Diva NashVegas (5 page)

He's staring off at nothing. “Planting? Not sure.”

“You're a million miles away.” I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.

He focuses on me. “Sorry. Work.”

“What's going on?”

“We had a group of investors for a SoBro condo project, but two of them pulled out today. Every time we get enough investors to move forward, someone drops out.”

“Sorry, babe. I'm sure you'll find more investors. You
are
a Carmichael.”

He stands, slipping his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Trying to get people to stick to renovating downtown is like trying to win an egg toss. A few good passes and we're feeling good, then, bam, someone drops the egg and it's a mess.”

“Can't believe you're going to let a few cracked eggs stop you.” I chuckle.

He looks down at me over his shoulder. “If I had a name . . . say, like Aubrey James, behind a project.”

As I stand, my smile fades. “No. You know better.”

With a shrug, he turns back to watch Juan. “Can't hurt to ask.”

“Sorry, Car, but for now, we have to keep our business dealings separate.” I get up to pour a cup of coffee from the sidebar, hearing for the first time the music coming over the speakers. Rod Stewart sings, “It Had to Be You.” Gina must have popped in a CD before she left. She's a hopeless romantic.

“I hear you, but we're engaged. We share a bed. You can't trust me with some of your investment money?”

“Be it the luck of the draw, Car, but I've been burned and scammed by close friends, boyfriends, and one distant cousin who turned out not to be my cousin. Besides, my business manager keeps my investment funds pretty tight and tied. We just launched my handbag line this past fall, and my business account is to pay salaries, keep AubJay Inc. running, and market my products.”

“What about your personal account? Your balance could buy the whole condo project.”

Sweetening my coffee with Splenda and skim milk, I shiver as the hair on the back of my neck bristles. “Car, how do you know my balance?”

A year into our relationship, and me with half of that time on the road, Car and I have never been open about our finances. Does he really know my balance or . . . “Are you just guessing?”

He shrugs and closes the distance between us. “Don't get your nose out of joint over this, Brie, but yeah, I know someone over at your bank.”

“And they told you?” The notion of Car snooping into my finances leaves me chilled.

Car pours himself a cup of coffee. “Brie, he was doing me a favor. I thought if you invested, we'd get the rest of the money we need, no problem.”

I press my hand hard against his arm. “Don't ever do that again. Ever.” “Brie—” He smoothes his hand over my hair.

I step away. “No, Car, use your own money. I don't understand this. The Carmichael coffers are deeper than mine.”

He tilts his head to one side. “It's a good investment, Aubrey.”

“I've lost too much in the past. I won't lose it again.”

“Aubrey, sooner or later we're going to have to combine accounts—” “Why?”

He laughs like I'm crazy. “What? We're going to have separate accounts?”

“Sure. Create a joint household account, come up with a monthly budget, and split the amount between us.”

“I'm not going to be on your accounts?”

“And I won't be on yours.”

Car returns to his chair, holding his coffee cup between his hands. “Good to know we're starting out this relationship with so much trust and respect.”

“Car, please—” I set my coffee aside and reach my hand to his.

He doesn't say anything for a minute, then lightly rubs his thumb over my fingers. “Piper put the Fourth of July dinner on your calendar, right?”

All is well for now, then. I settle back in my chair with a final squeeze of Car's hand. “What dinner?”

Car's expression is incredulous. “Aubrey, I've told you a hundred times.”

“You've never told me anything a hundred times. Don't talk to me like I'm an airhead.”

“Fine, then I told you several times. My parents
always
host a Fourth of July celebration at the Belle Meade country club. You know, the one with congressmen, senators, the governor, a billionaire or two. Mother planned to officially announce our engagement.”

“Announce?” I angle toward him. “Who doesn't know after the CMA Fest? I bet even the billionaire knows. By the way, why don't you ask him to be your SoBro investor?”

“I told you I was sorry about the CMA Fest. Who knew you'd hate my surprise?”

“Um, Piper?”

“Piper's always yapping about something.”

Okay, narrow road. Barrier ahead. Danger. Change the course.
Getting up, I slip around the table and sit on Car's knee. “Thank you for trying to do something spectacular. We never talked about our expectations, so you did what you thought would be unique. But I live and work on stage.” With my finger, I trace the straight line of his nose down to its perfect tip. “Guess I never told you I preferred something quiet, private, and romantic. Curled up on a blanket by a lake, watching the flickering flames of a small fire as it reflected on the water's surface. You'd kiss my forehead, then cheek, and whisper in my ear, ‘Will you marry me?'”

His feathery kiss sends tingles down my back, and my heart swirls and melts.

“If I'd have known . . . ” he says, grinning, nuzzling my neck. He chuckles into my hair. “But I've had a half a dozen women tell me they loved the proposal. Thought it was romantic. Wished their husbands had done something over the top for them.”

“What would that be? An airplane flying over the coliseum during a football game with a trailing banner? ‘Marry me, Judy.'”

Car laughs against my skin. “Probably.” He reaches for his coffee. “That's funny.”

Leaning against his chest, I slip my arms around him. “Those women don't have public lives to compete with their private ones.”

He kisses me again. The strong taste of coffee lingers on his lips. “Speaking of private . . . Why are you doing the
Inside NashVegas
interview?” His hands wind around my hair.

“You know why. We talked about this.”

The amber lawn lamps begin to glow as the evening spreads over us. The pool lights click on and send a wavy radiance through the water.

“Don't see how it's going to make a difference.” Car takes another sip from his china cup, then makes a face. “Coffee's cold already.
Inside Nash-
Vegas
is a local. Melanie went national. Shoot, she went international.”

“Because I trust
Inside NashVegas
.” I twist Car's engagement ring around my finger. So stunningly beautiful, but not the one I pointed out to him, in fun, while shopping last Christmas.

“This one?” he'd asked, tapping his finger against the jeweler's glass case.

“Yes, isn't it lovely? Simple, yet elegant.”

So he knew. Even if we weren't talking marriage, he knew what I liked. I glance again at his engagement ring. It really
is
beautiful. Car has exquisite taste.

“If you trust
Inside NashVegas
,” he says, “then go for it.” He runs his hand absently down the side of my leg.

“It seems like the right time to speak for myself.” I say. “It was one thing when the tabloid headlines were lies. It's another when the story is perfectly true.”

From across the lawn, Juan straightens his back. Catching my eye, he waves, motioning for me to come. “Be back,” I tell Car.

“See, I plant lilies for you.” Juan waves his hand over an area of ground lighted by Victorianesque garden lamps. “And here, tulips. Bloom in spring.”

Dropping to my knees, I pat the fresh dirt, hoping not to pet a worm. “It's sort of late in the season. Do you think they'll do okay?”

My momma planted tulips every year. Then complained when Daddy booked her on so many singing engagements she couldn't enjoy her garden.

“I don't see the fruit of my labors,” she'd complain.

“Then stop laboring.” Daddy loved to tease.

Juan shrugs his response. “Yes, late, but they do fine.” His Spanish accent laces all of his words. “If no, plant something else. Why not try?” I smile. “I like your thinking.”

“This your garden. Juan take care for you.” He thumps his chest. A refugee from Nicaragua, he's the hardest-working man I've ever known besides my daddy.

Juan is shorter than me, with black hair and eyes and a thick mustache. His light-brown skin is tanned from working in the spring sun though he's rarely without his worn straw hat.

“I go now. Wife with baby.” He winces. “Two-month-old, a girl. She fussy.” He shakes his head with a sigh.

Rising to my feet, I lay my hand on his shoulder. “All babies are fussy, Juan.”

He removes his hat and gives me a half bow. “
Hasta luego
.”

“Until later.” I bow in return.

Picking up his tools, Juan heads toward the garden shed. “Wait, Juan. Let me send home some leftovers.”

He turns. “
Gracias, jefe
.”

Dashing past Car, who is engrossed in his periodical again, I bustle around the kitchen gathering leftovers for Juan's family. Just inside the pantry door is the picnic basket Car bought “for romantic afternoons in Centennial Park.”

Romantic picnics in the park? Zero.

I scoop the dumplings and remaining salad into plastic containers, then scan the refrigerator shelves. Might as well send along the fruit too. Did Gina buy a gallon of milk? Who's she kidding? I add it to the goodies.

The basket is enormous. Car had high expectations of himself. Or me. Never figured out who was supposed to coordinate the romantic afternoons in the park.

I cut two slices of pie—one for Car, one for me—then put the rest in the basket.

“Where are you going?” he asks when I pass by again, tugging the basket along with both hands on the handles.

“Giving leftovers to Juan.”

“Aubrey, you pay him well. You have to draw a line between being his boss and his friend.”

I don't hesitate a step. “I choose to be his friend.”

Juan's smile rivals the garden lamps as I approach. “Thank you very much. I bring basket back tomorrow.
Gracias por todo
.”

“
De nada
.” I wave. “Hello to your wife.”

When I return to the porch, I sit on Car's knee.

“You're sweet to look after Juan,” he says. “Forgive me, but I grew up with Grace Carmichael, and she enforced strict protocol between the family and the servants.”

I smooth my hand over his chest. “It won't be like that around here. People are people, no matter what their bank balance. Giving the basket of food to Juan is the best feeling I've had in a long time.”

He reaches for my hand and kisses my fingers. “Guess I have to give up some of my traditions to live with a wild woman like you.”

I run my hands through his hair, making the sides and ends stand up. “Car, back to the Fourth . . . You know I have to do the Sandlotter concert in Music City Park. I do it every year. Besides,
Inside NashVegas
is scheduled to be there, and I invited Jennifer Nettles and Joe Diffie. It's way too late to cancel on them. It would be rude.”

Car's expression darkens. “Mom sent out invitations. She'll be humiliated.”

I lift my hands with a shrug. “She should've checked with me.”

“How do you know she didn't?”

“Because Piper would've told me.”

He sighs. “No chance of her making a mistake?”

“Sure, but in the ten years she's worked for me, she's never missed a personal appointment like this.”

“Babe, sooner or later you're going to have to work the Carmichael schedule into your life. You missed Easter week at the St. George Island house because you were performing in Centennial Park for the Oasis Center fund-raiser. You missed Grandma Carmichael's eighty-fifth birthday party for the AMAs.”

My blood pumps with adrenaline. “Are you keeping score? Music City Park is not a bargaining chip. You can either come with me to the event as a doting fiancé or go to your parents, but I'm going to sing for baseball and the city's youth athletic league.”

He presses his hand on my leg. “What am I going to tell my mother?”

Glancing into his eyes, I feel his dilemma, but it's not mine to resolve. “Tell her to come to the Sandlotter game. Bring her friends. She's chairwoman of, what, five charity organizations?”

He frowns, then slowly smiles and breaks into a laugh. “I can see the ladies of the auxiliary sitting in the stands rooting for the home team.” He yanks me toward him and kisses me, his hands sliding low on my hips. “I'll take care of it. But please, Brie, let's work on coordinating in the future.” He buries his face in the crook of my neck. “Wanna go for a swim?”

Grinning, I look over at the pool. “Guess so. I can get my suit—”

He rises from the chair and peels off his shirt, slapping his lean, sinewy chest. “Already got it on.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Go ahead. Skinny dip if you dare. But I have one word for you: paparazzi.”

“What? Come on, Brie . . .”

“Nothing doing. Trust me, it's not a risk worth taking.”

Smiling, he grabs his shirt, flopping it over his shoulder. “Guess you're right. Too much public exposure is . . . too much public exposure.” He wraps me close and walks me inside. “Let's take this conversation upstairs.”

6

“I love baseball. To me, it stands for everything great about summertime, our country, and our history. There's nothing like the crack of a wood bat.”

—Aubrey James, The Tennessean, on her
participation in the Sandlotter Fund-raiser