Diva NashVegas (31 page)

“Nathan, I've fulfilled my end of the contract. Delivered an album of great songs. Your choice if you turn it down.”

“We can walk, Nathan,” Skyler says. “You know it, Ian knows it. And not be in breach of contract.”

Nathan fumes in silence with a sharp eye on Ian. His voice is calm when he says, “It's your reputation, Aubrey.” He sits, swiping his palms together as if to wash his hands of me.

“Best of luck to you, Nathan.” With my little brigade, I leave Nathan's office, ending another chapter of my life this summer. My eight-year run with SongTunes.

33

“SongTunes president Nathan Brack announced his resignation from the label this afternoon during a last-minute press conference. Word on Music Row is his decision came after country superstar Aubrey James parted ways with the label last week.”

—
AllAboutCountry.com

Piper claims I've gone Zen with my garden gazebo, but for the past week
I've loved coming out here in the evenings with my guitar and Bible.

George and Ringo accompany me, scampering ahead, circling the red cedar gazebo before leaping the steps and plopping down on the floor, panting. All of this before I'm halfway across the lawn.

This routine makes Juan unhappy. George and Ringo are creating a path across his well-tended yard.

“My work, ruined.” He gestures to the smashed grass blades, his brow furrowed. But there's always a glint in his eyes.

“How are Alejandra and the baby?” I ask.

His smile brightens. “Very good. The baby doesn't cry so much now.”

It's Friday night, and since Piper is without an e-date, she's decided to hang out with me and play a little guitar. “It's been years.”

“Well, this is what back-porch picking is for, messing around with the guitar.”

Piper tunes one of the guitars from the music room. “Did you and Zach decide what you're going to do with your album yet?”

“No. Still considering the options. Robin thinks I should sign with Nashville Noise. Zach talked with them, but we are still discussing the independent label option.”

“It's a lot of work being independent. Distribution, marketing, promotions, the entire business side of the music business. Which you hate.”

“It's my one hesitation, but we can hire
people
to do all of that stuff.” Fishing a pick from my guitar case, I play a melody I've had in my head for a few days. Once I started writing again, the creative gates were opened and ideas come often.

“Yeah, but I know you, Aubrey. If you start your own label, you won't be able to let others run it without getting involved. After all, it's your business. You can't divorce yourself from it.”

“That's my biggest hesitation.”

A fall breeze ushers in the cool, September night. The maple shading the gazebo is already tipped with red and gold.

Piper attempts to play what I'm playing. Concentrating, her quick fingers are accurate with the chords, but after a few measures, she laughs, dropping her hand away from the strings. “I have no calluses. It hurts to keep playing.” She spreads her arms along the top of the gazebo bench. “Did you see the latest
Music Row
magazine?”

“No, why?”

Piper shifts the guitar on her knee and starts to play again. “They did a cover story on Melanie Daniels. She's branding herself as the new Aubrey James.”

“Good. Now I can be who I want to be. The real me.”

Piper sets the guitar against the gazebo bench. “She'll never have your heart or your character.”

We continue to talk while I play. The sun sinks behind the treetops and the night air grows cold.

“What's up with you and Scott?” Piper asks.

I shrug. “Nothing. We're through with the interview and—”

“You're into him, aren't you?”

I squint at her in the soft light. “No, I'm not
into him
.”

“If you say so, but ever since the Come Home Gospel Celebration, your face lights up every time you hear his name.”

Sometimes Piper pays too much attention to detail. “Scott is a great guy.”

She laughs. “I sorta had a crush on him.”

I stop playing. “You did not.”

She nods. “I did.”

“Do you want me to fix you up?”

“No. Are you kidding? He's very into you, Aubrey.” Piper's attention is drawn toward the house. She stands. “Were you expecting company? Scott is here and . . .” She sucks in a deep breath. “Oh my gosh.”

I twist around to see what she's talking about. In the white glow of the yard lanterns, a tall, lean man with dark skin and sun-bleached hair accompanies Scott. The easy sway in his walk reminds me of . . .

I drop my guitar against the gazebo bench. “I can't believe it.”

“Is it who I think it is?”

“Yes.” I run down the gazebo steps, my bare feet pounding across the lawn. “Peter!”

My hands are still shaking as I fix my big brother a plate of Gina's left
-over pot roast and potatoes.
Fix my big brother.
The notion hits me with both excitement and confusion.

Glancing toward the family room, I watch my brother
, my big brother
, talk and laugh with Piper and Scott.

I love seeing him here. But I have so many questions. Why is he here? How did he find me. How does he know Scott?

“Are you surprised?” Scott tugs open the fridge door and looks inside. “Got any root beer?”

“No, just juice, water, and diet.”

“Water it is.” He taps the fridge closed with his heel.

“Scott, how do you know Peter?” I ask as he twists off the bottle cap and tosses it in the trash, then retrieves the pie plate from the other side of the kitchen.

I pull out the cutting knife from the island drawer and hand it to him. “Are you ignoring me?”

Focused on cutting a large slice of pie, Scott still doesn't answer.

“Scott.” I pull on his elbow. “How do you know him?”

“The pie looks good, doesn't it? You want a piece?” He drops his cut onto one of the paper plates Gina leaves out now.

“Great dinner, Aubrey.” Peter approaches with his empty plate.

“Would you like a piece of pie?” I feel like a diner waitress, tossing away his used paper plate and asking if he wants dessert.

But we have to start somewhere. The rapport with my brother has been stifled by years of silence.

Peter tucks his hands in his pockets. “Sure, I'd like what Scott is having.”

“So,” I venture, slicing Peter a big piece of pie. “How do you two know each other?”

There's more than one way to find out information. Scott concentrates on eating, while Peter takes the plate from me.

“I punched him.” He chuckles, pointing to Scott with his fork.

“You what?” I regard Peter, then Scott. “Oh my gosh. Your eye. After that one weekend. You were the one looking for Peter.”

“He was,” my brother says with a swallow of pie. “When the PI first contacted me—”

“PI? What PI?”

“The one Scott hired.”

My mind works to make sense of this. “You hired a private eye?”

“I called a friend—”

“So the day Peter called here, after our first one-on-one game . . . You were the one looking for him.”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do such a thing? Without asking me? You had no right.” I slap the island counter. “This is my life, Scott, not yours. My name. Just because you probed into my life and sniffed around my private thoughts for an interview doesn't give you the right to hunt down my long-lost brother. Did you need him to be a part of the story? Part of the big sale to CMT?”

“Whoa, Aubrey, no. Don't assign motives to me.”

I shiver and ball my fists. “Isn't that what this is all about? More of the story? A big dramatic homecoming to boost the CMT ratings?”

He swings his arm toward the great room. “Do you see Rafe here? Cameras?”

“Did it ever occur to you I might not want Peter back in my life? You can't go around doing things in my name, Scott.”

“Aubrey,” Peter interjects with a daddylike tone.

I whirl around to him. “What?
Aubrey
what?”

“He was just trying to help.”

My emotions are twisted so I can't make sense of them. Do I cry? Laugh? Hit someone? I lean toward Scott. “Next time, ask first.”

He slides his uneaten pie across the island countertop and walks over to the coffee table, snatching up his car keys. “First of all, I looked for him in my name, not yours.” He pauses in the foyer doorway. “And I only did it because of the look on your face the day we talked at Music City Park and you said he was AWOL.”

“You can't read my expression and make such a huge decision, Scott.”

“Wasn't my intent to cause a fight.”

Peter whistles low. “I knew I shouldn't have come.” He follows Scott into the foyer.

“Then why did you come? Huh? I haven't talked to you in six years, haven't seen you in eight.” I trail after them, my formerly staid emotions erupting. “So, tell me. What made you come back? Money? Do you need money?”

Peter stops abruptly. “No, I don't need your money. I came here because I—” He presses his fist to his lips and clears his throat. “I-I missed you.”

“You missed me?”

“Yeah, but apparently it was a bad idea.” He picks up a small duffle bag by the door.

He missed me? “Peter, wait. Don't go.” I step in his way. If he walks out the door, instinct tells me I'll never see him again. “Please stay.”

“Coming here was a bad idea, Aubrey. Too much water under the bridge.”

“I didn't sleep for a year after you left,” I blurt as we stand in the foyer, deciding if Peter should stay or go. “When I toured, I looked for you everywhere—on the city street, at the county fair, among the faces at a concert. I wanted to share my success with you.”

Peter drops his duffle bag, pressing his hand to the back of his neck. “I watched you from my place down in Florida. I knew you were doing well, AJ.”

“Did you leave because of me?”

“No, no.” His face is flushed and his hazel eyes shine. He paces to the edge of the foyer, standing in the residue of light coming from the kitchen. “You reminded me of him, okay?” The confession clicks like an unlocking key. “I couldn't look at you and not remember. I never had the chance to apologize and tell him he was my hero.”

His confession sinks into the fresh, God-tilled ground of my heart. “But he knew.” I adore my brother.

“Maybe I handled it wrong by leaving, but I had to get out of Nashville.”

“Where'd you go?”

“Florida. Destin Beach. I run a deep-sea fishing boat.”

I study his profile. My good-looking brother with the sensitive heart and easy manner. “We're a mess, you and me.”

He peers into my eyes, and I feel the depths, and his loneliness. Solitude without peace. For a moment, it's almost unbearable.

“But we're blood, family. And we love each other, don't we?”

He bites his bottom lip and nods once.

“ Then you'll stay?”

“I reckon.”

From the door, Scott clears his voice. “Is my work here done?”

“Once again, you've made me look at my life.” I walk over to him. “I'm sorry for being so nasty in there.”

“Hey, I understand. Diva's gotta do what a diva's gotta do.”

“Yeah, well, a diva should always be gracious.” I grin, looking at Scott and my brother. “You know, we left Piper alone in there.”

Scott curves his arm around me and walks me to the kitchen. “Shoot, I bet she ate all the pie.”

34

“If you haven't been watching Inside NashVegas, set your alarm and wake up Monday mornings at seven fifteen. Yesterday, Aubrey James beat Scott Vaughn in a game of one-on-one. Pretty humbling.”

—Brad Schmitt, Brad on 2

Saturday afternoon Peter and I sit outside and talk. He's leaving tomorrow
, and time seems precious.

The crisp breeze blowing through the porch is fragrant with autumn. Though it's Gina's day off, she made us a pot of her chocolate-chocolate hot chocolate when she stopped to take care of a few things in her office.

George and Ringo sniff Peter's hand, unsure of the new man in their momma's life. After a second, George licks his fingers and drops to the floor by his feet.

“You won them over.” I motion to the dogs and sip hot chocolate.

“Dogs I can deal with. Women . . . now that's another thing.” He falls against the sofa cushion, holding his mug of cocoa in one hand, rubbing his short golden hair with the other.

“No special lady in your life?” The wind whips past. I shiver and curl my feet under me. Peter seems comfortable in khaki shorts and a
GoneFishing
T-shirt.

“Loved and lost a few times. After Mandy, I decided to bag relationships for a while.”

“Remember Tracey Bachman from high school?”

He hides his smile, sipping from his mug. “Some things I choose to forget. So, where's this fiancé I read about?”

“Car? We broke up a few months ago.”

His gaze is serious. “Why?”

“The relationship had a lot of holes.” I try to picture Car and Peter sitting down for a nice Sunday afternoon conversation.
Shudder.
“Remember the people we used to make fun of at the churches we used to visit?”

He nods. “You were about to marry into one of those families?”

“Can you believe it?”

Peter grins. “Oh, the irony,” he says, and it's the closest I've felt to him since he arrived. Most of the communication between us is about facts, not feelings. Which is okay. There's no guidebook for “catching up with your long-lost sibling in twenty-four easy hours,” so we're figuring it out as we go along.