Diva NashVegas (33 page)

“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.”

Holding out my hands, I look around. “Why not? There's nothing out here. Can you think of a safer place to try?” I lean against the door. “If you learn to drive this baby, you can drive anything.”

“Trees,” she says in a panic. “Look at all the trees.”

“You mean the ones
waaay
over there? Got to be two miles away. I think we can manage to steer clear.”

She faces forward, her posture stiff, her complexion pale. “Scott, you know I can't drive.”

“No, I know you
don't
drive. Whoever said you can't? Let's go, James, butt in the driver's seat.”

“You're not the boss of me.”

I laugh. “Yeah I am.”

“Since when?”

“Don't argue with me, diva. Get in the driver's seat. You're burning valuable daylight.”

Aubrey tips her sleek nose toward the sky. “No. Why'd you have to go ruin the fun?”

“Me? You're the one being stubborn.” I walk around to her side and jerk open her door. She refuses to look at me. Gently, I turn her face to mine. “One last fear. Let's kick it in the rear.”

She looks down at her trembling hands. “I'm terrified.”

I cover her hands with mine. “I know you are, but, Aubrey, you can't hide behind fear. The longer you do, the more it owns you. Come on. What do you say?” I lean in and whisper, “Patti and Sally can't drive it.”

Her eyes light up. “Really?”

“Honest truth.” I nudge her toward the driver's seat.

She pushes back, crossing her arms. “I'm not driving.”

“Have it your way, then.” I walk off toward the setting sun.

“Vaughn, where are you going? Get back here.”

I turn around. Aubrey's standing in the Jeep, looking over the windshield. “Only if you drive,” I holler.

“I can't believe you.”

“You're thirty years old, Aubrey. Rich, beautiful, famous. But if you want to go to 7-Eleven at nine o'clock at night, you can't. Why? Not because you're famous, but because you're scared.”

If I didn't push too hard, she'll cave about—

“Well, don't just stand there. Show me how to drive this rusty piece of junk.”

36

“Shift into first,” I coach Aubrey after we review the basics of the Jeep.
“Slowly let off the clutch; you'll feel it catch. Press gently on the gas.”

“Off the clutch . . .” Both her hands grip the wheel. “Give it gas.” The Jeep lurches forward. And stalls. She looks devastated.

“You're doing fine. First gear is a little tricky. Start the Jeep again.”

She cups her hands around her mouth and blows on them. “I can do this. I've sung before queens and princes, in stadiums of a hundred thousand. What's a stupid Jeep?”

“Exactly. You got it. Be the diva of this Jeep.”

Muttering to herself, she lets off the clutch and gives it a little gas. The Jeep creeps forward, not stalling this time.

“I did it. I did it.” She laughs and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Now, hear the engine whining? That means you need to shift into second. Same thing. Press in the clutch, shift, ease off the clutch, and give her a little gas.”

The Jeep jumps slightly when she moves off the clutch, but we're moving and gaining speed.

“That was easier.” She looks over at me. The light is back in her eyes, the pink hue is on her cheeks.

“First gear is always the hardest.”

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I'm driving.” She lays on the horn. “Out of my way, world, I'm driving.”

“See, I told you. Next gear. Hear the whine?”

Aubrey completes a smooth shift from second to third.

“This is the most incredible feeling. Now I know what Alan Jackson was singing about.” She whips her cell phone from her belt loop.

“You brought your phone with you?”

“Always, always have my phone. Security team insists . . . Alan! Hey, it's me. Yeah, doing well. Guess what? I'm driving.”

After all the coaxing and manipulating to get Aubrey behind the wheel, I
can't get her to stop driving. We've covered the width of Dad and Mom's place, crossed over into the neighbor's field, and the neighbor's next to him, before I convince her to turn around and head for home.

“The gas gauge isn't accurate, Aubrey. I don't want to get stranded.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughs, tapping my leg with her hand. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”
Forever, if you're willing.

“Is that a pond? Let's go over there.” Aubrey jerks the wheel to the right.

I grab onto the roll bar. “You're ready for NASCAR.”

Aubrey careens toward Dad's fishing hole. She's definitely discovered her need for speed.

Except . . .

One thing we haven't covered much in today's driving lesson: stopping. And the pond nears. “Okay, Aubrey, slow down. Hit the brake and push in the clutch, then downshift.”

“Downshift? What do you mean, downshift?”

“Go from fourth to third. Clutch . . . shift . . .”

The gears grind as she tries to change. “Scott!” Her voice is panicked. “What's going on?”

“Just grinding the gears. Keep the clutch in . . . No, don't hit the gas . . . Aubrey, slow down. Brake slowly . . .”

She is now a weird mix of confident-race-car-driver-meets-freaked-out-old-lady. Instead of braking, she guns the gas. We careen toward the pond.

“Aubrey, the brake.” I'm trying to stay calm—for her—but the pond isn't going to move out of our way.

She tries to shift without the clutch. “Scott, help me. What—”

“Calm down. Hit the brake, gently.” The Jeep slows a little. “Now, clutch. You're just reversing the shift process. Go from fourth to third. . . Good, good. Let out the clutch slowly.”

She pops the clutch and we jerk forward, almost stalling.

“Give it some gas, Aubrey.”

She hits the gas just as a big jack rabbit streaks across the field in front of us. “Bunny rabbit, no!” Aubrey swerves wide left. The Jeep hits a small grassy mound and goes airborne.

We crash down on the edge of the pond. The front end slowly sinks into the water. For a long time, we say nothing.

“You okay?” I ask low.

“Yes.” Aubrey exhales, looking around at me with her wild hair settling over her face. “And that, Scott Vaughn, is how it's done.”

Aubrey

The night is cold, but the bonfire and the company are warm. Scott's sis-ters and their families returned for a Sunday evening dinner of leftovers and a final night by the fire.

Sitting next to me on the log bench, Scott regales his family with the details of my first driving lesson. Dropping Dad Vaughn's Jeep into the pond was the scariest and funniest thing I've ever done in my life. Bravest, too. I'm quite proud of my pond run.

“Dad comes to pull us out.” Scott slaps his knee, pointing at his father. “And he actually checks the ground where the Jeep went in to make sure we didn't splash out any of his precious bass.”

His sisters laugh. Patti's close enough to lean over and kiss his cheek. “Dad, you're ridiculous about those fish.”

“Aubrey,” Sally says, “he stocks the pond, then refuses to let anyone catch and eat. It's all catch and release.”

Dad Vaughn props his hands on his thighs so his elbows stick out. “I'm just making sure there's enough fish for the fishing.”

His children laugh and counter with, “Right, Dad, that's the reason. Making sure there's fish for everyone to catch. Not. They're your
pets
!”

I cover my laugh when he turns to me. “Did that boy of mine hurt you?”

“No, sir, he didn't.” I glance over at Scott. His coarse hair is wild and curly from the open Jeep ride. He looks so rugged and . . . Never mind. “He made me confront my fear.”

“Another s'more, Aubrey?” Mom Vaughn holds up graham crackers and a block of chocolate.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Vaughn.” I pat my belly. “I've eaten very well—too well—this weekend.”

“Here.” She passes the ingredients over. “You can diet tomorrow.”

I hesitate, not sure she's serious, but when Patti passes over the crackers and chocolate with a wry twist on her lips, I figure I'm eating another s'more.

Scott winds up his story by excusing me. “This was Aubrey's first time driving with a clutch, and come on, Dad, you and I had trouble driving the Jeep at first. The clutch is like a springboard.”