Perfect Timing (34 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Boston

H
E’D
DRESSED
WITH
THE
INTENTION
OF
BLENDING IN, A SPORT JACKET AND JEANS
. As he waited, it didn’t help much. A full docket of patients came and went, Aidan doing his best to stay neutral to stares and bold whispers. Tomorrow the shocking headlines would surface:
Aidan Royce Seeks Boston Specialist
. Yet, no media source would know his real reason for reaching out to the best of the best. He flipped through magazines and checked in with Kai who was executing a detailed to-do list. Aidan’s no-appointment non-patient status increased the wait, Nate Potter making it clear where the rich and famous ranked on his schedule. Two hours in and the receptionist, who’d steadily worked the gossip on her phone tree, said Dr. Potter would see him.

“I appreciate you taking the time.” Aidan sat tentatively, looking around an office that showed off pleasant green views of a Mass General courtyard. As Nate made his way around the desk, Aidan couldn’t help but think how many times Eric Lang had been there. More to the point, he wondered when his daughter had fallen in love with the man seated across from him.

“I wouldn’t thank me yet. Depending on what you want, security is one phone call away.”

“I’m not here to cause a problem. I came to ask if you’d be the go-between.” Nate’s face turned quizzical, his hand tapping a folder against the desk. “It will make things easier. Isabel will get a phone call today from Kai Stoughton, he works for me. I’m going to do the promotional concert. Isabel . . . well, she can be stubborn. I want you to tell her to go with it. There aren’t any strings attached. It will solve her ratings crisis and the proceeds will go a long way to benefitting Grassroots Kids.”

“Why?”

“Because she asked, because there’s no legitimate reason to turn her down.”

“No, why do you want me to be the go-between? Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

Aidan was unprepared for the question. “Because I want to do the right thing before getting out of her life for good. I’ve, um . . . I’ve amended my hell-bent ways to get what I want.”

“Since when?”

“Since I got the graphic visual on what Isabel wants, her feelings for you.”

There was a slight shake to Nate’s head. “And how did that come about?”

“You were together, after the funeral, in the doorway of the brownstone.”

His dark eyes widened. “Are you having her followed? Are there Polaroids I should know about?”

“What? No! Of course not. I knew where Eric lived. Years of a repetitive return address label. Ask Isabel. I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the restaurant. I went to the brownstone to tell her what I just told you, that I’ll do the concert, and thinking maybe . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what else I was thinking.” Nate only stared, prodding more explanation. “I got where it was going before the two of you went inside.”

“I see,” Nate said, leaning back. “I suppose it was obvious enough, not the kind of moment even you’d interrupt.”

“Yeah, huge as my ego may be, we’re good. If you have Polaroids, I don’t need to see them.” He stayed on task by focusing on the benign objects scattered across Nate’s desk. Aidan used them to blur intimate visions: paperweight, prescription pad, lots of papers, a note in bright red pen:
Jenny Called . . .
“Beyond that, I can see that you’re a good person. That you’ll take care of Isabel, you won’t do anything to hurt her—ever.” It wasn’t a statement, more of a demand for reassurance. “Isabel, she’s smart and she’s capable, she doesn’t deserve anything less in return.” Having said his piece, he should have left. But Nate’s physician serenity got in the way, trustworthiness a lure. “Mostly, I can’t tell her because it would kill me to see her again, knowing I’ll never be that guy . . . that I’m not you.”

The folder slipped from Nate’s hand, catching it with his other. He shifted in his chair, pressing forward. “Aidan Royce wants to be me? Even with my respectable position and comfortable life, it’s not yours. Trading places doesn’t seem like a must-have for a guy like you.”

“I’d be the fucking dogcatcher—a very happy single-wide resident of Catswallow, Alabama—if that’s the guy Isabel was in love with.” And through his considerable pain, Aidan smiled. “Rock stars don’t get many fantasies. Downside of the trade. That one will always be mine. Success, money, fame . . . the endlessly spinning crap that goes with it. Isabel is the only thing I ever really wanted. That hasn’t changed since I was a kid,” he confessed. “For a while, I convinced myself it could happen. If I could just make her see that any divorce was a mistake. That given the right
circumstance
, the timing would be perfect.” He rose from the chair. “It was an egotistical arrogant assumption. So if you could tell her . . . about the concert.” Aidan was to the door, one step away from the beginning of the end.

“Wait.” He turned, Nate stood behind his desk, the folder in a choke hold. “You should know, the same night you saw us at the brownstone, Isabel told me she’d move to Boston, come live with me.”

Okay, maybe I missed the sadistic streak.
Aidan gulped hard, fists clenching. “Congratulations.”

“And here’s what you missed after the door closed.” He tossed the folder onto the desk, loose papers fluttering. “I made the enlightening error of suggesting that moving in with me was code for running away from you.” A breath fell from Aidan, listening harder. “Isabel insisted it was absurd. Halfway up the stairs, on the way to her bedroom, she insisted that she needed to think about it. That was a week ago. I haven’t heard from her since. As much as I wish otherwise, I’m not that guy.” He sat, busying himself with the papers on his desk, glancing back. “But I think there’s every chance you are. Talk to Isabel.”

Aidan moved forward, his fingers digging into the back of a leather chair. “I can’t. Every time I get within twenty feet of her it blows up in my face.”

“Not my problem,” he said, reaching for the largest stack. Nate looked up, perplexed. “Jesus Christ, you’re Aidan Royce. How is confidence an issue?” Aidan didn’t reply, Nate pushing back in his chair. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m sure as hell not brokering an audience with your ex-wife.”

My ex-wife . . .
That’s where he needed to start. Aidan needed an audience with the one person less willing to see him than Isabel. “Fair enough. But would you broker one with Patrick Bourne?”

“I SUPPOSE KEEPING BUSY, GETTING BACK TO WORK HELPS . . . SOME.”
He struggled for small talk, the setting riddled with awkwardness. “I admit; I was surprised you agreed to see me.”

“Not half as fucking surprised as me.” Patrick didn’t indicate that Aidan should sit, the two standing at opposing angles in an office far more intimidating than Nate’s.

“I understand that you have a great deal of respect for Nate Potter, so I appreciate . . .”

Patrick’s tall frame leaned against a bookcase, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. His face was drained of color, every indication being that Aidan Royce was aggravating an already cumbersome workday. “While my respect for Dr. Potter is tremendous, not even he could convince me to talk to you. He asked that I do it for Eric. I can’t imagine he would say such a thing without a hell of a reason. Now, what do you want?”

To answer directly seemed like the long way around, and Aidan decided to go with his gut. Of course, there was every chance his gut would lead to the punch in the face he’d narrowly avoided during their last encounter, but he could think of no other way. “I need a lawyer.”

There was a snort of laughter, Patrick turning toward a credenza. With a room-rattling thud a giant phonebook landed on top of his desk. “Try the Yellow Pages. I don’t do entertainment law, and my involvement with scum generally results in deportation. Of course, if you’d like, I’d be glad to expedite the paperwork on that front.”

While Aidan was chary of Patrick’s state of mind, he was determined to stand his ground. “I may not be able to prove much to you, but I don’t think my citizenship is in question. I asked for a meeting so you could clarify something.” Aidan produced a blue-backed document, dropping it atop the phonebook.

Patrick glanced at it. “You need me to clarify the document legally nullifying your marriage to Isabel? Catch up, Aidan, that’s old news.”

“No, I got that part seven years ago, C-Note lawyers assured me our divorce was ironclad and well executed. I want you to clarify a more recent statement. The one you made in the hospital ICU. You said,
I
wanted out of the marriage. Look closer, Patrick. That petition was generated via Isabel’s attorney, which was you. She divorced me. Not what you indicated, not the other way around.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Patrick snatched up a pair of reading glasses and the document. He flipped through, scanning furiously. “Where did you get this?”

“From the safe where it’s been since it arrived in California—from Boston. I couldn’t ask you to explain at the hospital. But I’m asking now. I assumed you wouldn’t take my word, so I personally flew back to L.A. to retrieve it,” he said, pointing. “Now that we’re both caught up, would you explain how
I
wanted to end the marriage?”

He snapped off the glasses, his stare bearing down on Aidan. “I did generate this . . . Isabel signed it—but only to keep you from going to jail!”

“Okay, explain that part first,” Aidan said, waiting anxiously.

Patrick looked up from the papers he held. “According to Fitz Landrey, the last thing your rocket to fame required was a teenage bride. He was prepared to abandon everything he’d promised if you and Isabel remained married. He wanted any liability she represented gone. He also held a significant trump card, enough that she wouldn’t consider any other option. In addition to Isabel being responsible for your noncareer, Fitz also assured her that you’d go to jail for Rick Stanton’s shooting. Even I had to admit, he had her from every angle. I was prepared to do whatever she wanted, but any courtroom trial would not have ended in your favor. She knew that.” They traded a stunned look, Patrick shaking his head. “But here’s the thing, I never filed this petition because . . . Wait,” he said, crossing the room to a wooden filing cabinet. Moments later he returned, plunking down a similar set of blue-backed papers. “These arrived the morning, almost to the moment, Isabel signed those. After your curt dismissal, considering what she was willing to do to save your ass . . . Well, it was clear that you’d made your choice, and certainly not for the same reasons she’d made hers. I was appalled by your heartlessness. When I spoke with your attorney—”

“When you spoke with my what?”

“Your attorney,” Patrick said, his voice growing as quizzical as Aidan’s. “We had an in-depth conversation on the matter, and he assured me of your wishes. At that point, there was really nothing for Isabel to do except sign and salvage a moment of dignity.” Aidan picked up the documents, carefully, without the advantage of Patrick’s legal eye examining them. “Those are copies. Isabel has the originals. As you see, the letter . . . it’s extremely personal. Telling her you’d decided she was right, that a marriage could only work if two people were in love. You said your wedding night proved as much. Only a conversation you would know about, Aidan.”

“Only a conversation I would know about unless, in a moment of despair, I confided it to someone else. Someone who had nothing to lose and everything to gain.” Aidan stared at his signature, which he did identify but couldn’t explain. That didn’t matter, as his ability to speak was stunted.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Patrick said.

Aidan could barely make his eyes move, forcing them from the papers onto him. “What?”

“I make a living, even life and death judgments, by reading peoples’ body language, their raw reactions to situations. And I’d almost swear you’ve never seen those documents before.”

“Well,” Aidan said, swallowing hard, calculating what fame and money had cost him. “I’d say you’re damn good at your job, because I haven’t.”