A Nashville Collection (49 page)

I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “Please, don't pull crap like this without talking to me. I would never do this to you.”

He brushes my hair off my shoulders. “All right. But sometimes—”

“Car . . .” I gaze into his eyes.

“All right.” He wraps his arms around me. “All right.”

16

Scott

Thursday, July 12

Sam tosses me a box of new golf balls when he walks into my office after
the morning show.

“Nice show this morning with Hannah. Liked your Sandlotter piece.” He folds himself into the chair opposite my desk and gestures to my face. “Those things going to grow back soon?”

“Hopefully.” I trace the bare skin over my eyes, then hold up the golf balls. “What's the catch?”

“No catch.” He leans forward, smiling like a New York gangster. “Just congratulations.”

“For . . .”

Sam points. “Read the logo.”

I open the package. The golf balls are labled.
Inside NashVegas on
CMT
. I grin. “So, it's a done deal?”

Sam reclines in the chair. “We debut during November sweeps with Aubrey's story, ‘Inside the Diva Life,' then pick up a time slot the first quarter of next year.”

I wrap my fist around the ball and punch the air in silent victory.

“Your interview with Aubrey put us in the pocket.”

Glancing at my watch—
Need to leave for Aubrey's in a minute
—I ask, “When do I move into my sports director office?”

Sam gets up and strolls over to the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. “You're certainly my top candidate.”

“Top candidate?” I bolt out of my chair. “Why am I not the only candidate, Sam?
Inside the Game
is my creation. Part of the deal with doing the Aubrey James interview.”

He turns the doorknob. “Come on, Vaughn, you weren't born yesterday. You know how these things go. They put us on a national network, we do a little tap dance with talent, producers, directors. Got to give a little.”

My eyes narrow. “And why does the giving have to be my sports director job?”

“Hopefully, it won't.” He steps into the hallway.

“Sam, don't belly up on me. Sacrifice someone else.” I hate the idea of dogging a fellow crew member, but the director job is mine.

“Vaughn, CMT wants us to consider someone else, that's all. And, uh . . .” He can't look at me. “They mentioned a coanchor team they'd like to bring on board.” Sam holds up his hands. “All part of the dance. Don't worry. We're still negotiating.”

“Who's the coanchor team?”

Sam takes a few steps down the hall like he's in a hurry to leave. “Todd Knight and Chip McGuire.”

Knight and McGuire. Perfect. Big names from ESPN. This whole dance scenario is pure bull. “It's a done deal, isn't it?”

Sam ducks his head. “My hands were tied. I didn't have a choice.”

“Yeah, right.”

“One more thing.”

“What? I'm fired?”

“No, you're going to Miami the first week of August. Got a Miami Dolphins player who owns a sports bar, moonlights as a country singer in the off season. CMT thought it would make a good opener in January.”

“A singing Dolphin.” I fire the CMT golf ball at my wall. “Just great.”

In Aubrey's great room, I hold the video of her ten-year-old performance
with rippling thoughts on circulating my résumé. Blasted Sam.

But the moment Aubrey walks in, my turbulent thoughts cease, although my heart races. She has this aura about her—graceful and larger than life. If her life's journey had taken her down a simpler road, she would still be a star. Somehow.

“Ready?” I ask, motioning to her chair.

“If you are.” She smiles, but I notice the famous light in her blue-green eyes isn't as bright.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

I wave her off. “I'm fine. Long morning.”

“What time do you have to wake up for the show?”

“Three.” I hand the videocassette to Rafe who walks it over to the player.

She shakes her head. “On the road, that's when I go to bed.”

“We have a surprise for you, Aubrey.” I take my place in the chair opposite her.

A quizzical expression molds her face. “What kind of surprise?”

“You'll like this one.” I check to see if Rafe's ready. “Aubrey, nice plasma TV. Is it new?”

“Yes, a recent
surprise
.”

“I see.” Plasma TV?
Not
a nice diva surprise. “Ready, Rafe.”

Piper comes around and sits on the edge of the couch. “What's this?” “Something Olivia found,” I answer over my shoulder.

A second later, Ray James appears on the screen. Aubrey gasps. “Daddy.”

“He looks so young,” Piper mutters.

Ray James introduces his son and daughter. Twelve-year-old Peter and ten-year-old Aubrey walk toward him, their faces beaming.

“How old are you there? Ten?” I ask.

“Yes. W-where did you find this?”

“They were in the archives from the old
Nashville Morning Morning
Show
.”

As soon as Peter starts his guitar solo, Aubrey begins to weep. Piper slips her arm around Aubrey's shoulder. “I miss him so much.” Her cheeks are smudged with watery mascara.

“You have an incredible solo coming up,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I didn't count on the tape having this much emotional impact.

“Yes, ‘The Man.' The song I wrote with Daddy.” As the spotlight zeros in on the young Aubrey James, the older rises from the couch. “I can't . . . I can't . . .”

“Aubrey,” Piper calls after her. “Honey . . .”

Jumping up, I follow Aubrey out of the room. “Door at the end of the hall, upstairs.” Piper calls to me.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I chastise myself.
Should've warned her.
The heels of my loafers echo down the hall as I approach the closed door. “Aubrey?” There's no response, so I knock lightly while turning the knob. “Can I come in?” The door eases open.

She's sitting sideways on a country-style blue couch staring toward the bay windows. Her chin is propped in her hand. From the odd angle, I can see the tear tracks in her makeup.

“Interesting décor in here. The whole boxes-everywhere thing. I like it.”

She shrugs, chewing on the end of her thumbnail. “I like it.”

Since she doesn't order me away, I pick a path through the boxes to where she sits. “I'm sorry. I never imagined seeing them on video would be so emotional.”

She faces forward, wiping her face with her fingers. “Me, neither.”

“Something was wrong before I got here, though.”

Aubrey reaches for a fringed throw pillow. “Car's moving in.”

“Darn him.” I pound my fist against my palm.

She pinches her lips together, fighting a smile. “You make fun, but we didn't talk about him moving in. He decided on his own. We fought over it, made up, but the tension is still tangible.”

Gesturing to a row of boxes, I ask, “What's all this stuff?”

“Memories. Things that belonged to my parents.” She points the tip of her shoe at a water-stained box. “I stored them in Connie's basement after we sold my parent's house, and they got caught in a flood.”

“So you moved to high, dry ground?” I push back one of the box's flaps to peek inside. Looks like knickknacks.

She hugs the pillow closer. “I had this idea of creating a memorial to my parents, but there's a wide chasm between wanting and doing.”

“Best-laid plans . . .” In another box, I find photo albums and pull one free.

“Momma was an only child,” she says. “Daddy had a brother in California we rarely saw. Both sets of grandparents had passed away when I was a child, so when my parents were killed, Peter and I were truly alone. A few kooky relatives came out of the woodwork after I became famous, but they were just looking for money.”

“Aubrey, I'm sorry about the tape.”

She shakes her head. “Don't be—you didn't know.”

“Still . . .” I hold her gaze. “I'm sorry.”

She wipes away fresh tears, thinking for a moment. “It's fine, really.”

“Do you want to call it a day?”

She exhales. “No, but let's invite Rafe up here.”

17

“Life dealt her a rough hand. But she played the game and won.”

—James Chastain, president of Nashville Noise

Scott: Your parents were pioneers in gospel music, blending the new contemporary
sound of the '80s with soul and country sounds of the '70s. How'd they get
started?

AJ: Daddy grew up in the '60s, playing in garage bands from the time he was young. Thirteen, I think. He was into the '60s psychedelic scene. But he loved sports and music.

One summer, '71 or '72, one of the members of his garage band organized a “tour” and off they went. No guarantees, no manager, just the yee-haw thrill of going on tour. They slept in their VW microbus. Washed in rest-stop bathrooms. Naturally, a bunch of musicians with no manager ended up in the wrong place at the right time. They thought they were doing a rock concert but found themselves playing for a church camp in Georgia.

While waiting to perform his Doors-like rock music, Daddy listened to the preacher and learned for the first time God loved him. It changed his life.

Scott: How old was he at this time?

AJ: Twenty-two or -three. The quintessential hippy turned Jesus freak.

I love the old pictures of Daddy with his long hair and raggedy bell bottoms. And Momma with a crown of daisies on her head.
Scott: Your mother was a Jesus freak too?

AJ: Not the quintessential kind. She was the innocent, goodiegoodie college cheerleader. Such opposites, my parents. Daddy's band played at Momma's church on the invitation of the pastor's son. Little Alliance Baptist was overrun with a bunch of longhaired, antiestablishment, antireligious, rock and roll-loving teens and twenty-somethings. Daddy's band set up drums [gasp] in the sanctuary, and brought in electric guitars and a portable Hammond. They turned Alliance Baptist on its ear.

Scott: [chuckling] I bet.

AJ: Momma claimed she fell in love with Daddy the moment he started to sing. But her father was one of the church deacons who helped the pastor run the band offstage midway through their set. “Cut your hair and change your clothes, learn some decent music, and we'll let you come back,” they said.

But Daddy always knew it wasn't about the outside, it was about the inside. I remember watching him once during an interview trying to explain how he felt back then. He said cutting their hair wouldn't make them love people or Jesus more. Or make Jesus love
them
more. Their long hair symbolized to them how radical they were about being true to themselves, about not selling out to staid traditions.

Scott: So being on the edge was second nature to your daddy.

AJ: He wasn't a rebel for rebel's sake. He felt God gave him melodies and lyrics that were different from what was being played in the churches of the time. But he knew—well, I think he knew—a bunch of ex-rock and rollers would never be comfortable in an organ playing, five-hundred-year-old hymn-singing church. He wanted to worship with the words and music of their day.

Scott: A lot of great value and theology in hymns.

AJ: Absolutely. There's great truth in modern songs too. Daddy loved hymns, even made an album of them. But you know he had to do it with new arrangements and, of course, an electric guitar. If he were alive today, he'd be cheering on bands like Reliant K and Switchfoot. He'd love David Crowder, Misty Edwards, Phil Wickman, Matt Redman, Martin Smith, and Charlie Hall. Daddy produced records for some great singers of his day—gospel singers—because he loved the power of gospel music, the power of voice.

Scott: You spent many of your summer vacations traveling the world.

AJ: Yes, Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, Australia. I'd been to five continents by the time I was fourteen.

There's a shift in the room's light as the morning surrenders to the afternoon.

Scott: Tell us about their death.

AJ: [exhaling] This is the hard part. Okay . . . the summer of '93. I'd just turned sixteen and was not into one more summer on the road with my parents. I mean, please. [rolling her eyes] The year before, I'd fallen in love with playing basketball.

Scott: Don't forget our one-on-one challenge.

AJ: Believe me, I'm looking forward to whupping you.

Anyway, I'd missed a lot of summer practice because of being on the road with The James Family, and when I returned to my sophomore year of play, my game was awkward and out of rhythm. I practiced every night in the driveway after dinner until bedtime.

Scott: All year?

AJ: All year. Even Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. Daddy and Peter helped by running drills with me, playing offense or defense.

Scott: You were driven and determined even back then.

AJ: About some things. Not math. Hated math. But I loved basketball. It was the first thing I'd ever done that was all me. I earned it on my own. No Peter, no Daddy or Momma. Not a family performance. Just me. Singing was something I did because of Ray and Myra James. Without them, I never would've had any notoriety. Peter, like Daddy, loved baseball and played in high school. I followed in his footsteps and found an outside interest.

Scott: Back to the summer of '93.

AJ: I wanted to stay home that summer and hang with my friends and the team, play ball every day. Peter had turned eighteen in the spring, was working part time at Kroger, playing Sandlott, and dating a girl named Gailynn.