A Nashville Collection (67 page)

Love, and thanks again,
Jen

Shutting down the computer, stretching and collapsing against the back of the chair, I peer out the window at the maple's red and gold leaves clapping in the wind. Juan is steering a wheelbarrow across the lawn toward the gazebo. He stops and lifts out flower boxes of marigolds. How beautiful. Juan. He never leaves my garden unattended.

The phone's ring snaps me out of my mindless stare.

“Want to catch dinner with Ami and me?” Zach asks.

“Um, sure. Hey, Peter showed up last night.”

“Your brother Peter?”

“One and the same. Can you believe it?”

“No . . . How are you?”

I smile. “Actually, wonderful.”

“Well, then, do you
and
Peter want to join us for dinner?”

“He's out right now. Let me call you when—” I hear the chime of the front door opening and closing. I hear footsteps echoing in the foyer and down the hall. “Pete just came home. What time do you want to meet?”

“Seven thirty at LongHorn.”

“See you then.” I go find Peter. He chose to sleep in the barren but rather large downstairs master bedroom.

“Peter?” I knock lightly and wait for an answer. I call again, but when he doesn't answer, I inch the door open. “Pete?” No answer.

I know I heard him come in. I check Car's old office to see if he decided to use my old laptop.

“Peter?” I jog upstairs to check the library and the rec room. He's not in either place, or in any of the bedrooms. All right, I'm not crazy; I did hear him come in. Puzzled, I stand at the top of the stairs.

Then I hear music. I cock my ear toward the sound. Peter is singing and playing one of Momma's songs. His voice is still strong, and wrapped with emotion. Leaning my arms on the railing, I close my eyes and sing harmony.

Peter's bag is in the foyer Sunday afternoon when Connie and I arrive
home from church. Connie wipes her eyes when he wraps his arm around her shoulders. “You're a sight I've been praying to see for a long time.”

I set my bag and Bible on the end table. “Do you want some lunch?”

“Naw,” he waves me off. “I'll grab something on the road.”

The idea of him leaving sends a pang of loneliness through me. “You'll come back, won't you?”

“Probably.” He clears his throat. “I'm proud of you. Momma and Daddy would be proud of you.”

My eyes water. “They'd be proud of you too.”

“That's debatable.” He puts his arm around me as we walk to the foyer. “See you.”

“Christmastime?”

He pauses at the door. “Maybe. You could drive down, and I'll string the boat with a few lights and—”

“I still don't drive,” I confess with a wince.

At first, he's stunned. Then his rolling laugh bounces off the high ceiling and rains over me. “Holy cow, AJ, learn to freaking drive.”

“Spoken like a true brother,” Connie says.

He opens the front door. “I'll see you.”

“There's money,” I blurt.

“I don't want your money.”

“Not my money, yours. Around a half a million.”

He cocks his head sideways as if I'm speaking a foreign language and steps back inside. “Come again?”

“Half a million. Connie and I finally organized Daddy and Momma's affairs. We've been putting your half of the mechanicals and royalties from their songs into an account. Remember the little publishing company Daddy started the year before he died? Connie keeps it going. ‘The Man' was covered again and became a gospel hit.”

He circles the room, his hand on his head. “Half million?”

“With your name on it.” I run to Piper's desk and find his bank information. “The account is in your name—Peter James's name.”

He reviews the bank's info, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Can I access this from Florida?”

“Yes,” Connie says, tapping the handwritten pin number and Web site. He beams, scratching his head. “What a beautiful thing.”

35

“Aubrey James is the Susan Lucci of the CMA Awards.
Always nominated, never a winner.”

—Country Weekly

Scott

Oktoberfest. Or, as some in our family call it, Vaughn Fest. The big
annual family get-together. All the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends, and friends of friends gather at Dad and Mom's the first weekend in October.

Friday afternoon, as I get ready to drive down to Murfreesboro, Mom calls for the fourth time.

“Just had a wild thought. Why don't you bring Aubrey down?”

“Aubrey who?”

She sighs as if the burden of her son's welfare rests on her feeble mom shoulders. “You know Aubrey who.”

“Now why would I bring Aubrey?”

“I've been watching the show and . . . well . . . you two have a vibe.”

My mother is noticing my vibe? I'm embarrassed. “I see Dad forgot to give you your medication.” I pull my duffel bag from the closet floor. “What medi—Oh, stop. Son, I can tell. Aubrey
is
sweet on you. She's got that look in her eye.”

“Mom, that look is for the
NashVegas
audience, her fans.”

“Are you saying if you invited her she wouldn't come?”

Tossing the duffel to my bed, I think it over.
Would
she come? “I'm sure she has weekend plans. Aubrey James is a very busy woman.”

“Call her. Humor me.”

“Can't I just tell you a couple of jokes?” Picking a couple of pairs of socks from the top dresser drawer, I lob them over to my bag.
Vaughn
scores a double basket. The crowd goes wild.

“No. Call her.”
Click.

I jerk the phone away from my ear with a laugh. My mom just hung up on me.
See if I call Aubrey for you now.
I toss the phone onto the bed and finish packing.

But the idea of calling Aubrey nags at me. By the time I zip my bag shut, I'm really annoyed.
Nice going, Mom.

My logical, thinking, rational side says forget it. She's not going to pack up last minute and go to Murfreesboro for the weekend. What's she going to do with my family all weekend? Listen to stories? Help in the kitchen?

I laugh at the image of Mom watching her kitchen burn down while Aubrey wrings a dish towel in her hands, wailing, “I'll build you a new one.”

What if we don't get along and I have to endure rock-hard silence the entire way home? Not to mention she just broke off with Car. She can't be interested in meeting another guy's family.

Last but not least, what if she discovers I'm completely, hopelessly, madly in love with her?

Snatching up the phone before I change my mind, I dial Aubrey's place. Piper answers on the third ring.

“Piper, this is Scott Vaughn—”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Is Aubrey around?”

“Yeah, just got back from a meeting with her business manager. Hold on.”

This is nuts. She's not going to drop everything and run down to Murfreesboro with me.
Hang up. No, Piper will tell her I called.

Make up an excuse.
What d'you know? I found the information I needed while
waiting for you to come to the phone.

Nope. She won't buy it. Think of something else.

“Scott, hello.”

“Aubrey, how are you?”

“Wonderful. And you?”

“Doing good.”

Silence.

“So, is that why you called?” Her laugh is airy and sweet.

“No.”

Silence.

“Scott, are you okay?” The airiness is replaced with concern.

“WouldyouliketogotoMurfreesboroformyfamilyOktoberfest?”

“When?”

“Today. In an hour.” Here comes the big fat
noooo
.

Silence.

“Fancy or casual?”

Breathe
. “Very casual.” My heart stops beating so I thump it with my fist. “Should I bring down some giveaways? Yes, yes I should. The Aubrey Bags are so fabulous. I'll have Piper run down to the warehouse; it's not far. How many people?”

“Hundreds.”

“Hundreds? Really?”

I laugh. “Oktoberfest—or, as my sisters and I call it, Vaughn Fest— is a big family-and-friends gathering.”

“Okay, then, hundreds. I'll have Piper get some of the AubJay staff to make up kits. Is it okay if they're delivered tomorrow?”

“Aubrey, you don't have to do this.” I glance at my reflection in the dresser mirror. Yes, it's true. I'm madly in love with this woman.

“Of course I don't, but I want to. So, tomorrow is good?”

“Tomorrow is more than good.” But really, how can it be any better than today?

“Inside NashVegas is moving. Starting in January, we'll be a part of the CMT weekly lineup. Watch our November debut with an exclusive look at country superstar Aubrey James.”

—Scott Vaughn, Inside NashVegas promo

Vaughn Fest was disturbed when I showed up with Aubrey Friday evening.
Big commotion. We hid inside the house until Dad calmed the masses.

We listened to Dad's speech from my old room. “Now, I'm sure Miss James will be delighted to meet everyone, but let's not behave like a bunch of ill-mannered rednecks. Give her space, give each other space, and I'm sure we'll all get a chance to say hello. She came here to relax and have fun just like the rest of us.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, sinking down to the edge of my bed.

“For what?” I sit next to her.

Her pretty face is pink and lined with concern. She points out the window. “This is the part of being me I hate. Can't show up and blend in.”

“Blending in isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

She laughs and drops her head against my shoulder. “Sometimes, I feel so tired. Like I can't carry the weight alone for another day.”

I'll help you carry the weight. Just ask.
Her perfume is subtle and clean, and teasing me. It's fifty degrees outside and I'm sweating.
Lord, help a guy
out, would You?

Dad's speech rolls on. “Now tomorrow, she's going to sign autographs and have a few giveaways, so just be cool—”

I wrap my arm around her and quote Dad, “‘Just be cool,' ” then laugh. “Didn't he scream the loudest when you showed up at the party?”

She elbows me. “No, that was me. You stepped on the back of my shoe.”

I grin.
Aubrey, will you marry me?
“I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too.”

My sisters torture me all weekend. First, they high-five Aubrey for
burning off my eyebrows. Next, they tell her every little stupid, embarrassing story they can remember about me during the Friday-night bonfire.

“Then, when he was twelve he stole the family car—”

“
Borrowed
. I borrowed the family car.” If I'm going to be exposed, might as well get the details right.

It's late and the bonfire is burning low, and most of the Vaughn Fest crowd has gone home until tomorrow.

Sally rolls her eyes. “
Borrowed
the family car and lent it to his friend Steve, who drove across town to visit his girlfriend.”

Aubrey jabs my ribs with her fingers. “You little thief.”

I reach under my crossed arm and grab ahold of her hand. She peeks into my eyes with a shy grin, then urges Sally to tell another one.

Sunday afternoon is sunny and cold. Brown leaves float along in the crisp
breeze. Vaughn Fest is officially over, and by four o'clock in the afternoon, everyone has gone home, including my big-mouth sisters.

Aubrey's in the kitchen helping Mom wash up the bowls and pans used this weekend.

I tap her on the shoulder and tip my head toward the door. “Hey, grab your jacket.”

“I'm helping your mom,” she says.

Mom takes the dish towel from her and gently pushes her toward me. “Go. Have fun.” Proud to be playing matchmaker, Mom winks at me, which I find rather disturbing, but if it gets me alone with Aubrey, I'll endure.

“Where are we going?” Aubrey slips on her suede jacket and follows me past Dad, who's snoring on the couch in front of a muted football game.

“Out to the barn.”

She stops on the back porch. “Out to the barn? What exactly do you have in mind, Scott?” Her eyebrows are raised.

I make a face. “Come on, you'll see.”

While I unlock the barn doors, Aubrey and I reminisce about the weekend and how fun it was to give out the Aubrey Bag gifts.

I swing open the barn doors. “There she blows. In all her glory. Dad's old Jeep Wrangler.”

She falls against me, squeezing my arm. “You're kidding. How fun.”
Kiss her.
“Yeah, the old Jeep is a lot of fun.” I wrangle open the passenger-side door for her. “It sticks a little.”

Getting behind the wheel, I crank the engine. When it roars to life I look over at Aubrey. “Hang on.”

She grabs the roll bar with a rebel yell as I shift into reverse. Cranking up the radio, we careen over the brown, uneven field.

“Dad and Mom own a little over twenty acres. All this is their property. Bought it right after they were married. Poorer than dirt, but wanted a tract of
dirt
to call their own.”

Aubrey screams as we hit a ditch and go airborne. Her loose hair whips about her face like mahogany and gold ribbons. “This is amazing.”

Her eyes are bright from laughing, her smooth cheeks pink from the chill.

“Dad's tried to sell this old Jeep, but we refuse to let him.”

“Is it fun to drive?”

I slam on the brakes and shift into neutral, letting the engine idle. “Why don't you find out?” I hop out and gesture to my seat. “For you, milady.”

The excitement in her eyes fades, and her mouth drops open “I-I can't. Besides, this is a stick shift. I couldn't possibly . . . No, Scott, no.”