Diva NashVegas (11 page)

“You were grieving, devastated.”

My eyes water at the memory of social services dropping me off at the Fettermans two days after the funeral. Peter had disappeared without a word, and Connie had gone to file guardianship papers.

“I thought if I used Momma's name, she'd be close to me. But a year later . . . I couldn't accurately recite one of her everyday sayings. I'd forgotten her funny vocal inflections.”

“Forgetting is part of time's healing process.”

I reach for Daddy's old shirt again. “I don't want to forget. That's why I keep their albums and costumes, their books and photo albums. Daddy's songbook and box of guitar picks. Momma's old Nikon. I can't, I
won't
get rid of it. I've already forgotten too much.”

Connie places her hand over mine, and for a few minutes we sit in contemplation. At last she says, “I could help you organize. Put out the albums and pictures. Find a place for this—” She holds up the bluebird figurine she picked from the box a minute ago. “Whatever it is.”

“Oh my gosh.” Laughing, I take the squatty, dodo-looking ceramic bird from her. “One of Daddy's friends gave it to him.” Turning over the bottom, I read the yellow-taped paper. “May the bluebird of happiness crap all over you.”

Connie slaps her thigh as a strong chuckle rolls out of her chest. “Now that's priceless. Ray had some strange friends.”

“See, I can't toss this stuff.” I position the statue on the sofa cushion between us. “Hello, little bird, have you been flying around me lately? Dropping a few bombs?”

“Oh, pshaw.” Connie makes a funny face. “Your little conflicts? What are they compared to your blessings?”

I run my hand over the statue's smooth head. “I
am
blessed.”

“ The Lord took care of you. And little Jennifer, for that matter. You came to live with me, and she was adopted by her aunt and uncle, raised and corn-fed on an Oklahoma ranch.”

Picturing a corn-fed Jennifer makes me smile. “Hard to believe she's a twenty-year-old college woman now.”

“Hard to believe she hasn't asked for pictures of you, or to get together.”

I wince. “She has. But I'm a
very
busy woman.”

Connie frowns. “Fine, but what about pictures.”

“Piper.”

“Oh, Aubrey.”

I rake my fingers through my hair, hating the sound of my confession. “What was I supposed to do? Not send pictures? That would be rude. So I sent Piper's.”

“Telling the truth is always a nice option.”

“I wasn't ready. I like our relationship. Pure, honest—”

“Honest?”

I shove Connie gently. “You know what I mean. Maybe it's selfish on my part, wanting to dialogue with someone who doesn't care about my celebrity. I just like the fact that my fame doesn't cloud her heart.” Connie pats my leg. “Honey, I understand. But you might consider coming clean one of these days.”

“One of these days.”

Connie glances at her watch. “Oh, sugar, got to run. I have an early morning art class.” She stands. “Why don't you and Car come to dinner soon?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Have you set a wedding date?”

“No, though he told all of CMA Fest we were having a spring wedding.”

At the library door, she turns back to me, starts to say something, then waves it off. “I love you, you know.”

“And I you.”

Talking about Jen reminded me to check my private Myra e-mail. I
haven't in a few weeks.

Myra,

Guess what? At the end of the summer, I'm moving to Norman to finish my degree
at the University of Oklahoma. Go Sooners. I'm very excited. Two more years, and
I'm done. Woo hoo.

Dad started grumbling again about retiring. I don't think he likes being a supervisor.
Mom rolls her eyes and says, “Whenever you're ready, Tim, but you're going to
have to give up the football package. We can't afford all the frills on my salary and
you're too young to draw retirement.”

That settles him right down. LOL.

Went to a wedding last week. Josh Baldwin. Remember him from my senior year?
What a melodrama. Anyway, shotgun wedding. Gotta tell ya, M, he did not make a
happy-looking groom. Mom said we should pray for Candy, the girl he married. Mom
has a feeling Josh resents Candy and this whole baby-wedding thing and will not be
faithful to her. I'm so glad I'm not Candy. Ew, does that sound horrible?

How's your business going? How's it going with Car? That name still makes me
laugh, sorry. What if his last name was Horne? Like Lena Horne. Ha ha. Okay, I'm
sorry. This is the man you love.

Gotta go to work.

Hugs, Jen

11

“When it's all said and done, Aubrey James won't be remembered for her music. She'll be remembered for her heart for children and the underdogs of this world.”

—Gail Snyder, director of Middle Tennessee Youth Athletic League

July 4

In the shade of the dugout, wearing my baseball jersey and Sounds ball
cap, I sit with Scott Vaughn for our preconcert interview. The ball-games have been played and won, and now the crew is setting up for the concert.

Scott is relaxed, almost jolly. He looks rugged and a tad sexy in his baseball jersey, baggy khaki shorts, and flip-flops, his wavy hair blowing in the light breeze.

A few feet away, my security henchman, Jeff, stands with his arms crossed, watching the crowd.

“You look nice.” Scott slides into the director's chair across from me.

“So do you.” I motion to his baseball jersey.

“Ready?” His smile makes me feel warm.

“Hit me with your best shot.”

He laughs. “Okay,
Pat Benatar
.”

Scott: For the last eight years, you've done a Fourth of July benefit concert in Music
City Park, carrying on a tradition your father started.

AJ: This event is a family heritage for me. My father and brother loved Sandlott baseball. Daddy started this Fourth of July Concert in the Park to raise money for the city's youth athletic leagues, but after he died, no one took it up. When I cut my first CD, I offered to start up the concerts again. Actually begged to do the concert again. I really wanted to honor my father by carrying on a tradition he cared about.

Scott: We talked a little bit about your famous gospel-singing parents the other day,
but give me a picture of their life.

AJ: Their life? [gripping her hands in her lap and angling forward] My parents were caring, loving people. Not perfect, but freely loving. We were the house where all the neighborhood kids gathered.

Scott: Did they travel a lot with their careers?

AJ: Dad more than Mom. He had a solo gig going and would travel with guys like Russ Taff. Momma stayed home when we were in school. Then every summer we traveled together.

Scott: Do you remember your first performance?

AJ: Certainly. I was six and sang at a church during a Gospel Night or something. Lots of artists were there.

Scott: Were you scared?

AJ: [wrinkling her nose] A little. I was too young to realize, “Be scared.” Momma and Daddy were on stage singing, so why not me? Oh, you know what I remember about that night? Singing with the Gaither Vocal Band. [laughing] I told Momma, “Those men sing good, don't they?”

Scott: You have a brother, Peter, who also sang. Where's he now?

AJ: AWOL
Scott: AWOL. How long has it been since you've seen him?

AJ: [hesitating] Too long.

Scott: Any plans to . . .

AJ: No.

Scott: [flipping through his notes] Care to stay on a sports theme?

AJ: Lead the way. One of my favorite topics.

Scott: Word on the street is you had one mean three-point shot in high school. Led
David Lipscomb high school girls' basketball to a regional championship.

AJ: [laughing] I refused to lose.

Scott: You still hold the high school record for most points per game.

AJ: Well, got to be good at something.

Scott: Being a multimillion platinum-selling artist must pale in comparison.

AJ: [serious] Some days, yes. There's nothing like making a great play on the court.

Scott: Are you still any good?

AJ: It's been awhile, but I still got game. Why? You wanna take me on? Rafe: [laughing around side of camera] “She saw you coming, Vaughn.”

Scott: I had a mean three-point shot in my day. How about a little game of one-on-one?
Your home court? We have a free day on the schedule. We could make it
a basketball shoot-out.

AJ: Bring it, if you're man enough.

Scott: [laughing, pointing to himself] I'm bringing it. Better make sure you're
bringing it.

AJ: Like I said, I refuse to lose.

As the hour shifts and the sun slants to the west, concertgoers and reporters begin to cluster around the fence. Photographers aim their big-lens cameras at me. I hear the whirring and clicking of their shutters.

“We love you, Aubrey,” someone shouts.

“Miss James, tell us about your engagement.”

“Aubrey, why
Inside NashVegas
and Scott Vaughn?”

“Is it true you and Songtunes's new CEO, Nathan Brack, are in a dispute?”

“Aubrey James! I'm your biggest fan. Can I have a kiss?”

Jeff walks toward the fence when an enthusiastic fan tries to climb over, but a hand reaches from the crowd and jerks him back before he can drop over the other side and onto the field. Jeff waits and watches for another second, shoulders square, his feet planted.

Scott: You're known for your dedication to your fans, holding fan club concerts
once a year, but being really distant with the media. Why?

AJ: My first encounter with the media was when my parents died. We had constant requests for interviews, and it felt like the press cared more about getting a story than honoring my parents. Some of the questions fired at us right after the funeral . . . insane. Since then I've learned the media wants a story, any story. Partial truth is as good as complete truth. Lie now, apologize later. I wanted to avoid Daddy and Momma's story. Ever since then, it's been hide and seek with the media.

Scott: Some consider any press good press.

AJ: [nodding] Certainly press and media coverage is good for getting my name out there, but becoming a household name via the tabloids is not my idea of fame.

Scott: Hurtful?

AJ: Downright, sometimes. Look, I'm not saying my pain is worse than anyone else's. But when my private life is played out in celeb magazines, entertainment shows, the tabloids, or whatever, it's hard to move past the pain of a broken relationship or an ill-spoken word.

Scott: Being on the other side, reporters can get so focused on the story, or the inside
scoop, they lose sight of people.

AJ: You have a job to do, I understand.

Scott: Speaking of relationships in the news, is your fiancé, Car, with you today?
We'd like to meet him.

AJ: No, he couldn't make it. He had a prior commitment.

Jeff taps me on the shoulder. “The band is setting up.”

Swerving around, I see my bandmates strolling across the field dressed casually in shorts and tank tops. Seeing them makes me eager to play and sing. The concert is going to be fun.

Vickie notices me and waves. Signaling I'm on my way, I hop down from my chair. “Better go.”

He slides down from his chair. “Thanks for today . . . it-it's been fun.”” With a grin, I confess. “More fun than I thought it would be. Thank you.”

Scott

Olivia McConnell, my producer and the goddess of all research, discovered
footage of Ray and Myra James performing in concert while digging through the archives Sam inherited from the defunct
Nashville
Morning Show
. She sent three videotapes by a runner over to Music City Park in the middle of the Red, White, and Blue Forever fireworks finale.

I glance at the runner as he hands me three cassettes in the glow of exploding rockets. “She has nothing better to do on a holiday?”

He shakes his head. “It's sad.”

There is a note taped to the first cassette.

Check out ten-year-old Aubrey on this one. Olivia
Back in my apartment, sunburned, tired, and a little queasy from my sixth hot dog, I twist open a bottle of FRESH! citrus water and drop to the couch with my remote.

“Okay, Olivia, what'd you send me?”

When I press Play, the tape deck whirs and clicks. In the next second, Ray James walks across my TV screen holding onto a light-wood, polished guitar. He's wearing blue jeans with a tucked-in button-down shirt, a wide leather belt, and cowboy boots. Any other day or time I'd guess him to be George Strait without the hat. There's an ease about him, as if being on stage, singing about Jesus, is as right as rain.

Without a doubt, Aubrey inherited his charm. From the moment he smiles and greets the crowd, I can tell he's real and genuine. His character emanates from this twenty-year-old tape.

After he greets the audience—looks like a large church congregation— Ray James introduces his wife, Myra. I jolt forward as she enters. Aubrey is the image of her mother, right down to her delicate features, long chestnut hair, almond-shaped eyes, and lean body.

Whistling low, I up the volume. The tape is starting to connect the dots for me.

Ray and Myra sing a half dozen songs in a style that seems dated now but was cutting-edge in the day—a country rock sound with a dash of Motown. I swig my water, musing over how much Christian music has morphed since the '80s.