A Nashville Collection (50 page)

Scott: Ah, your parents were fighting a losing battle to get you to go on tour.

AJ: [smiling] Yeah, in the end they supported us. Daddy reworked our schedule and focused on other projects he had lined up. The only performing dates he kept on the schedule were within a day's drive or short flight.

Scott: By then, your parents had earned a big name in Christian music.

AJ: Yes, Ray James was as big a name as Michael W. Smith or Wayne Watson. He'd written a lot of songs for big-name artists.

We couldn't turn on the Christian radio station without hearing one of Daddy's songs.

Scott: Financially, he was doing well?

AJ: We weren't rich, but songwriting was beginning to pay off for Daddy. We had a nice brick two-story over off Granny White Pike. Took vacations, were spoiled on birthdays and Christmas. Had a nice allowance and frequent trips to the mall.

Scott: Did you have any idea you would become a music superstar?

AJ: [big laugh] None whatsoever. Basketball quickly replaced music as my first love, and I wanted a college scholarship to Vandy or UT.

Scott: What changed?

AJ: Death changes everything, Scott. And if it hadn't been for Connie Godwin, you wouldn't be sitting here with me today.

Scott: How does she fit into this picture?

AJ: Daddy hired Connie as his, our, manager. Connie had managed country artists for years, but she wanted to work with Ray James, so she called him up and convinced him to hire her.

Scott: Go, Connie.

AJ: Yeah, she's been a real treasure, and I honestly don't know where I'd be without her. She turned out to be way more than a manager or friend. She probably saved my life.

Scott: So, the summer of '93 you're all about basketball.

AJ: [nodding] One of the bookings Daddy didn't cancel that summer was a Gospel Fest in Gatlinburg the first of August. He insisted we all go, do the show, then take a family vacation before Peter went off to college.

But eighteen-year-old Peter would have none of it. He didn't want his dad dictating his life. He had all the pride and arrogance of most young men. The two of them argued off and on throughout July, and then the night before we were to leave, the argument blew up. Pete went ballistic, stormed out, and stayed away all night. Didn't come home to say good-bye to Daddy and Momma.

Momma convinced Daddy I should stay home, be there for Peter when he came back. The whole thing was one of the few really ugly moments in our family's history. Unfortunately, it was our last moment as a family. If I dwell on it too long, it haunts me for days.

Scott: Are you okay to go on?

AJ: I'm okay for now. Peter came home the next evening, feeling foolish, but back to his charming self. We ordered pizza and talked out the situation. He felt horrible and anxiously waited for Daddy to call so he could apologize. He jumped up every time the phone rang. Pete is—well, was—a strange mix of temper and sensitivity. The fight with Daddy really ate at him.

We were dishing out ice cream, planning on watching a late movie with our friends, when the phone rang around eleven o'clock.

Peter dashed to answer it. “Dad? It's me, Pete.”

I'll never forget his face. First hopeful and expectant. Then crestfallen and ghost white. His whole body convulsed. Then he just start to wail, “No, no, no! You're lying.”

Meanwhile, I'm shouting, “What, what, what?” I had no idea what was going on.

Finally, he slumped to the floor, crying—[voice breaking]
Scott: How incredibly hard. I can't imagine.

AJ: [moving her hand over her heart] It was sickening and terrifying. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Trapped in our worst nightmare without the hope of waking up. I loved Peter so much, and seeing him balled up on the floor, weeping and wailing, ripped my heart out. “Peter, it's okay. It's okay. What's wrong?”

Scott: So, you still had no idea what had happened.

AJ: None. Just something horrible. I could hear a voice through the receiver. “Peter? Peter, hello? Are you there?”

So I answered. “It's Aubrey.”

“Honey, it's Connie.”

I could tell she'd been crying. In fact, she struggled while talking to me.

“I have something to tell you. It's not easy . . . but . . . honey . . . your mom and dad were in an accident. No one's fault, just . . . an accident.”

“Oh my gosh, are they all right?”

Connie paused for a long, long time, sobbing. I guess I knew, but it didn't sink in.

“Honey, they're with Jesus.”

Aubrey

Piper finds me in the library after Scott left, sorting through the boxes,
reading Daddy's diaries. She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe.

“Hard day?”

I close the leather-bound book. “At first, but then talking about the death felt sort of freeing, like it really was something in the past.”

Piper sinks down to the floor next to me. “I'd be mental if I endured half of what you've endured. The public death of your parents, the public display of your love life, Melanie's betrayal.”

“
Now
I'm depressed.” I laugh low, nudging her with my elbow. “I had a revelation today.”

“What's that?”

“I'm part of the reason Peter left. Remember after a while how he couldn't stay in the old house, or even with Connie. Now, I realize he couldn't even stand to be near me.” I gaze into Piper's face. “Just being around me reminded him of the horrible way things were between him and Daddy before he died.”

Piper nods. “Makes sense. He's never forgiven himself.”

“No.” Hugging my knees to my chest, I motion to Piper's Palm Pilot. “Do we need to talk business?”

“If you're ready.” She taps the minicomputer's screen with a stylus. “Go for it.”

“New publicity photo shoot is next month on the eighth,
Glamour
and
Self
requesting cover shoots . . .” She looks up. “They heard you're doing interviews now.”

“Good news travels fast, I guess.”

“FRESH! sent a bouquet of flowers to your business manager's office as a thank you for their record sales during the past two quarters.”

“Really? Fantastic. So glad Eli worked in stock holdings as part of my deal.”

“A pro-life group e-mailed and asked if you'd sing at a Washington, D.C., rally in the fall.”

“Do you know the group?”

“Women For Life. They're legit.”

“Make sure. Ask around, check them out. Who else is going to be there? Who's the keynote? If they're aboveboard, I'll do it.”

She taps in a note to call the Women For Life. “Last but not least, Eli wants a meeting about your downtown investments. Something about confirming where you want to put the money.”

I blink. “What downtown investments?”

She shrugs. “He didn't say. I asked if you could deal with it over the phone, but he said since the amount is so large and involves your name, he wants to meet with you. I told him Friday at eleven.”

18

Scott

Aubrey occupies too much of my mind over the weekend. Even when I drive
home to Murfreesboro on Sunday for Dad's birthday, I can't shake the sense of her.

Between all the research, interviewing, and helping with the editing, the little girl with the Rosanne Rosannadanna hair turned stunning country diva has gotten under my skin.

And I don't like it. She's out of my league. Engaged, for crying out loud. This assignment can't end soon enough.

Sitting in my folk's backyard under a knotted oak grounds me in
my
reality. I'm simple, albeit charming, Scott Vaughn from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. No match for a beautiful diva.

Dad plops a lounge chair down next to me. “Thanks for coming. I know you're busy.”

I grin, shaking my head. “You're thirty minutes away, Dad. How could I not come for your birthday? By the way, your present is in the house.”

Twisting open a cold, dripping root beer, he flashes a face-splitting grin. “I saw. Box seats for the Titans' home games.” He swigs from his drink. “It pays to have a son with connections.”

“I pulled a few strings, irritated a few people, but you're worth it, Pop.” “Payback for putting up with you during your teen years?” He tips up his soda bottle, again.

“Come on, I wasn't so bad.”

“Aggressive, ornery, full of yourself. Driven. Did you sleep at all in high school?”

“One or two nights a week.”

Dad's deep chuckle rolls out of his chest. “See the redbird flitting over the grass? Reminds me of the time you smacked one out of a tree with your slingshot.” He looks over at me. “You'd just gotten good aim.” The memory sickens me all these years later. “It fell to the ground, fighting to fly.”

“Never saw a ten-year-old boy cry so hard.” Dad pops my knee. “But you nursed her back to health, and she flew again.”

The redbird in the yard flutters and hops over the grass, ear cocked to the ground.

“Yeah, she flew. Sideways. Almost boomeranged into the house.”

Dad laughs. “One of life's hard lessons.” He offers me a swig of root beer. “So, how's it going with Miss James? Ain't a bad job, is it, boy?”

“Somebody's got to do it.” I fake a weary sigh, then chug a drink of soda.

“You heard Brit is going to Europe?”

The sound of her name still pings some hollow place in my soul. “London for a year.” I pass back the root beer.

“You're better off without her. She was flakey.”

“I finally convinced myself.” Though Brit broke off our engagement over a year ago, she'd moved in and out of my life every few months until I finally wised up and ended things. Permanently.

“All right, you two, we're ready to eat.” Mom sets a serving bowl containing something picnicish on the table. “Chuck, call the kids to come wash up.”

Dad anchors his pinkies inside his mouth and lets out a loud, shrill whistle. My nieces and nephews peel toward the house, slamming against each other to get in the back door. I lean over to Mom. “Did you all forget to tell me something, or are there more kids than at Christmas?”

She tee-hees. “The kids brought friends. They want you to organize a baseball game.”

Slapping my hands together, I nod. “Sounds like a job I can handle.” My sister Sally unwraps a tub of potato salad. “Is it true?”

I pick an olive off the top. “That the world is round?”

She makes a face. “Are you really so immature? After all this time?”

“I'm a guy. I'm the youngest. I have dibs on immaturity.”

My sister Patti leans over Sally's shoulder. “Are you really interviewing Aubrey James?”

I glance at Mom. “Can I not tell you anything?”

She busies herself with stacking napkins, refusing to look me in the eye. “You didn't say it was a secret.”

“Did you tell Brit?” Sally asks, stuffing a big wooden spoon into the potato salad.

“She'll freak. She
loves
Aubrey James.”

“I haven't seen or talked to Brit in three months, and don't intend to start now.”

“What's Aubrey like? Is she as beautiful in person?”

I thrust my hand inside an open bag of chips. “More so.”

Patti snatches the chips from my hand. “Well, here's what we really want to know.”

“What's that?” I gaze at them, my guard up. Nosey sisters. But I'm not dishing on Aubrey. She's sacred territory, for now, until I'm over my crush.

Patti points to my face. “What the heck happened to your eyebrows?”

Aubrey

For a summer that started out to be about resting and recuperating, I've
been busy. Monday morning Piper drops me off at the Blackbird Studios where I meet Dave in Studio A with his guitar and SongTunes A&R director Aaron Littleton.

Seeing me, Dave rises from a posh leather chair. “Look, Aaron's here.” He makes a face only I can see.

“Aaron, good to see you.” I shake his hand, glancing back at Dave.
What is he doing here?

“Sorry, Aubrey. Nathan wants to know what you're up to—his words not mine.”

“Too scared to come down here himself?” I drop my handbag on the table.

“No, he was going to come, but I convinced him I should. You know, do his dirty work for him.” He smiles as if to assure me he's joking. “I figured he'd just aggravate you and we'd never get another Aubrey James album.”

I twist open my FRESH! bottle. “You're a wise man, Aaron.”

“We're just starting the album over,” Dave says. “There's nothing to tell Nathan.”

Aaron crosses his arms and falls against the wall. “It's okay, Dave. I'll just hang around so I have something to tell him. Besides, it's always fun to watch Aubrey work.” He looks around, deciding to sit instead of stand. “Why are you starting over?”

“Aubrey's going to write or cowrite all the songs.”

“You're kid—” He stops with a glance at me. “Aubrey, this isn't standard Aubrey James.”

“We told you, Aaron,” I say.

“You're going to write the songs, record them, and hand it over to Nathan in less than two months.” Aaron sounds dubious.

I glance at Dave. “Yes, with the help of a new songwriter, perhaps.”

Aaron closes his eyes with a loud exhale. “A
new
songwriter? Aubrey, Aubrey, you're going to give Nathan a heart attack. What's wrong with the
old
songwriters?”

“Nothing, but this album is about doing music a different way. I can't, won't, be boxed in, stuck in one of Nathan's marketing brands.”

“Holy cow, it's going to be a showdown.”

The floor of my music room is littered with wadded-up paper when Car
sticks his head through the door.