A Nashville Collection (41 page)

Give a little. I'm sure money from my last album bought several of the SongTunes execs new Mercedes last year.

“You have a meeting with SongTunes July third, three o'clock.”

Piper retrieves her Palm from her desk. “Three o'clock . . . on the third.”

“Do we have an agenda?” I ask. “Or is this just tea and cakes?”

“Let's go and find out what Nathan has to say. I've called your lawyer. She'll be there too.”

The bang of french doors swinging wide interrupts us. George and Ringo bound in with their pink tongues dangling. Gina collapses against the door, huffing and puffing, the ends of her short, dyed-red hair perpendicular to her head. Her pink tongue also dangles.

“Saw a rabbit . . . Took off like a shot . . . Pulled my arm right out of the socket . . .” She bends forward, gripping her waist. “Ran . . . home . . . all . . . the way.”

Laughing, I drop to the floor. “Did you guys wear out Gina?” George presses his face against my arm while Ringo leans his weight against my leg.

“Too . . . old for . . . this.” Gina kicks out a stool and plops down. Even huffing and puffing, her blue eyes shine from her oval face.

She's a longtime friend of Connie's, in her midfifties, married but childless. And one of the jewels of my life. Don't know what I'd do without her.

“Young at heart, old in body, eh, Gina?” I snicker, snatching up the dogs' water dish and refilling it at the sink.

“Watch it now, sweet stuff. Fifty's gunning for you too.” Gina's weariness is negated by the teasing lilt in her voice.

“Did you boys see a rabbit?” George lifts his head, water dripping from his mouth. I sit next to him on the floor, scratching behind his ears while reaching over to pat Ringo's back. I laugh when he gives me a very slobbery kiss.

“You're taking them out tomorrow.” Gina wags her finger at me.

“We'll see. Last time I did, photographers followed me home.”

“Hey, Piper, turn that up.” Zach motions to the TV. “What's Kelly Sutton saying?”

From my spot on the floor, I stretch to see the TV as Piper aims the remote. If Beth Rose hadn't been so persistent over the years about interviewing me, I'd have given my story to Kelly Sutton of
Tennessee
Morning
. We've socialized at various parties and album launchings—got along fabulously. We have the same sense of humor.

“. . . the saga with Aubrey James's former musical director, Melanie Daniels, continues. Yesterday, Daniels accused the country superstar in her blog,
Life with a Diva,
of plotting to ruin her career by blocking her deal with SongTunes and reneging on a promise to let Daniels produce her last album.” Kelly turns to her cohost, Charlie Chase. “Seems Aubrey James can't keep out of the news these days.”

“Melanie's crazy.” I get up off the floor. Piper, Zach, sweaty Gina, and I gather around the leather sofa, eyes glued to the TV. “She has a blog called
Life with a Diva
?”

“Did you read any of Melanie's blogs?” Charlie Chase asks, stacking the pages of his script. “Pretty interesting stuff. Lots of behind-the-scene pictures, stories. Even more than reported in the tabloids.”

“What blog?” I wail.

Zach presses his finger to his lips. “Shh . . . Listen.”

Kelly's talking. “I know Aubrey James, and I'm not sure Melanie is being fair.”

Charlie tips his head to one side. “Well, a lot of folks are checking out her blog.”

Hot mingles with cold, so I perspire and shiver. “How can she blog about me? She doesn't work for me anymore.”

“Piper, check it out.” Zach holds his plate under his chin for another bite of his breakfast bun.

“She's going to milk it for all she can, Aubrey.”

Piper surfs over to the
Life with a Diva
blog. I start to read . . . and gasp. “She's evil.” Piper minimizes the screen immediately.

“Wait, I didn't get to read any of it.” Zach brushes crumbs from the corner of his lips.

“You don't want to see.” Humiliation burns my cheeks.

“Yes, I do.” Zach reaches around Piper for the mouse.

She covers his hands with hers. “No, you don't.”

Gina shakes her head. “To think I served that girl my slow-roasted prime rib right here in your dining room.”

Shoving Piper out of her chair, I tell Zach to step aside so I can read Melanie's blog. As I scan her words, the prickly sensation of dread creeps over me. “She told the most intimate details of my life. About me and Jack. Derek. And Car.” With a moan, I rest my forehead to the edge of the desk. “Even stuff I told her about Music Row and some of the other artists.”

Gossip kills.

Zach sets his empty plate on the desk. “What were you thinking? Telling Melanie all this stuff?”

I lift my head. “Zach, she was a friend. We toured together for four years. We had a bazillion conversations.” I gesture toward the scene. “Obviously she planned to blog from the beginning of the FRESH! tour.”

Tears form in my eyes and I shove away from the desk. “I'm used to the lies and ugly photos in the tabloids, but not a firsthand betrayal by a friend. I didn't even know SongTunes was courting her. How could I interfere? And we never talked about her producing for me.”

Piper squeezes my shoulder. “She lost sight of your friendship, that's all.”

I glance at her. “What friendship?”

7

Scott

Tuesday, July 3

Parking my Porsche behind the Inside NashVegas van, I scan through my
BlackBerry, reviewing the schedule one last time.

July
^3rd
—
First sit-down, 10:00a–noon

July
^4th
—
Music City Park concert, second sit-down (Was going
to be there anyway.)

July
^10th
—
Outdoor summer cooking segment, 11:00a–until ?

July
^12th
—
Third sit-down, 10:00a–noon

July
^19th
—
TBA (Planned segment)

July
^24th
—
Fourth sit-down, 10:00a–noon

July
^31st
—
Recording studio, songwriting segment

August
^6th
—
Coming Home Gospel Celebration at the Ryman, 5:00p

I walk the arched driveway to the long, redbrick veranda, taking in the surroundings of a diva. Maple, oak, and elm trees shade the brick Belle Meade home.
Very nice diva digs. Not shabby at all.
Behind me, the sloping, green lawn is contained by a low stone wall.

Though my downtown Bennie Dillon loft is small and modest in comparison, it serves my purposes. Close to work, close to food, and close to sports.

Most important, no yard. If I had a dollar for every yard I mowed in my teen years—all the widowed women of the family and me the only teen boy—I'd be a rich man.

Taking the front porch steps two at a time, I loosen my tie while pausing at the front door.

You can do this. Just ring the bell and
— Rafe, my cameraman, swings open the door. “What're you doing? Get inside. Sam's neck is getting red.”

In the next beat, my cell phone rings. It's Sam. “Get in here.”

The diva's foyer is half as wide and half as deep as my loft. The high, sculpted ceiling arches over plain white walls, yet the floor is a fancy Italian marble. On my right, a curved staircase winds up to the second story, and on my left, a doorway leads to a formal living room.

While the surroundings are elegant, the ambiance feels sort of sterile. Very unlike the Aubrey James I met a year ago.

Rafe motions for me to follow. “We're in the great room. Aubrey gave us permission to leave the equipment set up until we're done. Nice place, huh?”

I fix my tie. “I wouldn't expect anything less, Rafe.”

He leans toward me. At six-four, “Lurch” makes my six-one seem small. “Have you ever seen her up close?”

“Once, twice, maybe.”

He flicks his hand like he's touched something hot. “Shew-wee, she's gorgeous. Don't believe I've ever seen a more beautiful woman. But if you tell my wife . . . I'll deny it all.”

I slap Rafe on the back. “Your secret is safe with me.”

On the other side, I find Olivia scurrying around with a clipboard and tight expression while Sam talks with Zach Roberts. “Scott, you know Zach.”

“I do.” We shake hands.

“And this is Aubrey's assistant, Piper Cantwell.”

A pretty woman with long, dark hair swept up in a loose ponytail offers her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Ducking into their inner circle, I ask, “She knows I'm coming, right? Not Beth.”

“Well—” Olivia starts.

Sam puffs out his chest and bellows, “What does it matter?”

Zach addresses me by tipping up his chin. “Seems in all the shuffle, Olivia forgot to tell us about Beth. But it's fine. Certainly Aubrey will understand Beth's situation. And since Olivia just found out yesterday . . .”

I peek at Olivia.
Yesterday.

She walks around behind me, her heels clicking against the same Italian marble that's in the foyer. “Be cool, be cool,” she mutters into my neck.

This is not good. Aubrey's going to flip her Dolly Parton wig.
I've got to warn them. “Listen, everyone, I—”

“What is he doing here?”

They all turn—Sam, Olivia, Zach, and Piper. The diva has entered the room.
Here it comes.

Zach pops a smile and walks over to her, arms wide. “Scott's doing the interview, Aubrey. Did you know Beth Rose is pregnant? Her doctor put her on complete bed rest.”

“No, I didn't know.” Her ocean-blue eyes focus on Olivia. They are soulful and concerned. “She and the baby are all right?”

“They're both fine, but she just needs to stay in bed.”

Aubrey motions to her assistant. “Pipe, send her something from me, please.”

“Already made a note.”

Hanging on to my cool, I try not to gawk like a schoolboy, but I'd forgotten how beautiful she is in person. Photographs don't do her justice. Smooth, symmetrical features. Long, thick chestnut hair. Yet, something about her beauty goes beyond what the human eye can see.

However, right now I see she's angry. Big surprise. Zach is off to the side talking with her, hands in motion. Then, with a sharp glance at me, Aubrey walks out.

“Aubrey . . .” Zach goes after her.

Sam claps his hand on my shoulder. “Vaughn, what'd you do?”

I peer down at him. “We met once. It didn't go . . .
ahem
. . . well.”

He pokes me in the chest. “Fix this. We lose this interview, you can go straight to the office and clean the toys out of your bottom desk drawer.”

Olivia stands by me, her way of showing solidarity, but I shoot her a look. This is her snafu. She should've let Zach and Aubrey know Beth had a pinch hitter.

A nervous knot forms in my middle as I follow the muffled voices of behind-closed-doors arguing down a thick-carpeted hallway. Stopping in front of a wide mahogany door, I knock once. Gently. “Aubrey, can I talk to you?”

The voices stop. After a second, the door opens, and Zach motions for me to go in as he steps into the hall. He turns to Aubrey. “You gave your word. Signed a contract.”

“I heard you the first time.”

He regards me for a moment. “I don't know what you did, but own it, say you're sorry, and let's move on.”

Aubrey stands by a window on the other side of the room, half in the sun, half in the shade. On my right is a beautiful dark-wood baby grand and a row of guitars perched on stands. Plaques, pictures, platinum records, awards of all kinds hang on the wall to my left.

“This must be the music room.”

“And you must be Einstein.”

“My mother likes to think so.” I chuckle. “But you know mothers. Always dreaming big for their—”

She's not smiling, or laughing. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I walk the length of the wall, feeling chilled from the iceberg of emotion between us. “Amazing. So many accomplishments.”

She doesn't answer, but I smile at her over my shoulder.
Come on, melt,
you coldhearted—
Stop. Not fair. I'm the coldhearted one. “Aubrey, I owe you an apology. Long overdue. I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Her expression is innocent, but her tone sarcastic.

Ducking my head, I laugh. “Guess I deserve that.” Leaning against the piano, I look up at her. “I'm sorry I left the party without telling you. I'm sorry I didn't call.”

“Do you know how humiliating it was for me to walk around a party of
your
friends asking, ‘Where's Scott? Have you seen Scott?'”

“Incredibly rude and selfish of me.” Disgusted, I shake my head, embarrassed by my actions. “I assumed you'd be okay.”

“Never, ever assume, Vaughn.” Aubrey folds her arms and leans against the other side of the piano. Her chestnut hair falls over her shoulders in lazy, not-quite curls. “Did you meet someone else?” Her piercing blue-green eyes make my heart thunder.

“No, no.” I wave my hands. “Something came up. That's all.”

“At midnight?”

“It's complicated. A personal issue of mine at the time. You—you were perfect, charming and beautiful. I had a great time.” Thus, the root of my problem.

She regards me as if trying to determine if I'm lying or just wimp-ing out.

I motion to the wall. “Five albums, five platinums.”

“He can count.”

I glance at her, supposing she's earned the right to fire potshots.

Beside the platinum records, the wall is adorned with awards from all the music associations—Academy of Country Music, American Music Awards, Grammys. All but the Country Music Association. If we survive today, I'd like to ask her about it.