Diva NashVegas (23 page)

“C-certainly.”

Her slender, tan hand pats mine. “Good, dear. Very good.”

Brown calls to her. “Grace, you've got to hear this.”

The Arbuckles and the Carmichaels huddle together on the far side of the elegant, wide living room, discussing something that makes them all laugh.

Alone in the middle of the room, I cup my pink drink. The melting ice forms tears on the outside of the carved glass.

“Aubrey, honey, you okay over there?” Car lifts his head from the circle, smiling. “We're just talking about the latest politics at the club. Do you know the Andersons?”

“No, honey, she hasn't met them,” Grace says.

“Don't believe I've had the honor.” Sipping from my pink drink, I shake water droplets from my chilled hand while the blue bloods continue their conversation.

After another round of laughter, Car slips past me to the snack buffet, tapping my cheek with a kiss. He notices something in the corner. “Dad, why'd you pull out the old dinosaur?”

A smile spreads on Brown Carmichael's face as he walks over to the ornate china hutch. “I found your grandpa's 16-mm movies.” He produces two round tin film canisters.

“You're kidding? When? Where were they?” Car's reaches for the tins. “I thought they were lost.” He turns to me, his expression like a kid at Christmas. “Brie, you've got to see these family movies. They're priceless.”

“Really?” A drop of condensation drips from the bottom of my glass to my foot.

Brown pops his hand on Car's shoulder. “The movies were in the attic all along.”

Grace explains with a flip of her wrist. “Car and Brown were frantic when we couldn't find those old movies. Remember, Brown? You even had Gray searching the garage with you.”

Gray raises his glass. “I certainly remember.”

Car takes one of the antique celluloid tins. “Brie, these are amazing movies. Grandpa set up these little scenes and played the director. The stars were Grandma, Dad and his brothers, and their friends. Being able to see and hear Grandpa and Grandma, see their clothes, hear their voices, watch them move and breathe . . .”

A chill runs over my scalp and down my neck. “Isn't it fortunate to have such a connection to your heritage? Something to remind you of your family, your past, your history?”

“It's invaluable—” Car's posture stiffens. The buried tension between us rises to the surface.

Brown takes the tin from Car. “We have a few minutes before dinner. Let's view this one. I think it's of Dad and his buddies after the war.”

With a glance at me, Car helps his father thread the movie through the projector. Car's hypocrisy angers me. How can he be so excited about his family heirlooms and so callous about mine?

Another drop of cold condensation splashes my foot.

Tammy walks over to Grace and me. “Have you seen these movies before? They are wonderful. I love the clothes and the hair.”

“No, I haven't seen them.” I point to the end table. “I brought you my new Aubrey Bag. Car said—”

“Oh, really? How thoughtful.” She doesn't even glance to where I point.

Yeah, she's a
huge
fan, Car.

“Excuse me, please, Tammy.”

Setting my drink down, I find the downstairs bathroom, lock the door, and perch on the closed toilet seat. “I can't do this. I can't.”

Belonging to this community seemed like the right move for me, an orphan girl who achieved fame. But no matter how I slice it, I'll never be a card-carrying member of Nashville's elite. Even if my last name is Carmichael.

My sigh of relief echoes around the marble and granite bathroom. “Aubrey, are you all right?” It's Grace, knocking on the door.

Checking my makeup in the mirror, I blow my nose and open the door to her. “I'm fine, actually.”

“Oh, well, then.” She peers around me into the bathroom as if I might not be alone.

“Thank you for a lovely evening. Please tell Car I needed to go home.”

“Shall I get your things?”

I wait in the hall for her to retrieve my purse, but Car returns instead of my future mother-in-law. “Aubrey, Mother said you needed to go home. What's wrong?” He passes me my handbag.

“I don't belong here.”

“Ridiculous. Of course you belong here. You're family, my fiancée.”

He follows me to the foyer. Our footsteps sound cold and hollow. “I'll see you at home later.”

“Aubrey, wait. What's going on? Is this about the ring? Are you walking home?”

“It's not that far. I need to think.” I start down the bricked front walk. The July air is sweet, and the velvety night sky is dotted with diamonds.

“Then I'm coming with you.”

I press my hands against his chest and kiss his cheek. “Stay. Don't disappoint your dad. I'm fine. We'll talk later.”

24

“When you first meet her, there's an innocent air about her, but Aubrey's a tiger woman. She drives herself and everyone else at Mach 10 until the job is done. She's altogether amazing and frightening.”

—David Whitestone, producer of Better Left Unsaid, Dandelions & Daffodils This Way to the Parade, and Borrowed Time

Scott

As planned, Rafe and I drive to the Blackbird Studios Thursday for our
session with Aubrey. Playing my macho card on Tuesday when Aubrey challenged me to another game of one-on-one, I made a deal.

If I win, no songwriting lesson. If she wins, I'll howl at the moon. After all, how could she beat me twice? Even if I was wearing loafers and khakis.

Midway through the game, I considered committing hari-kari, but it seemed a rather drastic and messy option just to get out of writing a song.

Then came the slip of my loafers on the slick court surface, followed by a-guy-should-never-do-this-kind-of-split split. Then the horrifying
riiipppp
of my inseam.

Rafe laughed the entire drive back to the
NashVegas
studio. I threatened him with bodily harm if he told anyone. This season with Aubrey is wreaking havoc on my ego. Burnt eyebrows, bruised cheek, losing two games of one-on-one, splits, ripped pants. Next? Impending doom with songwriting.

Yet I woke up this morning wondering how I could keep Aubrey in my life for another month or two.

For a lifetime.

We find Aubrey in Studio A with her producer, Dave Whitestone. “Welcome,
Inside NashVegas
.” Dave shakes our hands and quickly introduces us to the studio musicians. “There're a few donuts left over from Donut Den if you want.”

I pat my belly. “Love their crullers, but got to watch my figure.”

“Not me.” Rafe picks out a donut before setting up for the session.

Aubrey spreads her arms wide. “Welcome to my kingdom.”

“So, this is where the queen of country soul makes it happen?” I give her a light hug. “How are you today?”

“Can't complain.” Her star smile is dim, and I wonder what she's hiding behind her ocean-blue eyes.

“We're going to record a song Aubrey wrote with Robin Rivers. Do you want to film it?” Dave motions to the vocal booth.

“Yeah, give us five minutes.”

Aubrey tucks herself away in the vocal booth, eyes closed, lips moving.

“Just so you know, she's nervous.”

I regard Dave a second. “She's nervous?”

He nods. “You're really into her private world now.” Dave motions to Rafe. “With a camera, no less.”

“She makes music videos all the time. Sings before packed stadiums.”

Dave chuckles. “Not the same thing. Those are scripted, directed, and rehearsed. A live performance is nothing like recording in the studio. This is the artists at their weakest. Before all the polishing, before the mixing and mastering. Never mind this is a very personal song for Aubrey. One she wrote.”

I don't know what my expression says, but Dave pats me on the shoulder. “Don't worry, she'll be fine. Just know Aubrey is a little nervous about you watching.”

“ Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.”

When Rafe indicates we're ready, Dave goes into the control room with the engineer. Aubrey's melodic, soulful voice fills the studio.

I ease down into my chair, captured by the way her soul makes ordinary words come alive. CMT and
Inside NashVegas
viewers are going to love this segment.

After one take, Aubrey comes out of the booth with a jar of peanuts in her hand. Rafe subtly trails her with the mini-DV.

“Was it okay?” she asks Dave, biting her bottom lip, her eyes squinted.

He gives her a thumbs-up, then hugs her shoulders. “Perfect.”

She exhales and plops down next to me. “You were making me nervous.” Twisting open the jar of peanuts, she pours a small handful.

“Could've fooled me. By the way, I love the song.”

Aubrey's smile winkles her nose. “Thank you. Me too.”

A diva of divas and she still needs reassurance just like the rest of us. It's all I can do not to pull her into my arms and never let her go.

Scott: First, I have to ask, what's with the peanuts?

AJ: [laughing, holding up the jar of Planters] I never even think about it anymore.

Dave: It's her weird quirk.

AJ: I love to munch on peanuts before singing. I don't know why. The salt is good for my throat. I've always eaten them before I record.

Scott: Doesn't it dry out your mouth?

AJ: A little, but it helps with the spit factor.

Scott: Do all artists have weird quirks in the studio?

Dave: Most of the ones I work with do. Aubrey's tame compared to some.

AJ: We can sing before thousands without batting an eye, but go into the studio where there's nothing but you and your voice, and it's nerve-wracking. Like, “I'm no good, a fraud. This album will expose me. My career is over.”

Scott: To the rest of us it seems like magic.

Dave: As we intend it, but artists are very insecure people. Maybe more than most.

AJ: One minute, you're the adoration of thousands, the next minute your record label is telling you there's not one radio song on your new album.

Scott: What makes you want to record a certain song?

AJ: The feel, mostly. The melody, the lyrics, if the song is saying something that resonates in me.

Dave: We look for songs that say “Aubrey James.” A lot of times we love a song, but it doesn't ring true with her. She sings and it just goes flat.

Scott: The judges on
American Idol
are always telling the contestants about song
choice. Is it the same here?

AJ: [laughing] We're reduced to the advice of Paula Abdul, Dave.

But yeah, song choice is extremely critical. Of course, I'm not covering a Mariah Carey tune, but I'd say, for artists who don't write their own material, song selection is one of the most critical components.

Dave: I just want it to be known we knew about song selection well before
American Idol
. [laughing] We've all listened to albums where the songs didn't work. Those are usually the ones that only sell ten thousand units or less, and the label was hoping for platinum. Songs need to resonate with something deep and hidden in the artist.

Scott: Where do you find these resonating songs?

AJ: I bought a few on sale at 7-Eleven the other day.

Dave: [laughing] Songwriters we know. Publishers, of course, send their pluggers over to introduce us to new songs and new songwriters. We put a hundred songs on hold for Aubrey's last album, and only twelve made the cut.

Scott: [whistling] You left a lot of disappointed songwriters in your wake.

AJ: Too many.

Scott: For your latest project, you're writing or cowriting most of the material?

AJ: Yes, with Robin Rivers. Seems I found her at the right time in my career, and hers. Together, we're writing the songs of my heart.

Scott: You wrote “The Man” with your dad, didn't you?

AJ: [nodding] When I was ten.

Scott: Did you ever imagine it would be a gospel cover song?

AJ: No, I just wanted to survive the experience of writing the song.

Dave: I'd like Aubrey to cover it on this album.

AJ: [looking at Dave] An issue we're still debating. We recorded it this week, but who knows if it'll make the cut. I'm more excited about taking a new direction than singing a twenty-year-old song.

Scott: Why do you say you wanted to survive the experience of writing the song?
AJ: [shifting in her chair] It was the first time in my young life I encountered the power of God. I was terrified.

We were in Kentucky somewhere—Bowling Green, maybe— singing for this old-fashioned revival meeting. A man by the name of Preacher Darrell delivered a fire-and-brimstone message, literally trying to scare the hell out of us. Mission accomplished when it came to me. I refused to get on the stage and sing if Preacher Darrell was anywhere near.

Scott: I've been in those sorts of meetings.

AJ: So, I cowered in the back. Then Preacher Darrell barked, “Close your eyes. Everyone. Do you see him? Jesus, coming down the cobblestone road, the heavy, splintered cross on his bleeding back?”

Suddenly, I saw it. Exactly what he described, playing out like a movie. It seemed like forever, but it was probably only ten or fifteen seconds, but it was an encounter I'll never forget. I couldn't stop crying, and when Preacher Darrell called all the sinners to the altar, I stumbled forward.

Kneeling at the altar, I cried and cried. Not sure why or how, but I knew Jesus loved me. After a while, I peeked out from under my arm to see I was the only one at the altar. Daddy and Momma were onstage, singing, watching me. Momma's face was wet with tears.

Preacher Darrell's only convert that night was the little girl in the band. I went back to my seat and wrote what I felt and saw. Those words became the lyrics of “The Man.” Later, I sang the melody to Daddy, and we worked on it off and on for the next few months. In fact [pointing at Scott] the old video you saw is the first time I ever sang it live.