Perfect Timing

by Spinella, Laura

  After repeating the intro a few times, Aidan cavorted with the band, whipping an ocean-deep crowd into irreversible ecstasy. She recognized the tactic. Aidan wanted them in the palm of his hand before he began, in case he screwed up or forgot the words. He never would, but that’s how you became the staggering talent that was Aidan Royce. He tempted them for a moment longer, saying there wasn’t anywhere he’d rather be, thrilled to be the headliner for 104.7’s switch-to-rock coup. Isabel almost believed him. From the roar of the crowd, they certainly did. He asked how everyone in New England was doing tonight. Well, I expect they’re high as a kite. Not only is Aidan Royce standing in front of them, he insists this rare venue is where he wants to be! Her brow crinkled at that, but there was too much noise and excitement to think it through. As Aidan took his place at the center mic, his voice hit her ears and any misguided notion of enjoyment faded. Hearing him through a sound system was one thing, live landed Isabel somewhere else. He began with a signature song, “One Guitar.” She’d listened to it since the radio station switch, but Isabel hadn’t heard the words. It was a song about a kid from nowhere with a destiny he couldn’t place. Randomly, the guy in the song picked up a guitar, finding his future. She was with Aidan when he bought his first guitar at a yard sale in Catswallow. They went straight to the farmhouse with it. It was like watching a great painter being handed his first brush. He just knew what to do with it. Isabel smiled at the yesteryear thought. Even in Aidan Royce’s mega world, they were the only two people who shared the memory.

  The song built and climaxed, Aidan crooning to the crowd he’d captivated. The clamorous screams didn’t subside, not a decibel, as he drifted into something with a harder rock edge. He always preferred the loud stuff, but she suspected he saw the wisdom in the ballads. It was an effective tease, making the women in the audience wait four numbers in to hear an Aidan Royce love song. He introduced it, asking, “Do you want to hear something real pretty?” He used to ask Isabel the same thing. She’d shrug and say, “In a minute.” This, adherent screams, was probably the response he had in mind. The wispy ballad was from his most recent CD, so it struck her as odd when she heard something familiar. Isabel applied the lyrics to different women, thinking of Miss October, Fiona Free, and Anne Fielding. But she couldn’t get any of them to fit inside the words. Whoever his muse, the affect was compelling. The song was overrun with regret, every woman in the crowd poised to help him get over it. On his last pass through the chorus, she wondered how he could tell the difference: women drawn to his image versus the one who was drawn to him. It was a problem, she supposed, that went all the way back to Catswallow. He put down the guitar, the band backing him up on the next song. His focus was on the audience, his gaze tipping in her direction. Isabel felt her face grow red, embarrassed by the lure. Aidan didn’t know where she was sitting, nor did he care. The fishnets snagged on the fabric of her seat, reminding her that Aidan had his place and she had hers.

  Halfway through, she managed to find her own rhythm, content to watch him work. His charisma and talent drove the show, but it was Aidan’s command that kept things mesmerizing. Numerous fans cried out, “We love you, Aidan!” He replied, very much like he meant it, “I love you guys too!” Isabel was amused. It was the only way she’d never loved Aidan. At one point, he whipped out a cell phone, snapping pictures from his point of view. The crowd went crazy for it, but Isabel was struck by the irony. They were watching something so singular while his photos—from Beijing to Boston—had to capture the same repeated blur. Wiping sweat from his effort, Aidan tossed a towel to a vocal cluster of fans. That turned a little ugly, women tearing at the prospect of taking sweaty DNA home. Isabel wriggled her nose, recalling his stinky gym bag, vapor-like and repugnant. While she wouldn’t fight a single one of them for any physical memento, what she did find herself hopelessly deprived of was being with Aidan.

  As he continued to perform, she was confronted by an odd memory. Driving to Sandy Springs to buy an amplifier, they got lost. Actually, Isabel got them lost. She was so frustrated with the back roads and the map she wanted to cry, maybe she did. She was sure they would run out of gas and be stranded in the middle of nowhere. It was a hundred degrees and she was dying of thirst, aside from having a pounding PMS headache. Stubbornly determined, she hadn’t mentioned a word of it to Aidan. He pulled over, insisting she give him the map. In less than ten minutes he delivered them from nowhere to a gas station. It was nothing short of a miracle in her opinion. Silently, Aidan got out of the truck and stalked inside. She thought he was really mad. A few minutes later, he came out with foolproof directions, a can of soda, and a candy bar. In the bottom of the bag was a box of Midol. He never said a word. He just got back in the truck and started driving. Proving, Isabel supposed, that she needed Aidan as much as he did her.

  With her focus on the memory, Isabel stared at her folded hands. She was impressed with the man performing onstage. Who wouldn’t be? But that wasn’t whom she’d missed all those years, it was Aidan Roycroft, whose it factor included a Mountain Dew, a Hershey bar, and a box of menstrual pain reliever. As the lack of indifference finally made room, Isabel pushed farther back into her seat. No other man, no matter how affable or pragmatically perfect, ever had a chance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  AIDAN LAUNCHED INTO HIS LAST NUMBER, GIVING ONE FINAL WAVE BEFORE jogging off stage with as much gusto as he appeared nearly two hours before. He was gone. From her vantage point, Isabel saw a flash of blond hair disappear into a shroud of black curtains and metal catwalks. A last glimpse was poignant as Fitz’s forewarning came to fruition. Aidan handed off the guitar to a roadie who, in turn, handed him a water bottle. It was time to let it go—for good. In that effort, she stood. Mary Louise leaned over.

  “Isabel, what are you doing?”

  “Show’s over. We should go.”

  “Isn’t there an encore?”

  “Does it matter? If we go now, we can beat the rush,” she said, desperate for an exit.

  “For heaven’s sake, sit down,” Mary Louise instructed, tugging at the hem of her dress.

  She obeyed. One tended not to mess with Mary Louise on a direct order. Except for the cliché lighters, the stadium remained dark. She’d also attended enough 98.6—The Normal FM concerts to know that even ’80s mothball talent prepared an encore. She resigned herself to facing Aidan one more time, the crowd breaking into a spontaneous chant of, “Ai-dan, Ai-dan . . .” A few moments later he accommodated them, walking back on stage with an acoustic guitar. While fan enthusiasm hadn’t waned, Isabel could see that Aidan’s energy level had dipped. That or something had decidedly changed in those few minutes he’d disappeared off stage. She could see it, even from the distance. His clothes had changed too, from a T-shirt to a collared one, though, naturally, the tails hung out. Tilting her head, she gave in to the familiar sight, absorbing him one last time. A stool had been placed center stage. She hadn’t noticed.

  Settling onto it, Aidan thanked the crowd once more for coming out. She found herself smiling at his deep-rooted manners. Clearing his throat, Aidan hesitated. Isabel’s heart skipped a beat because it appeared that he’d stumbled. There was an urge to rush from her seat and help him out. Maybe he’d forgotten the words or what song he was going to sing. While she couldn’t help with that, she might reassure him that things would be okay, that they’d love him regardless. Squeezing her eyes shut, Isabel sensed that along with a fresh Aidan-less start, some behavior-modification therapy might be in order.

  He sighed, everyone noticing his angst. It was an unnerving juxtaposition, the crowd more silent than him. He adjusted the microphone, rubbing his palms on his pants—like he was nervous. “Normally, I do two numbers in the encore, but tonight I’m only going to do one.” There was a collective moan of disappointment. “When I explain, you’ll understand. The rest of my life is riding on this one song. But, um, first we need to finish up some business. Not only was t
his a successful launch for 104.7, but we also raised a lot of money for a great cause. I want to let everyone know that the proceeds from tonight’s show are being donated to Grassroots Kids. They’re a charitable organization that does a whole lot of good.”

  “Did he just say . . . ?” Isabel said as thunderous applause responded to his benevolence. Her head whipped left and right, looking to Mary Louise and Tanya.

  “That’s what he said,” Mary Louise replied, her gaze scanning the crowd, doing the math.

  “In fact, I’ll be picking up the tab for this entire evening.” Aidan turned to a tall man at the edge of the stage. “Kai?” Isabel’s eyes widened, realizing there actually was a Kai. Aidan looked back at the crowd. “Kai has made sure that everyone leaves with something. Um, what did we bring?” He leaned toward him, unable to hear the un-miked man. Isabel was sure Aidan hadn’t a clue. Complex lyrics, foreign languages, and columns of numbers—do not ask him to remember what you wanted from the Piggly Wiggly. “Oh, T-shirts and CDs. Got it,” he said. “I wanted tonight to be memorable for everyone, because it’s such a special date for me.”

  Game over. Isabel tensed, uninterested in any other magnanimous gesture on Aidan Royce’s part. She knew exactly what date it was, although he’d long since forgotten. She braced for his announcement, her imagination cliff-diving. “Tonight, I’d like to publically claim the love of my life, the woman who spends every waking moment tending to my happiness, Anne Fielding . . .” “That’s it, I’m done,” Isabel said, standing. “If that’s his plan, I’ll kill him. I don’t care who he is. I’ve had enough Aidan Royce hoopla for one lifetime, and I’m seriously going to kill him.”

  “This is kind of personal,” Aidan continued, Isabel realizing she was trapped by Joe’s casted leg. “But if you could bear with me. Seven years ago tonight, every dream I ever had came true. That’s not something too many men get to claim. I’m very lucky, blessed, whichever you believe. Probably a lot of both. Tonight marks the anniversary of my debut performance at Caesars Palace.” On his cue, the crowd whipped into congratulatory rapture.

  Blindsided by his recollection, Isabel was motionless. That’s what he recalls happening on this date? “Indulgent, lazy, self-centered . . . jerk!” she said, grabbing her purse, thinking she’d climb over the seat. “I’m going home!” Before she could turn, hoisting herself over, a spotlight landed on her. In the darkened arena Aidan and Isabel were face-to-face. He stared. The same way he did years ago in his pickup truck, holding tight to her wrist, the same way he did on the dance floor at the gala. The same way he did in the moment she left him.

  “If you can believe it,” he said, still staring, “something even more important happened that day. As dreams of fame and fortune go, this topped everything. I’ve always known that.” Then, in a softer voice: “And I’m a fool because I should have never given up.” Even from her vantage point, Isabel could see the gulp roll through his throat. “It’s my great privilege this evening to introduce my wife, Isabel Royce.” He gestured to the box. Isabel responded by sinking to her seat.

  “What’s he talking about?” she hissed to Mary Louise. “We’re divorced!” From her right, Tanya nudged her. It was like being on a palace balcony, Isabel offering a deer-in-headlights wave to the subjects, a thoroughly baffled look at Aidan. In return, he smiled at her clear confusion.

  “My wife . . .”

  Why is he calling me that?

  There was a mixed reaction, lots of gasps, some applause, and the disappointed groans of female fans. “She’s done me the tremendous honor of making a rare appearance at one of my shows. Seven years ago, she agreed to marry me. At the time, my life was more trouble than promise. We were just two scared kids who had nothing but each other. Really, it was all I needed. We were married in true Vegas fashion.” Hoots and hollers echoed, his glance dropping to the stage floor. Sharing this was making the performer uncomfortable. He pushed on. “While most women would have been satisfied with a ring . . .” His long fingers fluttered over the snake. “This was Isabel’s idea of a permanent bond.” It drew a wave of subtle laughter, Isabel included. “Do you remember how the story went?” he said, speaking only to Isabel in a crowd of thousands. “As long as I had it, I’d never be without you. Turns out, it wasn’t a story, it was the absolute truth. Lately though,” he said, turning back to his public narrative, “circumstance, some serious, some calculated, has prevented me from getting my wife’s attention. So tonight I resorted to an old performer’s trick, a captive audience. I planned this moment, Isabel, knowing you’d be here. Regardless of anything you may believe, I meant what I said on our wedding night, in the moment I said it. I love you. I always have.”

  This time Tanya elbowed her, Isabel catching a victorious nod as theory became fact. She pulled in a low breath, her hands making a motion of surrender, flopping onto her lap. “So, I’d like to do two things. First, I’d like to wish my wife a happy anniversary.” The applause was warmer this time. “Secondly, I’d like to do a song I’ve never played in public. In fact, I originally wrote it in Spanish. Though tonight, I’d like to do the retitled English version. I hope Isabel remembers it.” She nodded, hearing in her head a melody for which the music was powerful, though its story a mystery. “Isabel has always been the muse for this and for me, a piece of music and a man I’ve been fine-tuning half my life.” Strumming the guitar, before gliding into a sweet verse that only Aidan could have written, he looked up, his voice pinching ever so slightly, “This is called ‘Isabel’s Rhapsody.’”

  The light over her dimmed and Aidan was left in the spotlight, as it should be. His voice echoed through a silent arena as hands swayed in unison. Isabel sat through the entire song, hands pressed to her cheeks. She knew the music and she finally understood the verses. The ones he sang to her in Spanish on gray rainy days and during searing August summers. He’d sung them sitting on the front porch of the farmhouse, and from the front seat of his truck on their way to some two-bit gig. It was a brilliant piece of music that complemented the story of them—a story Isabel knew by heart. Afterward, he thanked the crowd for indulging him. Aidan left the stage, but not before blowing a kiss over his shoulder in her direction. The houselights came on and she was met, once again, by thousands of probing eyes. Strangers called her name. She looked between Tanya and Mary Louise, the calm inside her decidedly rattled. “What . . . what just happened?”

  “I think your husband just delivered a very public message to his rather stubborn wife,” Mary Louise said, smiling.

  “But it doesn’t make . . .” she stumbled, looking toward Tanya who was busy wiping tears. “We’re not . . .”

  Two burly men, wearing earpieces and carrying walkie-talkies stepped into the private box. “Mrs. Royce, Mr. Royce has asked us to escort you to the car. Would you come with us, please? And we’re sorry, but you’ll have to hurry.”

  “I’m not . . . What do you mean, come with you?” She turned. “Mary Louise?”

  “Go with them, Isabel.”

  “Look, I have no idea how to explain that, but I’m telling you, we’re divorced.”

  “Either way, does it matter?” Tanya said, fishing fresh Kleenex from her purse. “Take it from me, marriages come and go. What just happened on that stage is beyond marriage.”

  Looking to Mary Louise for backup, she offered aberrant spontaneity. “What more do you want him to do, skywrite it?”

  “Really, Isabel, give him an inch. Whatever the past, I think he’s earned it.”

  “Mrs. Royce, please, we need to go. It’s a very small window.”

  Damning pride, she turned toward the name and request.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PEOPLE WHO WORKED FOR AIDAN ROYCE DID SO WITH ENTHUSIASM AND without foul-ups. He’d always been grateful for this, but never more so than tonight, as his plans required a Herculean effort of timing and coordination. Things moved quickly after the concert, A
idan boarding his plane, alone, bound for Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. Easily negotiated, it was an excellent alternative to busy New York airports. From there he was whisked into a waiting limo headed to Manhattan. During the flight he’d showered and changed, looking more like a rock star ready to party than a husband in search of a home life. But there was unfinished business, and he was intent on seeing it through. His first stop was Anne’s apartment. She was waiting, the doorman and driver ushering her into the cavern of the limousine.

  “Aidan,” she said, settling in across from him. “You were the last person I expected to hear from tonight. The concert, didn’t it go well?”

  “The concert went fine. It always goes fine. It’s my job.”

  “Maybe so, but it does take a tad more finesse than, say, night manager at the Holiday Inn.” They traded small smiles. “I wasn’t referring to the concert, not completely.”

  “Oh, you mean my reason for the show.” He shrugged. “I told you, I caused Isabel a huge problem. I wanted to rectify that. Kai tells me you were helpful in arranging things. I wanted to thank you—personally. Apparently, you were discreet too; I haven’t heard a word from Fitz.”

  Her head bobbed in a conciliatory gesture. “I wanted to prove that I’m on your side. So tell me,” she said, offering a nonchalant shrug. “Did you see Isabel before the show, or after maybe?”

  “Honestly,” he said, sipping from a water bottle. “I didn’t. You know how a gig like that goes, not exactly a one-on-one atmosphere.”