A Nashville Collection (39 page)

“Two weeks from Tuesday.” Sam goes on. “We want to get as much material on her as possible. Thought we'd do it at her place, make her comfortable, get an inside look of her home.”

“I'm not your man for this job.”

“Vaughn,
Inside the Game
is going to need a national sports director once we go to CMT.” A lock of salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead as he rises from his chair. Tucking his hands into his wrinkled pockets, Sam walks to the front of his desk. “We'll have to consider the country music fans who live in Dallas, Seattle, Miami. Know of anyone who might be interested in the sports director's job?”

Standing, I meet him eye to eye. “You're one son-of-a-gun, Sam.” Slamming his office door behind me, I jog back to my office, praying desperately for Aubrey James to have a forgiving heart of gold.

5

“We contracted with Aubrey James for an exclusive, but when her relationship with Jack Mills fell apart, she canceled on us while the crew set up in her home. An expensive disappointment.”

—20/20

Aubrey

Friday, June 22

My house manager and chef extraordinaire, Gina Lacy, serves Car and me
a candlelight dinner out on the covered porch, an outdoor living and dining area. My favorite part of the house.

Our dining table is covered with linen and delicate, gold-trimmed china. An expensive set Car insisted on buying last fall.

“My mom always set the dinner table with china.” He beamed with confidence.

“My mom set the table with Chinet.”

The reference went over his head. “
Chinet
? Never heard of it. Is it imported?”

“Yes, to Harris Teeter. Car, it's paper plates.”

Recalling the conversation makes me laugh on the inside—Car never hearing of Chinet. We grew up within ten miles of each other.

My fork lightly strikes the thin, hand-crafted plate. I run my finger along the rim, making sure there's no fracture or ding. The white and gold is beautiful, especially in the candlelight, but a piece of my heart longs for the brick two-story off Granny White Pike where Momma hosted laugh-filled dinners served on oval Chinet plates.

At seven o'clock the night air is still and cool. Red and gold hues color the blue sky, and the crickets are singing their night song.

Beside the table lie my dogs, George and Ringo—a couple of German shepherd mutts and two of my best friends. They welcomed me home as if they'd been counting the days I'd been away. They followed me everywhere, and I'm not sure, but I think it hurt Gina's feelings a tad. She came to the house every morning while I was on tour, even on weekends, to spend time with “the boys.” Then returned every evening to make sure they were fed, watered, and walked. She gave me a detailed account of their care when I called home to check in, yet the moment I walked through the front door, their unspoken doggy language said, “Gina who?”

Then, to Car's chagrin, they jumped into bed my first night home from the hospital—George at my feet, Ringo on Car's pillow. He growled when Car tried to remove him.

I gave him a sheepish look. “They missed me.”

His wicked grin told me he missed me too. Strolling around the bed to my side, he shoved me over and squeezed in next to me. A move George didn't like. He jumped to his feet and stood over us, watching. “Okay, I can't make love with a dog staring at me.” Car rolled off the bed. “Come on, boys, let's go. Out.” Car's bark sent them scurrying for the door.

But tonight, as I peer through the flickering candlelight at Car's square, perfectly chiseled face, I wonder if it is a bad thing I preferred the dogs' company that night to his.

Under the table, George moans and rolls over, resting his nose on my foot. His pink tongue kisses my ankle. Despite my busy schedule and extended days on the road, my mutts love me unconditionally.

Since my fainting away during CMA Fest, I've been home over a week, resting and healing. Gina tempts me with her home cooking and pumps me full of vitamins. I've gained back five of the twenty lost pounds I lost. Physically, I'm on the mend. But emotionally . . . this tour drained my reservoir and I'm not quite sure how to refill.

Car shifts in his seat, cutting a bit of chicken, flipping the page of the financial periodical he's reading. Home a week and he's reading at the dinner table as if we've been married and settled for twenty years.

“If you're set here, I'll take off.” Gina pokes her head through the french doors. “Feed my old man. He got used to me being around when you were on the road.” She motions over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Dishes are cleaned up. There's fruit in the fridge for later, and a cinnamon apple pie cooling on the kitchen island. Ice cream is in the freezer.”

“Gina, you spoil us.”

Car toasts her with his wine glass. “Wonderful dumplings.”

Gina nods her thanks. “I'm happy to see the bloom back on Aubrey's cheeks.”

“Bloom?” Car blurts with a laugh. “I'd say her bloom was plucked a long time ago.”

I gasp. “Car.”

Gina's expression falls for a quick second, but she catches it with her bowlike smile. “See you tomorrow.”

Once she's gone, I angle over my plate to capture Car's attention. “How rude.”

“Oh, come on. Bloom on your cheeks?” Car's expression is scoffing. “You're not an innocent schoolgirl.”

“She meant I look healthy, not virginal. You really have a one-track mind.”

“After this past week, I'd say you do too. Should I tell Gina about your bloom last night?” His tone and grin cause heat to creep across my neck and face.

“Don't even joke about it. Melanie's done enough damage.”

He returns to his periodical. “Yeah, and who gave her all that information? You should be more discerning, Aubrey.”

I shove the dumplings around my plate. Car sets his reading aside and stretches his hand across the table, grazing his fingertips over my wrist. “Honey, I know you're disappointed about Melanie.” His voice is tender and embracing.

My lips twist into a sad smile. “Yes, but disappointed in myself. Our relationship changed when she fell in love with Bo, but I never imagined it would lead to betrayal.”

We finish our meal in silence, Car reading while my gaze follows the gardener, Juan, as he waters a dark patch of soil along the perimeter of the security wall.

Soon, June will surrender to July, ushering in the crisp hot days of summer. Slowly, I inhale, as if air in my lungs could stir up the memories from summers past. The fear of forgetting grips me. Besides the beat-up old boxes in the library, faded images and the distant echo of laughter is all I have left of Daddy, Momma, and Pete.

“We don't laugh enough, Car.” My words come out of nowhere, yet from the depths of my being.

He peeks at me from under his brow. “We laugh.”

“Not enough.” The smell of new-mown grass scents the breeze, and in the distance a neighborhood dog barks, drowning out the whir of a motor. Ringo lifts his head and sniffs. George hops up with guttural growl and trots to the edge of the granite porch floor, his large head swerving from side to side.

Car folds up his periodical and looks out to where Juan is shoving some kind of bulb into the ground. “Is there something out there you want to laugh about?”

At
this
, I laugh. “No. I was just thinking how much we laughed at home when I was a kid.”

He nods with a jut of his chin. “Ah, I see.”

I wait, wondering if he'll tell me how much he laughed as a Carmichael kid, but he doesn't. An only child of very proper blue-blood Southern parents, I'm quite sure Car's laughter was scheduled. Daily from three to five.

Pinching my lips, I exhale a laugh through my nose. Grace Carmichael is as stuffy as they come, with her white summer gloves and country club bridge parties.

“What do you think Juan's planting so late in the month?” I muse aloud to Car.

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.”