A Nashville Collection (68 page)

Holding out my hands, I look around. “Why not? There's nothing out here. Can you think of a safer place to try?” I lean against the door. “If you learn to drive this baby, you can drive anything.”

“Trees,” she says in a panic. “Look at all the trees.”

“You mean the ones
waaay
over there? Got to be two miles away. I think we can manage to steer clear.”

She faces forward, her posture stiff, her complexion pale. “Scott, you know I can't drive.”

“No, I know you
don't
drive. Whoever said you can't? Let's go, James, butt in the driver's seat.”

“You're not the boss of me.”

I laugh. “Yeah I am.”

“Since when?”

“Don't argue with me, diva. Get in the driver's seat. You're burning valuable daylight.”

Aubrey tips her sleek nose toward the sky. “No. Why'd you have to go ruin the fun?”

“Me? You're the one being stubborn.” I walk around to her side and jerk open her door. She refuses to look at me. Gently, I turn her face to mine. “One last fear. Let's kick it in the rear.”

She looks down at her trembling hands. “I'm terrified.”

I cover her hands with mine. “I know you are, but, Aubrey, you can't hide behind fear. The longer you do, the more it owns you. Come on. What do you say?” I lean in and whisper, “Patti and Sally can't drive it.”

Her eyes light up. “Really?”

“Honest truth.” I nudge her toward the driver's seat.

She pushes back, crossing her arms. “I'm not driving.”

“Have it your way, then.” I walk off toward the setting sun.

“Vaughn, where are you going? Get back here.”

I turn around. Aubrey's standing in the Jeep, looking over the windshield. “Only if you drive,” I holler.

“I can't believe you.”

“You're thirty years old, Aubrey. Rich, beautiful, famous. But if you want to go to 7-Eleven at nine o'clock at night, you can't. Why? Not because you're famous, but because you're scared.”

If I didn't push too hard, she'll cave about—

“Well, don't just stand there. Show me how to drive this rusty piece of junk.”

36

“Shift into first,” I coach Aubrey after we review the basics of the Jeep.
“Slowly let off the clutch; you'll feel it catch. Press gently on the gas.”

“Off the clutch . . .” Both her hands grip the wheel. “Give it gas.” The Jeep lurches forward. And stalls. She looks devastated.

“You're doing fine. First gear is a little tricky. Start the Jeep again.”

She cups her hands around her mouth and blows on them. “I can do this. I've sung before queens and princes, in stadiums of a hundred thousand. What's a stupid Jeep?”

“Exactly. You got it. Be the diva of this Jeep.”

Muttering to herself, she lets off the clutch and gives it a little gas. The Jeep creeps forward, not stalling this time.

“I did it. I did it.” She laughs and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Now, hear the engine whining? That means you need to shift into second. Same thing. Press in the clutch, shift, ease off the clutch, and give her a little gas.”

The Jeep jumps slightly when she moves off the clutch, but we're moving and gaining speed.

“That was easier.” She looks over at me. The light is back in her eyes, the pink hue is on her cheeks.

“First gear is always the hardest.”

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I'm driving.” She lays on the horn. “Out of my way, world, I'm driving.”

“See, I told you. Next gear. Hear the whine?”

Aubrey completes a smooth shift from second to third.

“This is the most incredible feeling. Now I know what Alan Jackson was singing about.” She whips her cell phone from her belt loop.

“You brought your phone with you?”

“Always, always have my phone. Security team insists . . . Alan! Hey, it's me. Yeah, doing well. Guess what? I'm driving.”

After all the coaxing and manipulating to get Aubrey behind the wheel, I
can't get her to stop driving. We've covered the width of Dad and Mom's place, crossed over into the neighbor's field, and the neighbor's next to him, before I convince her to turn around and head for home.

“The gas gauge isn't accurate, Aubrey. I don't want to get stranded.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughs, tapping my leg with her hand. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”
Forever, if you're willing.

“Is that a pond? Let's go over there.” Aubrey jerks the wheel to the right.

I grab onto the roll bar. “You're ready for NASCAR.”

Aubrey careens toward Dad's fishing hole. She's definitely discovered her need for speed.

Except . . .

One thing we haven't covered much in today's driving lesson: stopping. And the pond nears. “Okay, Aubrey, slow down. Hit the brake and push in the clutch, then downshift.”

“Downshift? What do you mean, downshift?”

“Go from fourth to third. Clutch . . . shift . . .”

The gears grind as she tries to change. “Scott!” Her voice is panicked. “What's going on?”

“Just grinding the gears. Keep the clutch in . . . No, don't hit the gas . . . Aubrey, slow down. Brake slowly . . .”

She is now a weird mix of confident-race-car-driver-meets-freaked-out-old-lady. Instead of braking, she guns the gas. We careen toward the pond.

“Aubrey, the brake.” I'm trying to stay calm—for her—but the pond isn't going to move out of our way.

She tries to shift without the clutch. “Scott, help me. What—”

“Calm down. Hit the brake, gently.” The Jeep slows a little. “Now, clutch. You're just reversing the shift process. Go from fourth to third. . . Good, good. Let out the clutch slowly.”

She pops the clutch and we jerk forward, almost stalling.

“Give it some gas, Aubrey.”

She hits the gas just as a big jack rabbit streaks across the field in front of us. “Bunny rabbit, no!” Aubrey swerves wide left. The Jeep hits a small grassy mound and goes airborne.

We crash down on the edge of the pond. The front end slowly sinks into the water. For a long time, we say nothing.

“You okay?” I ask low.

“Yes.” Aubrey exhales, looking around at me with her wild hair settling over her face. “And that, Scott Vaughn, is how it's done.”

Aubrey

The night is cold, but the bonfire and the company are warm. Scott's sis-ters and their families returned for a Sunday evening dinner of leftovers and a final night by the fire.

Sitting next to me on the log bench, Scott regales his family with the details of my first driving lesson. Dropping Dad Vaughn's Jeep into the pond was the scariest and funniest thing I've ever done in my life. Bravest, too. I'm quite proud of my pond run.

“Dad comes to pull us out.” Scott slaps his knee, pointing at his father. “And he actually checks the ground where the Jeep went in to make sure we didn't splash out any of his precious bass.”

His sisters laugh. Patti's close enough to lean over and kiss his cheek. “Dad, you're ridiculous about those fish.”

“Aubrey,” Sally says, “he stocks the pond, then refuses to let anyone catch and eat. It's all catch and release.”

Dad Vaughn props his hands on his thighs so his elbows stick out. “I'm just making sure there's enough fish for the fishing.”

His children laugh and counter with, “Right, Dad, that's the reason. Making sure there's fish for everyone to catch. Not. They're your
pets
!”

I cover my laugh when he turns to me. “Did that boy of mine hurt you?”

“No, sir, he didn't.” I glance over at Scott. His coarse hair is wild and curly from the open Jeep ride. He looks so rugged and . . . Never mind. “He made me confront my fear.”

“Another s'more, Aubrey?” Mom Vaughn holds up graham crackers and a block of chocolate.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Vaughn.” I pat my belly. “I've eaten very well—too well—this weekend.”

“Here.” She passes the ingredients over. “You can diet tomorrow.”

I hesitate, not sure she's serious, but when Patti passes over the crackers and chocolate with a wry twist on her lips, I figure I'm eating another s'more.

Scott winds up his story by excusing me. “This was Aubrey's first time driving with a clutch, and come on, Dad, you and I had trouble driving the Jeep at first. The clutch is like a springboard.”

“I commend you, Aubrey,” Sally says. “You've done the Vaughn women proud since none of us have driven the Jeep.”

The Vaughn women? I'm not a Vaughn woman.

I steal a glance at Scott. Men freak when girls they bring home for the first time are included as part of the family.

But Scott is smiling, and he catches me looking at him and scoots a little closer, taking the marshmallow and roasting stick from me. Crouching toward the fire, he rests his elbow on my knee.

I feel safe. Truly safe. Not guarded or controlled like it was with Car. I slip my hand over Scott's and lace my fingers through his.

“Thank you all for a wonderful weekend.” My words are filled with emotion. “I haven't had a family weekend like this in years.”

Scott squeezes my fingers, his gesture speaking a thousand hot, silent words. “You'll have to come back.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Here we go,” he says, pulling the stick from the fire, “one melted marshmallow.”

The browned marshmallow dangles from the stick . . . then plops to the ground. We stare at it, then each other, before bursting into laughter.

“Ah, I didn't need it anyway.” I break off a chunk of the Hershey bar and pass it to Scott. “I like my chocolate straight up.”

“I hate to be the one, but . . .” Patti stands. “We need to get going, kids. School in the morning.”

Sally's husband stretches and agrees. “We need to go too.”

Moaning and groaning, the kids drag their feet toward the house, shoulders slumped. Their parents call instructions after them. “Don't forget to put away the PlayStation. Susie, your backpack is in the playroom.”

Just before Patti's youngest goes through the back door, she spins around and dashes over to me, wrapping me in a tight, little-girl squeeze. “Thank you for my purse, Aunt Aubrey.”

“Lillabeth, hey.” Scott touches her arm with a glance up at me.
Sorry
. “Aubrey is not your aunt.”

“No, i-i-it's okay,” I say, pressing Lillabeth to me. “I don't mind.”

We say good-bye to everyone and return to our bench by the fire. “It's getting colder.” I rub my hands together.

“I think so.” Scott wraps his arm around me. “Better?”

“Much.”

He starts to say something, then stops. After a deep breath, he says, “I'm falling in love with you.” His confession is quiet but confident. He jams the marshmallow stick in the dirt.

My heartbeat quickens. “Scott, I—”

“Don't say it. I know. Car and the others.” He flips the stick into the fire. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Hey, you two want some hot chocolate?” Mom hollers from the back door. “It's getting cold out here.”

“No, Mom.” Scott stands. “It's late and we need to get back. I have to work in the morning.”

“I'll pour you some in a thermos.”

“Whatever,” he mutters with a grin. “She always sends something home with me.” He offers his hand and pulls me to my feet, holding my gaze for a second. A haunting loneliness swirls around me when he lets me go. “Ready?”

“Don't give up on me,” I whisper.

“Not in a million years.”

37

March

Standing offstage, I watch as Scott Vaughn and Beth Rose tape the opening
segment of their new hit show,
Inside NashVegas on CMT.

Their November debut was a smash, and I've become the coanchors' personal counselor on dealing with fame.

“I didn't think it'd be like this,” Scott said one weekend when we drove down to his parents for a weekend getaway.

“You'll get used to it. Believe it or not, the benefits outweigh the hazards.”

“I bet I've gotten a dozen marriage proposals.” He makes a face. “Let me tell you, there are some sick woman out there. You wouldn't believe what they're offering.”

I laugh. “Oh, yeah I would. I get those same sick letters from men.”

Scott's become my best friend. Church on Sunday, dinner, movies, weekends on the Vaughn farm. He even drove me down to Destin for Christmas with Peter. And now, he's about to welcome me on to his and Beth's
hit
show.

Scott: Hi, everyone. I'm Scott Vaughn.

Beth: And I'm Beth Rose. Welcome to
Inside NashVegas on CMT
.

Scott: We have a very special guest in the house tonight—

Beth: We do. Miss Aubrey James is here. [audience applauding]
Scott: She's in the studio, ready to give us an update on her life and perform a cut
from her new album,
At Last.

Beth: So stayed tuned.
Inside NashVegas on CMT
will be back right after
this. [more applause]

The stage manager warns me, “Two minutes, Miss James.”

“Thank you.”

Scott tips his head with a wink, giving me a thumbs-up. I confessed to him last night that taping in front of a small studio audience was ten times more nerve-wracking than performing in stadiums.

The camera light flashes. Scott and Beth are back on. They banter for a second, then Scott introduces me. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Aubrey James.”

I step out to enthusiastic applause, my nerves settling down as I approach the set. I embrace Scott casually, then Beth, and take the empty seat between them.