A Nashville Collection (45 page)

Gracias, Señorita James. Nos gustó mucho. Tu amiga, Alejandra
.

How sweet. A thank-you from Juan's wife,
Your friend, Alejandra
. I set the basket on the counter and turn over Alejandra's note to write one of my own.

Gina, please go to Harris Teeter and fill the basket for Juan and his family.
Thanks. XO, Aubrey.

Taping the note to the basket and leaving it on the counter, I resume my quest for popcorn. Can't find any—which kills my movie mood.

Clicking off the pantry light and closing the door behind me, I stare into the great room for a moment. This is my favorite part of the house—the open, flowing lines of the kitchen running into the family room. The high, vaulted ceilings and gleaming hardwood floors. The row of windows overlooking the back lawn and porch.

Gina decorated the great room area two summers ago with warm Tuscan colors. She claimed she couldn't take the starkness anymore.

A year later, Piper begged me to decorate the music room and ended up doing it all herself.

With George and Ringo on my heels, I wander out to the foyer where the ambiance changes—from inviting and serene to cold and stark. Gazing toward the crystal chandelier hanging down from the highest point of the ceiling, I wonder if I'll ever decorate.

“Let's go, boys.” I head for the curved stairs, running my hand along the polished, dark-wood banister, listening to the quiet.

On the second-floor landing, I stare down the hall toward the closed library door. This is when I miss
them
the most. Daddy, Momma, and Peter. Wouldn't tonight have been the perfect time to call up and say, “I'm on my way over. Should I rent a movie?”

I try to picture myself calling up prim and proper Grace Carmichael, who is angry with me for declining her Fourth of July soiree, and announcing, “We're on our way over for the evening. See you in a few.”

Can't imagine.

At the library door, I brush my fingers along the top of the frame for the key. The library—where all my treasures are stored—is dark and cool. Working my way through the maze of boxes and piles of stuff, I aim for Daddy's old writing desk and lamp, jamming my toe against the side of a box along the way. The dry cardboard crumbles.

Tugging on the lamp's chain, a soft light defeats the darkness.

Don't hide your light, Momma said.

The room is a mess of boxes, piles of clothes,
stuff
scattered helterskelter over the plush burgundy carpet. The built-in bookcases are bare except for a thin layer of dust.

I fall onto the country sofa that was once Momma's prized possession. The night Daddy brought the new living room set home is a fond but dim memory. Burying my nose against the twenty-year-old fabric, I can still smell the mingling of Chanel N°5 and hot buttered popcorn.

On the other side of the couch, shoved up against the hand-carved cherry bookshelves, is Daddy's leather easy chair and old trunk. On the adjacent wall is Grandma's antique dresser, a plant stand Momma loved, and two oak end tables.

Tucking my arm under my head, I curl up and close my eyes, wishing for the old brown-and-yellow afghan Momma used to fold over the back of the couch. I'd stored it with a bunch of Daddy and Momma's things in Connie's basement, which flooded one monsoon spring and damaged my boxes and caked the afghan with silt.

We salvaged what we could—the photo albums, vinyl records, Daddy's office-supply box, and other mementoes. Clothes and such. But the afghan didn't make it. Connie and I tossed it ceremoniously on a small brush-and-debris fire we staged in her backyard.

A wave of sleep splashes over me. It feels good to exhale and drift off into dreamland. If Momma were here she'd stroke my hair and sing to me. I can't count the number of nights I fell asleep to her lullabies.

But Daddy—now he was a different singer around the house. He'd walk around before dinner with his guitar strapped to his chest making up songs about our evening activities.

There's my sweatheart, Myra / stirring up the fire / cooking vittles for me and the
chillens.

Or a song about Peter poring over his homework.

There's my boy a-working hard / don't you know he's gonna be a star / look out
Harvard, look out Yale / here comes a southern boy / from Tennessee / Peter.

Every time, Daddy would stop, ponder the ceiling, and mutter, “Should've named you Jesse. Rhymes with Tennessee.”

I laugh softly. “I miss you all so much.”

“Aubrey?” a cottony voice calls up the staircase. “Are you home?”

Connie? I slip off the couch and maneuver through the maze of boxed memories to the door. Scooting down the hall in my bare feet, I arrive at the rail and peer down into the foyer. “Who let you in?”

My adopted momma holds up her keys. “Let myself in.”

“Come on up; I need some company.”

Connie takes the stairs, her round hips rolling from side to side with each step. “Is Car working?”

“Yes. His SoBro projects keep him busy.”

“How'd your interview with
Inside NashVegas
go today?” Connie lands at the top of the stairs and wraps her arms around me.

“Surprisingly well.” Her skin smells like rose petals.

“And your meeting with Nathan Brack?”

I stand back with a curl on my lip. “He's being a hardnose. Stopped our renegotiation, wants his album by the first of September.”

Connie follows me into the library. “You're going to give him an album, right? Honor your contract?”

I look over my shoulder at her. “Yes, voice-of-Ray-James.” I dive onto the couch, clearing a tall box and an old stereo speaker. “Nathan will get his album. Zach and I called Dave Whitestone on our way home, and we're getting to work next week. I don't feel ready, but I'm doing it.”

“If you respect Nathan, despite your past differences, he'll respect you.” Connie kicks aside a box to join me on the couch. “Really, Aubrey, why don't you organize this stuff? Throw away what you don't want.” She reaches for an old shirt of Daddy's.

“What? No.” I snatch the shirt and press its worn cotton softness to my nose. “This is all I have left of them.” Folding the shirt on my lap, I set it gently on top of the nearest box.

Connie reaches for my hand. “I suppose it never really goes away, does it?”

“The pain fades, but missing them doesn't.” I squeeze Connie's hand. “You've helped me so much, Connie.”

Divorced with a grown daughter, Connie fought the courts for guardianship of me when my parents died. During that time, I spent six months in foster care while my eighteen-year-old brother, Peter, lived on his own at our old house.

My foster family, the Fettermans, were lovely people, although hurried and disorganized. They had three children of their own besides me and six-year-old Jennifer Sinclair, who was orphaned two days after me.

Gazing toward the bay windows, I reminisce out loud. “Cuddly, dark-eyed, dark-haired Jennifer. I can still see her standing in the middle of the living room, clutching her doll, trembling. So frightened and alone.” The memory stirs my heart.

“I hear from her momma sometimes. Christmas cards now and then.” Connie props her feet on top of a box.

“Jen and I chat quite a bit on e-mail.”

Connie reaches for something in the box by her leg. “Are you still
Myra
Ray to her?”

Wincing, I nod. “Yeah.”

“Are you ever going to tell her the truth?”

My mind races through the pros and cons of confessing my true identity to my little foster sister. In hindsight, it would've been best not to insist on using my mother's name when I went into foster care, but I did.

“Tell her the truth? I should. Fourteen years later, I can't remember why I wanted to change my name when I moved in with the Fettermans, but Myra Ray is Aubrey James's alter ego and I like being a plain, everyday person.” I glance at Connie. Does she understand?

“You were grieving, devastated.”

My eyes water at the memory of social services dropping me off at the Fettermans two days after the funeral. Peter had disappeared without a word, and Connie had gone to file guardianship papers.

“I thought if I used Momma's name, she'd be close to me. But a year later . . . I couldn't accurately recite one of her everyday sayings. I'd forgotten her funny vocal inflections.”

“Forgetting is part of time's healing process.”

I reach for Daddy's old shirt again. “I don't want to forget. That's why I keep their albums and costumes, their books and photo albums. Daddy's songbook and box of guitar picks. Momma's old Nikon. I can't, I
won't
get rid of it. I've already forgotten too much.”

Connie places her hand over mine, and for a few minutes we sit in contemplation. At last she says, “I could help you organize. Put out the albums and pictures. Find a place for this—” She holds up the bluebird figurine she picked from the box a minute ago. “Whatever it is.”

“Oh my gosh.” Laughing, I take the squatty, dodo-looking ceramic bird from her. “One of Daddy's friends gave it to him.” Turning over the bottom, I read the yellow-taped paper. “May the bluebird of happiness crap all over you.”

Connie slaps her thigh as a strong chuckle rolls out of her chest. “Now that's priceless. Ray had some strange friends.”

“See, I can't toss this stuff.” I position the statue on the sofa cushion between us. “Hello, little bird, have you been flying around me lately? Dropping a few bombs?”

“Oh, pshaw.” Connie makes a funny face. “Your little conflicts? What are they compared to your blessings?”

I run my hand over the statue's smooth head. “I
am
blessed.”

“ The Lord took care of you. And little Jennifer, for that matter. You came to live with me, and she was adopted by her aunt and uncle, raised and corn-fed on an Oklahoma ranch.”

Picturing a corn-fed Jennifer makes me smile. “Hard to believe she's a twenty-year-old college woman now.”

“Hard to believe she hasn't asked for pictures of you, or to get together.”

I wince. “She has. But I'm a
very
busy woman.”

Connie frowns. “Fine, but what about pictures.”

“Piper.”

“Oh, Aubrey.”

I rake my fingers through my hair, hating the sound of my confession. “What was I supposed to do? Not send pictures? That would be rude. So I sent Piper's.”

“Telling the truth is always a nice option.”

“I wasn't ready. I like our relationship. Pure, honest—”

“Honest?”

I shove Connie gently. “You know what I mean. Maybe it's selfish on my part, wanting to dialogue with someone who doesn't care about my celebrity. I just like the fact that my fame doesn't cloud her heart.” Connie pats my leg. “Honey, I understand. But you might consider coming clean one of these days.”

“One of these days.”

Connie glances at her watch. “Oh, sugar, got to run. I have an early morning art class.” She stands. “Why don't you and Car come to dinner soon?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Have you set a wedding date?”

“No, though he told all of CMA Fest we were having a spring wedding.”

At the library door, she turns back to me, starts to say something, then waves it off. “I love you, you know.”

“And I you.”

Talking about Jen reminded me to check my private Myra e-mail. I
haven't in a few weeks.

Myra,

Guess what? At the end of the summer, I'm moving to Norman to finish my degree
at the University of Oklahoma. Go Sooners. I'm very excited. Two more years, and
I'm done. Woo hoo.

Dad started grumbling again about retiring. I don't think he likes being a supervisor.
Mom rolls her eyes and says, “Whenever you're ready, Tim, but you're going to
have to give up the football package. We can't afford all the frills on my salary and
you're too young to draw retirement.”

That settles him right down. LOL.

Went to a wedding last week. Josh Baldwin. Remember him from my senior year?
What a melodrama. Anyway, shotgun wedding. Gotta tell ya, M, he did not make a
happy-looking groom. Mom said we should pray for Candy, the girl he married. Mom
has a feeling Josh resents Candy and this whole baby-wedding thing and will not be
faithful to her. I'm so glad I'm not Candy. Ew, does that sound horrible?

How's your business going? How's it going with Car? That name still makes me
laugh, sorry. What if his last name was Horne? Like Lena Horne. Ha ha. Okay, I'm
sorry. This is the man you love.

Gotta go to work.

Hugs, Jen

11

“When it's all said and done, Aubrey James won't be remembered for her music. She'll be remembered for her heart for children and the underdogs of this world.”

—Gail Snyder, director of Middle Tennessee Youth Athletic League

July 4

In the shade of the dugout, wearing my baseball jersey and Sounds ball
cap, I sit with Scott Vaughn for our preconcert interview. The ball-games have been played and won, and now the crew is setting up for the concert.

Scott is relaxed, almost jolly. He looks rugged and a tad sexy in his baseball jersey, baggy khaki shorts, and flip-flops, his wavy hair blowing in the light breeze.

A few feet away, my security henchman, Jeff, stands with his arms crossed, watching the crowd.

“You look nice.” Scott slides into the director's chair across from me.

“So do you.” I motion to his baseball jersey.

“Ready?” His smile makes me feel warm.

“Hit me with your best shot.”

He laughs. “Okay,
Pat Benatar
.”