Diva NashVegas (20 page)

I shove away from him. “But somewhere in the core of our relationship, shouldn't you have an understanding of who I am?”

“Brie, of course. But boxes of junk?”

“Car, call it junk one more time, and you'll wish you hadn't. Those boxes were the only physical evidence remaining of my parents.” I feel like a broken record. “Why can't you understand that?”

“Fine, but Aubrey, it's too late now. I can't go dump diving.” He looks at me expectantly. ”What do you want from me?”

“I—”

A knock interrups my reply. “Car.” Ilene's face appears around the door. Two men in dark suits wait behind her. “The Harrington reps are here.”

Car glances from me to Ilene, then back to me again. He bends toward my ear. “Can we finish this at home?”

The men stand aside as I leave, mouths agape. When the elevator doors creep open, I hear one mutter, “My gosh, that was Aubrey James.”

Connie sets a big glass of sweet tea in front of me, along with a box of
Kleenex. “One tough summer for you, girl.”

“He makes me so freaking mad.” I blow my nose then smash the tissue in my hand.

Driving home from downtown, I asked Piper to drop me off at Connie's. We were stuck in rush-hour traffic and the longer we crept along, the madder I got.

“Honey, did you consider he might have thought you really wanted to get rid of all that stuff?” Connie stores the pitcher of tea in the fridge, then pulls open the drawer by the sink.

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours.” She scatters silvery-wrapped chocolate kisses across the table. “But you do realize losing your boxes and that old furniture is not the real problem.”

Popping a chocolate drop into my mouth, I bite without waiting for it to melt. “What's my real problem?”

She taps her blouse over her heart. “Right here.”

I squeeze the tiny tin wrapping into a ball. “My heart? Something is wrong with my heart?” My patience is thin and fragile.

“Sweetie, I'm just trying to get you to see the bigger picture. All the emotion and energy you spent protecting waterlogged boxes proved to be exactly what Jesus taught: perishable things perish. The legacy of your parents is
you.
Aubrey. Who you are. What you've become. The faith they taught you.”

Scooting away from the table, I carry my tea over to the sink and pour it out. “I tried to keep the faith for a while, but found no comfort in serving a God who took away my family. By the time I realized being mad at a God who loves me did me no good, I'd become accustomed to ignoring Him. Couldn't figure out the road home.” I move over to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Besides, He must be pretty angry with me.”

Her laugh is high and airy. “Angry with you? Darling, have you seen your life? Maybe you're too close to realize, but you are blessed. Your first album sold four million units.”

“What's your point?”

“Your second album, eight million. Third album shot you right into the land of the legends. Aubrey Jo, if God is angry with you”—she rises from her chair, pointing to herself—”I'll take a gallon to go.”

Her expression makes me laugh. “No fair. I was on my way to a good meltdown.”

She tosses me another chocolate kiss. “Tough being a diva, isn't it?”

“ This isn't about me being a diva.” I twist the water bottle cap off, then on. “This is about a girl in crisis.” A few thin tears slip down my cheeks, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “But I can't deny that I've been very blessed.”

“Can I say one more thing?”

I peel the silver paper away from the chocolate kiss. “Now you ask permission?”

“Don't go into this marriage with your eyes closed, hoping for the best. If Car's not the one . . . And I'm not saying this because he tossed out your boxes. I'm saying this because I've been watching and listening. I love Car. I love you. But, honey, got to tell you I don't love the two of you together. Please, pray before this thing gets too far. Why don't you talk to Pastor Bolz?”

“I haven't seen Shawn in years. I'd feel ridiculous.” Peering into her eyes, I add, “But, Connie, I am praying about Car and me. After today, all the more.”

21

“The Coming Home Gospel Celebration is about combining great music with a great faith. This year, we're thrilled to have Aubrey James singing with us at the Ryman, doing a tribute to her parents. If you ask me, it's long overdue.”

—Ralph Lester, The Tennessean

Dear Myra,

Please remind me I can't fall in love. I'm going off to college. But I
just got home from a date with a guy named Buck Carroll and sigh . . .

Maybe there's something to this falling in love, getting married thing. I mean, it's
only one date, but I have never felt this way about a guy before. I can literally see
myself with him for the rest of my life.

I'm sure that's how you feel about Car, right?

Anyway, Buck is the nicest guy. Very cute in a rodeo rider kind of way. And he
works at his daddy's mill. At my suggestion, we went bowling tonight, which is the
worst thing to do on a first date. Or any date. Not only am I a terrible bowler, but
every time I walked up to the lane, all I could think about was Buck staring at my
backside when I went to bowl.

But, **ahh** we had a great time. Laughed until it hurt. When he dropped me
home, he asked if he could kiss me good night. **Blush** I said yes. We're going out
again next week, I think.

Yet, here I am getting ready to go to school. Buck lives here in Claremore. I really
want and need to finish college. Meet people, have fun. Not worry about the guy back
home. But what if he's the one?

Mom said God would take care of me. He's faithful that way. I wish I had her
confidence. Besides, it was only one date. Right?

Got my class schedule yesterday. Holding it in my hand made the reality sink in.
In a few weeks, I'll be on OU's campus, going to football games, walking to class,
meeting new people. But missing Buck?

Gag, I'm such a girl.

How are you? You know, I was thinking I'd better get an invite to your wedding.
LOL. Please let me know as soon as you set a date. I'll put it on my not-to-be missed
schedule.

Better go. Work in the morning, then a bunch of us are meeting at the movies
tomorrow night.

Love and hugs,
Jen

Scott

“What happened to you?” Aubrey hops off the kitchen stool as I walk into the great room with Rafe Tuesday morning. “I let you out of my sight for a few days, and you managed to get your face punched?”

“Can't leave me alone for a minute.” I smile. She looks bright and happy, worth taking a punch from her brother.

Without pausing for permission to touch, she smoothes her finger around the edge of my cheek. “Does it hurt? It looks painful. Worse than Owen's black eye.”

“No, it doesn't hurt.” Her touch is hot on my skin and makes me think things I don't want to think. I snatch her hand away, hoping she can't hear the drum concert going on inside my chest.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asks again.

“Tried to help a friend.”

“Some friend.” She's still dangerously close, her soft fragrance floating between us.

“Sh—He doesn't know.”

“Sh-he?” Aubrey winks at me. “Scott, did little green men take you away in their spaceship and try to assimilate you?”

A laugh bursts out of me. “No, they were blue men, and I fought them every step of the way.” I point to my face. “Exhibit A.”

She smiles. “Go down fighting, I always say.”

“He went down all right,” Rafe puts in.

I shoot him a look.
Quiet.

Aubrey faces Rafe. “You were there? You didn't help him?”

“Sure, I videoed the whole thing.”

Aubrey glances around at me. “I'm confused.”

“Me too.” I concentrate on booting up my laptop. We need to move away from this conversation. Now. “So, how have you been?”

“Fine. Car finished moving in . . .”

I wait for more, but she seems to have lost her way in the conversation. “Car's all moved in,” I echo. “What else?”

Her focus returns. “I-I wrote a few songs with this great new songwriter, Robin Rivers.”

“For your next album?”

She walks around the couch and takes a seat. “Yes.”

“Why don't we do a segment teaching Scott how to write a song?” Rafe suggests, the comment almost sounding like an afterthought.

Aubrey's eyes widen. “What a great idea.” She sends a visual check for agreement my way.

But I object. “Bad idea.”

“Why?” Aubrey asks.

“Yeah, why?” Rafe echoes. “We're scheduled to be in the studio with Aubrey for our next session, anyway. We'll get some footage of Aubrey working and recording, then teaching you how to write a song.”

Aubrey claps her hands together. “I love it.”

I repeat, “Bad idea.”

“And why is it a bad idea, Scott?” Aubrey asks. “I did a cooking segment with you.”

“Because I can't carry a tune in a bucket.”

She laughs. “Then teaching you to write a song will be hilarious— for Rafe and me.”

Rafe chuckles. “And all the CMT viewers.”

Aubrey's bright expression fades. “CMT? You mean
Inside Nash-
Vegas
.”

By the look on Aubrey's face, I know another fact has slipped through the communication cracks.
Get the hint, Rafe. Move on.
But he doesn't.

“Yeah,
Inside NashVegas
is going national. We're joining CMT. Move over
Access Hollywood
.
Inside NashVegas
is here.”

Aubrey cocks her head to one side. “Is this new . . . news?”

“No. So, is Connie on her way?” I ask. “She's on the schedule to sit with us this morning.”

“She's on her way.” Aubrey leans toward me. “So, CMT?”

I confess, “We've known for a while.”

“And I'm going to be on CMT?”

“Yep,” Rafe answers. “In fact, it's your interview that sealed the deal for us.”

Rafe . . . Look up from the camera and see what's going on.

“Aubrey,” I sit next to her and explain. “We debut during the November sweeps with our exclusive on you.”

She motions to the flat-screen TV on her wall. “So I'm not going to be on
Inside NashVegas
every Monday morning in September and October?”

“You are, but then we'll run about five thirty-minute spots for CMT in November.”

“Good grief.” She slips off the couch. “Am I always the last to know?”

“Sam's been in negotiations with CMT for a long time, but when you gave us an exclusive, like Rafe said, it sealed the deal.”

She opens the door out to the porch. “Hello, Nashville. Anyone else want to get rich on my name?”

“Aubrey, it's a compliment.”

She whirls around. “Scott, between Melanie, Car, and now this, I'm a little weary of people using my name to get ahead or broker a deal. And who knows about this person hunting down my brother? Could be somebody trying to make money. It's happened before.”

Absently, I touch the bruise on my cheek, quite sure she's heard the last from her brother.

“I'll be back.” Aubrey picks up the portable phone from Piper's desk and heads out to the porch. Pacing around the furniture, her arm flails as she speaks. I imagine she's called her manager. After a few minutes, she stops, nods a few times, then lowers the phone.

“Think this gig is up?” Rafe asks, watching her over my shoulder.

“If I know Aubrey, no. She'll work it through.”

Sitting on the wicker sofa, Aubrey stares out over the yard where her gardener is motioning to a yellow bloom. She waves, giving him a thumbs-up.

I open the door and step out. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She doesn't look around.

Should I stand here or take a seat next to her?
“Your gardener seems to loves his job.”

“He does.”

Trying to ascertain her mood, I can't tell if she's tired, subdued, mad, or just plain ole resigned to the situation. “I'm sorry about the show, Aubrey. Sam didn't mean to use you.”

“Sure he did.”

“Okay.” I chuckle softly. “He did, but not in a mean way. He's ambitious and aggressive, insensitive, but not a user.”

“You should've told me.”

“Me? I'm still recovering from you finding out I was doing the interview instead of Beth.”

“For communications professionals, y'all are lousy communicators.”

“Touché.”

We fall silent. The air between us is comfortable, but I wonder if I should call off the interview. “Aubrey, do you want—”

The phone rings and she nabs it from the glass table. “Zach? Right . . . Well, it would've been nice to know . . . Yes, I understand. Please, all the details next time. Thank you.”

She presses End and tosses the phone to the other side of the couch. “Ahhhh,” she yells, hands over her face. “What is it about this summer? Everything crashing and colliding.” She starts to laugh.

“We don't have to do this today.”

“Yes. We do.” Aubrey stands, straightening her blue top and propping her hands on her hips. “Connie's on her way. And I'm just going with the flow, see?” She does a hula move. “Shoot, if you all want to put me on national TV, who am I to complain? Maybe I'll sell fifty million albums.”

“Fifty million? Did you just pull that figure out of the air?” I laugh. “Sounds like a nice
round
number.”