A Nashville Collection (37 page)

“. . . will you marry me?”

He opens the Tiffany box to reveal a dazzling, brilliant diamond. A cameraman butts in between us, zeroing in on the prize. Over my shoulder, the ring is splashed up on the Jumbotron. The crowd hoots and whistles.

This is ridiculous. How can a man ask a girl to marry him—at least ask
me
to marry him—in a fan-filled coliseum? I'm
working
.

Car slides the ring onto my finger.

Words escape from my heart. “Oh my gosh.”

The ring is like a fireband, hot and suffocating. A chant rolls forward from the fans: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

My arms feel weak, my feet numb. The roar of the crowd swirls around me as if I'm trapped in the belly of a dark cave. A drop of sweat runs into my eyes and burns.

“Car, I—”

Before I can finish, he swoops me backward for a long, crowd-pleasing kiss. When he sets me upright, all I can utter is, “Wow.”

Cradling me like a pet puppy, Car raises the mike again. “Y'all want to come to the wedding?”

The fans roar back a “Yeah!” making my blood run cold.

“Stop! You're giving ideas to the wackos,” I hiss in his ear.

Car frowns, leaning down to my ear. “Brie, have fun with this. They'll forget by the time we get married next spring.”

You've picked springtime? And no, they won't forget. You have no idea.

Car bends me back again and stares me in the eye for a lingering moment while the folks work up another raucous cheer. Then, with a sudden jerk, he plants his lips on mine. The louder the crowd, the harder he kisses. All I can do is hang onto him with stiff arms until he lifts his face and stands me upright. He bows and waves to the crowd.
Like they're here to see you, Car.

As he walks off, still waving, I watch his straight back and square shoulders. What do I do now? How do I segue from here?

“Guess I'm engaged,” I say with a light laugh, the diamond like an anchor on my hand.

The fans applaud, but I can tell, they're ready to move on.

“Borrowed Time” blasts into the night air, and I morph from stunned girlfriend into a country diva.

“We've had a blast meeting so many of you on the FRESH! Tour. Country fans are the best fans anywhe—” My voice cracks.

A field of fists pump the air above the crowd. One of the cameramen moves in front of me as I start to sing. I wink, flirting with the camera. My voice isn't strong, though, so I push a little. But two measures into the first chorus, my voice breaks and quits. No volume. No energy. No sound.

Immediately, my backup singer takes over the lead with my bassist rounding out the harmony while I carry on as if the whole vocal exchange was planned.

Blinking, I try to focus, but all I see is purple and green. My steps are awkward, my movements clumsy. I keep walking, clapping, trying to sing.

Then, the lights fade. The noise drifts. Everything . . . goes . . . black . . .

I open my eyes. Sunlight warms my bedroom with bright light. Outside my
window, white puffy clouds float along a perfectly blue Nashville sky.

Oh, thank goodness, I'm home, in my room, in my snuggly, comfy bed.

I slip further under the covers and nestle against the pillows. Peace settles over me.
Pure, unfettered peace.

This is the perfect place. The other side of the rainbow.

A light knock resounds, and as I poke my eyes out from under the covers, I see
Momma's pretty, smiling face peeking around my door. “Hey, baby girl. How're you
doing?”

“Good, Momma. Good.” I motion for her to sit on the edge of my bed.

“You're tired, Aubrey Jo.” Momma sits, her back straight, her shoulder-length hair
layered around her face. She looks me over with her lips pressed tight.

“I am tired.” I can't help it—despite my best efforts, water spills from my eyes.
“There's no rest for the diva, you know. Everyone counting on me—”

Instantly Momma cradles my head in her arm and presses her velvet-like fingertip
against my lips. “Shhh, don't worry about it now. You push yourself too hard.
Birthday girls shouldn't worry.”

“Did you feel this old and tired at thirty?” I run the heel of my hand over my eyes
to stop the tears.

She thinks, absently stroking my arm. “I had Peter at thirty. You at thirty-two.
Your daddy had just signed the record deal with Myrrh, and we had tour dates booked
out for the next year and a half.” She moves her hand to her high, lovely forehead.
“Oh, that man of mine . . . Never stopped.”

“See, I get it legitimately. Don't blame me. Blame Daddy.”

“Yes, you're like him—driven, born with music in your soul.” She brushes wisps
of my hair aside—her soft show of affection.

“Tell me the story again.”

“Well . . .” With a smile, she wraps her arm around me a little tighter, and I
burrow down. “I was about seven months pregnant with you and, oh, out to here.”
Her arm extends as far as possible. “We were on the last leg of a five-month tour and
had just landed in Florida for a Gospel Fair at this big Baptist church on Merritt
Island. After a quick sound check and a light dinner, the show started at seven
o'clock sharp.”

She chortles, lacing my fingers with hers. “The music started and you came alive,
jumping and kicking. Oh, my poor bladder.” With a laugh, she tosses back her head.
“You didn't quit dancing until the last note was sung, the lights shut off, and your
daddy and I had crawled into bed. Then you scared us all half to death when you
didn't move for another twenty-four hours.”

“Wore myself out, did I?” I trace her fingertips.

“Like you're doing now. You don't have to hold on so tight, Aubrey.”

“If I don't, I might spiral off into space.”

“Remember what your daddy says: God is always in control.”

“You don't know what it's like, Momma. So many demands, a posse of people to
support.”

“God is more than able. And willing. Hold onto faith and hope, girl.”

“Hope left me a long time ago.”

“Oh, Aubrey, impossible. You always have hope whether you choose to recognize
it or not.” She kisses my forehead, her gentle touch watering the dry places of my soul.
“Why do you put your light under a bushel?”

“There is no light anymore.”

My comment is dismissed with a flip of her wrist. “There's plenty of light. You just
need to let it shine.”

“You don't understand. Ever since the accident—”

“All things work together for good.”

“Not all things.” I peer into her hazel eyes. “Not all things . . .”

“It hurts me to hear you feel this way.” With a sigh, Momma rests her head on the
pillow next to mine and quietly begins to sing. “All to Jesus, I surrender . . .”

3

“I'll never forget her first recording session. First song, first day. It'd been awhile since she'd done music, but when we started playing, she started singing with energy and soul. Sang that song down in one take. It was something else.”

—
Mark Wallace, session guitar player

“How many people does it take to watch a diva sleep?” I peer at the whispering
crowd huddled at the foot of the bed.

“She's awake.”

“Aubrey, honey, how are you feeling?”

“My head is throbbing, but other than that . . . Did my diva dive spice up the show?”

“About gave a hundred thousand people heart attacks.” Connie Godwin, my adopted mom, settles on the bed next to my legs. “Some girls will do anything to get out of turning thirty.”

The glint in her eye makes me smile. “Not me. I
love
turning thirty.” Connie pats my leg, looking around at the rest of them. “The dive didn't hurt her none. Same ole Aubrey.”

In the room with Connie are Zach and my friend and assistant, Piper Cantwell. “What day is it?” I ask.

“Sunday morning. You're in Baptist Hospital.” Zach steps around Connie. “You were dehydrated, exhausted, and underweight.”

“Underweight? Impossible these days.” My response inspires no smiles.

“Sweetie . . .” Connie's tone is motherly. “This is serious. The doctor wants you to rest this summer, take some time for yourself.”

“Sounds like good doctor advice.” Speaking makes me realize how very thirsty and weary I am.

Piper flashes her Palm Pilot. “I need to talk to you about a few things. I've cancelled as many appointments as possible, but—”

“Sandlott.” The one word takes all my effort. “Don't cancel the Fourth of July Sandlott concert.”

Piper smiles with her dark eyes. “I already told them you'd be there.” She's worth every penny I pay her, and then some. “Thank you.” I reach for Zach's hand. “Did I make the tabloids?”

He grins. “Not yet. It's only been thirty-six hours. Give them time.” “However,” Piper chimes, “the picture of Car kissing you made the front page of
The Tennessean's
CMA Fest coverage, and Heather Byrd wrote about it in her celebrity column.”

“Gerry House wanted to know how you convinced Car to do an onstage proposal with a mega kiss,” Zach says. “And
Inside NashVegas
ran a short piece. Just the facts, no speculation.”

“Did you guys know?” A heavy feeling settles on my chest, and my tongue feels dry and thick. “Can I have a sip of water?”

Piper fills a cup and holds the straw up to my mouth. I take a long, cool sip. “I tried to tell him,” she says. “But once Car decides something . . .”

The cold water washes away some of the heaviness. “Yeah, I know.” “FRESH! sent two dozen get-well roses to the house already.” Piper sets the cup on the stand beside my bed, then wraps her fingers around my forearm.

“They've been really good to me.”

She gives me a squeeze. “Fans are starting to drop cards and flowers by the front gate.”

“My fans . . . the best. What would I do without them?” I pause, then add a low-toned question. “Where's Car?”

“Working, where else?” Piper's remark is snide. She stands back, crossing her arms.

I glance up at her. “He runs a demanding business.”

“Maybe so, but his fiancée is in the hospital.”

“Apparently dying of thirst.” I smirk.

“No excuse.” Piper refills the water cup.

In the slim, streaming sunlight, I catch the brilliance of the ring on my left hand. The white diamond casts a prism of pure colors against the hospital wall. “What's the reaction to my engagement?”

“What you'd expect. Congratulations. Speculation. Some are happy, some are dubious.” Zach rocks back on his heels, hands tucked in his pants pockets. “Though there's been some poking fun of such a public ordeal. Leno fast forwarded a clip of Car's last kiss, then rewound it, then showed it fast forward again.” A suppressed grin tightens his lips.

A prickly warmth spreads across my cheeks. “Car has no idea, does he?”

Piper curls her lip. “No, but he thinks he does.”

Connie walks around to sit on other side of my bed. “He did play to the crowd remarkably well for an amateur.”

“Did I look surprised?” My hand is slightly chilled, so I slip it under the blanket, the tip of my thumb touching the smooth platinum band. “Just a tad.”

I drop my head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere, somehow—I'd felt a profound sense of peace. When? Where?

The dream.

I sit up. “I dreamt about Momma.”

“Recently?” Connie asks.

“Yes, but I can't remember . . .” I brush my hand through my hair, yearning for the profound sense of peace I felt in the dream. No worry, no pain. All the gaps of loneliness completely filled. “I was in my old room, at the old house. Connie, you remember how bright and sunny it was and . . . so incredibly peaceful. Momma came in and sat with me—” My voice falters. “She sang, ‘I Surrender All.' ”

There's a watery sheen in Connie's eyes as she nods her head, tipped to one side as if hearing Momma's voice. “One of your mom's favorite hymns.”

“She was trying to tell me something . . . I think . . .”

“Your momma always carried the wisdom of the ages in her soul,” Connie says.

I rest my arm over my eyes. “But it was only a dream.”

For a long time, we're silent. In my mind's eye, I picture Momma over and over, trying to recapture the intimacy and peace of the dream, but I can't.

Zach and Piper are whispering to each other. “Did you tell her?”

Raising my head, I peer at them. “Tell me what?”

“She's lying in a hospital bed, for crying out loud.” Connie stands by my head as if to protect me. “You can't tell her while she's in this weakened state.”

“Tell me what?” My range of motion is tethered by an IV stuck into my left arm. Nevertheless, I do my best to sit up and, holding my tired eyes open, form a smile. “What's going on?”

Zach glances at Piper. “You're her assistant and best friend from high school. Tell her.”

“So”—she makes a face—“you're her manager. You get paid big bucks to do this sort of dirty work.”

“Is it about Peter?” My eyes roam their faces. “If you have news about my brother, spill it now.”

Zach shakes his head. “No, not Peter.”

“Then what?”

“Aubrey.” Zach walks over to his briefcase and pulls out a tabloid.

“I thought you said I didn't make the tabloids yet.”