had told him that perhaps he should come to the physical therapist’s aid—his mother could be utterly overwhelming, and the petite therapist brought out the protector in him.
“So, what’s the verdict?” The question was directed toward the physical therapist, but it was his mother who answered first.
“She’s delightful and she’s moving in.”
That was twice he was confronted with the unexpected, all in the space of less than an hour. “Run that by me again?”
It hadn’t occurred to Anastasia that there might be a problem on either side, especially not on what she considered her end.
“I need her on call, Brandon. I can move back home if you want to play the hermit, dear,” she added, knowing that was the best way to get him to agree to her terms. “But my public is waiting and I have to be able to go on tour with the play. We’re to leave in six weeks, which means that I have to be able to gracefully and effortlessly walk across a stage in six weeks. Preferably dance across it, but I’ll settle for walk.” She turned her attention toward the young woman who had been sent to her. “Isabelle here is going to make sure that I am my flexible young self again.” She smiled beatifically at her. “Aren’t you, dear?”
Isabelle opened her mouth to say that flexibility all depended on how fast the icon’s body bounced back and how much and how hard she was willing to work, but she never got the opportunity. Playing all the parts came naturally to Anastasia, so she answered for her.
“Of course she is. Now, the question is, will she be moving in here, or into my humble abode—which does have a little more room,” Anastasia added in a stage whisper meant as an aside to Isabelle.
“Of course she can stay here with you,” Brandon countered. “I didn’t mean I was going to send you packing, Mother, but—”
They were deciding everything on their own, without her, Isabelle thought, acting as if she didn’t even get a vote in the matter. And she still needed to inform Zoe of this latest twist. She was fairly certain that there wouldn’t be any problem, but she knew that Zoe wanted to be kept apprised of any deviation from the norm when it came to working with a client.
She needed to get a word in edgewise before the conversation got too out of hand. So, taking in a deep breath, Isabelle cried, “Wait!” in the loudest voice she could summon, knowing that they wouldn’t take note of anything softer.
Surprised by the volume that had emerged from the diminutive woman, both sets of eyes turned toward Isabelle Sinclair. And, at least in Brandon’s case, they held a new measure of respect.
Isabelle Sinclair knew that when people met her for the first time, it usually brought a host of pleasant terms to mind, such as unassuming, laid-back and unpretentious. Those labels, however, did not automatically mean that she was also a pushover or that she was anyone’s doormat. Because she wasn’t.
She was so soft-spoken that people were naturally surprised to discover she also possessed a backbone made of steel and the quiet determination of not only the “little engine that could,” but the never-swayed-from-his-path tortoise of The Tortoise and the Hare fame.
This latter character trait came in particularly handy whenever she worked with clients who were ready to give up and morosely give in to whatever malady had brought them to Healing Hands in the first place.
They might be willing to surrender, but Isabelle wasn’t. She wouldn’t allow her clients to stop until every single goal laid out was met. Only then, when the disabling condition was conquered, did she feel free to consider the case closed and move on to the next client.
This tenacity also applied to her life insomuch as she would not allow herself to be pushed aside or ignored when the matter directly involved or affected her. And this subject that was being bandied about between mother and son most definitely involved and affected her. More important, it involved Zoe. Nothing brought out her protective instincts more then when someone she cared about was at risk or in need. She considered it her personal mission to come to their aid.
So when Anastasia Del Vecchio and Brandon Slade just took her acquiescence for granted and went on to debate which house would be her temporary place of shelter for the next six weeks, she had to stop them. To that end, she had raised her own voice to far louder decibels than was her custom, effectively bringing Anastasia and Brandon’s escalating debate to a skidding halt.
They were both staring at her now as if they hadn’t really seen her before. And, from her standpoint, they most likely hadn’t. As a rule, on first sight, people tended to regard her as a quiet, reserved shrinking violet. But they soon learned otherwise. She could more than hold her own with the best of them, even if one of those “best” was the dynamic Anastasia Del Vecchio, a woman who could project her voice to the back row of any theater without the benefit of a microphone or any other electronic device.
Two sets of eyes were looking at her, waiting. “I already told you, Ms. Del Vecchio, that I need to check in with my sister and make sure that this arrangement—my living here with you—is acceptable to her. She might have me down for something else.”
Anastasia waved a dismissive hand at the words. “Of course it’ll be acceptable to her,” she insisted confidently. “I said I’d pay you twice the going rate. Three times if I have to,” she added. “And since you’re going to be here ’round the clock, I’ll be paying for your time for that, as well. What businesswoman doesn’t like seeing that kind of a profit coming in?” she added.
Isabelle dug in, answering politely but firmly. “I still have to call her.”
Anastasia was not above manipulating both circumstances and people to get what she wanted. She could wield basic psychology like a sharply honed sword and had said as much more than once.
“Doesn’t your sister like you making independent decisions when it comes to your own work?” Anastasia asked with feigned innocence.
Though he loved her dearly, Brandon knew what his mother was capable of. He didn’t like the idea of an unfair confrontation and placed himself on Isabelle’s side.
“Mother, I know that you don’t know the meaning of the word, but other people do have to follow rules. Let Isabelle make the call,” Brandon urged—and with that one single sentence instantly became Isabelle’s secret hero.
She flashed him an appreciative smile. Not that she wouldn’t have called Zoe with the news no matter what Anastasia intended to the contrary, but it was a great deal easier if the woman wasn’t attempting to impede her efforts to contact her sister.
And Brandon was handling that detail for her, acting as a diversion and forcing Anastasia to focus her attention elsewhere.
Isabelle turned away from the duo to create the semblance of privacy and called her sister’s private cell number.
After four annoyingly long rings, the answering machine kicked in. Isabelle waited as the instructions to “leave a message at the tone” ran its course. The sound of the “beep” made her come to life.
“Pick up, Zoe, pick up.” She gave it to the count of ten and then surrendered to the inevitable. “Since you’re not there, I’m going to have
