Perfect Timing (9 page)

“The DJs?”

“Hello? Didn’t you hear a word Rudy said? Where have you been for the last hour?”

Not here, apparently . . .

“Poor thing,” Tanya said, rubbing her arm. “Your plate was already full with Grassroots Kids. Just what you need, another impossible problem.” The empathetic look spurred a queasy feeling in Isabel’s gut. “They let them all go. Tomorrow
98.6—The Normal FM for Easy Listening
goes on air as
104.7—The Raging Fever FM for Hot Sound.
” A massive gulp rolled through Isabel’s throat—like she’d swallowed a watermelon. Her eyes peeled wide as Mary Louise delivered the entire bullet.

“It’s the radio station nightmare and it’s happening to us. We’ve been bought out, a complete format change: advertisers, music, demographics, and promotions. But I suppose the handwriting’s been on the wall. Our format can’t compete with any of the contemporary markets or talk radio, and let’s not even discuss satellite. So starting tomorrow, we’re all rock ’n’ roll, all the time. The incoming regime wants a giant-size promotion to draw a new audience,” she said. “You know the type, greedy capitalists. They’ll want to rake in the bucks right away. And they won’t care what kind of hype we use to do it.”

“That’s true,” said Tanya. “Remember last year when
107.9 Providence Power
was bought out? To meet their new numbers, they ran that crazy promotion with Naked Rob, their morning DJ. Listeners called in trying to outdo one another with the station’s Hottest Place, Hottest Partner contest. First prize was $1,000.”

“That’s right. It went okay until some guy described, in detail, the woman he’d encountered and her prop-filled bedroom, top-of-the-line accessories. A page right out of . . . well, never mind,” Mary Louise said, “you get the idea.”

“Oh, yes,” Isabel recalled. “The police found the guy the next day, naked, bound and gagged in his own garage . . . with his, um . . .”

“His, um, attached to fishing line that attached to the garage door opener,” said Tanya. “Apparently, the man’s neighbor was listening too. The woman and
accessories
belonged to him.”

“But he won the contest, right?” In sync, Tanya and Isabel’s heads turned toward Mary Louise.

Rudy Shaw, a man whose signature three-piece suit was his calling card, popped back through the door. More train conductor than overseer of a rock ’n’ roll station, he opened his pocket watch again. “Ladies, I suggest you get busy—pronto. What I mean is you’ll come up with something, right?” Rudy Shaw was a nervous, post-middle-age man with chronic indigestion and little tolerance for change. It occurred to Isabel that his job was in real jeopardy. He was the perfect fit for
98.6—The Normal FM
, having surrendered back during the British invasion. Chances were he had one shot to prove his worth. “This buyout came as a shock to me. I didn’t even know the station was for sale.” He looked expectantly at the wall clock. “The minutes are ticking. I’m sorry. I know this is practically impossible.” He unraveled a Rolaid and disappeared out the door.

“Eight weeks,” Mary Louise sighed. “He’s right. It’s zero time to pull off a major ratings grabber.”

“Especially with zero connections,” Tanya said, fingers dragging through a thick bob of hair. “It takes years to develop those kinds of contacts. Our usual go-to options, a telethon from Ned’s Bowlarama or a trip to Mystic Seaport, they’re not going to cut it.” Three heads nodded in agreement, Tanya’s face suddenly brightening. “Hey,” she said, grasping Isabel’s shoulder. “Maybe we do have a connection, a real ratings grabber.” Isabel’s head ticked around, wondering if she was looking right into it. “Isabel, don’t you know people in Alabama who own a bunch of car dealerships? If they could hook us up . . .”

She stopped midsentence, Isabel’s appalled expression ending the query. She’d put herself, Mary Louise, and Tanya on a street corner to solicit listeners before she’d ever ask—Well, like that would get them there. “Gimmicks aren’t going to cut it, Tanya. Did you see those numbers?” she asked, pushing the forecast sheet toward her. “We’d have to give away a luxury car every day for a month to draw that kind of audience.” Isabel leaned back, chewing on a thumbnail.

“Mmm, I suppose it would be hard to get anyone to give us a car every day for a month.” Isabel stared, her eyes meeting with the layer of denseness that translated into Tanya’s three children. “So you think it needs to be something bigger. Something with a massive guaranteed draw.”

“Yes, something with a huge draw.”

“Something people want,” Mary Louise added.

“Like a lightning-in-a-bottle kind of thing,” said Tanya.

“Lightning in a bottle,” Mary Louise echoed.

“Wouldn’t a huge concert be that kind of draw, generate those kinds of ratings?” Tanya said, her chin resting on her fist.

Sometimes, at the worst possible moment, denseness managed to hit the nail on the head. Isabel’s teeth bore down into the flesh of her thumb as a careful gaze rose. She suspected that direct eye contact might give her away.

“Yes, hosting an event like that would be a slam dunk,” said Mary Louise. “But so what? Even if we scraped together the talent from every past
Normal FM
event, it’s all wrong. Kidnapping Neil Sedaka, Paul Anka, and most of the headliners at Foxwoods wouldn’t be close to the firepower we need.”

“I guess not.” Tanya sighed, her stubby nails thrumming the table. “Maybe you were right, Mary Louise. Maybe we should spend the time looking for new jobs.”

Isabel kept her focus on the tabletop, Mary Louise’s stare penetrating. She was supposed to be in charge, the leader, the idea person. She didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move. “Still, we need to make some kind of effort. Don’t we?” Isabel ignored the verbal nudge, pressing deeper into her chair. “Okay then.” Mary Louise’s gaze edged off Isabel. “Listen, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll start putting together some potential ideas. Tanya, you call over to
Providence Power.
See if you can find out the exact limits of liability, if anyone tried to sue after the, um, fishing line incident.” Tanya nodded, ready to take direction. “Who knows what we’ll have to do to make this happen.”

Tanya and Mary Louise gathered up their belongings and burdens and headed out. At the door, Tanya lingered, maybe looking to cure whatever ailed their usually competent supervisor. “Hey, Isabel,” she said, smiling. “It’s too bad you don’t really know Aidan Royce.” Isabel gulped hard, swallowing down whatever thing that was one size larger than a watermelon. “Imagine what we could do if you had a connection like that.”

Keeping a firm hold on her poker face, she shrugged. “Yeah, just imagine.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Catswallow, Alabama

A
IDAN
PULLED
INTO
THE
DARK
DRIVEWAY
OF
THE
FARMHOUSE
, JERKING THE
truck into park. He couldn’t get Isabel inside fast enough. He needed to take control of the situation, and the only way he knew how to do that was to get her somewhere safe. That meant the farmhouse. Seconds after the gunshot, a moment after he took Stanton out, Isabel was telling him to get in the truck, start the engine. Dazed by the fast and furious events he followed the instructions. It was a habit, forever listening to whatever Isabel said. Aidan thought she was right behind him, but she’d scurried out the door moments later. No one said a word as they drove, not until he’d reached to his cheek, dabbing a bloody bruise. “Here, turn here,” she’d said, pointing to a convenience store. Isabel hopped out of the truck, the dress rustling as she hurried inside. He could see her moving from aisle to aisle, orderly, the way she did everything. Even after Stanton . . .
What?
Coming through the trailer door, the scene inside was evident and forever bound to his brain. But Aidan didn’t know if he arrived just in time or seconds too late. It could have been either. Composed and in control, that was Isabel and it made it impossible to tell. She could always take care of herself. But in that circumstance . . . Aidan scrubbed a hand over his face, the thought too heinous. Through the stark light of the convenience store he stared at Isabel, who was conversing with the clerk. To his point, outside she was a mess, yet her poise was unflappable. He was overwrought by the possibility of a ripped ball gown being the least of the damage.
What do I say? How do I handle that?
With his fingers in a death grip on the steering wheel, Aidan closed his eyes, convincing himself that he’d come up with the words—whatever Stanton had done. Moments later she climbed back into the truck, not saying anything, handing him a bag of frozen peas. And for a split second Aidan thought she’d lost it.

“For your face,” she said, guiding the bag toward him. It molded perfectly to the swell of his cheek. “The ice machine was broken. This will work.”

A few minutes later they arrived at the farmhouse. They sat in silence, the truck idling. “Aidan, turn the engine off.”

He obeyed, still blindsided, dropping the bag of peas onto the seat. He couldn’t get it out of his mouth, what he needed to ask. Monstrous visions stole his voice: Rick Stanton . . . Isabel tight in his grasp—his pants wide open. With the spark of an electric shock, he scrambled out of the truck, pacing in a small circle. It was so horrifically . . .
real
. Aidan squeezed his eyes shut. His swollen fists, his cheek, his head, it all pounded like an anvil, but it was Isabel’s fate that caused the most livid pain. He forced down the bile that rose to the edge of his throat. Looking across the hood of the truck, his gaze followed Isabel as she reached the rickety porch, peas in hand. “Isabel!” he shouted. It was the loudest sound since the gun had fired. She stopped, turning. “I need to know what happened. If I . . . if he . . .” The idea of Isabel suffering something so awful, and the word, it was too grotesque. He couldn’t make himself say it.

“I’m okay, Aidan. He didn’t . . .” She hesitated, arms wrapping tight, a hand sliding to the torn bodice, holding the fabric in place. “You got there in time.”

Bending forward, he murmured, “Thank you, God.” With his hands clamped to his thighs, Aidan exhaled so deeply he thought he’d knock himself over. He let the affirmation sink in, dragging himself along to the door. Isabel said nothing more as she moved about the worn kitchen. Aidan began to calm, soothed by the familiar sight—less the ball gown. She belonged there, a bright moon enhancing a glow that was ever-present and bound to her. But his brow knotted as Isabel opened her purse, shoving a watch and a fat money clip into a drawer.

“Here they are,” she said, pulling candles from a cabinet, setting one on a plate.

As she lit it, Aidan’s gaze adjusted to the ambient flicker. It linked with a stream of moonlight that poured through the dirty cracked windows. Everything poured into the farmhouse, everything that mattered. They’d accumulated a lot of stuff over the years. It made no sense—it had nothing to do with his plans—but Aidan often found himself lost in the idea that one day they’d show up to the farmhouse and never leave. The Kessler family had lived there for generations; there was even a family plot. There were more than a dozen headstones adjacent to the front orchard. It was land that Aidan had walked a thousand times. Even in its defunct state, the old farm had a real family vibe, the two of them bonding over the thing they desperately lacked. It was a concept that everyone he knew viewed as archaic and irrelevant. Aidan felt differently, fascinated by the idea of a home with two functioning parents. John Roycroft didn’t have the decency to own up to his common-law marriage to Stella, never mind considering the kind that came with a license and ceremony. Not even after he had a son. In turn, this made Aidan wonder what, exactly, you’d need to feel for another person to make that kind of commitment. Being there, at the farmhouse, stirred a lot of thoughts. But right now, it only made him realize where he was. He was where anyone would want to be after such a wicked night—he was home.

Tossing the match into the sink, Isabel turned. Beyond the chaos of the trailer, closer than she’d been in the truck, he saw it, candlelight illuminating the harsh red of one cheek. “He hit you?” It was dull and stupid, but it was the only thing that would come out of his mouth.

“He hit you harder.” She handed Aidan back the peas, putting the candle down. But her eyes were wet, the confident line of Isabel’s chin quivering. Aidan dropped the frozen bag onto two crates that served as a makeshift table. Before, he wanted to kill Stanton; now he wanted him alive. Aidan wanted to drag him through the center of town, butt naked, and string him up from the flagpole at city hall. Isabel’s voice broke the intent, angry vision. “Before I came out to the truck I called an ambulance.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Aidan, he needed medical attention.”

“He needed a bullet through his head!” he shouted, turning away. With his hands on his waist he shook his head. “But I wasn’t man enough to do it. Was I, Isabel?” he said, speaking to the wall. “After what that son of a bitch did, the best I could manage was to put a bullet through the wall and my fist into his face.”

“He was unconscious. You did enough, you kept him from . . .” She clasped his arm and as he turned her voice steadied. “Aidan, are you crazy? You think it would have been better to have shot Rick Stanton? We’re probably in enough troub—”

“You think I give a damn about that?” Aidan edged closer, looking past her red cheek, her ruined dress. Even so, he saw how beautiful she was, standing there, shivering in moonlight and candles. Damn, why hadn’t he said it earlier when a compliment would have mattered? “
Isabel, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen . . .”
It was his everyday opinion, that being why he could manage even less tonight. She was the most beautiful piece of music come to life. And he’d come so close to saying as much. Aidan almost blurted it out on the dance floor, everything that he’d kept quiet about since the disparity had dawned on him. It was the day Aidan understood the difference between wanting other girls and loving Isabel. But things were best this way, and he was mindful of that. Aidan Roycroft was his father’s son. There was no gray area. For a man he never knew, he saw the stark resemblance. He’d heard it from everyone—Shanna O’Rourke to scum like Rick Stanton. He knew what Isabel’s own mother thought of him. He’d seen what his father’s philandering had done. It broke Stella Roycroft. And Aidan guessed he’d rather die before hurting Isabel that way. Besides, Isabel was wise to him, her romantic disinterest clear. They were great friends, best friends, closer than kin. It was so important to her. Aidan was sure that if he even hinted at the truth, she’d slap him upside the head and never speak to him again. Tonight, though, he was determined to tell her. He was just about to when Fitz Landrey showed up, spinning his world out of order.
So don’t think, you idiot. Just do.

Aidan shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Isabel gathered it willingly, but it didn’t help. The shaking didn’t stop. “Here, sit.” The two of them sunk onto the sofa, the creaky springs groaning. Aidan closed his eyes, the despondent noise repeating in his head. It was a house rule, never to sit on the sofa with Isabel. Visions of where it could lead were taboo. But now, tonight after what happened with Stanton, Aidan needed her to know. “Isabel, I need to ask you something. Before what happened with Stanton, earlier, why’d you run away from me? You know . . . when I, um, kissed you.”

There was an odd look on her face, as if it was so removed and long ago she didn’t remember. Her fingertips inched toward his face, but she snapped them back. “When you kissed me, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t expect it.”

“Was it so awful?” One long arm reached toward the red of her cheek, seeing that both sides had turned crimson. She laughed and looked away. It wasn’t the reaction he usually got.

“No, of course not. It wasn’t awful. Like I said, it was just . . . unexpected. You kiss lots of girls, all the time. I don’t want to be
one of
them
—ever.”

One of them
. She couldn’t make that any clearer. “I see. I’m sorry.” He could barely get the words past the boulder in his throat. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh . . . okay.” They were both silent. He watched Isabel take a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. “Thanks, Aidan, for doing what you did. I told Stanton to leave, but he was all over me,” she said, plucking at the tattered fabric. “He said he’d paid for this dress, the beauty salon—everything.” There were tears, big puddling ones. He’d never seen Isabel cry. Despite her less than ideal family history, she was the strongest person Aidan knew. The sobs intensified as the story spilled out. Stanton had hinted at this before, offering Isabel beer, making vague remarks about the way she was dressed, wondering if she had a boyfriend. When she got to the part about Stanton’s roving hand in the restaurant, Aidan was ready to kick the crap out of him again. “I told myself it was nothing,” she gulped, wiping a hand across her nose. “That it was just my imagination. You’ve seen him with my mother. He’s another person around her.” There was mocking laughter, half a smile crossing Isabel’s lips. “You have to admire her consistency, between Rick and my dad she’s two for two.”

“Two for two?”

“Choosing men who possess two different personalities.”

“Isabel, your father’s personality has nothing to do with . . . Never mind, go on. Tell me the rest.”

“Tonight when Rick started in, it wasn’t completely obvious. Then,” she said, a shaky sigh expelling, “it was. Even so, I thought I could handle him.”

“He’s more than twice your size and he was drunk. Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you tell your mother?”

She was almost hyperventilating, the words barely coherent. “I tried. I was here, at the farmhouse, one night last week. I wanted to tell you then, but you’d gone to Jasper or Cullman . . . I don’t remember.”

“Good Hope,” he whispered, guilt rushing him. Ironically, he’d gone to He’s Not Here,
an always packed bar. The owner called with a last-minute opening, and Aidan jumped at the chance to feed his indulgent aspirations with a hundred bucks and a crowded room. Had Aidan turned him down, he would have been at the farmhouse. Isabel would have told him everything. And
this
would have never happened.

“She, um . . . my mother, she says she’s in love with him. I started to, but I couldn’t tell her. Not after everything with my father. But tonight, Rick made me so . . . so damn mad.” And despite her tears a flame lit; a fire that said Stanton would have had a hell of a fight on his hands. “Aidan, I swear, he would have had to kill me first, before I let him . . . But the worst part, when he kissed me . . .”

“He kissed you?”

Isabel’s fingers trailed over her pouty lips, clasping gingerly around her throat. “I couldn’t breathe. Not because I was afraid of what he was going to do. But because it was gone.”

“What was gone?” Aidan asked, wondering if reliving it was even worth it. He just wanted to find the thing that would make it all go away.

“You . . . your kiss. The way it felt, the taste, he took it away.”

Aidan Roycroft thought he could handle anything any girl threw at him. Then it occurred to him that this was what made her so hard to handle, so impossibly different. Isabel wasn’t like other girls. Not really meaning to, but so confused, Aidan could only close his eyes and laugh. “Isabel, you just told me you don’t want to be
one of them
—ever.”

“I don’t.” But her body said otherwise, coming closer, her forehead tipping against his. “I can’t be one of them, Aidan.”

His mouth pressed to the tears, kissing them away. He’d fought it for so long, everything he felt, and this much he could not resist. What the fuck was wrong with him? She said she didn’t want this. Was he going to be the second man to attack her in one night? A low hum pulsed from her throat. Aidan inched back. Her lips were pursed, eyes closed. He couldn’t read it. Isabel was all about words and precise direction, making it foreign and strange when she simply reached for him.