Diva NashVegas (13 page)

He flicks flour at my face. “Coward.”

I duck away from the powdery cloud. “What happened to you looked painful.”

He laughs. “Never mind, just start cutting.”

Rafe zeros in on me as I cut my first veggie. “Here we go Nashville . . . Please, do
not
try this at home.” When faced with an uncomfortable situation, a certain goofy
savoirfaire
comes over me.

Setting a green pepper on the cutting board, I raise the knife over my head, and with a samurai warrior cry—“Hiya!”—I whack the pepper, execution style. The knife
thuds
against the cutting board, shooting the pepper halves across the porch like green bullets. One fires at Scott's head. The other wings across the porch, slapping into the wall before landing on the granite floor.

Rafe lowers the camera. “Holy cow, girl.”

“Mercy—” Gina inhales.

“Have you gone crazy?” Piper picks up the pepper half from the floor.

I cock my hip to one side. “I hate peppers.”

Scott's laughter fills the porch. Catching his breath, he reproves me with a raw chicken breast dangling from his hand. “All right, you, no more executing veggies. Got that?”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Spoilsport.”

We fall into a chopping and prepping rhythm while talking about our favorite dishes.

“My mom makes the best biscuits,” Scott says.

“My momma made a wonderful chili,” I say. “And hot buttery corn bread. We'd come home from school on a wintry day, our noses running, our cheeks red, and she'd have a fire in the fireplace, chili on the stove.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in. “The smell was wonderful and the house felt warm and cozy.”

The memory strikes me as some odd fairy tale. Wonderful but not true.

Scott draws a sheet of tinfoil from the box and tears it away, explaining to the camera. “Prepare your tinfoil with about two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil. Mix finely crushed bread crumbs—or flour, if you prefer—with your favorite spices. I use garlic and rosemary.”

He's mixing and rolling. I ask, “What do I do?”

“You're going to make tinfoil boats for the veggies.” With quick hands, he demonstrates for me and the
Inside NashVegas
viewers how to make tinfoil boats. “Add the olive oil, salt and pepper, fresh garlic, and seal them shut.”

Concentrating on the tinfoil boats, I realize I'm actually enjoying this grill-out day. “Now what?”

“We're ready to grill. Aubrey, why don't you do the honors?” Scott gestures to the shiny grill-beast. “Fire it up.”

Fire it up?
Sure. Not a problem. Except
how
to fire it up. Wiping my hands down the sides of my apron, I consider the knobs and buttons. Rafe follows me, zooming in on my confusion. Scott watches and waits. Gina and Piper huddle in the corner, holding back their big grins.

For about sixty seconds, I simply stand there, perplexed, then look back at Gina. “How's it work?”

Scott gasps. “You're kidding.”

I shake my head. “Wish I was.”

He motions for me to step aside, rubbing his hands together. “Let the expert.” Facing the grill, he mutters, “Let's see. A grill is a grill.”

“It's tricky,” Gina calls.

Studying the knobs, Scott points to one. “Turn this to Light, see? And then press this button to ignite.”

I nod. “Turn to Light, press this to ignite. Got it.”

He stoops down and opens the front panel doors. “I'll open the gas valves.”

“Okay. Say when.” I poise my finger. Light and ignite.

“ The valve is stuck. When did you use this last?”

“Gina?” I ask, my finger still hovering over the button.

“Last summer, maybe. It's been a while,” she says.

“The valves are slightly rusted. Don't turn the knob to Light yet.” Scott stoops lower, his face even with the grill rack. “Almost . . . okay, Aubrey, you can—”

I turn the dial to Light.

“Now, just—”

I mash the Ignite switch.

Poof! Fire explodes from the grill bed, consuming the racks . . . and Scott. He falls to the granite floor with his face buried in his hands.

I drop to my knees next to him. “Oh my gosh, are you all right? I'm so sorry!”

“Burns . . .”

I press my hands over my middle, horrified. “Oh, Scott. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

Gina gently moves me out of the way. “Put this over your eyes, Scott.” She hands him a damp cloth.

“Scott, I didn't mean it—” My apology is punctuated with short gasps. I feel ill. What if he'd been seriously hurt?

“Let me see.” Gina pries the cloth away from his face.

A deep pink colors his face, accented with black smudges. And . . . “Oh, man.” Rafe lowers the camera.

“What?” Scott asks, wincing as he shifts his gaze from Rafe's to me. “What?”

Rafe shakes his head with a guttural sound.

Shoving himself off the porch floor, Scott dashes inside. I look at Piper, and try as we might, we cannot hold our laugh.

In the next moment, Scott's broad shoulders fill the porch doorway. “Aubrey James, you seared off my eyebrows.”

14

When Car arrives home after another downtown SoBro development dinner
, I'm in bed, e-mailing.

“Finally . . . home.” When he leans to kiss me, jerking his tie loose, George growls low, baring his teeth.

“Stop,” I hiss at him, setting my laptop aside, returning Car's kiss. “How'd the dinner go?”

Car tosses his keys and pocket change onto the dresser. “Too many people with too many opinions.”

At his closet, he stuffs his white shirt into the dry cleaner bag. “By the way, Mom wants tea with you tomorrow at three.”

“What?” I look up from nuzzling George. “Just like that? Come to tea tomorrow?” I point to the clock. “It's after ten p.m., Car.”

“Brie—”

“Car, she can't summon me like I'm one of her servants. Tomorrow at three? What if I'm busy?”

“Are you?”

I scrunch down into the pillows. “No, but still.”

He steps out of his trousers. “She's concerned about the tabloids and the blogosphere.”

“Car, no.” I pull the covers over my head. “I'm not discussing my life with your mother.” The idea makes me queasy.

The mattress yields as Car sits next to me and yanks back the covers. “Believe me, she's more intimidated by you than you of her.”

I sit up. “Hardly. The grand dame of Belle Meade? The queen? I'm a mere entertainer.”

Car laughs and kisses my cheek. “You'll be fine. Do what I do: nod your head and mutter, ‘Yes, ma'am, you're right' as much as possible.”

I bob my head, grinning. “Yes, sir, you're right, sir.”

Laughing, Car wraps me in his arms and quiets me with a kiss.

Dear Jen,

I meant to e-mail you days ago. Is this a busy summer or what? Con
gratulations on deciding to go to the University of Oklahoma. I'm very proud of you!

Funny about your old “flame” Josh. I hope he finds happiness. Anyway, speaking
of marriage . . .

I'm engaged. (Ahhhh!) Car asked me to marry him.

Can you believe it? He's a great guy, Jen. Handsome, successful, from an old,
established Nashville family.

I've been thinking a lot about family lately. Don't know what it is about this summer,
but all points of my life seem to be merging. After fourteen years, I still ache for
Daddy and Momma. Peter is who-knows-where. I stopped trying to contact him after
the last time. The memory of our conversation, short as it was, still makes me wince.

But with Car, there's hope of gaining a family. His parents are major socialites, members of elite clubs and various charities. He's an only child, but he has family—
second, third, and fourth cousins—all over Nashville and middle Tennessee. I've only
been to one family get-together, but it was large and fun, if not a tad overwhelming. I
think I told you about the lake gathering.

This summer is about change for me. Perhaps finally closing all the doors on my
past so I can realize my future. We shall see. Pray for me? Hello to your parents.

Much love,
Myra

Piper insisted I wear a bold orange Tory Burch top and a pair of Prada
wedges for my tea with Mrs. Carmichael.

Her theory? “A woman always feels confident in wedges.”

As I approach the Carmichael's grand double doors, a maid wearing a gray dress and a starched white apron greets me. “She's waiting for you, ma'am.”

“Thank you.” Following the woman down a long, dark corridor, I wonder how tea with the queen of Belle Meade can be more nerve-wracking than tea with the very proper and staid queen of England.

Never mind that Prada wedges are doing nothing for my confidence.

“Miss James, ma'am.” The maid bows and backs away.

Poised with a fixed smile, Mrs. Carmichael greets me with her manicured hands stretched out. She's beautiful, sophistication wrapped in a pale pink linen suit. Her blonde hair is short and stylish, her figure trim and curved in all the right places.

“Aubrey, dear.” She clasps the tips of my fingers with hers and draws me close, kissing the air beside my cheek. Her skin is warm next to mine and, I'm sure, freshly Botoxed.

“Thank you for inviting me to tea, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Ah, now, are we on such formal terms?” She steps back, still holding my fingers. “Call me Grace, please.” Her smile is still fixed, but perhaps Car was right. She's as intimidated by me as I am of her.

Moisture coats my hands. “All right, Mrs. Car—Grace.”

She releases her grip and returns to her chair at the head of the table. “Let's not beat around the bush, Aubrey. What are you going to do about your bad press and dragging the Carmichael name through the mud?” Her eyes are steely.

I set my purse on the floor by my chair and grip my hands in my lap. “Bad press? I can hardly rein in the media. They print what they want.”

Grace spreads a linen napkin across her lap and rings a tiny silver bell. “I realize you showbiz people have your own moral code and way of life”—her tone is patronizing—”and perhaps thrive on being tabloid news, but Aubrey,
you
are marrying a Carmichael. We have our own code of conduct, our own rules and traditions that
must
be observed.”

My hands shake as I spread my napkin over my legs. “Grace, being tabloid news is not a value of mine, trust me.”

She rings the little bell again. “My friends tell me they see your face every week on the cover of some ragtag magazine. Perhaps this is from your lack of upbringing, but you must learn to be discreet. Let me advise you, cancel the
Inside NashVegas
interview.”

Lack of upbringing?
My heart thunders at her insult. “The
Inside
NashVegas
interview is set and, quite frankly, none of your business—” “You made it my business when you accepted my son's ring. Such as it was . . .”

“Pardon me?”

A different maid, with freckled skin, appears pushing a cart of tea and pastries. Grace quiets as the woman fills our cups and offers us a treat from a platter. I pick a cinnamon scone, though I'm not sure I can swallow it.

“Anything else, ma'am?” the maid asks.

“You're dismissed, Bonnie.” Grace sweetens her tea, adding a drop of cream. “Car assures me the coliseum proposal was his idea.”

“Then believe him, Grace.” I flick a packet of Splenda against my fingers. “He surprised me. I had no idea. We had barely discussed marriage.” “Nevertheless, the fact remains you'll be my son's wife, my daughter-in-law, a Carmichael.”

“I understand, and am honored to become a member of the family.”

Her smile is quick, almost as if she doubts me. “Adjustments will need to be made.”

“Such as?”

“Avoiding the tabloids and those infernal bloggers.”

“Grace, the issue is they don't avoid me.”

“Make our family holidays more of a priority.”

“I apologize for missing the Fourth, but I have my own tradition.”

“And Easter at the beach.”

“I can hardly cancel a stadium concert for a beach weekend.”

“Something will have to give then, won't it?”

“Yes, on both sides.” She can't sincerely believe I'm the only one who must bend.

“The Carmichaels and Beechums were early settlers in these parts—” She continues as if I've said nothing at all. “Founding members of our great city. We've been leaders and business innovators since the Revolutionary War. Both my husband's and my ancestors came to salvation under Sam Jones's preaching. Our men helped build the Ryman. We have a name and honor to protect.”

Breaking off a corner of my scone with the tip of my fork, I ponder her implication. “Innovators? I see. Does that include the moonshiners who ran hooch down from the hills? And the Carmichaels' fifty-year feud with the Murdocks?”

Her expression does not change. She appears to be presiding over a grand court. “Before the Second World War, a set of Carmichael sisters married into the Winston family.
They
were the bootleggers.”

“Grace, all families have skeletons in the closet. It's no shame. And all families have honor and traditions they uphold. Including mine.” Though I'm not sure of all the James and Roth family traditions, I intend to keep the ones I know.

“Dear,” Grace says with a lilt, “which of your family traditions are you upholding, hmm?”

Her tone heightens my defenses. “The traditions of music and serving others.”

She sips her tea, tapping the bottom of her cup with her fingernails. “Perhaps you should adhere to your family's gospel roots and stop cavorting around, telling the world about your relations with past lovers and my son.”