Diva NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  “Aubrey, you got it backwards. Your story isn’t about mistakes, it’s about triumphs,” Piper counters.

  “I agree,” Connie says.

  My wise counselors wait expectantly. What should I do? “This will impact all of you.”

  Piper grins, tugging on the hem of her blue top. “She’s softening.” “Also the Carmichaels.”

  “Are you saying you want to do this?” Zach presses.

  “Yes, but”— I hold up my on-one-condition finger—“I’d want to sit down with Beth Rose from Inside NashVegas.”

  Zach’s pinched expression warns me he’s not keen on the idea. “Inside Nashvegas? A local show? Melanie went international.”

  “I thought this wasn’t about revenge?”

  Zach laughs. “Yeah, well, it’s not.” He glances at Piper. “But we should at least get outside of Nashville.”

  “Inside NashVegas has been wanting an interview for years. They can do, ‘Inside the Life of a Diva’ or something equally as corny. Hometown girl, hometown show.”

  With a shrug, Zach agrees. “Piper, why don’t you—”

  “I’m on it. They’re going to flip.”

  4

  “Aubrey James is not at all what you see. She’s manipulative and selfish, and if she could get rid of every female artist in town, she would. Take it all for herself.”

  —Melanie Daniels, Star interview

  Scott Vaughn

  Friday, June 15

  In the middle of coordinating interviews for a piece on the Sandlott Wood Bat league, my producer, Olivia McConnell, raps on my office door.

  Her knock is distinct. Never changes. Knock, knock, knock-knock.

  Phone to my ear, I motion her in. “Yeah, can we get with him before the game? I heard he signed a letter of intent with Lipscomb University.” I scribble “Tom Hayden” on my desk calendar. “Four o’clock.”

  Olivia sits in the adjacent chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingertips pressed together, looking every bit like she just stepped off a page from some female how-to-look-good magazine. Glamour, Vogue—one of those.

  “Lovely Olivia, what can I do for you?” I hang up the phone.

  “Beth’s out.”

  “Out? What are you talking about?”

  Olivia spies my mini baseball bat from the Nashville Sound’s game opener and reaches for it. I snatch it from under my computer monitor before her long, frightening fingernails scar the wood.

  “Her doctor has put her on complete bed rest. He’s concerned she might lose the baby.”

  “Whoa. How’s she taking it?” I lean back, swinging the bat with one hand.

  “Scared, but willing to do whatever she has to do.” Olivia recrosses her legs. “Hannah Warren is your new temporary cohost.”

  I knock a phantom pitch out my office door and down the hall. It’s Vaughn with a home run! “Great. Love working with Hannah. Sorry about Beth and the baby, though.”

  She twists her lips, making a face. “There’s more.”

  “Lay it on me.” I swing at another phantom pitch. Swing and a miss. Strike one.

  “Piper Cantwell called. Aubrey James has finally agreed to give us an exclusive.”

  Another pitch, another swing. Out of the park. My fake crowd cheers. Waaaaaah! “Good for our team. Beth is going to hate missing this one, but great coup for Hannah.”

  Olivia stands and leans over my desk. The way her head curves down from her neck reminds me of a vulture. Never, ever say that out loud. “Not Hannah.”

  “Then who?”

  “Scott Vaughn.” She snags the bat from me—my defenses were down—and swings at her own phantom pitch. “Out of the park. McConnell beats Vaughn’s all-time batting average.” She drops the bat to my desk and lifts her waxed eyebrows. “You’re spending July with Aubrey James. Sam’s orders.”

  “What?” I go to shoot out of my chair, but the arm is stuck under the front desk drawer. “I can’t. I refuse.”

  “If you want to keep driving that Porsche of yours, I’d rethink your position.” She smiles with that ha-ha sort of look I hate and walks out, slamming my door behind her, shaking my ceilingless walls. I hear, “McConnell one, Vaughn zero.”

  Ever since I called her out when she slid into home base during the company softball game . . .

  She knows I can’t interview Aubrey James. I can’t. Besides, I’m Inside the Game. Beth, now Hannah, is Inside the Music.

  Shoving back the chair, I free myself, in the process pulling the top desk drawer out and onto the floor. The contents spew all over.

  “Crap.” I consider the pens, pencils, paper clips, gum wrappers, old sticky notes layered with dust and dirt, and various other various junk items lying on the floor, then raise my foot and step over them to head upstairs.

  “What’s this about me doing the Aubrey James interview?” I barge through the door that reads, Sam Watson, Executive Producer. “I’m Inside the Game.” I slap my hands to my chest. “Beth and Hannah are Inside the Music.”

  Sam looks up. “Scott, good to see you. Come in, take a seat.”

  I pace. “This interview is perfect for Hannah. She’ll probably poison my coffee if you don’t give her this piece.”

  The creator of Inside NashVegas reaches for a pencil from the silver holder by his computer. Not that he needs a pencil, but to make me wait. He taps it against his palm a few times.

  “Here it is in terms even you can understand, Vaughn. I’m not sending in the second string when I have you. We’re hot on the heels of going national on CMT, and I’m not taking a chance on lousing up this interview. This is the break we’ve been looking for to get CMT’s final buy-in.”

  I swing my arms wide. “Third string, Sam. I’m the third string here. Beth is first, Hannah second.”

  “Beth is benched, Hannah’s a substitute. You are now first string. Besides—and I’ll deny this if you ever repeat it—you’re actually better at human-interest pieces than Beth. Part of why Inside the Game has a huge female following.”

  “Ah, shucks, you mean it’s not my wit and good looks.” I drop to the chair.

  Sam laughs low. “Keep dreaming.”

  “What about the pieces I’m working on with the Sandlott teams and the Nashville Sounds? Not to mention football season is around the corner, beginning with training camp and preseason games.”

  “Not asking you to drop those. I’m asking for a few hours a day, a few days a week. Capisce?”

  “Okay, okay, I see. This is you getting back at me for benching you during the softball game against the Fox 17 morning crew.” I’ve got to stop heading up company sporting events. First Olivia, now Sam. “You wanted to show up Charlie Chase. I get it, I get it. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was a competitive jerk. My bad.” I look at him square. “Won’t happen again. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m still ticked about you benching me. That payback has yet to come.”

  Is it hot in here? I loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my oxford.

  “ This is about Inside NashVegas going national.” Sam dips his silvery head as he speaks, looking pleased. “We’ll earn a midseason slot on CMT if we wow Viacom’s head honchos. Aubrey James is the perfect ‘wow’ factor.”

  “So, you think I’m the one to help get us to CMT?”

  “You’ll have a great rapport with Aubrey. If all goes well, we’ll debut in November during sweeps week, then pick up a slot in January.”

  I shake my head. “Sam, I’m not your guy for this one. Trust me. Send Hannah.” For a split, honest second, I consider confessing my crash-n-burn date with Aubrey a year ago before she met what-a-showoff Car Carmichael. Never figured one stupid decision one stupid night would come back to haunt me like this. “Look, Sam—”

  “Two weeks from Tuesday.” Sam goes on. “We want to get as much material on her as possible. Thought we’d do it at her place, make her comfortable, get an inside look of her home.”

  “I’m not your man for this job.�
�

  “Vaughn, Inside the Game is going to need a national sports director once we go to CMT.” A lock of salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead as he rises from his chair. Tucking his hands into his wrinkled pockets, Sam walks to the front of his desk. “We’ll have to consider the country music fans who live in Dallas, Seattle, Miami. Know of anyone who might be interested in the sports director’s job?”

  Standing, I meet him eye to eye. “You’re one son-of-a-gun, Sam.” Slamming his office door behind me, I jog back to my office, praying desperately for Aubrey James to have a forgiving heart of gold.

  5

  “We contracted with Aubrey James for an exclusive, but when her relationship with Jack Mills fell apart, she canceled on us while the crew set up in her home. An expensive disappointment.”

  —20/20

  Aubrey

  Friday, June 22

  My house manager and chef extraordinaire, Gina Lacy, serves Car and me a candlelight dinner out on the covered porch, an outdoor living and dining area. My favorite part of the house.

  Our dining table is covered with linen and delicate, gold-trimmed china. An expensive set Car insisted on buying last fall.

  “My mom always set the dinner table with china.” He beamed with confidence.

  “My mom set the table with Chinet.”

  The reference went over his head. “Chinet? Never heard of it. Is it imported?”

  “Yes, to Harris Teeter. Car, it’s paper plates.”

  Recalling the conversation makes me laugh on the inside—Car never hearing of Chinet. We grew up within ten miles of each other.

  My fork lightly strikes the thin, hand-crafted plate. I run my finger along the rim, making sure there’s no fracture or ding. The white and gold is beautiful, especially in the candlelight, but a piece of my heart longs for the brick two-story off Granny White Pike where Momma hosted laugh-filled dinners served on oval Chinet plates.

  At seven o’clock the night air is still and cool. Red and gold hues color the blue sky, and the crickets are singing their night song.

  Beside the table lie my dogs, George and Ringo—a couple of German shepherd mutts and two of my best friends. They welcomed me home as if they’d been counting the days I’d been away. They followed me everywhere, and I’m not sure, but I think it hurt Gina’s feelings a tad. She came to the house every morning while I was on tour, even on weekends, to spend time with “the boys.” Then returned every evening to make sure they were fed, watered, and walked. She gave me a detailed account of their care when I called home to check in, yet the moment I walked through the front door, their unspoken doggy language said, “Gina who?”

  Then, to Car’s chagrin, they jumped into bed my first night home from the hospital—George at my feet, Ringo on Car’s pillow. He growled when Car tried to remove him.

  I gave him a sheepish look. “They missed me.”

  His wicked grin told me he missed me too. Strolling around the bed to my side, he shoved me over and squeezed in next to me. A move George didn’t like. He jumped to his feet and stood over us, watching. “Okay, I can’t make love with a dog staring at me.” Car rolled off the bed. “Come on, boys, let’s go. Out.” Car’s bark sent them scurrying for the door.

  But tonight, as I peer through the flickering candlelight at Car’s square, perfectly chiseled face, I wonder if it is a bad thing I preferred the dogs’ company that night to his.

  Under the table, George moans and rolls over, resting his nose on my foot. His pink tongue kisses my ankle. Despite my busy schedule and extended days on the road, my mutts love me unconditionally.

  Since my fainting away during CMA Fest, I’ve been home over a week, resting and healing. Gina tempts me with her home cooking and pumps me full of vitamins. I’ve gained back five of the twenty lost pounds I lost. Physically, I’m on the mend. But emotionally . . . this tour drained my reservoir and I’m not quite sure how to refill.

  Car shifts in his seat, cutting a bit of chicken, flipping the page of the financial periodical he’s reading. Home a week and he’s reading at the dinner table as if we’ve been married and settled for twenty years.

  “If you’re set here, I’ll take off.” Gina pokes her head through the french doors. “Feed my old man. He got used to me being around when you were on the road.” She motions over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Dishes are cleaned up. There’s fruit in the fridge for later, and a cinnamon apple pie cooling on the kitchen island. Ice cream is in the freezer.”

  “Gina, you spoil us.”

  Car toasts her with his wine glass. “Wonderful dumplings.”

  Gina nods her thanks. “I’m happy to see the bloom back on Aubrey’s cheeks.”

  “Bloom?” Car blurts with a laugh. “I’d say her bloom was plucked a long time ago.”

  I gasp. “Car.”

  Gina’s expression falls for a quick second, but she catches it with her bowlike smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  Once she’s gone, I angle over my plate to capture Car’s attention. “How rude.”

  “Oh, come on. Bloom on your cheeks?” Car’s expression is scoffing. “You’re not an innocent schoolgirl.”

  “She meant I look healthy, not virginal. You really have a one-track mind.”

  “After this past week, I’d say you do too. Should I tell Gina about your bloom last night?” His tone and grin cause heat to creep across my neck and face.

  “Don’t even joke about it. Melanie’s done enough damage.”

  He returns to his periodical. “Yeah, and who gave her all that information? You should be more discerning, Aubrey.”

  I shove the dumplings around my plate. Car sets his reading aside and stretches his hand across the table, grazing his fingertips over my wrist. “Honey, I know you’re disappointed about Melanie.” His voice is tender and embracing.

  My lips twist into a sad smile. “Yes, but disappointed in myself. Our relationship changed when she fell in love with Bo, but I never imagined it would lead to betrayal.”

  We finish our meal in silence, Car reading while my gaze follows the gardener, Juan, as he waters a dark patch of soil along the perimeter of the security wall.

  Soon, June will surrender to July, ushering in the crisp hot days of summer. Slowly, I inhale, as if air in my lungs could stir up the memories from summers past. The fear of forgetting grips me. Besides the beat-up old boxes in the library, faded images and the distant echo of laughter is all I have left of Daddy, Momma, and Pete.

  “We don’t laugh enough, Car.” My words come out of nowhere, yet from the depths of my being.

  He peeks at me from under his brow. “We laugh.”

  “Not enough.” The smell of new-mown grass scents the breeze, and in the distance a neighborhood dog barks, drowning out the whir of a motor. Ringo lifts his head and sniffs. George hops up with guttural growl and trots to the edge of the granite porch floor, his large head swerving from side to side.

  Car folds up his periodical and looks out to where Juan is shoving some kind of bulb into the ground. “Is there something out there you want to laugh about?”

  At this, I laugh. “No. I was just thinking how much we laughed at home when I was a kid.”

  He nods with a jut of his chin. “Ah, I see.”

  I wait, wondering if he’ll tell me how much he laughed as a Carmichael kid, but he doesn’t. An only child of very proper blue-blood Southern parents, I’m quite sure Car’s laughter was scheduled. Daily from three to five.

  Pinching my lips, I exhale a laugh through my nose. Grace Carmichael is as stuffy as they come, with her white summer gloves and country club bridge parties.

  “What do you think Juan’s planting so late in the month?” I muse aloud to Car.

  He’s staring off at nothing. “Planting? Not sure.”

  “You’re a million miles away.” I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.

  He focuses on me. “Sorry. Work.”

  “What’s going on?”

>   “We had a group of investors for a SoBro condo project, but two of them pulled out today. Every time we get enough investors to move forward, someone drops out.”

  “Sorry, babe. I’m sure you’ll find more investors. You are a Carmichael.”

  He stands, slipping his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Trying to get people to stick to renovating downtown is like trying to win an egg toss. A few good passes and we’re feeling good, then, bam, someone drops the egg and it’s a mess.”

  “Can’t believe you’re going to let a few cracked eggs stop you.” I chuckle.

  He looks down at me over his shoulder. “If I had a name . . . say, like Aubrey James, behind a project.”

  As I stand, my smile fades. “No. You know better.”

  With a shrug, he turns back to watch Juan. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

  “Sorry, Car, but for now, we have to keep our business dealings separate.” I get up to pour a cup of coffee from the sidebar, hearing for the first time the music coming over the speakers. Rod Stewart sings, “It Had to Be You.” Gina must have popped in a CD before she left. She’s a hopeless romantic.

  “I hear you, but we’re engaged. We share a bed. You can’t trust me with some of your investment money?”

  “Be it the luck of the draw, Car, but I’ve been burned and scammed by close friends, boyfriends, and one distant cousin who turned out not to be my cousin. Besides, my business manager keeps my investment funds pretty tight and tied. We just launched my handbag line this past fall, and my business account is to pay salaries, keep AubJay Inc. running, and market my products.”

  “What about your personal account? Your balance could buy the whole condo project.”

  Sweetening my coffee with Splenda and skim milk, I shiver as the hair on the back of my neck bristles. “Car, how do you know my balance?”

  A year into our relationship, and me with half of that time on the road, Car and I have never been open about our finances. Does he really know my balance or . . . “Are you just guessing?”

  He shrugs and closes the distance between us. “Don’t get your nose out of joint over this, Brie, but yeah, I know someone over at your bank.”