Perfect Timing (36 page)

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

A
IDAN
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 this 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

P
EOPLE
WHO
WORKED
FOR
A
IDAN
R
OYCE
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, Aidan 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.”

“True. And here you are.” A hand reached across, grazing his. “I realize you’re still angry about my trip to Providence. But if we could just talk things through.”

“Don’t give it another thought, Anne. I’m over it.” She relaxed, sinking into the plush seat. “Let’s move on. We’ll circle back around to us in a bit,” he said, smiling warmly. “Right now, I’d like to conclude my business with C-Note. Do you have the new contracts with you?”

“Absolutely, just like you asked,” she said, holding up a bulging black satchel. “You’re going to be amazed by their proposal for expanding your image to the big screen. Maybe we could have a late supper, discuss the details. I know you had some questions. You can unwind, we can reconnect.”

“Not necessary. I’m ready to sign. In fact,” he said, as the car rolled to the curb, “we’re picking up Fitz right now.”

“Fitz?” she said. “You didn’t say anything about Fitz.”

“Yes, well, you know he’s been in Europe. But he’s back, landed a couple of hours ago. Since we’re all here, I thought we’d take care of this.”

“If that’s what you want. But why—”

The car door opened. Outside was a stretch of Manhattan real estate that housed posh hotels. Currently curbside stood Fitz Landrey, the doorman and driver nearly colliding in an effort to assist him.

“Aidan, what the fuck are you doing here?” he groused. “I get off a fucking plane from Paris and get a crazy call from Kai. He informs me you’re in New York and that you need to see me right away. You’re supposed to be in L.A. retouching the last tracks for your new CD.” As Fitz settled into his seat, Anne’s presence registered and his expression shifted from irritated to suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“Glad you could join us,” Aidan said, as the car started moving. “How was your trip?”

“My trip? My trip was a waste of time. European talent won’t sell in an American music market. Forget that. I want to know what we’re all doing here.”

“My C-Note contract,” he explained. “It expires at midnight—or did you forget?”

“Of course I didn’t forget. But your current contract includes an automatic grace period. I assumed we’d take care of it tomorrow, when I was back in L.A.”

“Fitz, don’t be so cranky,” Anne coaxed. “Aidan’s here to re-sign. What difference does the location make?” She produced the thick contract, turning up the dim lights of the limo. “We can take care of it right now.”

“Like Anne said, I’m ready to sign. I thought you’d be pleased. It’s the perfect opportunity since it’s paramount that I have my attorney present—somebody solely dedicated to my interests. Would you believe,” he said, speaking to Anne, “last time I did this there wasn’t a single person in the room representing me. Stacks and stacks of contracts, a sea of C-Note attorneys, and an overwhelmed nineteen-year-old kid.”

“Seriously?” Her gaze jerked to Fitz, who was quick to reply.

“And was there anything in our agreement that didn’t make you filthy rich and incredibly successful?”

“Well, you’ve got me there.”

“Aidan, I don’t know what kind of high-octane, rock star trip you’re on, but don’t pull this bullshit with me!”

“Fitz, let’s try to focus,” Anne said, negotiating the tension. “Aidan’s just a little hyped up from the concert he did tonight.”

“You did a concert tonight? Where? Why didn’t I know about this?”

A puzzled look drew over Aidan’s face. “Didn’t you get my memo?”

“No. But, clearly, you missed mine. It’s the one reminding you that Aidan Royce isn’t a person. It’s a conglomerate to which you, my overly talented friend, are merely the largest piece of many moving parts! You don’t own exclusive rights. Now, if Anne’s presence were a concern, I’ve no doubt she would have dropped everything and flown out to the coast.”

“That would be great if it wasn’t for one thing.”

“What’s that?” Fitz said, loosening his tie.

“She’s not my attorney.” The car petered to a halt, pulling up to another hotel, more posh than the last. The door opened and a man carrying a valise slipped inside.

“Aidan,” he said, sitting next to him, shaking his hand. Impeccably dressed, an aura of solid command surrounded him. “How did everything go?”

“Fine, I think. I’ll let you know later, she was a little, um . . . stunned.”

“Who was stunned? Who the hell are you and would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Being left in the dark is a bitch, isn’t it, Fitz?”

“I’m Aidan’s attorney.”

“You’re his . . . Aidan?” Anne said, her eyes flicking fast between them. “I don’t understand.
I’m
your attorney.”

His counsel held up a hand, as if advising his client to let him handle things. “Going forward, I’ll be representing Mr. Royce, including his new recording contract.”

“Fitz?” she said, panic coloring her voice.

Fitz’s narrow-eyed gaze never deviated from the attorney. “Aidan’s choice of representation is up to him. There’s nothing I can do about that—as long as he’s willing to sign.”

“I am,” Aidan said, focusing on Anne. “Whatever your reasons, whatever your logic . . . whatever you thought you were going to gain, I trusted you. You broke that trust on every level.” As he spoke, Fitz reached over, removing the fat stack of contracts from her hands.

“I’m guessing your new attorney is familiar with these?”

“Actually,” the man said, taking out a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, “I’m not. But I’m very familiar with these.” From a sleek leather valise he produced a similar set of documents. “Everything’s in order. I’m assuming you’d still like him to be a witness.”

“Absolutely,” Aidan said, accepting a pen. “I think it’s more than fitting that Fitz Landrey watch me sign my new contract with Sony.” With a rainbow of pages flagged, Aidan began the tedious process of signing his name, over and over.

“What the fuck! You ungrateful bastard. After everything I’ve done for you!”

Aidan stopped signing. “Don’t you mean after everything you’ve done
to
me?”

“What are you talking about? I made you the most successful artist of your generation. Why the hell are you so pissed off?”

“Seems you’re missing a piece of information; I believe we skipped the introductions. Fitz Landrey, meet Patrick Bourne.”

“Patrick . . .” His mouth pursed, color draining. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Believe it,” Aidan said, resuming his signature, Patrick observing.

“Do you know him?” Anne asked.

Patrick intervened. “We’ve never met, but I’m sure my name is familiar. Most recently, I was a special prosecutor for the United States government, Department of Immigration. More relevant to Mr. Landrey, I once represented Isabel Lang during her petition for divorce from Aidan—the one he blackmailed her into.”

“The one that you what?” Anne said, incredulous.

“That’s hardly the half of it, Ms. Fielding. Thanks to Mr. Landrey’s effort, it was also erroneously filed on her behalf.” From the same valise, he produced the decree, Fitz Landrey not offering so much as a tick.

“Imaginative conjecture, counselor, but how could you ever prove it?”

“I’m glad you asked, because the fact is I can. Seven years ago, there was a disturbing break-in at my home, the place left in ruins—particularly the study. The police, myself, my husband—we all attributed it to either homophobic vandalism or the dangers of my job. Sadly, both were plausible. It never occurred to anyone that a benign, albeit signed, petition for divorce was the real catalyst.” Fitz Landrey shifted slightly, an unaffected gaze trained on Patrick. “In addition to my legal expertise, my job requires an innate ability to retain faces and names. Sometimes the safety of a country depends upon it; sometimes it’s a more personal issue, like naming the messenger who turned up at my door not long before that break-in. Vince Ederly. Mean anything to you?”

Fitz’s mouth bent to a frown, shaking his head. “Never heard of him.”

“Really? Because the IRS has. Luckily, my position also affords me access to a wide spectrum of information, including tax records. C-Note Music reported paying a hefty bonus to Mr. Ederly seven years ago—particularly odd since he has no known musical talents. His job was listed as
staff
. From there, a thorough background check revealed a most colorful past.” He reached for one more folder, a mug shot paper-clipped to the outside. “This is a condensed history of Mr. Ederly’s background,” he said, handing it to Fitz. “It includes a petty-larceny career before he came to work for you. Apparently, breaking and entering was high on his skill set.”

“So he worked for C-Note, lots of people do. The music industry attracts all types; that’s a well-known fact. Your paper trail won’t lead directly to me.”

“Interesting, when we chatted, Mr. Ederly wasn’t quite of that opinion.” Patrick smiled, raising a brow. “Suffice it to say a petty thief who picks a good lock didn’t last one round in my interrogation room. In fact, he was rather quick to recall witnessing Ms. Lang holding that very document,” he said pointing. “Upon reporting his suspicions, he was contracted, by you, to find out more. And what an incredible jackpot he hit—not just a prepared divorce petition, but one bearing Isabel’s signature. More than you could have hoped for, I suspect.”

“Fascinating, Mr. Bourne. A documented two-bit thief’s word against mine. Should make for titillating headlines, certainly incite a ravenous media frenzy.” There was no fluster in his voice, turning to Aidan. “I assume you’re ready to go public with this? You’re ready to have the media probe into every part of your past. Revisit your life and Isabel’s going all the way back to Catswallow, your arrest . . . the attempted rape by Rick Stanton. I’d imagine she’d love fielding those questions. It will come out, Aidan, every bit of it. The press will eat her alive.” There was a swelling pause. He snickered. “I didn’t think so.”

“Well,” Aidan said quietly, “maybe not
that
scandal. But I might be willing to endure this one.” On his cue, Patrick handed the divorce decree that Aidan had signed, the one Vince Ederly delivered to Isabel. “Explain this to me. In exchange for the truth, I might reconsider your future. How the fuck did you get me to sign this?”

Fitz took the second document in hand and put on his own reading glasses. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen this in my life.”

Aidan lurched forward, Patrick grabbing his arm. “He’s not worth it, Aidan. Let the authorities deal with him. He’s easily looking at charges of forgery, conspiracy, tampering with public records. It might involve you, but I should think the direct threat of jail would concern him more.”

Aidan shook his head. “Just tell me how? Even at my worst, I was never that high.”

Anne picked up the two documents, offering her opinion. “Having been lured in myself, I can tell you that Fitz is a master manipulator. Orchestrating a situation that included no representation would have put a younger Aidan at a serious disadvantage. But what I can’t fathom,” she said, turning to Fitz, who stared out a rain-streaked window, “is why? Why would you engineer such a thing?”

“Because it was the only way he could keep Isabel from me and me from Isabel. And according to Fitz’s theory, our marriage was the only thing keeping Aidan Royce from becoming a conglomerate worth millions.”