Diva NashVegas (18 page)

“Then you better rethink how you word things, Car. You had Eli convinced.”

He cuts his gaze over to me. “Why won't you trust me and invest, Aubrey?”

“Trust you? When you've gone behind my back three times now?” I slide down under the covers, shivering. I'm both angry and cold. Car sets the air-conditioning so low on summer nights the room has a wintry chill.

He rolls toward me, propping himself up on his elbow. “I went to Eli with our standard proposal. If he liked it, I thought he could bring it to you.” He sighs. “Which is ridiculous, considering I share your bed, not Eli.”

Buried up to my chin in blankets, I stare at the sculptured swirls in the ceiling. “Car, I need you to tell me you're not out for my money.”

His eyes narrow and snap. “I don't need your money.”

“Then why are you going behind my back to get me to invest?”

“Because it's a great idea. If
you
invest, I can capitalize on it with other investors.”

His confession sends a cold shiver of realization over my body. “Capitalize on my name, Aubrey James?”

He rolls off the bed. “One of the partners dropped your name during dinner with several potential investors. It's amazing what a beautiful face and famous name will do for bored, rich men.”

“You cannot use my name.” My tone leaves no doubt.

Car paces at the foot, his hands on his hips. “You're going to be my wife and I can't mention your name to my business associates?” He shakes hands with an imaginary man. “Why, yes, Mr. Investor, I
am
married. She's beautiful, talented, and wonderful, but her name is a secret.”

“Your cheesy sarcasm pisses me off.” I flip over to my side, away from him. But then, in a surge of anger, I sit up. “Car, do you know how damaging it can be for me if something goes wrong with one of these investments? Suppose an investor feels cheated or duped? They'll sue me, not Car Carmichael or Carmichael Financials.” I press my hand to my chest. “My name will make the headlines. But all of that aside, I won't risk AubJay Inc.”

He chews on his bottom lip, avoiding my gaze for a long, silent moment, then crawls onto the bed next to me. “Aubrey, look, babe. All I wanted was for Eli to hear our plan. It's good and sound. I figured if he pitched it to you, then our agreement to keep our finances separate for a while wouldn't be breeched.” Slipping his arms around me, he holds me close, kissing my forehead.

“You make yourself sound very noble, Car. But you knew your actions violated our agreement.”

He strokes my hair and slips his finger under my chin with a feathery touch. “Okay, I hear you.” His kiss is delicate and sweet, and no matter how hard I resist, I melt a little bit. “How'd I get lucky enough to find you?”

Smoothing my hand over his high, broad cheeks, I remind him. “Your parents lived in the right neighborhood.”

He laughs and rolls over to his side of the bed. “Don't forget the movers are coming tomorrow.”

I remember.
“Don't you forget I'm tied up all day with Dave. Gina will be here to help the movers.”

He caresses my arm. “Don't stress over this album, Brie. Why mess with the magic that's always worked?”

“Because I'm thirty, not nineteen.” I click off my nightstand light. “We're going to the Bluebird Café tomorrow night to hear a songwriter, Robin Rivers.” I scoot over to him and tug on his arm. “Meet me there? Please, Car, it'll be fun.”

“Naw, you go ahead. This is your thing.”

“My thing,” I echo softly. “What happened to all the ‘we' stuff when you talked about money?”

He unfastens his watch, setting it on his night table. “I don't know anything about songwriters. They all sound good to me.”

“What about being there for me?”

He switches off his night-table lamp and, in the dark, reaches for me. “I have a tee time on Sunday with some clients. I'd planned to get organized Saturday night after the move. Can you meet this songwriter another time? Stay here and help me get settled in.”

“You know the time pressure we're under on this album. We're already behind. And if we want to work with Robin, we need to know now.”

“And when you come home, your fiancé will be all settled in. You won't have to lift a finger.” A wide yawn punctuates his sentence.

“Seems our schedules have us going in opposite directions, doesn't it.”

“Two big careers will do that, Brie.” Another yawn. The sheets rustle as he moves his legs, getting settled in for sleep.

“I guess so.” Laying there in the dark, cradled in his arm, I consider dumping my plans for Saturday and helping my fiancé. But I can't. Time is critical. Actually, I'm looking forward to tomorrow night. Discovering new songs, new sounds. Hearing Robin's music. A twinge of excitement ripples through me.

“Car?”

“Hum . . .”

“I meant to tell you . . .”

“Yeah?”

“If you want the library, you can have it.”

“Brie, are you sure?” He rubs my arm with his fingertips.

“You were right. I don't need to keep all those boxes—”

“Thank you, Brie. Really.” He tightens his arms around me.

“I'm happy to do it. Just put my boxes in the rec room, okay?”

“Um-hum” His answer is mellow and sleepy.

“Car?” I nudge him gently.

“Library.” He turns over, and in another second, I hear the soft sounds of sleep.

Curling up on my side of the bed, I whisper to God. “Car and me . . . What do I do? Please help Dave and me with this new album. And tell Daddy and Momma I miss them.”

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.”