A Nashville Collection (53 page)

The Bluebird is a small, seemingly out-of-the-way, café on Hillsboro
Road, but a legendary showcase for some of the world's best songwriters. And some of the worst. But every hopeful songwriter can have their day at the Bluebird.

Dave and I arrive well early so I can get in without causing a stir. We find a table in the far, dark corner and weave our way through the tight row of tables and around the four chairs set up “in the round.”

“Does Robin know we're coming?” I ask Dave, realizing for the first time this might be a surprise.

“Yes, I called her. She's excited to meet you.”

“Good.” I glance around at the walls posted with pictures of country music's great songwriters—Dolly Parton, Don Schlitz, Willie Nelson. Two of tonight's songwriters take their seats, tuning their guitars and running a sound check.

A pang of jealousy hits me. They are free to come and go, sing their songs, make their music. Paparazzi don't hide in their bushes; friends don't betray their secrets for fifty thousand dollars.

Maybe they'd give their eyeteeth to trade places with me, but I just might give mine to trade with them. Fame, for all its accolades, comes at a very high price.

Dave nudges me. “There's Robin.”

A petite, very pretty redhead with oval green eyes joins our table. Her genuine smile captivates me. I like her.

“Robin Rivers, meet Aubrey James.”

I offer my hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“ The pleasure is all mine. I'm a big fan of yours. Before that, I grew up listening to your parents' music.”

“You loved my parents' music?”

“Oh yeah, your dad played a mean guitar.”

“He did.” This might be a perfect partnership.

“So, newlywed.” Dave taps her arm. “Is the honeymoon over? Ready to get to work?”

Her cheeks flush. “No, the honeymoon is not over, and yes, I'm ready to work.”

“Do you have any songs written that might work for Aubrey?” Dave gets down to business.

Robin's green gaze falls on me. “Every molecule in my body wants to say yes, but to be honest, I don't know. I have some songs I'd love for you to hear.”

Impressed with her honesty, I say, “I'm ready to listen.”

She laughs. “I just thought of two songs that might work for you. I'll sing them tonight.”

“Robin, we're tight on time for this album. If we like what we hear tonight, are you free Monday to do some cowriting?” Dave asks.

“Tell me the time and the place.” Robin glances from Dave to me, then to Dave again. I haven't been around Robin's kind of humility in a long time, and it inspires me.

By now, the Bluebird is filling up and the whispers are starting.
Aubrey
James . . . No! Where? Really?

I duck into the shadows, praying against another Boot Corral incident. What a zoo that turned out to be.

Our waitress comes over with warm bread and brie cheese. “On the house.”

“Thank you. Tell your boss—” The 'Bird's illustrious owner makes her way through the crowded room toward us. “Guess I'll tell her myself.”

“Aubrey, so good to see you.”

Standing, I greet her with a hug. “Thanks for the table and the food.”

“Anything for you.”

We chat for a few minutes, until the lights go down and the show begins. Robin, sitting on the far side of the round, kicks off the evening. “Welcome to the Bluebird, everyone. I'm Robin Rivers. This is a song I wrote a few months ago, and I'm singing it tonight for a new friend of mine.”

Her voice is smooth and strong. She's tenuous at first, but her voice steadies after a few measures. She's singing about “life on the river.” I love the fun feel of the song, but there's hidden meaning behind the everyday words. Her lyrics are powerful and thought provoking. And all the while, the melody has me tapping my toe.

Our eyes meet, and I recognize the
light
in her eyes. Robin Rivers is a friend of Jesus.

Her third song in the round is exactly the song I was trying to write the other day when Car came into the music room. Saying I love you in a unique, wonderful way.

This stranger is singing my heart. How is it that every major artist in town is not clamoring for her songs?

Smiling, I whisper to Dave, “We've found ourselves a gem, haven't we?”

He nods. “No doubt.”

Robin's turn comes around again and she glances my way, hunching up her shoulders. “I might get killed for doing this, but what the heck? No pain, no gain.”

She's going to ask me to sing.

“Aubrey James is visiting tonight.”

The entire room gasps. Heads whip around. It's the Boot Corral all over again.

“If I play one of your songs, will you sing, Aubrey?” Robin winces, but beckons me with a tip of her red head.

The Bluebird erupts with applause.

I stand. “Only for you, Robin.”

Working my way through the tight row of tables, I try to remember when I ever sang so close to the audience. It's a tad unnerving. The woman behind me is doused with a heavy perfume. For a split second, I wish I'd asked my security henchman, Jeff, to join us tonight. But I decided not to mess with his weekend since this was an unscheduled event.

The songwriter sitting left of Robin hops up. “Sit here, Aubrey.”

“Thank you.” I shake the young man's hand.

Robin strums softly while I take a quick second for a mike check. “Y'all would have to pay a hundred bucks to see Aubrey James this close, and live,” she tells the Bluebird crowd.

“Or even this close and dead,” I add. Laughter ripples around the room. But that's the Bluebird. Songs and banter. “Thank you for letting me sit in.”

Whistles and applause. Someone shouts, “We love you!”

Another, “We love the Bluebird.”

Robin looks at me. “Do you have a favorite song?”

“Sure, but what's
your
favorite song of mine?”

She grins. “All of them.”

I twist my lips. “Baloney. I can't even make that statement. Come on, name a song.”

An audience member shouts, “‘And Your Dirty Socks, Too.' ”

I turn in the direction of the request. “Really? You want me to sing the dirty socks song?” With a shrug, I nod to Robin. “You know it?”

Without asking me what key, she plays the first measure in perfect rhythm. “Some of you may remember this song won CMT's video of the year,” she says.

“Robin, I'm going to hire you to be my publicist.”

The Bluebird waitresses hustle between the crowded tables, taking orders and setting down drinks. A few more folks come through the door, squeezing between the folks already lining the wall.

The living room atmosphere of the Bluebird reminds me of singing with Daddy, Momma, and Peter. A peaceful presence swirls around me as I sing, slapping my leg, keeping time. It's strange yet wonderful. While I'm serenading the room with a song about dirty socks, God is reaching out to me, wooing back the Aubrey James who got confused and a little lost along the way.

20

Scott

Saturday, July 21

For the first time since Rafe and I left Nashville in the twilight dawn, I
allow myself to think about what I'm doing.

“Her brother wants to be alone,” Jeremiah warned me when I told him about Peter James calling Aubrey that day we played one on one. “My guy in Florida spooked him.”

“Where can I find Peter?”

“Destin Beach. Runs a deep-sea charter and goes by the name Captain Pete.”

“I owe you man.”

“Scott, he wants to be left alone.”

“Jer, you didn't see her face when he called.”

Rafe reaches forward and ups the volume on the radio as my Porsche speeds west along Florida's Gulf Breeze Parkway. Aubrey's voice serenades us.

She wore a big green hat
On top of her red hair
And a pair of blue shoes
I can see from over here

“You're falling in love with her, aren't you?” Rafe says.

“She's engaged. I'm doing this for the story.”

“Right, the story.” Rafe laughs low.

I glance at him. “You saw her face Thursday.”

“Yeah, but I got the feeling she doesn't want you or anyone else bringing her brother home.” Rafe taps out the beat of the music on his leg. “At least you're moving on from that chick, what's-her-name.”

“Brit.”

“Yeah, Brit. Granted, this is the
dumbest
possible way, but at least you're moving on.”

I snort a laugh. “ This is for Sam and his stupid story.”

“Keep lying to yourself, you might just believe it. We've already got the CMT deal.” Rafe rolls down his window, and warm salty air rushes in. My Google map slaps against the dash, then flies out the window.

“Rafe!” I snatch at the paper as it whips by. In the next second, it's highway litter.

“Sorry, man, wanted to pour out my Coke.” He holds up a gigantic 7-Eleven cup, angling his arm out the window.

“Rafe, wait—” I'm going too fast to empty a drink. Sure enough, the wind jerks the cup out of his hand, and watery Coke sprays all over the leather seats.

“Holy cow, man, can't take you anywhere.”

“Simmer down, it's just sticky water.” Rafe reaches for a pile of McDonald's napkins. “Leather cleans up easily enough.”

I laugh. It's too great a day to be mad. Especially at Rafe. Clicking off the air, I roll down my window, too, and jut out my elbow. The air is hot and muggy, the scene along the highway postcard perfect. Clear horizon, white sandy beach, a pelican flying low over blue-green water. The color reminds me of Aubrey's eyes, but I don't say that out loud. Rafe would never let me live it down.

“Does it get any better than this?” Rafe leans out his window. “Remind me to move here one day.”

In the next half hour, we find our Holiday Inn (without the map), check in, and grab a bite to eat at Joe's Crab Shack.

“What's the plan?” Rafe tosses aside his crab legs shell and licks butter from his fingers.

“Find Captain Pete. Jeremiah said he docks at Harborwalk Marina. Vessel's name is
GoneFishing
.”

“And if he's not willing to talk to you?” Rafe's eyes widen with doubt. I crack open my lobster tail. “Figure it out as we go.”

After a dinner of too much seafood (as if there is such a thing), Rafe and I hunt for
GoneFishing
and Captain Pete. We find the boat but not the man.

“Let's hang out for a while, see if he comes around,” I suggest. It's early evening, and from my limited seafaring experience, my guess is Captain Pete won't go out again until morning. But I'm hoping he'll come around with supplies for the next day.

Rafe and I hang around in the marina's bait and tackle shop for a while, scrutinizing every captain-looking man that comes in.

“Think that's him?”

“No. Do you?”

After a couple of hours, the man behind the counter beckons us. “Can I help you two?”

I flash my TV anchorman smile. “Just looking for Captain Pete.”

“Gone for the night.”

“Do you know where he might be?” I slide my hand along the counter with the tip of a twenty-dollar bill sticking out. From the corner of my eye, I catch Rafe shaking his head, covering his eyes.

“Home, I reckon.” The guy behind the counter moves his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You want me to break that twenty for you?” He pops open the register and pulls out a ten and two fives.

“Thanks.” I hand him the twenty. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Captain Pete? Nope. But he's got a charter Sunday morning at six.” Folding the bills into my pocket, I thank my friend behind the counter and head for the door. Outside, Rafe slaps me on the back.

“Smooth move, man.” He mimics me sliding the money across the counter.

“He had no idea I was offering money for information.”

“There's hope for humanity after all.” Rafe pulls out the mini-DV and faces the golden horizon. “Might as well get some footage of this great sunset.”

He activates the camera with an inhale of salty air, films some of the landscape, then lowers the camera and checks with me. “Back here at six a.m.?”

“Guess so.” Walking down the dock, we pass Captain Pete's boat again, and in the setting sunlight, I spot a tanned, shirtless man spraying down the deck.

“Rafe,” I call low, pointing. He moves alongside me, propping the camera on his shoulder.

“Captain Pete?” I holler.

“Done for the day.” He doesn't look around. “Come around in the morning. I have a few openings.”

“I'm not interested in a charter.” I step to the edge of the dock, anchoring my leg against a pylon. From my below-deck angle, I see he's well-built and tanned a deep brownish red. His sun-bleached hair is buzzed high and tight.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to you about your sister, Aubrey James.”

Captain Pete's shoulders stiffen, and for a brief moment he stops working. “Did she send you?”

“She doesn't even know I'm here. Can I talk with you?” Here's where I need a plan. But I don't have one.
What do I want from you, Peter
James?

The man resumes working, cleaning his boat in the fading light while Rafe and I stand below. Finding him was easy enough, thanks to Jeremiah, but I have a feeling if I let him go, I won't see him again.

At last, he twists off the water and steps toward the boat's stern. Jumping down to the dock, he looks at me directly for the first time. His skin is leathery with deep lines running across his set, hard features.

“You the one who's been looking for me?”

“Scott Vaughn from
Inside NashVegas.
How you doing?” Offering my hand, I step toward him.