“Those were some serious punches,” he choked, spitting blood onto the carpet, “you swing harder than your daddy.” Rick wiped the lingering drip from his mouth, holding the gun steady. “Didn’t think that was possible. But I promise you, boy, this will pack an even bigger wallop.” The trigger cocked. Isabel didn’t think, she just moved. Layers of silky fabric were in motion, barreling at Rick, enough to knock him off balance and knock the gun from his grip. Aidan assisted with the tackle, taking him to the floor. A wrestling match ensued, punches flying again.
“Aidan, stop! It’s over. You’re going to kill him!” Isabel screamed so loud her words were a garbled shrill. But Rick wasn’t fighting back. He was fighting off Aidan as he shimmied across the marble sculpted carpet. Lying a few feet away, the small revolver glinted in the light. Isabel scrambled for it, but the two of them and every broken piece of furniture they now owned was in the way. Aidan spied it. They snaked across the floor kicking and swinging. The grunting and grappling peaked as confusion mounted. Isabel couldn’t see who had the gun—Aidan did. As she yelled again for it to stop, a short crack of thunder burst through the air, the smell of gunpowder filling the room. The sound was violent, louder than on TV, louder than she imagined something like that could be. But, maybe, the reason it was so loud was because of the horrific silence that followed.
CHAPTER SIX
Providence, Rhode Island
Present Day
THE STAFF MEETING DRAGGED ON, ISABEL OBLIVIOUS TO ANY AGENDA. She was too annoyed that she let herself be goaded into divulging a fact she shared with no one. She huffed loudly, which seemed to coincide with the vibe in the air. It was a brain freeze, the aftereffect of a late Sunday night, or, most likely, a desperate attempt to end the watercooler conversation about Aidan Royce. Thankfully, the confession hadn’t mattered, neither of Isabel’s co-workers taking a word to heart. She appreciated their skepticism. Had Tanya suddenly let it slip that she’d been present for any of Adam Levine’s body art, how seriously would Isabel take that? The two women had chuckled all the way to the conference room, chalking it up to an eccentric sense of humor.
Station manager Rudy Shaw had called the meeting, and Isabel was content to let him have the reins. No one looked in her direction. Surely, the always conscientious Isabel was taking copious notes on market shares and ratings grabbers. For their conservative audience that meant nothing more shocking than giveaway tickets to Antiques Roadshow or sponsoring a Celtic Woman concert. White noise hummed guiltily in Isabel’s ear. She shifted in her seat, staring at a 98.6—The Normal FM notepad that had been reduced to scrap paper. Focused on random doodling, Isabel reminded herself just how far she’d come from the Aidan Royce she woke to that morning. Or more to the point, the one who’d dominated her adolescence. The opposite of love was indifference . . . And she’d been indifferent for years—an in-your-face media blitz notwithstanding. Isabel felt eyes shift in her direction, keeping hers on the notepad. She heard Rudy prattle on about the upcoming ratings sweeps and everyday profit margins. No wonder her thoughts were askew. Fighting for an audience in a pool as shallow as theirs was a never-ending battle—kind of like being the corner IGA surrounded by big-box stores. Whatever the crisis, she’d handle it. Problems at 98.6—The Normal FM were manageable. Not like problems at Grassroots Kids. Isabel took a cleansing breath, redeploying her energy. Unwelcome angst drifted away, taking Aidan Royce with it. Goodbye and good riddance . . .
Grassroots Kids, now there was something worth thinking about, something that mattered. With her job at the radio station under control, Isabel had sought a greater challenge. For the past three years, 98.6—The Normal FM paid the bills while she pursued a loftier goal, Grassroots Kids. Until it literally burned to the ground, the not-for-profit organization had surpassed fledgling-entity status, gaining momentum and even praise from the Boston Globe. In the project’s most celebrated moment, last October, the Globe gave its stamp of approval, rewarding Isabel and the organization with an in-depth feature. The paper called Grassroots Kids “a future voice in the world of social conscientiousness.” The article and photos, which Nate had framed as a gift, were a testament to what was—before everything turned to charred rubble. An Easter Sunday three-alarm fire had left its Providence site, the mainstay for everything, in ruins. For Isabel, the not-for-profit was more than a building, though it really couldn’t function without one. Personally and professionally for her, it was a tangible thing, representing the capable, successful person Isabel’s parents had intended. Before the fire, her days were rewarding, doing double duty at the radio station and acting as CEO of Grassroots Kids. The small nonprofit served as a haven, providing everything from medical expenses and after-school programs to counseling for children who were dealing with personal crises. The idea had spawned after years of reflection, Isabel’s own past inspiring the concept for Grassroots Kids. If someone had been there to bridge the gap between her parents’ divorce and the upheaval to their lives, and had Isabel not expended so much energy hating her father, she felt certain things would have been different. Secondly, what almost happened with Rick Stanton did happen in many cases, and a place like Grassroots Kids was poised to help. As it was, years removed, Isabel was still uncomfortable standing near any man of a certain stature, even if he was Santa Claus. And if Aidan hadn’t been there . . . An involuntary hum rang from her throat, forced to acknowledge his single moment of honor. She flipped to a fresh sheet on her notepad, one that was crisp and even and blank.
Nate, she thought, smiling. Now there’s a man whose character is never in question. Grassroots Kids was hardly a one-woman effort, and help had come from a surprising source. The two had met under much different circumstances, with Nate in his professional capacity as rheumatologist extraordinaire and Isabel not as patient but as concerned family member. Before long, feelings sparked beyond the scope of medicinal issues. Isabel, whose man-listening skills were honed to perfection, was just the right ear for Nate’s troubles. He’d recently divorced from his wife, Jenny. She was a pediatrician who’d craved adventure, joining Boston’s Doctors Without Borders. It sent her to remote regions of the planet, mostly to places where they’d never heard of Boston. Nate was blindsided. He’d assumed their married life was scripted and that altruistic medicine would be best served via the overflow of Mass General’s emergency room. In the end he concluded that they’d married too young, too unsure about who they were as adults. Isabel appreciated the specifics of his circumstance. Eventually, Nate claimed indifference about Jenny, conversations moving on to Isabel’s daydream of a place like Grassroots Kids. He encouraged the prospect, assisting via his well-to-do family’s philanthropic ties by helping Isabel make initial contacts and connections. Raising awareness, she quickly learned, was paramount to raising money.
While she was thrilled by Nate’s help, it was a subtle attraction that led to a goose bump effect. She supposed it could happen like that, a person enters your life with the concept of professional distance understood. But after exhausting his past and tending to her future, they realized that the wall had crumbled, taking practiced etiquette with it. Last night things kicked up another notch when a quiet waterfront dinner took a passionate turn. On other Sunday evenings Nate had returned to Boston and a busy patient load. But yesterday his plan changed, and instead of taking Isabel home, Nate took her to bed. As always, his touch was fiery. The echoed I love you were not new words. Nate had said them before, in the warmth of a bed with his arms wrapped around her, repeating the same, up to his elbows in grease as he changed a flat tire. “Isabel, wait in the car . . .” “Why? I’m fascinated by an MD’s ability not to depend on Triple A . . .” His curly brown hair waved in the wind as he smiled at her from the raw rim of the jacked-up Audi. “Because I love you, and inside the car is safer than the side of the highway.”
Last night presented no mechanical difficulties whatsoever, following a pleasant pattern. In bed, moments moved lithely until he
reached the stitch where those words belonged. Instead, Nate asked a spontaneous question that startled Isabel, who replied with “What?” He’d laughed, kissing her. “Okay, no points for planning. I’m not a big-production kind of guy. But I have thought about this. I want this every night. I want two toothbrushes in one place. I want no hangers and six inches of room in the closet. I want you to tell me to take off because it’s a Friday—and we do it. Would you . . .” And he hesitated. “Would you come live with me in Boston?” She was stunned by the invitation, knowing how wary he was of traditional commitment. “Your job at the radio station, I don’t mean to downplay it, but Grassroots Kids should be your focus. That’s your future. I . . . Well, I think I could be too.” Before she could reply, his cell rang. While the interruption was frustrating, it only emphasized his point. On paper, it was fifty miles from Providence to Boston. But New England traffic moved like sludge on a good day, even at one in the morning. His feathery timbre shifted as he took the call, medical-jargon emotionless. Already out of bed, he hung up the phone, searching for his underwear. Isabel started to follow. “Don’t get up,” he said, almost tucking her back in. “Stay here. Sleep on it. Moving in with somebody is a big deal.” He kissed her hard, honing his point. Nate glanced toward the dark living room. “I think I can discern my pants from your skirt.” Smiling silly in the dark, she’d called after him, insisting he commit to memory the look on Mass General’s staff’s faces if he arrived in a flouncy summer frock.
Lost in thoughts of Nate Potter and the future, Isabel filled in the 98.6 logos on her notepad. She gave the thermometers raging fevers, attaching little red hearts to each one. The moment, the invitation, it still took her breath away. Isabel admired her adolescent tribute, pleased with a relationship that had matured to such a ripe, well-rounded point. It was steady and trusting and focused. Damn, it was practically an article in Marie Claire. Isabel sat up straighter, thinking she’d leave work early. She’d drive to Boston and surprise Nate with a candlelit dinner, bottle of champagne, and two new toothbrushes. It would be the perfect reply—less, of course, the voices seeping into her head. The ones coming from around the conference room table. Grumbling grew louder, disrupting her plans. Isabel jerked to attention, realizing something was amiss. She jammed the cap on the Sharpie, guiltily tearing away the heart-accosted sheets of paper. Like a middle schooler caught with a Nate Potter love note, she quickly hid it away.
“Isabel, this transition is unsettling for everyone, but I don’t see how not sharing your insights,” he said pointing, “is going to help. Maybe you’ve jotted a surefire cure down there. How about sharing your ideas with everyone?”
“Transition?” she said, taking in a table of shell-shocked faces. Everyone who worked at 98.6—The Normal FM for Easy Listening was in attendance. “Share my ideas,” she parroted, feeling her face redden as though the principal had caught her. “Um, no. I’m pretty sure that I didn’t write down any important ideas about the, ah . . . transitional issue we were discussing.”
“She’s just stunned,” Tanya offered, patting Isabel’s hand. “It’s going to take a while for it to sink in. This is zero time to pull off a major promotion.”
“The clock’s ticking on you gals to come up with a brilliant plan. Isabel is always on point with these things. I was thinking a grandiose giveaway. Somewhere fantastic, like the Wheel of Fortune set.” It was Rudy’s long-standing fantasy.
“Forget game shows,” said Mary Louise. “Start thinking bigger, like a trip to Europe.”
“Or the moon,” mumbled Tanya.
Isabel looked around the room, scanning for a hint.
“It could be worse,” said Percy Harkins, who headed sales. “They could have gone classical. That’s a death sentence. Ever try to sell airtime with a classical format?” Like a telltale note, hushed whispers passed around the room. “Funeral homes and dentist offices, that’s where you peddle the goods. This could be okay, open all kinds of new markets. ’Course it’s gonna mean connecting with a hipper crowd,” he said, fingering the hairpiece everyone politely ignored. “I don’t envy you ladies, though. Sounds like you’re gonna need a miracle.”
“Or an employment agency,” whispered Mary Louise. “Nobody gives away anything that draws that big of an audience.”
“Forget your audience,” said Percy. “I don’t think there are that many people in the state of Rhode Island.”
“I think they did it so we’ll quit and they can bring in their own people.”
“Come on, Mary Louise,” Tanya said, swinging into her positive postdivorce voice. “If they wanted to bring their own people, they would have done it. They’ve tossed us the ball. At least that means they want to see if we can play.”
Ball? What ball?
“The three of us, we’re a team,” Tanya said, an arm firmly landing around Isabel’s shoulder. “You, me, Isabel . . . If we put our heads together, we can get out of this jam.” Isabel smiled vaguely. The last time she was this fuzzy on the facts, she’d just had three wisdom teeth removed.
The meeting broke up to a rumbling of exit noises. There was a mocking “Good luck,” and a sarcastic “Nice knowing you.” “Mary Louise,” Isabel said, grasping her arm. “So, um, how do you really feel about all this?” She sat again. Mary Louise was adamant about articulating her feelings, particularly since Joe fell off the roof. She insisted it was a healthy way to keep things in perspective. Isabel was sure it alleviated unused energy.
“Well,” she began, bearing down with an ultraserious expression. “At least the three of us get to keep our jobs—for now. That’s a good thing. I can’t imagine going home and telling Joe that I lost my job and our insurance. He feels bad enough being out of work. But you know how it is with new management. They’ll make changes if we don’t come through. And the kind of ratings they’re after . . . Well—” She shoved a forecast sheet at Isabel. Seeing the number in print, Isabel was amazed her eyes managed to stay in her head. “It’s exactly what Percy said: We’re going to need a miracle. That or we’ll be out on the streets, just like the DJs.”
“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, nak
ed, 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 . . .”
Perfect Timing Page 7
