Diva NashVegas (6 page)
Midmorning Monday, Piper and I huddle up in her office off the great room
and go over my schedule, making adjustments, canceling what we can so I can rest in between
Inside NashVegas
sessions, making sure we note the appearances I don't want to cancel.
“
Inside NashVegas
segments are going to be more like a video biography,” Piper says. “But they do want to do a couple of planned segments to capture you in everyday life, the things you do around here when you're not on the road.”
“Like what? Me watching you work is pretty boring TV.”
She laughs. “They mentioned a cooking segment.”
“What? Did you tell them?”
She shuffles through a neat stack of papers. “No.” Her voice is barely audible.
“Piper, tell them. I don't cook.”
“Watching you cook would be hilarious TV.” She gets up to fax some papers. “Are you okay with this interview thing?”
I gaze out the window. “I am. Oddly enough. Feels like a journey of discovery.”
“See, God is already turning Melanie's bad into
good
.”
“Maybe.” I let my devoted Baptist friend's comment glance off me.
“Maybe? One of these days you should stop and let God catch you.”
With my chin in my hand, I mutter, “Maybe.”
“Final thing on your summer schedule, Aubrey, the Coming Home Gospel Celebration at the Ryman with Ralph Lester and his band, plus a half dozen gospel singers. This is the one where they're doing a tribute to your parents. We gave them a tentative yes last spring.”
I hear the clicking of her keyboard. Outside the window, the sky is perfectly blue. Cloudless. “What do you think?”
“It's up to you. This is the fifth tribute to your parents you've been invited to do. Turned them all down before.”
“It just feels awkward, you know?” A redbird flits past and lands on the low branches of a nearby maple. “My life isn't very
gospel
these days.”
Behind me, Piper's sigh causes me to glance around. Her thin, black-rimmed glasses ride low on her slender nose. “You can change your life anytime . . .” She stops, holding up her palms. “Never mind. No sermons. Do this for your parents, if you want; otherwise, don't.”
I hesitate for a second. “When is the event?”
“August sixth.”
“I'll do it. Find out the rehearsal schedule. Do I need to bring my band, or am I singing with Ralph's?” I turn back to the window as the redbird spreads its wings and launches from the branch into the sunlight.
I wonder what it would be like to fly.
“That I knowâRalph's.”
“Fine, I won't have to assemble the band after giving them the summer off. The Sandlott gig is their last performance until the fall.”
“Ladies, top o' the morning to ya.”
Zach strolls from the foyer into the great room, his fake Irish lilt barely audible amid his strong southern drawl.
“Top o' the morning?” I repeat with a laugh. “Zach, ten thirty hardly qualifies for top of the morning.”
Piper closes out my schedule, and I head to the kitchen. The sweet cinnamon scent of Gina's homemade breakfast buns has been teasing my senses all morning.
Zach meets me at the island counter, picking up a plate and fork with his eye on the cinnamon buns, though his fork is poised over the pineapple and strawberries. “I've got some news for you.”
“Ami's pregnant.” I pick up a plate and do not hesitate to tear away a cinnamony bun.
Zach ha-has with a shake of his head. “I wish.” Married three months, thirty-eight-year-old Zach claims
his
biological clock is clanging like a four-alarm fire. “You have a meeting with Nathan Brack, your new, charming, wonderful label president.” He stabs a bun with his fork and drops it to his plate.
Jerking open the refrigerator for a Diet Cokeâneed something fizzyâI roll my eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “What for?”
Zach reaches around me for a bottle of FRESH! “To get reacquainted, I reckon.”
“Should I enter with, âAre you still a jerk?' ”
Zach scowls. “Aubrey . . .”
Piper joins us in the kitchen. “You're three months late with your next album. I'm sure Nathan will mention it.”
“Because we were renegotiating money with Greg,” I counter, pouring my soda into a glass of ice.
Zach cuts a bite of his cinnamon bun. “Greg Leininger put SongTunes so far in the red BMG doesn't know if they can pull it out.”
“How?” Piper demands. “Look at all the top artists he's signed. Greats like Emma Rice, Aubrey, Paul Kirkland. Mallory Clarkâshe's new, but her first album went platinum.”
“Greg was the artists' friend,” I say.
“Right,” Zach says. “So much so he wasn't BMG's friend. Can't say as I blame them for bringing in Nathan Brack.”
I swallow my Diet Coke with a cough. “Blame them? The man is all about himself, Zach. His way or the highway.”
My manager shoots me a warning look. “Better get over it; he's calling the shots.”
My legs quiver a little. “Zach, what will this to do my renegotiations with SongTunes?”
He swigs from his water. “Well, that's the thing.”
I slide over next to him. “Zach, what's the thing?”
“He's playing hardball, Aubrey.”
“I shouldn't be surprised.”
“Is he calling off her renegotiation?” Piper asks, her voice moderated. “Worse. If Aubrey doesn't deliver her next album by the end of summer, he's going to sue.”
“Sue?” A string of blue words fly out of my mouth. “Cretin. I told you, he's a cretin.” I kick the service cart.
Zach gently grabs my arm. “Simmer down, Aubrey. We can open up renegotiations in due time. But let's tap dance a few rounds with Nathan, hear what he has to say, give a little.”
“Give a little?” I look at Piper. “Finally, he's lost his last marble.”
Give a little. I'm sure money from my last album bought several of the SongTunes execs new Mercedes last year.
“You have a meeting with SongTunes July third, three o'clock.”
Piper retrieves her Palm from her desk. “Three o'clock . . . on the third.”
“Do we have an agenda?” I ask. “Or is this just tea and cakes?”
“Let's go and find out what Nathan has to say. I've called your lawyer. She'll be there too.”
The bang of french doors swinging wide interrupts us. George and Ringo bound in with their pink tongues dangling. Gina collapses against the door, huffing and puffing, the ends of her short, dyed-red hair perpendicular to her head. Her pink tongue also dangles.
“Saw a rabbit . . . Took off like a shot . . . Pulled my arm right out of the socket . . .” She bends forward, gripping her waist. “Ran . . . home . . . all . . . the way.”
Laughing, I drop to the floor. “Did you guys wear out Gina?” George presses his face against my arm while Ringo leans his weight against my leg.
“Too . . . old for . . . this.” Gina kicks out a stool and plops down. Even huffing and puffing, her blue eyes shine from her oval face.
She's a longtime friend of Connie's, in her midfifties, married but childless. And one of the jewels of my life. Don't know what I'd do without her.
“Young at heart, old in body, eh, Gina?” I snicker, snatching up the dogs' water dish and refilling it at the sink.
“Watch it now, sweet stuff. Fifty's gunning for you too.” Gina's weariness is negated by the teasing lilt in her voice.
“Did you boys see a rabbit?” George lifts his head, water dripping from his mouth. I sit next to him on the floor, scratching behind his ears while reaching over to pat Ringo's back. I laugh when he gives me a very slobbery kiss.
“You're taking them out tomorrow.” Gina wags her finger at me.
“We'll see. Last time I did, photographers followed me home.”
“Hey, Piper, turn that up.” Zach motions to the TV. “What's Kelly Sutton saying?”
From my spot on the floor, I stretch to see the TV as Piper aims the remote. If Beth Rose hadn't been so persistent over the years about interviewing me, I'd have given my story to Kelly Sutton of
Tennessee
Morning
. We've socialized at various parties and album launchingsâgot along fabulously. We have the same sense of humor.
“. . . the saga with Aubrey James's former musical director, Melanie Daniels, continues. Yesterday, Daniels accused the country superstar in her blog,
Life with a Diva,
of plotting to ruin her career by blocking her deal with SongTunes and reneging on a promise to let Daniels produce her last album.” Kelly turns to her cohost, Charlie Chase. “Seems Aubrey James can't keep out of the news these days.”
“Melanie's crazy.” I get up off the floor. Piper, Zach, sweaty Gina, and I gather around the leather sofa, eyes glued to the TV. “She has a blog called
Life with a Diva
?”
“Did you read any of Melanie's blogs?” Charlie Chase asks, stacking the pages of his script. “Pretty interesting stuff. Lots of behind-the-scene pictures, stories. Even more than reported in the tabloids.”
“What blog?” I wail.
Zach presses his finger to his lips. “Shh . . . Listen.”
Kelly's talking. “I know Aubrey James, and I'm not sure Melanie is being fair.”
Charlie tips his head to one side. “Well, a lot of folks are checking out her blog.”
Hot mingles with cold, so I perspire and shiver. “How can she blog about me? She doesn't work for me anymore.”
“Piper, check it out.” Zach holds his plate under his chin for another bite of his breakfast bun.
“She's going to milk it for all she can, Aubrey.”
Piper surfs over to the
Life with a Diva
blog. I start to read . . . and gasp. “She's evil.” Piper minimizes the screen immediately.
“Wait, I didn't get to read any of it.” Zach brushes crumbs from the corner of his lips.
“You don't want to see.” Humiliation burns my cheeks.
“Yes, I do.” Zach reaches around Piper for the mouse.
She covers his hands with hers. “No, you don't.”
Gina shakes her head. “To think I served that girl my slow-roasted prime rib right here in your dining room.”
Shoving Piper out of her chair, I tell Zach to step aside so I can read Melanie's blog. As I scan her words, the prickly sensation of dread creeps over me. “She told the most intimate details of my life. About me and Jack. Derek. And Car.” With a moan, I rest my forehead to the edge of the desk. “Even stuff I told her about Music Row and some of the other artists.”
Gossip kills.
Zach sets his empty plate on the desk. “What were you thinking? Telling Melanie all this stuff?”
I lift my head. “Zach, she was a friend. We toured together for four years. We had a bazillion conversations.” I gesture toward the scene. “Obviously she planned to blog from the beginning of the FRESH! tour.”
Tears form in my eyes and I shove away from the desk. “I'm used to the lies and ugly photos in the tabloids, but not a firsthand betrayal by a friend. I didn't even know SongTunes was courting her. How could I interfere? And we never talked about her producing for me.”
Piper squeezes my shoulder. “She lost sight of your friendship, that's all.”
I glance at her. “What friendship?”
Scott
Tuesday, July 3
Parking my Porsche behind the Inside NashVegas van, I scan through my
BlackBerry, reviewing the schedule one last time.
July
3rd
â
First sit-down, 10:00aânoon
July
4th
â
Music City Park concert, second sit-down (Was going
to be there anyway.)
July
10th
â
Outdoor summer cooking segment, 11:00aâuntil ?
July
12th
â
Third sit-down, 10:00aânoon
July
19th
â
TBA (Planned segment)
July
24th
â
Fourth sit-down, 10:00aânoon
July
31st
â
Recording studio, songwriting segment
August
6th
â
Coming Home Gospel Celebration at the Ryman, 5:00p
I walk the arched driveway to the long, redbrick veranda, taking in the surroundings of a diva. Maple, oak, and elm trees shade the brick Belle Meade home.
Very nice diva digs. Not shabby at all.
Behind me, the sloping, green lawn is contained by a low stone wall.
Though my downtown Bennie Dillon loft is small and modest in comparison, it serves my purposes. Close to work, close to food, and close to sports.
Most important, no yard. If I had a dollar for every yard I mowed in my teen yearsâall the widowed women of the family and me the only teen boyâI'd be a rich man.
Taking the front porch steps two at a time, I loosen my tie while pausing at the front door.
You can do this. Just ring the bell and
â Rafe, my cameraman, swings open the door. “What're you doing? Get inside. Sam's neck is getting red.”
In the next beat, my cell phone rings. It's Sam. “Get in here.”
The diva's foyer is half as wide and half as deep as my loft. The high, sculpted ceiling arches over plain white walls, yet the floor is a fancy Italian marble. On my right, a curved staircase winds up to the second story, and on my left, a doorway leads to a formal living room.
While the surroundings are elegant, the ambiance feels sort of sterile. Very unlike the Aubrey James I met a year ago.
Rafe motions for me to follow. “We're in the great room. Aubrey gave us permission to leave the equipment set up until we're done. Nice place, huh?”
I fix my tie. “I wouldn't expect anything less, Rafe.”