What the Single Dad Wants...

by Marie Ferrarella

  Unfazed, Isabelle continued smiling and slowly rotating the woman’s leg from side to side to encompass what she felt were its essential limits for now. “Don’t worry, this’ll seem like nothing to you soon.”

  Anastasia wanted something more definite than that. “When?” she demanded.

  “When your body gets a little stronger.” Stopping, Isabelle lowered the woman’s leg and leaned back. They both relaxed. “This is a slow process, Anastasia, and you’re already making more progress than most patients in your age bracket.”

  Somewhat pleased, Anastasia still saw fit to challenge her. “Is that your polite way of saying that I’m old?”

  “No, that’s my way of using the data that’s been compiled about the response rate of various different groups of people as a reference point. This way, as your physical therapist, I know more or less what to expect by way of normal progress—and what to shoot for.”

  Anastasia looked unconvinced. She sniffed slightly. “That’s very diplomatic.”

  Isabelle wasn’t about to be baited. Her father used to do that, trying to trap her into admissions she had no desire of making. He felt it was his way of showing off his superiority. She’d learned how to make the most of evasive maneuvers.

  “It’s just the truth. Now, do you want to rest or continue a little longer?”

  “I want to rest,” Anastasia declared. But even as she said so, the actress propped herself up on her elbows, braced for anything. “But I’ll continue a little longer.” And then she glanced toward the doorway and raised her voice. “Preferably without an audience.”

  Now there was something she thought she’d never hear from the actress, Isabelle thought as she turned around to see who the woman was talking to.

  Brandon.

  Three days into her stay and the sight of the handsome author still caused her heart to flutter like a butterfly caught in an updraft.

  How long was it going to take for her to get used to having him pop up like that? She had a feeling she knew the answer to that, and it was not one that worked in her favor.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not staying,” Brandon told his mother as he popped into the room. He nodded a greeting coupled with a smile at Isabelle before shifting back to his mother. “Just wanted to tell you that I’ll be out for a while. Do you need anything before I go? Pillows fluffed, foot massaged, a cup of coffee…?” he teased, his voice trailing off.

  “I’m sure Isabelle will indulge me if I find I want something. Where are you off to?” Anastasia suddenly narrowed her eyes as a possible answer occurred to her. “You’re not seeing that dreadful Wanda person again, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” Brandon replied patiently. “And go easy on her. She was just a reporter, doing an interview. My last book is being reissued in paperback next week, remember? Publicity never hurts, no matter how big you think you are.”

  Isabelle had read that interview by Wanda Miller. Brandon had come off very well, but then, he always did. It was to his credit that he gave himself no airs, did not think of himself as being too big to fail. He made it a point to always cooperate with the press, and they apparently loved him for it.

  Anastasia seemed to stop listening halfway through her son’s reply. Instead, she shook her head, a look of incredulousness entering her famous eyes. “Just a reporter—ha! How is it you got to be thirty-two years old and still have no clue about women?”

  For a fleeting moment, his eyes connected with Isabelle’s, and then he shifted to his mother. “I guess that some mysteries are just meant to remain that way.”

  The actress’s sigh was deep and despairing. “You need a keeper,” Anastasia pronounced.

  Brandon grinned good-naturedly. He took no offense. He was used to his mother’s broad strokes, whether with a brush on a canvas, or verbally. “I have you and Victoria—what more do I need?”

  Anastasia gave a gentle snort, as if withdrawing from the field of battle for the moment. “You still haven’t said where you’re going,” his mother reminded him.

  “No, I didn’t,” he agreed just before he began to walk out of the gym.

  “Brandon.”

  Only Anastasia Del Vecchio could have infused so many emotions and nuances into the two syllables of his name, Isabelle thought, utterly impressed. The single utterance spoke volumes without saying any more than just his name.

  Brandon paused in the doorway. “I’m scouting out locations for my next book,” he told her.

  By nature Brandon was a very visual person. He found that he needed to see something, to be part of it, before he could adequately describe it and hope to do it justice. Once it was there, in his memory banks, he could take off from that point and weave a location of his own. But he needed a starting point.

  “I’ve always been partial to the area near Laguna Beach,” his mother told him. “It reminds me of this little hotel on the Riviera where your father and I honeymooned. Before I discovered he was a scoundrel.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. And then, as if she’d suddenly been struck with this most original thought, she suggested, “Why don’t you have Isabelle go with you? She can be your sounding board.”

  “I don’t need a sounding board for a location, Mother,” he told her patiently, then reconsidered his words. “But I could use the company.” He turned toward Isa belle. “How about it? Are you up for a little aimless driving?”

  If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t just in search of a location. He was looking for a plot to go with that location and really hoped that the one—when he found something that moved him—would wind up triggering the other.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Just what was happening here? Confused, Isabelle looked at the older woman. “I thought you said you wanted to push on.”

  Anastasia started to get down from the table, then hesitated, trying to decide which foot to put down first, the one that belonged to her brand-new hip, or the one where it was business as usual. After a beat, she held off on her decision.

  “I changed my mind,” Anastasia announced with a touch of haughtiness. Softening, she addressed the puzzled look on Isabelle’s face. “It’s what I do.”

  “Yes, I know. Oh, so well,” Brandon couldn’t resist adding.

  “That’ll be enough out of you,” his mother declared with an air of finality. She left no room for even the slightest argument. That done, the woman turned her attention to her physical therapist.

  “Go, get some fresh air. Renew your ‘juices,’ or whatever it is that you call them,” Anastasia ordered, waving her hand toward the doorway. “You’re of no use to me if you’re exhausted when we start out.”

  Isabelle wasn’t sure what the actress was talking about. She had certainly never approached their sessions together with anything but bright enthusiasm and energy. It was one of her work principles to always be upbeat and positive with a client and to never allow them to become discouraged or, worse, to allow herself to behave in a discouraged manner around them. She was getting paid to help, not to whine.

  “Brandon,” she called, summoning him as she held out her hand in a gesture that was nothing short of regal. “Be a good boy and help your mother off the table.”

  “Now there’s a line I hope no one ever overhears,” he quipped to Isabelle. Coming to his mother’s side with sure, strong hands, he bracketed her body on either side. The next moment, he was scooping her off the tale as if Anastasia weighed perhaps fifty pounds.

  Upright and on her feet again, Anastasia slowly released her grip on the back of Brandon’s neck. “Thank you, dear. Now run along, both of you. I have some lines to run.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. His mother was a notoriously social creature who rarely did anything alone. “By yourself?”

  “No,” Victoria said, coming into the room to see if her grandmother was ready yet. “Gemma asked me to cue her.”

  Brandon pretended not to care for the idea. “You’re just trying to brainwash my very levelheaded da
ughter and secretly turn her into an actress wannabe. Isn’t one in the family enough?”

  Anastasia merely shook her head, as if pitying someone who was so suspicious. The truth was, if her granddaughter wanted to follow in her footsteps, she would have happily moved heaven and earth to make it happen.

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re babbling about, dear,” she told Brandon. “I have always been more than enough for my audiences and Victoria’s just helping me out by cuing me. Now go, shoo. You’re distracting me. Both of you.”

  Using the hand-carved cane that Brandon had gifted her with just before she came home from the hospital, Anastasia took small baby steps toward her granddaughter. Draping one arm a bit more heavily than she would have liked to over the girl’s slender, sturdy shoulders she asked, “Ready to run through those lines with me?”

  Victoria had a smile that lit up a room. Anastasia liked to say the girl got it from her. “Absolutely, Gemma.”

  “Well, I’m set for the afternoon,” Anastasia pronounced. She looked at her son and Isabelle. “Now, go, both of you.” As they began to leave, Anastasia raised her voice and called out after Brandon, “Maybe she can help you with your writer’s block.”

  Stunned, Isabelle looked at him. This was something new. Brandon Slade was regarded as exceedingly prolific and never at a loss for either ideas or words. “You have writer’s block?”

  “I do not have writer’s block.” The strongly voiced denial was aimed at his mother, not Isabelle. His tone softened as he walked out of the gym and addressed her. “It just hasn’t come all together for me yet,” he allowed evasively. “Doesn’t mean that it won’t,” he added quickly.

  Isabelle nodded. There was no reason to believe that it wouldn’t. “And you’re hoping if you see the right locale, the story will start falling into place for you.”

  “Exactly.” There was gratitude in Brandon’s eyes when he looked at her just as they reached the front door. “You understand.”

  “I do a lot of that in my line of work. Understanding,” she clarified when he continued regarding her, looking just the slightest bit baffled. “I understand what they’re going through. I understand the frustration when their progress isn’t going as fast as they would like it to. And I understand why they resort to procrastination when they should be pushing forward.” He opened the front door, waiting for her to walk out first. But she remained standing where she was. “Listen, you don’t need me to tag along. I understand that you agreed just to humor your mother—”

  “Then maybe you’re not as ‘understanding’ as you think,” he contradicted. “I really would like the company,” he assured her, adding, “and you could give me another take on the location.”

  She doubted he needed anyone else’s input. At least, not hers. “Isn’t writing really the ultimate intimate experience? You dig into yourself to get the story, the emotions, the specific characteristics of your people—”

  “All true,” he agreed. But she was overlooking something. “The bottom line is that I do it to entertain my readers and to bring in a few thousand more. In other words, the general public.” Very gently, he ushered her out the door and closed it behind him. “You could be my public—unless you have something else to do,” he interjected. It occurred to him that he just might have taken too much for granted by assuming Isabelle would be willing to drop everything to hop into the car with him and take off.

  Isabelle didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she appeared to seriously consider the matter. Putting her hands out as if she were actually weighing two things, she lifted first her right hand, then her left, murmuring under her breath in what was a stage whisper, “Hmm, doing my laundry, scouting out a location for a new Brandon Slade thriller. Hard call, but I think the scouting thing has a slight edge.” Dropping her hands, her eyes crinkled as she laughed. “Let’s go.”

  For the first time, he noticed that Isabelle had a dimple in the corner of her mouth. It was only on the right, and it was damn near delectable, Brandon caught himself thinking.

  Trying not to dwell on that, or the thoughts about her mouth it brought with it, he led Isabelle toward the six-car garage.

  The temperature-controlled enclosure currently housed only three vehicles, his two rather expensive cars and the vintage Mercedes that his mother favored.

  He’d had the latter brought over in case his mother felt like going for a drive as part of her recovery program. He judged that they were at least two weeks away from her getting behind the wheel at this point.

  The rest of the garage, Isabelle noted as they entered, was devoted to an entertainment center, a pool table and all the possible accessories belonging to a first-class gaming area, including a fully-stocked refrigerator.

  “You throw a lot of parties here?” she asked, looking around in awe.

  “A few,” he conceded. “After I finish working on a book, I like to touch base with my friends. Actually, a lot of them are also my mother’s friends,” he admitted. He liked keeping in touch with that eccentric crowd. There were many fond memories associated with them. “I was like their mascot when I was growing up. Writing can be a very lonely experience and I like balancing it out by socializing with people when I can. Besides, talking to people—” and by this he included anyone who crossed his path “—always gives me fresh ideas.”

  “Right, you cannibalize everyone,” she said, remembering what he’d told her the other day.

  “I’ve got to find a better word for it,” he decided, bringing her over to his SUV.

  Because it was a customized white SUV, there was a regal quality to it that made it look like more than just a fun car.

  Opening the passenger door for her, Brandon waited until Isabelle got in. Then he closed it again before rounding the hood and getting into the driver’s side.

  “Notice the leg room,” he couldn’t resist pointing out.

  “I notice it,” she answered, then looked up at him. “Another six inches and I could probably go bowling in it.”

  He laughed as he put his key in the ignition. “Wise guy.”

  She smiled to herself as Brandon pressed the remote control attached to the sun visor that was above his side of the windshield. Directly behind them the garage door silently slid upward until, tucked away, it seemed to completely disappear from view. The garage was instantly bright with sunshine.

  “Do you have to be back any particular time?” he asked her.

  She hadn’t gotten around to giving Anastasia the schedules she’d drawn up, so she felt she could be forgiven a small white lie, uttered in hopes of extending her time with him a little longer.

  “Nothing specific,” Isabelle answered. “Just to exercise your mother again.”

  “Perfect,” he pronounced with an affirming nod. “That means the afternoon is completely wide open. She’s running lines with Victoria, and whenever she does that, Mother gets completely consumed by the character she’s learning to inhabit. Knowing her, she won’t be up for air for hours.”

  Isabelle thought of Victoria. The girl might behave maturely, acting years older than what was written on her birth certificate, but at bottom, she was still a twelve-year-old.

  “Is your daughter up to that? Running lines with her grandmother for hours?” It seemed like a lot to ask of the girl.

  “She’s up to it all right.” There was no small amount of pride in Brandon’s voice as he added, “Victoria’s a very exceptional girl.”

  Being exceptional obviously ran in the family, Isabelle couldn’t help thinking as she slanted a covert glance at Victoria’s father.

  The next moment, the SUV picked up speed, and they were off.

  As was, Isabelle noted, her pulse. Again.

  Chapter Seven

  The road leading to Laguna Beach ran through various beach communities that dotted the coast. Brandon drove along unhurried, lightly skimming around Pacific Coast Highway’s twists and turns, as comfortable as a man visiting old friends to seek out the
ir advice.

  Except that it was different this time.

  Different because this time, he had someone with him. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could, if need be, bounce half-formed ideas off of.

  With songs from a bygone era softly playing in the background on the oldies station he had preset on his radio, Brandon did his best to focus, to home in on some kind of a kernel of thought that would start the process finally moving in the right direction for him.

  He refused to believe that, after ten well-received bestsellers and a new one about to hit the shelves in a couple of weeks, that he was suddenly dry. Refused to entertain the thought that his best work was now behind him.

  Still, he had to admit that he was more focused on the young woman in the passenger seat next to him than he was on anything he could put down on the page.

  Was it her fault he couldn’t think—or had he brought her along to give himself an excuse for not thinking?

  At this point, he wasn’t sure. It was a “chicken or egg” sort of question.

  Thinking it might help seed the barren terrain that was his ordinarily fruitful mind, Brandon decided to get a conversation rolling.

  Turning down the radio, he asked Isabelle, “What made you become a physical therapist?”

  The question came out of the blue, catching Isabelle off guard. It took her a second to realize Brandon was talking to her. He’d been quiet since they’d turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, and she just assumed that he was plotting a scene in his head or something along those lines. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt him.

  But now that he’d addressed her, she felt she was free to talk to him. She started by answering his question. “Well, my sister would tell you it’s because I like to order people around and make them do what I tell them, but the truth is simpler than that. I like helping people. I have an aptitude for it. I can motivate people, get them fired up to try again instead of giving up. Having a small part in their healing makes me feel good,” she told him honestly.