by Rachel Hauck
You’ve picked springtime? And no, they won’t forget. You have no idea.
Car bends me back again and stares me in the eye for a lingering moment while the folks work up another raucous cheer. Then, with a sudden jerk, he plants his lips on mine. The louder the crowd, the harder he kisses. All I can do is hang onto him with stiff arms until he lifts his face and stands me upright. He bows and waves to the crowd. Like they’re here to see you, Car.
As he walks off, still waving, I watch his straight back and square shoulders. What do I do now? How do I segue from here?
“Guess I’m engaged,” I say with a light laugh, the diamond like an anchor on my hand.
The fans applaud, but I can tell, they’re ready to move on.
“Borrowed Time” blasts into the night air, and I morph from stunned girlfriend into a country diva.
“We’ve had a blast meeting so many of you on the FRESH! Tour. Country fans are the best fans anywhe—” My voice cracks.
A field of fists pump the air above the crowd. One of the cameramen moves in front of me as I start to sing. I wink, flirting with the camera. My voice isn’t strong, though, so I push a little. But two measures into the first chorus, my voice breaks and quits. No volume. No energy. No sound.
Immediately, my backup singer takes over the lead with my bassist rounding out the harmony while I carry on as if the whole vocal exchange was planned.
Blinking, I try to focus, but all I see is purple and green. My steps are awkward, my movements clumsy. I keep walking, clapping, trying to sing.
Then, the lights fade. The noise drifts. Everything . . . goes . . . black . . .
I open my eyes. Sunlight warms my bedroom with bright light. Outside my window, white puffy clouds float along a perfectly blue Nashville sky.
Oh, thank goodness, I’m home, in my room, in my snuggly, comfy bed.
I slip further under the covers and nestle against the pillows. Peace settles over me. Pure, unfettered peace.
This is the perfect place. The other side of the rainbow.
A light knock resounds, and as I poke my eyes out from under the covers, I see Momma’s pretty, smiling face peeking around my door. “Hey, baby girl. How’re you doing?”
“Good, Momma. Good.” I motion for her to sit on the edge of my bed.
“You’re tired, Aubrey Jo.” Momma sits, her back straight, her shoulder-length hair layered around her face. She looks me over with her lips pressed tight.
“I am tired.” I can’t help it—despite my best efforts, water spills from my eyes. “There’s no rest for the diva, you know. Everyone counting on me—”
Instantly Momma cradles my head in her arm and presses her velvet-like fingertip against my lips. “Shhh, don’t worry about it now. You push yourself too hard. Birthday girls shouldn’t worry.”
“Did you feel this old and tired at thirty?” I run the heel of my hand over my eyes to stop the tears.
She thinks, absently stroking my arm. “I had Peter at thirty. You at thirty-two. Your daddy had just signed the record deal with Myrrh, and we had tour dates booked out for the next year and a half.” She moves her hand to her high, lovely forehead. “Oh, that man of mine . . . Never stopped.”
“See, I get it legitimately. Don’t blame me. Blame Daddy.”
“Yes, you’re like him—driven, born with music in your soul.” She brushes wisps of my hair aside—her soft show of affection.
“Tell me the story again.”
“Well . . .” With a smile, she wraps her arm around me a little tighter, and I burrow down. “I was about seven months pregnant with you and, oh, out to here.” Her arm extends as far as possible. “We were on the last leg of a five-month tour and had just landed in Florida for a Gospel Fair at this big Baptist church on Merritt Island. After a quick sound check and a light dinner, the show started at seven o’clock sharp.”
She chortles, lacing my fingers with hers. “The music started and you came alive, jumping and kicking. Oh, my poor bladder.” With a laugh, she tosses back her head. “You didn’t quit dancing until the last note was sung, the lights shut off, and your daddy and I had crawled into bed. Then you scared us all half to death when you didn’t move for another twenty-four hours.”
“Wore myself out, did I?” I trace her fingertips.
“Like you’re doing now. You don’t have to hold on so tight, Aubrey.”
“If I don’t, I might spiral off into space.”
“Remember what your daddy says: God is always in control.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Momma. So many demands, a posse of people to support.”
“God is more than able. And willing. Hold onto faith and hope, girl.”
“Hope left me a long time ago.”
“Oh, Aubrey, impossible. You always have hope whether you choose to recognize it or not.” She kisses my forehead, her gentle touch watering the dry places of my soul. “Why do you put your light under a bushel?”
“There is no light anymore.”
My comment is dismissed with a flip of her wrist. “There’s plenty of light. You just need to let it shine.”
“You don’t understand. Ever since the accident—”
“All things work together for good.”
“Not all things.” I peer into her hazel eyes. “Not all things . . .”
“It hurts me to hear you feel this way.” With a sigh, Momma rests her head on the pillow next to mine and quietly begins to sing. “All to Jesus, I surrender . . .”
3
“I’ll never forget her first recording session. First song, first day. It’d been awhile since she’d done music, but when we started playing, she started singing with energy and soul. Sang that song down in one take. It was something else.”
—Mark Wallace, session guitar player
“How many people does it take to watch a diva sleep?” I peer at the whispering crowd huddled at the foot of the bed.
“She’s awake.”
“Aubrey, honey, how are you feeling?”
“My head is throbbing, but other than that . . . Did my diva dive spice up the show?”
“About gave a hundred thousand people heart attacks.” Connie Godwin, my adopted mom, settles on the bed next to my legs. “Some girls will do anything to get out of turning thirty.”
The glint in her eye makes me smile. “Not me. I love turning thirty.” Connie pats my leg, looking around at the rest of them. “The dive didn’t hurt her none. Same ole Aubrey.”
In the room with Connie are Zach and my friend and assistant, Piper Cantwell. “What day is it?” I ask.
“Sunday morning. You’re in Baptist Hospital.” Zach steps around Connie. “You were dehydrated, exhausted, and underweight.”
“Underweight? Impossible these days.” My response inspires no smiles.
“Sweetie . . .” Connie’s tone is motherly. “This is serious. The doctor wants you to rest this summer, take some time for yourself.”
“Sounds like good doctor advice.” Speaking makes me realize how very thirsty and weary I am.
Piper flashes her Palm Pilot. “I need to talk to you about a few things. I’ve cancelled as many appointments as possible, but—”
“Sandlott.” The one word takes all my effort. “Don’t cancel the Fourth of July Sandlott concert.”
Piper smiles with her dark eyes. “I already told them you’d be there.” She’s worth every penny I pay her, and then some. “Thank you.” I reach for Zach’s hand. “Did I make the tabloids?”
He grins. “Not yet. It’s only been thirty-six hours. Give them time.” “However,” Piper chimes, “the picture of Car kissing you made the front page of The Tennessean’s CMA Fest coverage, and Heather Byrd wrote about it in her celebrity column.”
“Gerry House wanted to know how you convinced Car to do an onstage proposal with a mega kiss,” Zach says. “And Inside NashVegas ran a short piece. Just the facts, no speculation.”
“Did you guys know?” A heavy
feeling settles on my chest, and my tongue feels dry and thick. “Can I have a sip of water?”
Piper fills a cup and holds the straw up to my mouth. I take a long, cool sip. “I tried to tell him,” she says. “But once Car decides something . . .”
The cold water washes away some of the heaviness. “Yeah, I know.” “FRESH! sent two dozen get-well roses to the house already.” Piper sets the cup on the stand beside my bed, then wraps her fingers around my forearm.
“They’ve been really good to me.”
She gives me a squeeze. “Fans are starting to drop cards and flowers by the front gate.”
“My fans . . . the best. What would I do without them?” I pause, then add a low-toned question. “Where’s Car?”
“Working, where else?” Piper’s remark is snide. She stands back, crossing her arms.
I glance up at her. “He runs a demanding business.”
“Maybe so, but his fiancée is in the hospital.”
“Apparently dying of thirst.” I smirk.
“No excuse.” Piper refills the water cup.
In the slim, streaming sunlight, I catch the brilliance of the ring on my left hand. The white diamond casts a prism of pure colors against the hospital wall. “What’s the reaction to my engagement?”
“What you’d expect. Congratulations. Speculation. Some are happy, some are dubious.” Zach rocks back on his heels, hands tucked in his pants pockets. “Though there’s been some poking fun of such a public ordeal. Leno fast forwarded a clip of Car’s last kiss, then rewound it, then showed it fast forward again.” A suppressed grin tightens his lips.
A prickly warmth spreads across my cheeks. “Car has no idea, does he?”
Piper curls her lip. “No, but he thinks he does.”
Connie walks around to sit on other side of my bed. “He did play to the crowd remarkably well for an amateur.”
“Did I look surprised?” My hand is slightly chilled, so I slip it under the blanket, the tip of my thumb touching the smooth platinum band. “Just a tad.”
I drop my head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere, somehow—I’d felt a profound sense of peace. When? Where?
The dream.
I sit up. “I dreamt about Momma.”
“Recently?” Connie asks.
“Yes, but I can’t remember . . .” I brush my hand through my hair, yearning for the profound sense of peace I felt in the dream. No worry, no pain. All the gaps of loneliness completely filled. “I was in my old room, at the old house. Connie, you remember how bright and sunny it was and . . . so incredibly peaceful. Momma came in and sat with me—” My voice falters. “She sang, ‘I Surrender All.’ ”
There’s a watery sheen in Connie’s eyes as she nods her head, tipped to one side as if hearing Momma’s voice. “One of your mom’s favorite hymns.”
“She was trying to tell me something . . . I think . . .”
“Your momma always carried the wisdom of the ages in her soul,” Connie says.
I rest my arm over my eyes. “But it was only a dream.”
For a long time, we’re silent. In my mind’s eye, I picture Momma over and over, trying to recapture the intimacy and peace of the dream, but I can’t.
Zach and Piper are whispering to each other. “Did you tell her?”
Raising my head, I peer at them. “Tell me what?”
“She’s lying in a hospital bed, for crying out loud.” Connie stands by my head as if to protect me. “You can’t tell her while she’s in this weakened state.”
“Tell me what?” My range of motion is tethered by an IV stuck into my left arm. Nevertheless, I do my best to sit up and, holding my tired eyes open, form a smile. “What’s going on?”
Zach glances at Piper. “You’re her assistant and best friend from high school. Tell her.”
“So”—she makes a face—“you’re her manager. You get paid big bucks to do this sort of dirty work.”
“Is it about Peter?” My eyes roam their faces. “If you have news about my brother, spill it now.”
Zach shakes his head. “No, not Peter.”
“Then what?”
“Aubrey.” Zach walks over to his briefcase and pulls out a tabloid.
“I thought you said I didn’t make the tabloids yet.”
“No, not for the engagement.” He hands me the slick newsprint. “Melanie sold her story of the FRESH! tour to Star. And she’s making the rounds with some of the B-rated talk shows.”
“What do you mean she sold her story—” The paper shakes in my hand. There I am with uncombed hair, red eyes, and a wide-open mouth, pointing at one of the crew members. “Holy cow, I look like a lunatic.”
“Exactly what the story implies.”
A wave of nausea shoves me back down into my pillow. “I can’t believe it. Why would Melanie stoop so low? This isn’t like her.”
“Honey, she’s angry. You were angry. Said things in Dallas you didn’t mean.”
Without demand, the bitter words of our argument replay in my mind. “Melanie’s not the type.” I toss the tabloid aside.
“Apparently, fifty thousand dollars makes her the type.”
A cold surprise washes over me. I glance at Zach. “Fifty thousand? Dollars? To dish about me and the tour?”
“Not only to Star, but the British tabloid Daily Mail. You have a big fan base in England.”
“I can’t believe it . . . yet I said all those awful things about her in Dallas.” I close my eyes. “She felt justified.”
Zach winces. “It gets worse.”
I peek at him. “How worse?”
He presses his fist against his lips. “She signed a record deal with SongTunes.”
“What?” I jerk forward. “She’s signed with my label?”
Zach tucks his hands into his pockets with a big sigh. “This isn’t going to be your best day, Aubrey. BMG fired Greg Leininger last week from heading up SongTunes and hired Nathan Brack.”
My eyes begin to water. “Stop. I don’t want to hear another word.” Zach rests his hand on my blanketed foot. “I’ve got more to say, and you’re not going to want to hear this either, but Aubrey, Melanie’s angry and out for revenge. She’s been jealous of you for a long time, and now that she’s earned some leverage, she’s going to use it.”
“I’ve weathered worse and survived. Only made me stronger.” A sharpness stabs my chest. Piper jots a note in her Palm. What, I can’t imagine. “Does Melanie know about the Boot Corral incident?”
I make a face. “The Boot Corral incident? You’re kidding—”
Piper’s smile sits at half-mast. “Sorry, I was trying for funny.”
With a sigh, I remind her, “The Boot Corral incident was entirely your fault.”
Her mouth drops open. “I beg to differ.”
I smile. “It was funny, though, wasn’t it?”
“Very.”
Zach’s expression is stern. “Can we get back to the issue, please?”
Connie looks over her shoulder at Zach. “Any chance we can negotiate with Melanie? Put an end to the feud?”
Zach shakes his head. “I’ve tried to call her. She doesn’t respond.”
“What does it matter?” I stare up at the ceiling. “If she’s decided to do this, she won’t stop. Besides, ever since she started dating Bo Candler, her attitude has worsened. I’m sure he’s feeding her jealous thoughts.”
Piper touches my arm. “Aubrey, it’s time.”
I stiffen. “No. I’m not doing an interview. No.”
Ignoring me, Piper faces Zach. “What about getting her on a big venue like Oprah or a Barbara Walters’ interview? A spread in People? Why can’t we get her on the A-list talk-show circuit?”
“Hello, Pipe? Aubrey talking. I said no. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s ignore the gossip and it’ll go away. Most people won’t buy Melanie’s crap.”
If I was exhausted before . . .
Zach paces in a small circle. “We
could get her on Oprah and other A-list talk shows. But they won’t air until the fall or winter. Which”— he stops with a shrug, his expression twisted with thought—“wouldn’t be so bad because the Star and Daily Mail stories will be old news. The B-list talk shows? Forgotten. So it won’t look like Aubrey is attacking Melanie, but all the while, we’re replacing her lies with Aubrey’s truth.”
“Betrayal is the worst.” I cover my eyes with my arm again.
“Never mind all this strategizing. Aubrey is resting this summer.” Connie trumps Piper’s suggestion with her Mom card. “She’s not going traipsing all over the country taping talk shows just to undo Melanie’s foolishness.”
“Forget Melanie, then, and the tabloids. You’re right, we’ve dealt with them before.” Piper’s movement is animated with enthusiasm. “Aubrey, you just came off your eleventh tour. You are one of the few artists who forged a deal with a sponsor. Your fifth album sold eight million copies. Your boyfriend proposed at the coliseum in front of CMA Fest fans. Do you know how many requests for interviews we got yesterday? Fifty. Ten more this morning.”
She leans on the foot rail. “Let’s repay evil with good. Turn this around. Do an exclusive with a reliable news source. Get your story out there so people won’t care about Melanie’s story. Aubrey, your parents were gospel icons. People still buy their music. Their daughter grew up to be one of country music’s biggest success stories. Now you’re engaged to one of Nashville’s elite, respected sons. Tell your story, your way. Let’s hear from you.”
Zach stares out the window as Piper speaks. By the furrowed lines on his forehead I know he’s listening, and thinking. “Piper’s right. You need to tell your story.”
“Please, there’s no story. The studio press releases sum me up nicely. Twelve years in the business, five albums, thirty million units sold. Other than that, it’s all about my private-life screwups. Dumped by a Hollywood hunk, rebounded with a rogue drummer. Label disputes and how I dislike a big Music Row execs like Nathan Brack who try to hogtie my career. Then there’re my private tragedies. Dead parents and missing brother, and all about how the Christian girl went wild. No.” The litany leaves my sore throat burning.
