Diva NashVegas (19 page)

“Yeah, but I got the feeling she doesn't want you or anyone else bringing her brother home.” Rafe taps out the beat of the music on his leg. “At least you're moving on from that chick, what's-her-name.”

“Brit.”

“Yeah, Brit. Granted, this is the
dumbest
possible way, but at least you're moving on.”

I snort a laugh. “ This is for Sam and his stupid story.”

“Keep lying to yourself, you might just believe it. We've already got the CMT deal.” Rafe rolls down his window, and warm salty air rushes in. My Google map slaps against the dash, then flies out the window.

“Rafe!” I snatch at the paper as it whips by. In the next second, it's highway litter.

“Sorry, man, wanted to pour out my Coke.” He holds up a gigantic 7-Eleven cup, angling his arm out the window.

“Rafe, wait—” I'm going too fast to empty a drink. Sure enough, the wind jerks the cup out of his hand, and watery Coke sprays all over the leather seats.

“Holy cow, man, can't take you anywhere.”

“Simmer down, it's just sticky water.” Rafe reaches for a pile of McDonald's napkins. “Leather cleans up easily enough.”

I laugh. It's too great a day to be mad. Especially at Rafe. Clicking off the air, I roll down my window, too, and jut out my elbow. The air is hot and muggy, the scene along the highway postcard perfect. Clear horizon, white sandy beach, a pelican flying low over blue-green water. The color reminds me of Aubrey's eyes, but I don't say that out loud. Rafe would never let me live it down.

“Does it get any better than this?” Rafe leans out his window. “Remind me to move here one day.”

In the next half hour, we find our Holiday Inn (without the map), check in, and grab a bite to eat at Joe's Crab Shack.

“What's the plan?” Rafe tosses aside his crab legs shell and licks butter from his fingers.

“Find Captain Pete. Jeremiah said he docks at Harborwalk Marina. Vessel's name is
GoneFishing
.”

“And if he's not willing to talk to you?” Rafe's eyes widen with doubt. I crack open my lobster tail. “Figure it out as we go.”

After a dinner of too much seafood (as if there is such a thing), Rafe and I hunt for
GoneFishing
and Captain Pete. We find the boat but not the man.

“Let's hang out for a while, see if he comes around,” I suggest. It's early evening, and from my limited seafaring experience, my guess is Captain Pete won't go out again until morning. But I'm hoping he'll come around with supplies for the next day.

Rafe and I hang around in the marina's bait and tackle shop for a while, scrutinizing every captain-looking man that comes in.

“Think that's him?”

“No. Do you?”

After a couple of hours, the man behind the counter beckons us. “Can I help you two?”

I flash my TV anchorman smile. “Just looking for Captain Pete.”

“Gone for the night.”

“Do you know where he might be?” I slide my hand along the counter with the tip of a twenty-dollar bill sticking out. From the corner of my eye, I catch Rafe shaking his head, covering his eyes.

“Home, I reckon.” The guy behind the counter moves his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You want me to break that twenty for you?” He pops open the register and pulls out a ten and two fives.

“Thanks.” I hand him the twenty. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Captain Pete? Nope. But he's got a charter Sunday morning at six.” Folding the bills into my pocket, I thank my friend behind the counter and head for the door. Outside, Rafe slaps me on the back.

“Smooth move, man.” He mimics me sliding the money across the counter.

“He had no idea I was offering money for information.”

“There's hope for humanity after all.” Rafe pulls out the mini-DV and faces the golden horizon. “Might as well get some footage of this great sunset.”

He activates the camera with an inhale of salty air, films some of the landscape, then lowers the camera and checks with me. “Back here at six a.m.?”

“Guess so.” Walking down the dock, we pass Captain Pete's boat again, and in the setting sunlight, I spot a tanned, shirtless man spraying down the deck.

“Rafe,” I call low, pointing. He moves alongside me, propping the camera on his shoulder.

“Captain Pete?” I holler.

“Done for the day.” He doesn't look around. “Come around in the morning. I have a few openings.”

“I'm not interested in a charter.” I step to the edge of the dock, anchoring my leg against a pylon. From my below-deck angle, I see he's well-built and tanned a deep brownish red. His sun-bleached hair is buzzed high and tight.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to you about your sister, Aubrey James.”

Captain Pete's shoulders stiffen, and for a brief moment he stops working. “Did she send you?”

“She doesn't even know I'm here. Can I talk with you?” Here's where I need a plan. But I don't have one.
What do I want from you, Peter
James?

The man resumes working, cleaning his boat in the fading light while Rafe and I stand below. Finding him was easy enough, thanks to Jeremiah, but I have a feeling if I let him go, I won't see him again.

At last, he twists off the water and steps toward the boat's stern. Jumping down to the dock, he looks at me directly for the first time. His skin is leathery with deep lines running across his set, hard features.

“You the one who's been looking for me?”

“Scott Vaughn from
Inside NashVegas.
How you doing?” Offering my hand, I step toward him.

“Doing just fine.” He drives his big thick fist into my face.

Aubrey

A dozen wonderful red roses wait for me when I arrive home from Dave's
Monday afternoon.

“Robin Rivers is phenomenal,” I announce to Gina and the dogs, settling my guitar just inside the great room. “One day into our partnership and we have three fabulous songs.”

Gina smiles. “If the light in your eyes is any indication, you're on your way to another platinum album.”

I bury my nose in the red-velvet sweetness of the roses. “I'm not after status. I just want to sing from my heart. So, who are these from?” George and Ringo swirl around me, wagging their tails, sniffing my shoes. “Yes, boys, I was at Dave's. His poodle sends her love.”

Gina squirts 409 on the island counter top. “How should I know? Do I read your private notes?” She shudders. “What if it's something about your
bloom
.”

I make a face. “I'm sure it's not about my
bloom
.”

For the library and our future together.

Love always, Car
“They're from Car.” I breathe again the subtle fragrance of the roses. “Very lovely.” Gina turns from where she's unloading the dishwasher. “Guess he's trying to get in on your good side.”

I tuck the card under the bottom of the vase. “My good side?” We've had our differences lately, but how would Gina know? Most of our disputes have been behind closed doors.

Piper comes around the corner, papers in her hand. “Good, you're home. How was your day?” She waves the papers at me. “Contracts for the new distributor on your Aubrey Bags. You need to sign them today so I can fax them back. We're backing up on orders already.”

“Eli's looked over the contract?”

“Yes, it's straightforward. We pay them to ship the handbags. Period.” She holds out a pen and the contract. “Can't get any easier.”

We huddle at her desk, reading over the contract one last time, then discuss the possibility of designing a new handbag for the spring. “I'll call the designer tomorrow.” Piper taps a note into her Palm Pilot.

I flop down on the couch, humming the melody of the last song Robin and I penned. It has a lot of minor chords and I love the sound. “So, Gina, what do you mean Car's trying to get in on my good side? He didn't paint the library black, did he? Or turn one of the upstairs bedrooms into a putting room? What?”

Piper works the fax machine. “You gave Car the library?”

“I did.”

“Guess compromise is key to all relationships, though I wouldn't know.” Piper presses the big green Send button and turns to me, hand at her waist.

I nod toward her. “Your day's coming, friend.”

Gina comes around with the dogs' leashes. George and Ringo flip and twist around her legs. “I told Car if he threw out all the stuff, you'd be madder than a hornet, but he insisted—”

Rising to my knees, I address Gina over the back of the couch. “What do you mean ‘threw out all the stuff'?”

“Your boxes. He said you wanted to get rid of them.” Gina snaps a leash onto George's collar, then Ringo's.

My heart nearly stops beating. “He threw out my boxes? I told him to store them in the rec room.”

Gina tips her head to one side. “Tried to tell him, but he was a hundred percent convinced you said you didn't need to keep them.”

I charge for the stairs, running up two at a time. Piper is close on my heels. Opening the library door, I stop just inside. Light from the southern sun fills the windows and paints the burgundy carpet with golden flecks.

“Oh my gosh, this is beautiful. Where did he get this furniture?” She lightly touches the shelves containing the leather-bound books.

The deep mahogany and leather surroundings speak Car's name. “The question is where did he store my boxes?”

Down the hall, third door on the right, is the rec room. I peer inside. Empty except for the pool table I bought last year. No boxes, no Momma's couch, no Grandma's plant stand.

Piper pulls something from a crate just inside the door. “An old, muddy golf shoe.” Wrinkling her nose, she drops the shoe back in the box. “There's a pair of dried-up, sweaty golf gloves too. And a stack of magazines.”

“Those have to be Car's.” I thunder down the hall, looking in every room for my belongings.
Did he store the boxes in the garage?

But the garage contains only my antique Mercedes.
I'm surprised he
didn't throw it out too. Make room for his Humvee and golf cart.

A slow, deliberate chill creeps over me. I begin to shake.

“Piper, get your keys, we're going downtown.”

I glance at my watch, hoping Car's not in a meeting. It's almost five. His
admin, Ilene, jumps from behind her desk as I approach. “A-aubrey. Was Mr. Carmichael expecting you?”

“ This is a surprise visit.” I walk into Car's big and bright Fourth Avenue corner office.

Car turns from his computer. “Brie, what are you doing here?” He greets me in the middle of the room with a light kiss.

Remain calm. There's a logical explanation. I just know it.
“Car, honey, where's my stuff?”

“Your stuff?” His brows knit together. He smoothes his thumb over the back of my hand.

“My stuff. From the library. The boxes, the furniture.”

“Oh, y-your stuff . . .” He swallows as the color drains from his face. “Well—” He walks over to his desk, keeping his back to me. “Y-you said you didn't need it. Right?”

“Nooo . . . When would I have said such a thing?”

Car faces me. “Friday night. When we were in bed. You told me I could have the library because you didn't need to keep the boxes.”

“Yes. In . . . the . . . library. I asked you to put them in the rec room.”

“Aubrey, you said you didn't want to keep the boxes. I heard you.”

My heart pounds against my chest. “Then why didn't you hear me ask you to move my things to the rec room?”

“Because you didn't ask me.”

“Car, I did ask. You answered.”

“How could I answer a question I didn't hear?”

“Oh my gosh.” My stomach tightens as I sink down to Car's office sofa. “Where's my stuff?”

He gestures with his hand, his mouth open, but words don't come. “Did you put it in storage? In your condo?”

“I-I had the movers—I specifically heard you say you didn't want to keep the stuff, Brie. I did.”

I rise slowly. “Where did the movers take my things, Car? Where?” My voice rises, demanding an answer.

“They hauled it away. To the dump.” His words are clipped, his expression tight.

For a moment, I can't breathe. I can't think. “The dump?” My jaw is clinched so tight I can barely talk. My body trembles. “How could you send my childhood memories, all I have left of my parents, to the dump?” My fist flies at him, landing on the side of his arm.

He snatches me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine. “I would've never thrown away your personal things unless you okayed it.” “You did this on purpose,” I say as tears form.

“What? Why would I do such a thing?”

“And why would
I
do such a thing?” I swear. “Why didn't you check with me?”

“I don't know. The movers were moving your boxes from the library, and they asked where to take them—Aubrey, I'm sorry.”

I brush the tears from my jaw. “Tell me about the box of old golf gear in the rec room. It's yours, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you've kept them because . . . ?”

“Aubrey—”

“Car, answer me?” I stomp my foot.

“Because they are my first golf shoes and gloves.” He lifts his head and peers into my eyes. “The gear Dad bought when he taught me to play.” “Old, worn golf gear you keep. But my memories you haul off to the dump.” My voice breaks.

Everything's gone. The pictures, the diaries, the bluebird of happiness.
I twist the diamond ring around my finger. “I don't know what to do, Car.”

“Aubrey, come on.” With an awkward step, he pulls me into his arms. “This is a misunderstanding, a mistake.” His words touch nothing inside me. I feel odd and empty. “Our relationship is about more than boxes of stuff, right?”