A Nashville Collection (63 page)

Don't let your heart go there, Vaughn.

Aubrey pulls her hand out of mine. “Guess we should get to the interview.”

I clear my throat and nod. “Right, the interview.”

Facing the camera, I do a lead-in. “Scott Vaughn for
Inside NashVegas
. I'm inside the historic Ryman Auditorium with country artist Aubrey James. Join us Mondays at seven a.m. for our exclusive look at this exceptional artist.”

“Exceptional?” she echoes.

“My lead-in, my adjectives.”

She smiles. “I'm not complaining.”

Scott: Tell me about your first performance at the Ryman.

AJ: I was eight. The James Family was to be a part of a gospel music celebration at the Ryman.

Scott: Do you think it played a significant part in your career?

AJ: Certainly, among other things. But how cool to have the spotlight on the Ryman stage at eight? I mean, how many kids can say that? Or adults, for that matter.

Scott: How old were you when you sang at the Grand Ole Opry?

AJ: Nineteen. Right after my first country album came out.

Scott: What do you remember about your first performance in the Ryman?

AJ: Popcorn. [laughing] When Daddy brought us to the Ryman, concession was preparing for the evening and the whole place smelled like hot, buttery popcorn. [taking a deep breath] From that moment on, the only thing I could
think
about was popcorn. I begged and begged him to buy me a bag, but he refused. I'm pretty sure I came within a hairsbreadth of being grounded for life.

Scott: I was grounded for life a couple of times.

AJ: Why does that not surprise me? Anyway, we warmed up, did a sound check, and waited to go on, me still pouting over popcorn. I wore a yellow dress with black patent leather shoes . . . and
no
socks.”

Scott: No socks.

AJ: No socks. I wanted to wear stockings, but Momma said no. It was nineteen eighty-five, and she still thought stockings were too grown up for an eight-year-old. So I refused to wear anklets because none of the other ladies were wearing them.

Scott: See, you've been a diva in the making for a long time.

AJ: Oh my gosh . . . [flicking her wrist] Yeah, you're probably right.

Scott: Were you nervous?

AJ: I can't remember. Maybe a little. I didn't understand the magnitude of singing at the Ryman. [stopping to point overhead] Listen. Hear it? The lingering music, the great voices of past performances. Sam Jones preaching. George Hay welcoming listeners to the Grand Ole Opry. That amazing train sound of DeFord Bailey's harmonica. [smiling] I love this place
.

Scott: I can see why.

AJ: I forget the incredible history until nights like this when I'm sitting in the quiet sanctuary and history speaks to me.

A commotion in the back of the auditorium nabs our attention. A tour group tromps along the back of the sanctuary. I motion for Rafe to cut. Several of the tourists notice Aubrey and scurry toward us in a synchronized shuffle.

“I can't believe it.” A bubbly teen with a blonde ponytail claps her hands over her cheeks. “Please, can I have your autograph?”

I've been with Aubrey several times now when this happens and her graciousness never fails. She makes the conversation feel like neighbors talking over the fence. I signal for Rafe to video this exchange.

“What's your name?” Aubrey asks, poised to sign a Ryman flyer.

“Caitlyn. With a C.”

Aubrey smiles. “All right, Caitlyn with a C. Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“No, we couldn't get tickets.” The teenager sticks out her lower lip. Aubrey hands back the pad of paper and pen. “Tell you what, why don't you come as my guests?”

Caitlyn's scream rattles the old stained glass. “Really? Mom, can we please?”

Her mother nods. “Are you sure, Miss James?”

“Absolutely.” Aubrey pauses. “Unless you need a hundred tickets.”

The mom laughs. “Four would be fine.”

“Four I can do. Come to the ticket counter and ask for them in my name.” Aubrey turns to me. “Remind me to tell Piper. She's backstage.” Others in the group step up for autographs and digital photos. The crowd is small, so Aubrey complies. Posing and signing, chatting all the while.

Rafe zooms in to capture their faces and banter. The candid moment will add a great touch to our summer interviews, confirming to the world what I've been seeing all summer. A beautiful woman with a sincere heart.

Aubrey talks with the fans, asking questions as if she really cares where they lived, the name of their school and church, and how they liked Nashville. She's nonplussed by their effusive accolades. When the younger fans clear away, clutching their autographs, chatting a mile a minute, a few older ones step up, quietly telling Aubrey they remember her parents.

“Thank you. It's comforting to talk with people who loved their music.”

An older, statuesque woman hangs back, eyeing Aubrey from the tip of her raised nose. Her expression causes the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

Aubrey is ending a conversation with a twenty-something woman. “We're in the studio this summer working on a new album. It's different from what I've been doing, so I hope the fans will like it.”

“I own all your albums,” the woman admits with a small laugh. “I'm sure I'll own the new one too.”

The twenty-something fan is gracefully and confidently holding her own with the superstar. From her mannerisms, I can tell Aubrey prefers this kind of self-assured fan. “Listen, I'll send you an advanced copy. I'd love your feedback.”

“Really? I'd be honored.”

Aubrey instructs the twenty-something how to get in touch with her for the CD, and after a quick hug, she dashes off to join the rest of the tour before the Ryman closes to the public and show prep begins.

But still lurking a few feet away is the statuesque woman. “Would you like an autograph?” Aubrey asks, smiling.

The woman shakes her head, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I knew your people . . . your mother and father.” She steps closer, and the tone of her voice is like the sharp edge of a knife.

I slide out from the pew and stand next to Aubrey.

“You knew my parents? Have we met?” Aubrey extends her hand, but the woman doesn't acknowledge the gesture.

“Wouldn't they be ashamed at what their daughter has become?” The woman's accusation is ominous and penetrating.

An adrenaline rush causes my heartbeat to pick up.
What is she up to?
I cross my arms, watching and listening.

“I-I-I,” Aubrey stumbles to answer. “I think they'd be very proud of me.”

The austere woman shakes her head. “They were
good
Christian people. Don't you imagine they would expect you to live as if they taught you some morals?”

Aubrey blinks, her expression twisted with confusion. “Excuse me, I didn't catch your name?”

“I didn't give it.”

This woman is good. Skilled in control and manipulation.

“How did you know my parents?”

“Through church functions, music events around town. I helped coordinate some of their bookings in the early days.”

“I see. And that gives you the right to tell me they wouldn't like what I've become?”

“Your parents loved the Lord.”

“So do I.”

“I'm sure they would be disappointed to see their girl whoring around, living with a man she isn't married to, singing songs about fornicating and drinking.”

My fists clench under my crossed arms.
Smack her down, Aubrey. Give
it to her.

But Aubrey doesn't move. Doesn't say a word.

“Don't you feel like the world's biggest hypocrite, singing at a gospel show with all those genuine Christian singers? Paying tribute to your parents while living a life they would never condone?”

Aubrey, tell her to back off. What gives her the right, coming in here, using your
parents against you?

A second ticks off, then another. Aubrey is solemn, staring past the woman to another part of the sanctuary.

The accuser can't leave well enough alone. “I just hope you understand how disappointing you are to Christians everywhere.”

“Then I'd appreciate your prayers.” Aubrey's voice wobbles.

The woman inhales sharply, jerking up her chin. Aubrey's humility knocks her off her high horse. I want to cheer and punch the air with my fist, but I keep my composure. For a split second, the woman appears to soften.

“I'll pray . . . if it's not too late.” She walks off, her thick heels thudding against the scarred wood floors.

Rafe looks from around the camera. “What a b—”

“Rafe.” I hold up my hand. “Aubrey, you okay?”

She bobs her head once, but won't turn toward me. “I'm fine.”

I walk around and lift her chin. “Look at me.” Her lower lip quivers, and tears swim in her blue-green eyes.

“I-I . . .” A sob escapes through her pinched lips. “. . . can't . . . She's . . . right . . .”

“She's wrong.” Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her while she weeps. “A mean, bitter woman.”

Rafe ambles down the aisle and returns in a few minutes with Piper. “Honey, what's wrong?” Piper leans to see Aubrey's face.

“Rude lady,” I say to Piper, starting to explain. Aubrey turns away from us, brushing away her tears.

At the end of my story, Piper folds her arms with a grimace on her face. “Why do you let people like that get to you?”

Aubrey whirls around. “Because she's right. Most of the stuff about me is fabrication, exaggeration, like Car and I didn't break up because I'm still in love with Jack Mills. That's laughable. I can blow it off. But this woman is serious. How have I honored my heritage? How have I honored the vow I made to the Lord when I gave Him my heart? Fifty bucks says this woman is not alone in the way she feels.”

“Aubrey.” I hand her my handkerchief. “Forget the Frozen Chosen. Let them feel the way they want to feel. All you need to know is you're loved and forgiven. That woman is no less a sinner than you. Go out on the stage tonight and celebrate your parents. Celebrate your own coming home to God. Heck, your Dad got tossed out of a church for doing his own kind of music. Are you better than him? So people criticize. Don't let it get you down.”

“Dad got kicked out for playing drums and electric guitar. This woman is calling out my sin.”

“Seems I remember a story about a harlot thrown down at Jesus' feet. The mob wanted Him to condemn her to stoning, but He wouldn't. He knew the mob was no better than the woman.”

“It's not the same, Scott. Stop.”

“It
is
the same, Aubrey. Fine if they want to martyr you, but don't martyr yourself.”

“Scott's right,” Piper says.

“Aubrey.” I hold her by her arms. “Jesus simply told the harlot to go and sin no more. I can't imagine He'd say anything different to you.”

Aubrey kicks the floor with her pointy-toed shoe. “Yeah, well, the harlot didn't have to perform in front of several thousand of the Frozen Chosen.”

Piper laughs.

“Come on, they're not all the Frozen Chosen,” I tease. On impulse, I pull her to me, wrapping her in my arms. “Since when are you afraid of the critics?”

“I hate when you're right.” She plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” I say, my voice husky, my pulse racing.
Man, I am so gone
over her. So gone.

30

Aubrey

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .”

Waiting in the wings, I listen as Ralph introduces me. I'm still nervous. Very.

“. . . we are thrilled to have this great lady of country music with us tonight . . .”

I see
her
austere, judgmental face and hear
her
icy accusation.
What
would
Daddy and Momma think of me?
“I don't know, I don't know.” Momma's face from my dream scrolls across my mind's eye. Her forgiving voice asks, “Why do you hide your light?”

I bat away a fresh batch of tears. My stylist repaired my makeup so I can't ruin her masterpiece a second time. Exhaling, I choke back the emotion.

“. . . We know her as the queen of country soul, but this gal sang right here at the Ryman Auditorium for the first time more than twenty years ago. We're glad to have her here tonight singing the timeless gospel songs of her father and mother, the great Ray and Myra James.” The great Ray and Myra James. Me?

The great poser. Sold out when I wasn't even looking to sell.
God, oh God.
I can't go out there, a sinner posing as a believer.
I owe You everything. God, You owe me nothing.

“Please welcome Aubrey James!” The spot swings to stage right, dropping a circle of white light on the floor in front of me. The Ryman auditorium reverberates with applause.

“Aubrey James . . .” Ralph extends his arm to me.

Shoved from behind—by Piper, I guess—I stand in the center of the spot. The applause grows. Lifting my chin and sculpting my smile, I stride onto the grand old stage. Ralph meets me in the middle and slips his arm around my shoulder.

“What songs are you going to sing tonight?”

“A couple of Daddy's favorites, Ralph. ‘Mountain of Myrrh,' ‘Baptize Me in the River,' and ‘Come, Faithful One.' ”

“All my favorites.” Ralph backs away. “Once again, Aubrey James.” More cheering and applause. The energy and feel is so different from the CMA Fest. Was it only two months ago I fainted on the coliseum stage?

Tonight's feel is a mixture of encouragement and condemnation. Digging deep for my diva confidence, I make my way to the edge of the stage. Ralph and the band are playing “Mountain of Myrrh.”