medical circles.
The odds of their ending up in the same circle all those years ago had been much higher. And he’d been on the outside perimeter while Bella had been at the center of it all.
He made a quick call to his office manager, giving her Bella’s contact information.
“Monday morning. Make it happen,” he instructed his office manager.
“Yes, Dr. Lassiter. I will.”
He surrounded himself with competent staff, so he could confidently put this problem out of his mind and focus on what was important. But, then, he’d been trying to put Bella Allante out of his mind for the last fifteen years and hadn’t succeeded yet.
As Cole tucked the note in his pocket and turned away, a sharp pain arced through his neck and down his arm. He could use some pain management himself. Could Bella help him work through his pain?
There had to be a high level of trust between a medical professional and a patient, especially with the kind of work Bella did. No, with what they had between them, Bella couldn’t help him. Not if he needed to trust her first.
Isabella’s hands ached from gripping the steering wheel of her sensible fourteen-year-old car too tightly. Consciously, she relaxed, head to toe. Stress would only eat up the little energy she had left after such a long week.
Pulling into the hotel’s parking lot, Isabella pasted on her social smile and summoned up her last smidgeon of energy, hoping it would be enough to get her through the special games recognition and fundraising event.
If she could find reserves for just a few more hours, she could go home and collapse for the rest of the evening. She might even be tired enough to sleep through her worries about Cole and the paternity discussion they needed to have. Or did they, since he had now gone back to New York, where he belonged?
Starting now, she would forget about this week and go back to providing a safe and predictable world for her son. If life was too predictable for her at times, that was one of the sacrifices of motherhood she willingly accepted for her son’s well-being.
When she’d left Adrian in David’s care, he had been fingering his scarf while hugging the framed photo of Cole that usually sat on his bedside nightstand, all the while keeping a steady pace in the gliding rocker next to her bed. His favorite video played so quietly on the television she could barely hear it. His plastic doctor action figure lay next to the television control within easy reach.
She’d been worried about overstimulation from the active weekend so different from their normal routine. And that had just been from participating in the local games. With Cole on the scene, she would have expected Adrian’s reactions to be all over the board.
Instead, Adrian was taking the appearance of his father in his stride while she was struggling to contain her own anxieties.
Take a step back, Bella, she told herself.
She might be borrowing trouble. Cole might have made his once-in-a-lifetime appearance and now be gone for ever and her life could get back to the way she’d organized it.
Illogically, on top of the anger, confusion and relief, that idea made her very sad.
She had explained Cole’s absence to Adrian by telling him Daddy had to work. It was the total truth, and Adrian had understood. Tomorrow, when both she and Adrian were better rested, she would break the news that Cole had gone back to New York.
She wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow.
As she had so often since Adrian’s birth, she vowed to live one moment at a time and let the future work itself out—but it was such a hard thing to do for a planner like her.
Tonight Isabella’s job was to work the room, making a subtle plea for donations of time and money to support their local special games, a program her family had always championed before they’d ever had an athlete of their own participating. She recognized most of the faces in the crowd from her inner circle—or what had been her inner circle—as well as from the volunteers who gave so much of their time to make this program work.
Normally she could call up her inner sparkle and zest on demand, but Cole had knocked her off her game.
She smoothed the vintage wool skirt she’d inherited from her mother’s collection of expensive and well-preserved clothing and wished she hadn’t gone with an upswept French twist. Her bare neck made her feel exposed and vulnerable.
From the podium, the local chairperson was giving his standard speech, against a backdrop of happy athletes on a screen behind him. “Three and a half million athletes will train and participate in local games like ours on a state, national and global level. None of this is possible without dedicated volunteers and generous donors.”
While there was no more Allante money to give, Isabella did what she could. One thing she’d been taught from birth had been the social graces that made working a room one of her greatest talents. She just needed to put Cole from her mind, pull herself together and get on with it.
She looked for those not with partners. Group mentality being what it was, a single mixing into a circle of couples took more charm than she had energy to give at the moment.
Being single usually didn’t bother her—or rather she’d been able to bury all her disappointments and regrets. How could she look at her beautiful son and wish her life had been different?
But there were times like tonight, being single in a world of couples, when she felt incredibly, soul-searingly lonely.
She often had to go days, maybe even a full week, without human touch. Although she advised others to make friends with affectionate people, friendships took an investment of time to nurture. If anyone were to accuse her of not being the best at taking her own advice, that person would be right.
Lately, she’d been incredibly busy with her practice. Any time and energy leftover had gone into helping to organize this weekend’s games and fundraiser. Then there had been all the mental work with Adrian so he could ready himself to step outside his routine comfort zone and participate in the games. She could only be stretched so thin.
Thus was the life of a single parent of an autistic child.
But, being a therapist, Isabella knew there was no such thing as a “normal” life. She glanced over at Darla with her practiced expressions of frivolity. One outwardly perfect husband with straight white teeth, a politician’s smile—and a mistress stashed in an apartment downtown that they all pretended didn’t exist.
Then there was Corrine, with her two beautiful, over-achieving daughters, one in rehab and the other fighting bulimia. Corrine, herself dangerously close to being addicted to pain meds, came into her office twice a month, trying to master drug-free ways to control her migraines.
In her private practice catering to the rich and powerful of New Orleans, Isabella knew many of these people’s secrets—
which only positioned her even more squarely on the outside, looking in. She was only able to discuss the most banal of topics lest she reveal confidential information. Always on guard, keeping secrets so that everyone appeared perfect on the outside.
But, then, she’d been trained for pretending to be perfect her whole life. Perfectly poised. Perfectly in control. Perfectly satisfied
