with sunsets downgraded to a scientific fact and ice cream just fattening. Watching the girls watch him, guys looking on with enviable awe, she knew it was the right thing for him to do. For anyone else success and fame might have the luster of a dream, but Isabel knew it would happen as well as she knew her own name. The same guilt she felt in the truck edged back. She wasn’t being terribly fair or even a decent friend. Money was his only obstacle, and while it wasn’t a king’s fortune, a crafty guy who could survive on boxed macaroni-and-cheese could live off $10,000 for some time. Isabel sighed again, needing a break from Aidan’s unfolding future—the one that wouldn’t include her. She headed toward the ladies’ room, which she’d put off since deciding that evening gowns should come with how-to-use-public-restrooms instructions. She took a last glance at the stage before running headlong into Kyle Marsh.

“Bella, you, um, you look incredible,” he said, handsome enough in his tux. It was amazing how rented clothing could give the average boy the sheen of a man. “Would, um . . . Do you want to dance, being as your date’s kind of busy?”

Aidan, who’d nodded in her direction, was well into the second chorus of Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” A crowd of girls puddled around the base of the stage, ogling him. She shrugged, shifting in her heels. “Sure, Kyle, but won’t your date mind?”

“Katie? Nah, she went to the parking lot to smoke a joint. It’s fine.”

Isabel guessed that smoking pot wasn’t on Kyle’s to-do list, having won a full ride to the Citadel or West Point. She made a mental note to ask which one if they had to make small talk. But the beautiful ballad didn’t invite conversation and the two of them just danced. A few moments in, as she was swaying comfortably in Kyle’s arms, the music changed. It hadn’t stopped, but Aidan wasn’t singing anymore. The music had switched over to a CD, the real Aerosmith filling in. She moved with the melody, drifting to some dreamy place, positive that Aidan sang it better.

“Hey, Marsh, your date’s looking for you.” Startled, Isabel opened her eyes, finding Aidan standing next to them. “She looks really pissed, man. I’ll take over, okay?”

Kyle glanced toward the door but didn’t let go. “It’s fine, dude. Katie’s not into me, we’re just friends—you know how it is,” he said, his chin cocking at Isabel.

Aidan’s eyes flicked between them and the stage, a hand running roughly over his mouth before moving onto Kyle’s shoulder. Isabel recognized the grip; it was the same one that took hold of her wrist in his truck. “No, really, take off, man.” They stopped dancing and Kyle, who boasted an athletic build but lacked Aidan’s presence, let go.

“Whatever.” He took a healthy step back. “But you can’t have it both ways, Roycroft. Get a clue.” Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets, disappearing into the crowd.

Aidan only stared, as though he had no intention of dancing. The
I feel pretty
moment faded, eclipsed by the whole hair, dress, whorish lipstick concept. Awkwardness intensified, the two of them standing still in the middle of a swaying dance floor. The tension broke as Aidan grabbed her around the waist. And again, there was nothing pleasant about it. “Why were you dancing with him?”

“Uh, because he asked and my legs were starting to cramp.”

“You know I’m working this thing. I’m not letting you sit there by yourself on purpose.”

“I know.” But Isabel barely heard him, caught in the awesome sense of déjà vu that danced along with them. It was surreal; she knew it well, but she and Aidan had never danced before. It was like being pulled into a parallel universe. Her feet stopped moving, impeding the sensation, like a music box winding down. Aidan jerked her closer and everything wound tighter.

“Isabel, what are you doing?”

She willed her feet to move. As she did, déjà vu derailed. Breathing Aidan in, Isabel closed her eyes, her feet finding their footing while trying not to step on his. He smelled like Southern summer air, warm wrapping around her like the sun on her face. They’d been this close before, years of homework, playing tag Frisbee, sharing a bowl of mac-’n’-cheese. This was different, the simple solidness of his arms shifting boundaries. Anxiousness faded, Isabel feeling so very . . .
safe
. Her head drifted onto his shoulder, déjà vu marrying with current events. Like a roller shade, her eyes snapped open as her head jerked back.
I know this place! I know it from my dreams.

“What?” he demanded, a huge bob swimming through his throat. He didn’t look angry anymore, just in pain.

“Nothing.” Her head drifted back onto his shoulder knowing quietly, softly, that she loved this dream.

“Isabel, I . . .” She felt his mouth press to her head, but it was hard to be sure between the bobby pins and hairspray. A voice interrupted. It put a fuzzy edge on a moment that was beginning to feel like reality. It was a man’s voice, one she didn’t know.

“Aidan. Aidan Roycroft.” This time Aidan pulled away, blinking as if somebody flipped on a thousand-watt bulb. “Fitz Landrey,” he said, shoving a fat hand in between them. Isabel thought if she had a knife—not even a terribly sharp knife—she’d chop it off. “How you doin’, son?” The man was aggressively shaking Aidan’s hand, the one that was wrapped around her seconds ago. He led them to the edge of the dance floor. “My brother-in-law is Tim O’Rourke, Shanna’s dad.”

Super.
He was there to call Aidan out for humiliating his niece, the one who showed up to Catswallow’s grand gala with her cousin. But her uncle didn’t seem angry, shoving a business card in Aidan’s face.

“I’m here from L.A. My niece . . . Well, to tell you the truth, my niece couldn’t hate you any more than a rabid hornet. But a few weeks back she insisted I come see you perform. Then she told me not to bother.” He shrugged. “But I was passing through and I don’t make business decisions based on pissed-off girls and something tells me that happens a lot. Right, cookie?” He gave her chin a squeeze, Isabel yanking her head back. “Besides, I’m stuck in this hole for the next three hours.” Running a finger around the collar of his dress shirt, it was as if the confines of the Catswallow VFW were choking him. He was definitely a city dweller. He even smelled like something you’d never come in contact with in Catswallow. “My job is to find the next big thing. I’m always on a hunt for talent, looks, a singular presence. But mostly, I’m looking for an it factor.” Aidan and Isabel exchanged a glance. “I can’t tell you how many artists I’ve passed on, surely thousands. New faces with incredible talent, but nominal it
factor. It’s not something that comes with practice or a record label can manufacture. You either have it, or you don’t. And, kid, I’ve got to tell you—your it factor is unlike anybody I’ve ever signed. I haven’t seen this much natural talent since I signed Weak Need.” Their mouths gaped as Fitz tossed out the name of a mega-hot band. “And, frankly, it takes five of them to produce as much raw charisma as you’ve got going.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur, Isabel swearing that Aidan’s eyes spun like a cartoon character’s. Fitz Landrey explained that he was the head of C-Note Music: L.A., London, New York, and Tokyo. Doing most of the talking, he asked if Aidan had a demo. He obediently produced the CD he’d made in a second-rate Birmingham recording studio. It cost every penny he had. There were words about record deals, touring, and money, lots of money. He didn’t stay long after that, telling Aidan that his handshake was as good as a signed contract. He’d be in touch. He gave Aidan another business card, telling him to call if he needed anything in the meantime, anything at all.

It was the moment Aidan dreamt of his entire life, Isabel forcing down
“Don’t go!”
while summoning
“Ohmigosh, I’m so happy for you!”
She just stood, blankly staring. Trumping her Zen-like dance of clarity was money
and
opportunity, the night turning into a one-way ticket out of Catswallow and her life. The future flashed through Isabel’s head:
Aidan
gets his dream. I never make it out of here.
Years from tonight she’d chaperone a gala—the highlight of her year—accompanied by her flak-jacket-wearing husband, the manager of Goodyear Tires. The one Trey Stanton introduced her to. His occupation wouldn’t be terribly obvious that night, having scrubbed the grease from under his nails and wearing his good short-sleeve dress shirt. The one without his name embroidered above the pocket. “Hey babe,” he’d say, grabbing her ass, “didn’t you used to know that guy?” Aidan would make a guest appearance, arriving as he lit cigars with hundred-dollar bills, the voluptuous flavor of the month hanging on his arm. He would look at Isabel, aghast, snapping his fingers as if he couldn’t quite recall her name.

The music stopped, Isabel shaking her head, trying to dislodge the future. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, she looked at Aidan. She was sure he’d forgotten Catswallow’s gala, certainly any moment they were on the verge of sharing before Fitz stepped up and realigned his universe. Aidan let out a howl like a crazed wolf, swinging her into the air. “Isabel, do you have any idea what this means?” A palpable electric current pulsed through him. No doubt you could see him glow from Birmingham. While happiness was hard to feign, it was impossible not to feel something. He was ecstatic. Isabel smiled, reaching for congratulatory words. They were there; she just needed a minute to get them out. As their wicked roller-coaster ride came to a jerky halt, Aidan’s expression grew serious. He bent forward, snatching Isabel up into a ferocious kiss. It was incredibly soft and powerful, the absence of the sticky sweetness of a watermelon Jolly Rancher not an issue. For a moment she was caught up in the kiss. It was as if Catswallow were raffling off dreams and Aidan and Isabel held every winning number. But like an unexpected suitor, apprehension cut in. It silenced a force that was moving with the power of a tsunami. Isabel pushed him away. The last thing she wanted was for Aidan to kiss her because she was the closest pair of lips. Isabel didn’t want to be the party kiss or, now, the
ain’t-life-grand
kiss. If Aidan was going to kiss her, it had to be because kissing Isabel was the only thing on his mind. She refused to be his exclamation point. That job belonged to every other girl in the room. Isabel’s desire not to be
one of them
exceeded her desire for him. If that was all he wanted, let Aidan Roycroft kiss the flavor of the month. She would not settle. Without a backward glance, or a congratulatory word, Isabel disappeared into a papier-mâché world, slipping out the side door of the Catswallow VFW.