Diva NashVegas (14 page)

“Mrs. Carmichael—” Calling her Grace is too intimate in this formal conversation. “You may find this shocking, but your son seduced me.”

“You are very sensual and beautiful, Aubrey.”

For a moment, my thoughts swirl like a violent wind, and fury grips me. She can't be serious. Implying Car had no control over his actions, that I'm some sort of Helen of Troy.

When I force myself to peer at her, my ire fades. I see her with new eyes. She's confined to the social prejudices in which she was born and raised. She's without freedom to venture out into the world and discover all it's beauty. While I love to discover the rubies and emeralds buried in the heart of others, she only mines for diamonds.

Is this where I push away from the table and bid her good day? Or do I endure for Car's sake? “Mrs. Carmichael, I love your son.”

“Do you?”

Is she going to challenge every word?

“As much as I'm marrying a Carmichael, your son is marrying a woman with a public persona. The press, the image, the invasion that comes with a public life cannot be avoided.”

The blue-blood southern belle lifts her teacup and stares beyond me. “We all thought Car would marry Tammy Arbuckle.” She chortles. “They were such sweethearts all through college. I don't know what happened.”

Folding my napkin, I tuck it under my plate and reach down for my handbag. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Carmichael.”

She looks up, undisturbed by my abrupt departure. “Thank you for coming. And please, don't forget our conversation, dear.”

“Not even in my dreams.”

15

“Aubrey James stole the D from Demanding and put it in Diva. I love her for it.”

—Zach Roberts, Roberts Management

Odd. My house is sprouting furniture. There's a new table in the foyer
and a plasma TV hanging on the wall in the great room. In the downstairs office, there's a new computer and desk. And a plaque on the wall:

In Appreciation to Brown “Car” Carmichael III

City of Belle Meade

Is he moving in?

Strolling through the foyer to Gina's office, I peer inside. Her redwood desk is neatly cluttered with piles of bills and papers—all the things she does to manage the household. Her nineteen-inch TV is on, but muted. She likes to keep up with her soaps. “Been watching
All My
Children
for thirty-five years. They're practically family.”

On the other side of the foyer, the formal living room is still white walled and spartan. No sign of new furniture.

The grandfather clock chimes twice. As if on cue, the doorbell rings. I open to Dave standing on the other side with his guitar.

“Come in.” I give him a slight hug.

“Ready to write?” He pats his guitar case.

“It's been so long.” I wince, motioning down the hall. “We can work in the music room.”

“Got any of Gina's chocolate-chip cookies?” Dave asks, grinning. “Didn't have time for lunch.”

I tip my head toward the door. “Go check. If she doesn't, I'm sure she'll make some.”

Dave returns a second later with Gina shoving his back. “Apparently I'm not allowed in the kitchen.”

I look up from tuning my Ovation.

“You work, I'll bring refreshments in a moment. Gee whiz, been here five seconds and you already have your hand in my cookie jar.” Gina whirls around with a huff.

Dave rubs his hand as if they were slapped. “Didn't know you had a kitchen gestapo.” “Careful now, they don't come any better than Gina.”

Dave settles on the piano bench with his guitar. “I checked Robin's schedule on her MySpace. She's playing at the Bluebird a week from Saturday. We should go.”

“If we plan to use her, I suppose we should. You think your instincts are right? She and I will click?”

Dave shrugs. “I don't know her as well as I know you, but my hunch is you are twins separated at birth.”

I smile. “Always wanted a sister.”

We spend the afternoon playing around with melodies and lyrics, not getting very far song wise, but the process stirs my dormant creativity, and my songwriting confidence eeks to the surface.

Just like that? Without asking me?”

“I'm practically living here anyway.” Car sets his laptop down in his new office, flipping through the mail lying on the edge of his desk. “I bought a few pieces of furniture and decided to have them delivered here.”

“And, your mail?” I point to the change of address sticker.

“It was a hassle to keep going by my place.”

“Car, the United States Post Office knew you were living here before me.”

Sitting on the side of the desk, he lifts his hands. “Okay, let's discuss this.”

“This sucks, Car. I feel like the whiny baby here, but you're the one who decided to move in without talking to me.”

He shrugs. “Are you saying you don't want me to move in?”

His statement sparks a head-splitting debate. We wander down every rabbit trail of our relationship, from my personal bank account to his mother's expectations, from his business dealings to how
my
fame effects
his
life. The argument leaves me cold, feeling abandoned on the other side of the battle line.

“So, where are we here?” I press my fingers to my temples. How could two intelligent people talk so long without finding a resolution. “Me moving in.”

“Right.” Full circle. Our words took us nowhere. I look around for a place to sit, but there is none. “You'll need a chair.”

“Bringing the furniture from my home office.”

“The burgundy suede set?”

“The very same.”

“It'll look nice.” My headache eases a little. “I suppose you'll want to paint in here.”

“Called a guy yesterday.” Car stretches out and pulls me into his arms. “Are we okay here?”

I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “Please, don't pull crap like this without talking to me. I would never do this to you.”

He brushes my hair off my shoulders. “All right. But sometimes—”

“Car . . .” I gaze into his eyes.

“All right.” He wraps his arms around me. “All right.”

16

Scott

Thursday, July 12

Sam tosses me a box of new golf balls when he walks into my office after
the morning show.

“Nice show this morning with Hannah. Liked your Sandlotter piece.” He folds himself into the chair opposite my desk and gestures to my face. “Those things going to grow back soon?”

“Hopefully.” I trace the bare skin over my eyes, then hold up the golf balls. “What's the catch?”

“No catch.” He leans forward, smiling like a New York gangster. “Just congratulations.”

“For . . .”

Sam points. “Read the logo.”

I open the package. The golf balls are labled.
Inside NashVegas on
CMT
. I grin. “So, it's a done deal?”

Sam reclines in the chair. “We debut during November sweeps with Aubrey's story, ‘Inside the Diva Life,' then pick up a time slot the first quarter of next year.”

I wrap my fist around the ball and punch the air in silent victory.

“Your interview with Aubrey put us in the pocket.”

Glancing at my watch—
Need to leave for Aubrey's in a minute
—I ask, “When do I move into my sports director office?”

Sam gets up and strolls over to the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. “You're certainly my top candidate.”

“Top candidate?” I bolt out of my chair. “Why am I not the only candidate, Sam?
Inside the Game
is my creation. Part of the deal with doing the Aubrey James interview.”

He turns the doorknob. “Come on, Vaughn, you weren't born yesterday. You know how these things go. They put us on a national network, we do a little tap dance with talent, producers, directors. Got to give a little.”

My eyes narrow. “And why does the giving have to be my sports director job?”

“Hopefully, it won't.” He steps into the hallway.

“Sam, don't belly up on me. Sacrifice someone else.” I hate the idea of dogging a fellow crew member, but the director job is mine.

“Vaughn, CMT wants us to consider someone else, that's all. And, uh . . .” He can't look at me. “They mentioned a coanchor team they'd like to bring on board.” Sam holds up his hands. “All part of the dance. Don't worry. We're still negotiating.”

“Who's the coanchor team?”

Sam takes a few steps down the hall like he's in a hurry to leave. “Todd Knight and Chip McGuire.”

Knight and McGuire. Perfect. Big names from ESPN. This whole dance scenario is pure bull. “It's a done deal, isn't it?”

Sam ducks his head. “My hands were tied. I didn't have a choice.”

“Yeah, right.”

“One more thing.”

“What? I'm fired?”

“No, you're going to Miami the first week of August. Got a Miami Dolphins player who owns a sports bar, moonlights as a country singer in the off season. CMT thought it would make a good opener in January.”

“A singing Dolphin.” I fire the CMT golf ball at my wall. “Just great.”

In Aubrey's great room, I hold the video of her ten-year-old performance
with rippling thoughts on circulating my résumé. Blasted Sam.

But the moment Aubrey walks in, my turbulent thoughts cease, although my heart races. She has this aura about her—graceful and larger than life. If her life's journey had taken her down a simpler road, she would still be a star. Somehow.

“Ready?” I ask, motioning to her chair.

“If you are.” She smiles, but I notice the famous light in her blue-green eyes isn't as bright.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

I wave her off. “I'm fine. Long morning.”

“What time do you have to wake up for the show?”

“Three.” I hand the videocassette to Rafe who walks it over to the player.

She shakes her head. “On the road, that's when I go to bed.”

“We have a surprise for you, Aubrey.” I take my place in the chair opposite her.

A quizzical expression molds her face. “What kind of surprise?”

“You'll like this one.” I check to see if Rafe's ready. “Aubrey, nice plasma TV. Is it new?”

“Yes, a recent
surprise
.”

“I see.” Plasma TV?
Not
a nice diva surprise. “Ready, Rafe.”

Piper comes around and sits on the edge of the couch. “What's this?” “Something Olivia found,” I answer over my shoulder.

A second later, Ray James appears on the screen. Aubrey gasps. “Daddy.”

“He looks so young,” Piper mutters.

Ray James introduces his son and daughter. Twelve-year-old Peter and ten-year-old Aubrey walk toward him, their faces beaming.

“How old are you there? Ten?” I ask.

“Yes. W-where did you find this?”

“They were in the archives from the old
Nashville Morning Morning
Show
.”

As soon as Peter starts his guitar solo, Aubrey begins to weep. Piper slips her arm around Aubrey's shoulder. “I miss him so much.” Her cheeks are smudged with watery mascara.

“You have an incredible solo coming up,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I didn't count on the tape having this much emotional impact.

“Yes, ‘The Man.' The song I wrote with Daddy.” As the spotlight zeros in on the young Aubrey James, the older rises from the couch. “I can't . . . I can't . . .”

“Aubrey,” Piper calls after her. “Honey . . .”

Jumping up, I follow Aubrey out of the room. “Door at the end of the hall, upstairs.” Piper calls to me.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I chastise myself.
Should've warned her.
The heels of my loafers echo down the hall as I approach the closed door. “Aubrey?” There's no response, so I knock lightly while turning the knob. “Can I come in?” The door eases open.

She's sitting sideways on a country-style blue couch staring toward the bay windows. Her chin is propped in her hand. From the odd angle, I can see the tear tracks in her makeup.

“Interesting décor in here. The whole boxes-everywhere thing. I like it.”

She shrugs, chewing on the end of her thumbnail. “I like it.”

Since she doesn't order me away, I pick a path through the boxes to where she sits. “I'm sorry. I never imagined seeing them on video would be so emotional.”

She faces forward, wiping her face with her fingers. “Me, neither.”

“Something was wrong before I got here, though.”

Aubrey reaches for a fringed throw pillow. “Car's moving in.”

“Darn him.” I pound my fist against my palm.

She pinches her lips together, fighting a smile. “You make fun, but we didn't talk about him moving in. He decided on his own. We fought over it, made up, but the tension is still tangible.”

Gesturing to a row of boxes, I ask, “What's all this stuff?”

“Memories. Things that belonged to my parents.” She points the tip of her shoe at a water-stained box. “I stored them in Connie's basement after we sold my parent's house, and they got caught in a flood.”

“So you moved to high, dry ground?” I push back one of the box's flaps to peek inside. Looks like knickknacks.

She hugs the pillow closer. “I had this idea of creating a memorial to my parents, but there's a wide chasm between wanting and doing.”

“Best-laid plans . . .” In another box, I find photo albums and pull one free.

“Momma was an only child,” she says. “Daddy had a brother in California we rarely saw. Both sets of grandparents had passed away when I was a child, so when my parents were killed, Peter and I were truly alone. A few kooky relatives came out of the woodwork after I became famous, but they were just looking for money.”