Diva NashVegas (10 page)

“I have no idea. He was going to tell me this morning, but Olivia interrupted. Thinking back, we got separated and ended up in different conversations, then the karaoke started. I never saw him again.”

Piper shifts her position, curling her legs under her. “He just left?” “Just left. I was stranded.”

“So he didn't know Jeff dropped you off and went home.”

“No, but so what? When is it ever okay to dart out on a date or on a friend without at least saying good-bye?” I stuff my hands under my crossed legs. “When I realized he was gone, terror gripped me. Alone, forty minutes from home, with a half-dozen drunk, defensive linemen.” “Did you ever tell him?”

“When would I? He never called. Today was the first time I'd seen him since that night.”

“You should tell him,” Piper decides. “The
whole
story.”

“Maybe, if it comes up.” The evening is warm. I comb back my hair with my fingers and pile it on top of my head. The breeze feels good on my neck. “What I really want to know is
why
he left. By the tone of his apology, I'm sure he didn't intentionally hurt me.”

Piper stretches out her legs too. “I'm really proud of you.”

“For what?” I laugh softly. “Forgiving Scott? Woo, what a gal I am.” I punch the air with an awe-shucks fist.

She laughs. “Yes, and for doing the interview and the Coming Home celebration. About the third year of your career, you became very specific about what you would and wouldn't do. Aggravatingly so at times. But you're softening, considering new things. Even being willing to work with Nathan Brack again.”

I stretch my arms along the back of the sofa and rest my head on the top of the cushion. “Don't be impressed about Nathan. I'm sticking with SongTunes because of my history with them. And, I
do
owe them an album. I've done a lot of stupid things in my day, but I want to be a woman of my word. If Daddy taught me anything, he taught me to be trustworthy. Nathan is just a kink in the works.”

“Too bad Greg wasn't a better businessman.”

“Greg was a frustrated artist who tried to fulfill his dreams by backing a no-talent artist like Shelby Hayward. It bit him in the butt. But Nathan? Only number one Billboard hits will do. Deliver or die. He doesn't care who he crushes.”

“Maybe you should spread some forgiveness over Nathan's way.”

I lift my head to peer at her. “I've forgiven him.”

“Yes, the venom in your voice is proof.”

I consider my relationship with Nathan. Have I forgiven him? He tried to hijack my career ten years ago when I was at Mountain Music. Wanted to turn me into Britney Spears with a twang. We fought constantly.

“Forgiveness isn't the issue, Piper. I don't trust him.”

Juan finishes in the garden and gathers his tools. He stands back, hands on his hips, and surveys his work.

“Watch.” I motion for Piper to look out back. “He's like an artist, but instead of oil and canvas, he paints with flowers and plants.”

With his spade, Juan kneels on the ground by the south side of the garden and digs up a wilting plant. From my perch on the porch, the edges seem to be browning. Dirt falls around his feet as he cups the roots with his hand and gingerly walks to the north side of the garden where the shade is rich and thick. He stabs a fresh hole in the ground with the tip of his spade.

A peaceful silence lingers between Piper and me before she scoots off the sofa. “I've got to get going.” She swings her hips as she heads for the French doors. “I've got a date.”

Hooking my arm over the back of the sofa, I twist around. “Oh yeah?” I smile. “With who?”

“A guy I met on eHarmony. He's an accountant.”

Piper's had a series of bad dates with supposedly good-hearted men. It confounds me that someone as beautiful, kind, intelligent, and witty as Piper hasn't found love.

I wrinkle my nose. “An accountant? Online? Really?”

“Yes, an accountant, and don't wrinkle your nose at me. Car's a glorified accountant.”

I lift my hands in surrender. “Accountants are good. You've dated enough flakes and weirdos in the music business. A nice, solid, steady bean counter would be a lovely change.”

“He seems really nice, and he likes sports. A must for me. So, he's not a total nerd. Goes to a Baptist church.”

“He sounds very nice, but be careful, Piper, please. Maybe have Jeff check him out.”

She laughs. “Sic your body guard on him? Scare him to death?”

“Good point.” I point at her with eyes narrowed. “Don't tell him who you work for.”

“Have I ever slipped up?”

“No, but humor me—” I fire off a test question. “What do you do for a living, Piper?”

“Life coach.” Not a nanosecond of hesitation.

“Who are your clients?”

“Confidential information.”

I give her a thumbs-up. “Perfect. Have fun.”

She steps back over to me, grabs my face, and kisses the top of my head. “There, now I have some of your golden charm.”

10

The house is way too quiet. I wander the great room wishing I'd made plans
to go out or called Vickie to come over for a little jam session. Piper's office area is dark and quiet.

Hope her date is going well. Be nice, Accountant Man.

The kitchen clock tells me it's almost nine, and I'm a little tired, still recovering from the tour. Car's working late, working on his downtown SoBro development project. He asked me again to invest, and when I said no, we argued. I can't seem to make him understand.

George and Ringo hop up from where they were sleeping on the kitchen tile, stretching and yawning.

“What should we do tonight, boys?”

They wag their tails as if to say, “Whatever you want to do.”

What do I want to do? I haven't had this much time to myself in quite a while. Guess I could make some popcorn and find a good movie on Lifetime or TMC.

Do I even have popcorn? Checking the pantry, I find the picnic basket I sent home with Juan. There's a note attached.

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?