Diva NashVegas (28 page)

Scott: Well said, Jen. Thank you.

The interview segment with Jen ends. She rises from the couch, smiling, hugging her mom. I tap Aubrey on the knee. “You're not done yet.”

“Okay, whatever.” Aubrey peers around at Jen. “She's fab, isn't she?” “Like her big sister,” I say.

Scott: Ready for some rapid-fire questions?

AJ: Sure, whatever that means.

Scott: Dogs or cats.

AJ: [gesturing toward her pets] Dogs, but I do love cats.

Scott: Summer or winter?

AJ: Fall.

Scott: Okay, not the question, but whatever. Chocolate or vanilla?

AJ: Are you crazy? Definitely chocolate.

Scott: Leno or Letterman?

AJ: Oooh, not fair. I do closing song sets on Letterman a lot, so I'll say Letterman.

Scott: Reading or television?

AJ: What is this, “Beat up Aubrey with hard questions”? Um, reading. But I do love old movies.

Scott: Favorite movie?

AJ:
Notting Hill
,
The Way We Were
,
Never Been Kissed
, and the indie film
Love Like a Rock
, which used my song, “Always.”

Scott: Favorite kind of day?

AJ: Oh, this I can answer. Fall day. Slightly overcast with the sun filtering through cumulus clouds. A crisp breeze. Walking through fallen leaves with my friends, picturing the bowl of chili that is waiting for me at home.

Scott: Greatest musical influence?

AJ: My parents, of course. And my producer, Dave Whitestone. But I'd have to say I really admire Amy Grant. She took some hits for her divorce, but she never lost her faith, unlike some people [pointing to herself] She is an amazing songwriter and performer. I'd love to write and record with her one day.

Scott: Finish this sentence: “If I could meet anyone, it would be . . .”

AJ: Dead or alive?

Scott: “If I could meet anyone, it would be . . .”

AJ: Okay, okay. Anyone. Cleopatra, or the Queen of Sheba.

Scott: [grinning] That's two someones, but I'll let you slide. Why Cleo and Sheba?
AJ: Cleopatra because she sent herself, at twenty-two, to Julius Caesar wrapped in an oriental rug. Sheba, because she exchanged ideas with King Solomon and fell in love.

Scott: Then why not meet Solomon?

AJ: I'd rather talk to someone who talked to him. Think about it.

Six thousand years ago, or however many years, a woman sat down and exchanged intellectual property with the wisest man whoever lived. Pretty amazing.

Scott: Feminism wasn't born yesterday, was it?

AJ: No.

Scott: Wendy's or McDonald's?

AJ: Can we go back to Solomon and Sheba?

Scott: No. Answer the question.

AJ: Burger King, my final answer.

Scott: What's on your iPod?

AJ: Songs.

Scott: Smart aleck. Whose songs? What kind of songs?

AJ: Lots of songs. I love to listen to all kinds of music. I recently downloaded Bread's greatest hits, and Journey's. My dad loved their sound. I'm digging Miranda Lambert and Carrie Underwood. They're two amazing, beautiful artists with a totally different feel and message.

Let's see. Kim Hill and Rita Springer. Glen Campbell. What else? Martina's
Timeless
CD. I'm jealous she did a concept album like that before me. Maybe she won't mind if I cover “Rose Garden” again.

Scott: No show tunes?

AJ: [laughing] No, not yet.

Scott: Final question.

AJ: Promise?

Scott: Do you want to go on a date with Scott Vaughn?

AJ: [hesitating] Someday, maybe, yeah, I might.

29

“Aubrey James returns to her roots Monday night, August 6, as she joins the Ralph Lester Going Home Gospel Tour. This will be the country legend's first gospel performance since her parents' untimely death in '93.”

—Brad Schmitt, Brad on 2

Aubrey

August 6, Ryman Auditorium

Scott and Rafe wait for me in the back of the auditorium. Our final
interview. As I approach, Scott smiles at me. “Are you going to miss me?”

I snap my fingers. “How'd you know?”

He laughs as I slide in to the pew next to him, then asks, “What's wrong?”

He knows me too well.
“I'm nervous.”

“More than usual?”

I nod. “It's been a while since I sang gospel.”

He takes my hand in his. “You don't see yourself as the rest of us do. And I'm pretty sure you don't see yourself as God does.”

“Does anybody?”

He grins. “No, but especially you. Look, forget about labels— gospel, country, rock, whatever. Get up there and believe God will meet you.”

I squeeze his hand. “I'm glad we did this
interview
thing. You've . . .” I pick an imaginary piece of lint from my black skirt. “You've helped me realize a lot of things about myself, good and bad.” I look into his eyes. “I can't imagine not knowing you.”

He coughs, covering his mouth with his fist. “See, I told you. You're going to miss me.”

Scott

This is nuts. I can't fall in love with Aubrey James. Can. Not. It's been,
what? Four weeks since our first interview segment. In which time she ended a relationship and engagement.

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.