A Nashville Collection (59 page)

Scott: [closing eyes] If you say so, sure. He's skinny and she's dropdead gorgeous.

AJ: [laughing] No, no, no. She's skinny and he's the strong, silent, handsome type.

Scott: You see what you see, I see what I see.

AJ: They are a young couple, right after World War II, walking to the movies. [humming softly] The night is chilly as they walk an amber-lit sidewalk, their heels clicking against the cement. He's still in his uniform. Proud, but nervous. His square jaw is cleanly shaven, his dark hair clipped and neat. He thinks she's beautiful with her silky curls falling around her shoulders.

They're together for the first time in two years. Has he changed too much for her? Can he ever explain the terror of bombs exploding over his head on a dark, snowy night, or the horror of killing another man? Will he find the nerve to slip the cool gold-and-diamond ring onto her finger tonight? Does she still love him like she pledged she would when he shipped out?

Meanwhile, she's chatty and lighthearted, thrilled to be able to buy a decent pair of stockings. She leans against him with excitement. “We have chocolate. Would you like to come over after the movies for homemade hot chocolate?”

“Yes, that would be nice.” His hands perspire. The memory of her fixing him supper in a bright summer kitchen kept him warm during the snowy trek through the Ardennes. He carried a photograph of her in his pocket, and it steeled his hope when it waned.

Can you see them, Scott? Can you feel his longing for her, his hunger? The ache to take her in his arms and kiss her?

Scott: [swallowing] Y-yes.

AJ: Finally, he takes her hand into his. A tingle runs up his arm and across his chest. What are the words here? What is their song?

Scott: [gently singing, off key] Gee, she sure is pretty. I want to hold her hand, while
walking to the movies . . .

Rafe: [Collapsing to the floor in a fit of laughter.]

AJ: [buttoning her lips] Well . . . that's a start. It almost rhymes . . . [turning away, shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth, snorting]

Scott: [incredulously] What? It fits the story, and even fits the music.

Rafe: [Pounding the floor with his big hand, guffawing.]

AJ: Absolutely, it fits the melody and rhythm of the song . . . A-a good start. [surrendering completely to laughter]

Scott: [muttering] Sure is pretty . . . Walking to the movies.

25

“Writing with Aubrey James changed the way I approach songwriting. She has this unique view of life and the human heart, and her ideas challenged me to take my lyrics deeper, to the next level.”

—Robin Rivers, Music Row magazine

Aubrey

Dipping my fry into the ketchup at Noshville Deli, I laugh again at
Scott's song. “You are a brave soul, my friend.”

“I told you.” Scott winks at me, stabbing the air with his salad fork.

“Yes, you did.”

“But I saw them, the couple you described. The GI Joe and his girl walking to the movie.” He bangs the table. “She
was
pretty.”

Rafe slaps him on the back. “I for one am proud of you, man. And I know
Inside NashVegas
viewers are going to love hearing your song.”

Scott shoves a forkful of lettuce into his mouth. “You'll be green with envy when I win a Grammy.”

The banter around the table continues, and I'm grateful. My heart yearned for a lighthearted, fun day to get my mind off Car and our situation. We've been saying words to each other but not talking.

Dave pays the check, then excuses himself from the table. “Scott, can you give Aubrey a ride home? I need to pick up my kids.”

Scott looks at Dave, then me. “Um, sure. No problem.”

Rafe pats his belly. “I'm heading back to the studio.”

“See you later, Rafe.” He walks out, singing, “She sure is pretty, walking to the movies.”

“See.” Scott gestures to his departing cameraman. “It's a catchy tune.” “Downright hilarious. Maybe we should send a song plugger over to Larry the Cable Guy.”

Scott laughs and sips his water, then eyes me seriously. “Why am I driving you home?”

“Because I don't have a car.”

“But you do have a car. An antique Mercedes. I've seen it—” His fork clatters against his plate. “Oh my gosh. Of course.”

I dip, dip, dip my fry in the ketchup.

“Aubrey, you don't drive, do you?”

I munch on my ketchupped fry. “No.”

“Now it all makes sense. The night of the party. When I left—”

“I didn't have a way home. My bodyguard, Jeff—you remember him from the Sandlott game—drove me to meet you. He waited around, but when you and I hit it off, I sent him home.”

“Then I abandoned you.”

“Pretty much.” I shove aside my plate, not hungry anymore.

“I'm sorry.” He sits back, running his hand over his thick, coarse hair. “Really sorry. How'd you get home?”

“Cab. One long, angry cab ride.”

“Aubrey, why don't you drive?”

“Off the record?”

He nods. “If you want.”

Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I wonder how to say this. I sound like a stuck record on the subject of my parents. “When my parents died—”

“Excuse me, Miss James? May we have your autograph?”

Two teenagers smile tentatively at me. “Certainly.” Their smiles broaden as they hand me pieces of paper and one of my CDs. “Can you sign the CD too?”

“Absolutely. How are you girls doing today?” We chat while I sign, and when I'm done, they scoot away, giggling.

Scott frowns. “They didn't even recognize me.” He looks in their direction. “Hey,
Inside NashVegas
host sitting here.”

I roll my eyes. “Wait, my friend, until you're live on CMT.”

“You can give me pointers on handling fame.”

“First tip: your legendary status is only in your mind.”

“Good to know. So, you don't drive?”

“I do
not
.”

He whistles low. “I don't know anyone who doesn't drive. Seriously. I mean, what do you do when you crave Ben & Jerry's at midnight?”

“Well, I never crave Ben & Jerry's at midnight, but if I did, I'd ask Car to take me.”

He reclines with his arm over the back of the booth. “Before Car, then?”

I shrug. “Midnight runs to Harris Teeter or 7-Eleven are not a part of my routine. Gina keeps the house stocked with stuff she knows I like.” Wagging my finger, I remember, “Although, there was no popcorn the other night.”

“Why don't you drive?”

Reclining in the corner of the booth, I stretch my legs along the seat. “You've been as much my therapist as my interviewer this summer, Scott.”

“Reminiscing helps us understand our lives. Sometimes.”

“When my parents were killed in a
car
accident”—I spin my fork on the tabletop—”I was learning to drive. Their accident sort of freaked me out. Then I went to foster care and didn't have a chance to drive.”

He expression is soft. “Makes sense.”

“My parents were great musicians, and good with money, but had forgotten the little matter of the will and provision for Peter and me if something happened to them. They didn't think in terms of dying. I didn't have money for a car. Or to buy insurance if I did.”

“Then you became a recording star.”

“Right. Connie drove me to all my appointments and recording sessions since she needed to be there anyway. Next thing you know, I'm living half my life on a tour bus. Then I hired Piper and a bodyguard. They drove me around. Or Gina. Or Derek. Or Car.”

“How'd you come to buy the Mercedes?”

The memory of the Mercedes makes me smile. “Jack talked me into buying it. He thought it would motivate me. I do love the car. I'm just too terrified to drive it.”

“And no one is challenging you to drive? Not even Car?”

I shake my head. “No. I get where I need to go. He's not burdened by me.”

“Don't you want the independence of driving?”

“Again, I've never had it, so I don't miss it.”

“Incredible.” The corners of Scott's blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Since we're doing true confessions . . .”

“Are you finally going to tell me why you left me at the party?”

He laughs. “It's lame . . . but I left because I was having such a great time. Suddenly it hit me that a dog-faced sports anchor like me was on a date with someone like you. One of most beautiful women in the world—”

“According to that
rag
,
People
.” I roll my eyes in exaggeration and sigh. “Yeah, what do they know? They think Halle Berry is beautiful.”

I flick my hand at him. “Oh, I know. All that smooth caramel skin, perfect features, great body. What's up?”

“Exactly.” He flashes his lopsided smile, which makes my stomach do a small somersault. “So, there I am on a
date
with ocean eyes and perfect face.” He methodically folds his napkin into a tiny triangle. “We'd danced. You put your head on my shoulder, your hair kept tickling my chin” He looks up at me. “I never wanted to let you go.”

“Scott, you're not making sense.”

“When I met you, I'd just broken up with my fiancée, Brit, and the ordeal killed my confidence. You were so incredible, I decided you would never want a guy like me.”

“I never took you for the self-pity type.” I reach for my watery soda.

“Normally, I'm not, but it took me a while to rebound. Unfortunately, you came along a little too soon in the healing process.”

“Weren't we an accident waiting to happen that night?” I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. “An insecure sportscaster and a
de
pendent diva.”

“I wanted to call you.”

“Why didn't you?” I wonder if my life would be different if he'd called.

“Too much time went by. Then I read about you and Car.” Scott tips his head with a click of his tongue. “My loss. His gain.”

Next to me, Car sleeps. Golden morning light floods the quiet bedroom.
Rolling over onto my side, I stuff the pillow under my head, shove my cold feet under a sleeping Ringo.

The bedside clock tells me there's time . . . if I want to go. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe down the hall to the wall phone.

“Connie, it's me . . . Yeah, I know it's early on a Sunday . . .
No
, I'm not sick. Are you going to church? Yes, it's really me. Stop! The apocalypse hasn't come . . . Will you pick me up? Faith Community? Sure. Nine thirty . . .”

Car stirs for the first time all morning as I finish getting ready. The sandals in the bottom of my closet will look nice with my blue peasant skirt and white top.

“Where are you going so early?”

“Connie's picking me up for church.”

His abrupt laugh startles me. “Seriously, where are you going?”

“Seriously. Church. I'll be home around noon. Remember Gina's off today, so you have to take the dogs out. I'll feed them, but please walk them. Otherwise, they'll terrorize the house and yard.”

“Babe, I'm going with Dad to the Music City Motorplex for Funday. Got a client in town with his fifteen-year-old son.”

“Fine, but please take the dogs out first.”

He swings his feet over the side of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair stands on end, and in the fresh morning light, I can see silver among the thick black strands. “You're really going to church?” He fixes his blue gaze on me.

“Yes.” His tone makes me feel defensive, but I don't want to argue.

“What's going on with you?” He reaches for his shorts, neatly folded on the chair. His back is straight, and his bare chest is lean, wiry, and smooth.

“Nothing.”
Did I leave my handbag downstairs?

“You've never mentioned church before.” He tugs on my arm, pulling me down onto the bed. “Are we okay?” His eyes search mine.

“I don't know.”

“Throwing away your past jeopardized my future?”

I reposition so I can see his face and take his hands in mine. “Remember when you drove by the house last year and saw me outside with the furniture guys?”

“I almost wrecked my Humvee.”

I rub my thumbs over the fleshy part of his hand. “You invited me to your parents' for a cookout.”

“And you came.”

“You treated me like a queen, fixed my plate, and made sure my glass was never empty. Then you drove me home and stumbled up the walk to my door—”

“I was nervous.”

“You kissed me good night as we stood in a trail of moonlight.” Tears sting my eyes as I peer into his. “Picture perfect.”

He brushes my hands with his thumbs. “Are we still picture perfect?”

“Car, I don't know. You amazed me when I met you. You were so what I needed. A normal, down-to-earth guy who didn't make his living playing drums or making movies.”

“You . . . you blew me away. Not so much by your fame, but by your beauty. Pictures don't do you justice.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder.

“After Derek and Jack, I never imagined I'd trust enough again to love. Then I met you. This handsome, sweet, normal guy.”

“But . . .”

“But I'm just not sure we're the same two people we were a year ago.” “We could be if you'd just forgive me.”

“Car, I
do
forgive you. This isn't about the boxes. This is about us.”

He gets off the bed. “Aubrey, don't play me for the fool, waiting in the wings for you to decide if you want to marry me.” The warmth of his early tone evaporates.

I say good-bye to Car with a kiss. “Think about us. Pray, if you have the courage. Then do whatever you have to do. I will.”

Connie humors me and drives slow to church so we can arrive late. After
being away from the faith for a decade, a prodigal like me wants to arrive home quietly. This is between my Father and me.