Diva NashVegas (29 page)

“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.”

“Daddy wrote this song during a difficult time in his life. ‘A time of pruning,' he said.” My eyes scan the audience. “God's been doing some pruning in my life lately. Can anybody relate?”

The audience applauds.

“Yeah, me too.” The song evokes a treasure of memories. The ones Connie challenged me about. The imperishable lessons my parents taught me. Values that can't be carted off to the city dump.

As I start to sing, the first line of the verse catches in my throat. From the third row, center, Piper signals me to keep going by whirling her forefinger in a circle.

Next to Piper, Connie sits like a proud momma. Behind her is the family of four I met earlier. The mother gives me a thumbs-up.

I stumble through the lyrics, my voice weak and wispy, humble but not broken.

I'll never build up to the chorus from here.
I wish I could break, breathe, cough, swallow. It's the CMA Fest all over again, I'm failing.

Suddenly a smooth baritone bolsters my weak voice, and I look to see Ralph strolling toward me, his guitar hanging down his side like Daddy's used to do.

I smile and wrap my arm around his. Our voices rise to the top of the auditorium in perfect harmony, and together we go to the “Mountain of Myrrh.”

31

Scott

Riding the elevator up to the seventh floor with Aubrey, I take a mental
inventory of my loft. For the life of me I can't remember if I finally cleaned up the pile of soggy cereal dishes.

Is there toilet paper in the guest bathroom?

“Do you like living in these lofts?”

Yes, there's toilet paper. I remember putting some in there last shopping trip.

“I do. Great locale.” I look down. When did being around her start to feel so right? The first time I met her. Last summer.

“Car was jazzed about increasing downtown residential property.” “It's been a fight, I know. But we'll get there. I sorta like it quiet, but if more residents move in, there will be more shops and restaurants within walking distance.”

The elevator slows at my floor. “This way.” I unlock my loft door and stand aside for Aubrey to pass, reaching around to flip on the track lighting.

“Scott, this is amazing.” She turns a slow circle. “What a great place . . . Oh, your loft has a loft.” She points to my upstairs office.

“Yeah, it's a nice perk.”

“I can't stand it,” she says, hands on her hips. “A bachelor's pad has more ambience and color than my luxurious Belle Meade house.”

“Well, my mom—”
Do
not
talk about your mom
.

“She . . .” Aubrey waits with arched brows.

“. . . likes to decorate.”

“She's good. Your place is beautiful.” Aubrey walks over to the window. “What a great view of the city at night. You can see the Gaylord from here. Don't you love Nashville?”

“More every day.” I drop my keys on top of the breakfast counter. She turns to me. “What do you—”

A knock interrupts her question. My friend and neighbor, Brandon Otis, is on the other side of the door.

“Brandon.” I don't open all the way to him. “Kind of late.”

“I heard you come in and—” He spies Aubrey. “Didn't know you had company.” Brandon shoves past me and my half-opened door. He's a massive man with massive amounts of charm and during our four-year friendship, I've watched him conquer some of Nashville's most beautiful women. Yet in the presence of Aubrey, he's dumbstruck. He can't take his eyes off her.

“Brandon.” I follow him like a dutiful wing man. “I'd like you to meet Aubrey James. Aubrey, this is Brandon Otis, the wide receiver for the Nashville Kats.”

His blatant gawk doesn't faze her. “Nice to meet you. Brandon, is it?”

“Aubrey James.” His charm light clicks on. I recognize his expression. “Have we met before?”

“No, I don't believe we have.” Aubrey slips her handbag from her arm and sits on my couch, crossing her legs, shaking her head subtly so her hair falls over her shoulders.

I bite my lips to keep from laughing. She's so playing him.

“And how do you two know each other?” she asks.

“I did some PR work for the Kats before I went to
Inside the Game,
” I say. “Very nice.” Her expression and tone are perfect.

Brandon tries to charm her with a few of his classic lines, but she shows not even a flicker of interest. Instead, she toys with the straps of her handbag and gives him one-word answers.

Anyone else, I'd consider her actions rude. But Aubrey is savvy. She pegged him the moment he walked in. Man, it's all I can do to keep from laughing.

I wait another minute, then slap Brandon on the back. “Talk to you tomorrow, dude.” I walk him to the door.

In the hall, he whispers, “Get her number for me.”

I grin. “No problem.”

“How'd I do?” There's a glint in Aubrey's eye.

“You vindicated hundreds of Nashvillian women, and if they knew, they would thank you.” I pull a couple of bottles of water from the fridge. “He asked for your number.”

Aubrey laughs, taking the water bottle. “If I had a dime for every Brandon Otis I've met in this life . . . What? No FRESH!?”

“Can't afford it.”

“Please . . .” She pops me gently on the arm.

“Brandon's not a bad guy under all the bull and good looks.” I take a swig of water.

“Thank you for what you did tonight at the Ryman.” She twists the cap off her water. “You gave me courage.”

“I wanted to punch the old biddy.”

“What, and sink to her level? Do to her what she did to me, only with fists instead of words?”

“Point taken.” With my thumb, I press in the top part of my water bottle. The plastic crunches. “But she infuriated me.”

“And she humiliated me. But come on, Scott, neither of us can deny the ring of truth in her words.”

“What ring of truth? That your parents would be disappointed in you?”

“No, that my life does not reflect the values and character they taught me. Being orphaned at sixteen is no excuse.” She picks at the water bottle label. “Connie made that clear a few weeks ago.”

“How so?”

She sits sideways on the sofa, hugging her legs. “When Car moved in, he threw away the boxes I had in the library”

“You're kidding.”

She props her arm on the back of the couch and presses her cheek against her hand. “He claims I told him I didn't want to keep the stuff. But he was half asleep, so who knows what he heard.”

“Did it tick you off?”

“Yes. But Connie reminded me the real jewels I have from my parents are the ones they instilled in my character, in my heart.”

“Do you think you would have taken the same road if they were alive?”

She thinks for a minute. “I do, and they would've been my biggest fans. My music choice is not the problem, or even being famous. It's my source of inner strength. If my parents were alive, I probably would've made different personal decisions. Like Jack and Derek. Car would've never moved in with me.”

“Where to from here?”

“Home.” She slips off the couch, grabbing her handbag. “You have to get up early, my friend, and I'm keeping you from a good night's sleep.” Walking to the kitchen, she holds up her empty water bottle. “Trash? Recycle?”

“Set it in the sink. I'll get it later.”

“Is this your family?” Aubrey wanders down the short hall to her right. “Yes.” I join her, looking at the pictures on the hall table. “My parents, there, and my sisters and their families.”

“Where do they live?”

“Murfreesboro. Born and raised. All of us. Got a whole herd of kinfolk. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. Mom's first-grade friends are still her friends, and Dad still gets with his old high school football buddies.”

She shakes her head as if astounded. “I cannot imagine. What are your sisters' names? They're very pretty.”

“Older one is Patti.” I tap the frame. “And this is Sally.”

She chuckles. “You're the baby boy, huh?”

I nod. “Yes, the not-so-spoiled boy. Both Mom and Dad are the oldest children in their families, so for the longest time I was the only boy grandson, cousin, and nephew. Got loaned out for chores and grass cutting. I've probably mowed half the lawns in Murfreesboro. Family, friends of family, you name it.”

“Builds character, my dad used to say.” Aubrey looks up at me, smiling, her gaze meshing with mine. “Well, I guess . . . we'd . . . better get going.”