by Rachel Hauck
“And they told you?” The notion of Car snooping into my finances leaves me chilled.
Car pours himself a cup of coffee. “Brie, he was doing me a favor. I thought if you invested, we’d get the rest of the money we need, no problem.”
I press my hand hard against his arm. “Don’t ever do that again. Ever.” “Brie—” He smoothes his hand over my hair.
I step away. “No, Car, use your own money. I don’t understand this. The Carmichael coffers are deeper than mine.”
He tilts his head to one side. “It’s a good investment, Aubrey.”
“I’ve lost too much in the past. I won’t lose it again.”
“Aubrey, sooner or later we’re going to have to combine accounts—” “Why?”
He laughs like I’m crazy. “What? We’re going to have separate accounts?”
“Sure. Create a joint household account, come up with a monthly budget, and split the amount between us.”
“I’m not going to be on your accounts?”
“And I won’t be on yours.”
Car returns to his chair, holding his coffee cup between his hands. “Good to know we’re starting out this relationship with so much trust and respect.”
“Car, please—” I set my coffee aside and reach my hand to his.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then lightly rubs his thumb over my fingers. “Piper put the Fourth of July dinner on your calendar, right?”
All is well for now, then. I settle back in my chair with a final squeeze of Car’s hand. “What dinner?”
Car’s expression is incredulous. “Aubrey, I’ve told you a hundred times.”
“You’ve never told me anything a hundred times. Don’t talk to me like I’m an airhead.”
“Fine, then I told you several times. My parents always host a Fourth of July celebration at the Belle Meade country club. You know, the one with congressmen, senators, the governor, a billionaire or two. Mother planned to officially announce our engagement.”
“Announce?” I angle toward him. “Who doesn’t know after the CMA Fest? I bet even the billionaire knows. By the way, why don’t you ask him to be your SoBro investor?”
“I told you I was sorry about the CMA Fest. Who knew you’d hate my surprise?”
“Um, Piper?”
“Piper’s always yapping about something.”
Okay, narrow road. Barrier ahead. Danger. Change the course. Getting up, I slip around the table and sit on Car’s knee. “Thank you for trying to do something spectacular. We never talked about our expectations, so you did what you thought would be unique. But I live and work on stage.” With my finger, I trace the straight line of his nose down to its perfect tip. “Guess I never told you I preferred something quiet, private, and romantic. Curled up on a blanket by a lake, watching the flickering flames of a small fire as it reflected on the water’s surface. You’d kiss my forehead, then cheek, and whisper in my ear, ‘Will you marry me?’”
His feathery kiss sends tingles down my back, and my heart swirls and melts.
“If I’d have known . . . ” he says, grinning, nuzzling my neck. He chuckles into my hair. “But I’ve had a half a dozen women tell me they loved the proposal. Thought it was romantic. Wished their husbands had done something over the top for them.”
“What would that be? An airplane flying over the coliseum during a football game with a trailing banner? ‘Marry me, Judy.’”
Car laughs against my skin. “Probably.” He reaches for his coffee. “That’s funny.”
Leaning against his chest, I slip my arms around him. “Those women don’t have public lives to compete with their private ones.”
He kisses me again. The strong taste of coffee lingers on his lips. “Speaking of private . . . Why are you doing the Inside NashVegas interview?” His hands wind around my hair.
“You know why. We talked about this.”
The amber lawn lamps begin to glow as the evening spreads over us. The pool lights click on and send a wavy radiance through the water.
“Don’t see how it’s going to make a difference.” Car takes another sip from his china cup, then makes a face. “Coffee’s cold already. Inside Nash-Vegas is a local. Melanie went national. Shoot, she went international.”
“Because I trust Inside NashVegas.” I twist Car’s engagement ring around my finger. So stunningly beautiful, but not the one I pointed out to him, in fun, while shopping last Christmas.
“This one?” he’d asked, tapping his finger against the jeweler’s glass case.
“Yes, isn’t it lovely? Simple, yet elegant.”
So he knew. Even if we weren’t talking marriage, he knew what I liked. I glance again at his engagement ring. It really is beautiful. Car has exquisite taste.
“If you trust Inside NashVegas,” he says, “then go for it.” He runs his hand absently down the side of my leg.
“It seems like the right time to speak for myself.” I say. “It was one thing when the tabloid headlines were lies. It’s another when the story is perfectly true.”
From across the lawn, Juan straightens his back. Catching my eye, he waves, motioning for me to come. “Be back,” I tell Car.
“See, I plant lilies for you.” Juan waves his hand over an area of ground lighted by Victorianesque garden lamps. “And here, tulips. Bloom in spring.”
Dropping to my knees, I pat the fresh dirt, hoping not to pet a worm. “It’s sort of late in the season. Do you think they’ll do okay?”
My momma planted tulips every year. Then complained when Daddy booked her on so many singing engagements she couldn’t enjoy her garden.
“I don’t see the fruit of my labors,” she’d complain.
“Then stop laboring.” Daddy loved to tease.
Juan shrugs his response. “Yes, late, but they do fine.” His Spanish accent laces all of his words. “If no, plant something else. Why not try?” I smile. “I like your thinking.”
“This your garden. Juan take care for you.” He thumps his chest. A refugee from Nicaragua, he’s the hardest-working man I’ve ever known besides my daddy.
Juan is shorter than me, with black hair and eyes and a thick mustache. His light-brown skin is tanned from working in the spring sun though he’s rarely without his worn straw hat.
“I go now. Wife with baby.” He winces. “Two-month-old, a girl. She fussy.” He shakes his head with a sigh.
Rising to my feet, I lay my hand on his shoulder. “All babies are fussy, Juan.”
He removes his hat and gives me a half bow. “Hasta luego.”
“Until later.” I bow in return.
Picking up his tools, Juan heads toward the garden shed. “Wait, Juan. Let me send home some leftovers.”
He turns. “Gracias, jefe.”
Dashing past Car, who is engrossed in his periodical again, I bustle around the kitchen gathering leftovers for Juan’s family. Just inside the pantry door is the picnic basket Car bought “for romantic afternoons in Centennial Park.”
Romantic picnics in the park? Zero.
I scoop the dumplings and remaining salad into plastic containers, then scan the refrigerator shelves. Might as well send along the fruit too. Did Gina buy a gallon of milk? Who’s she kidding? I add it to the goodies.
The basket is enormous. Car had high expectations of himself. Or me. Never figured out who was supposed to coordinate the romantic afternoons in the park.
I cut two slices of pie—one for Car, one for me—then put the rest in the basket.
“Where are you going?” he asks when I pass by again, tugging the basket along with both hands on the handles.
“Giving leftovers to Juan.”
“Aubrey, you pay him well. You have to draw a line between being his boss and his friend.”
I don’t hesitate a step. “I choose to be his friend.”
Juan’s smile rivals the garden lamps as I approach. “Thank you very much. I bring basket back tomorrow. Gracias por todo.”
; “De nada.” I wave. “Hello to your wife.”
When I return to the porch, I sit on Car’s knee.
“You’re sweet to look after Juan,” he says. “Forgive me, but I grew up with Grace Carmichael, and she enforced strict protocol between the family and the servants.”
I smooth my hand over his chest. “It won’t be like that around here. People are people, no matter what their bank balance. Giving the basket of food to Juan is the best feeling I’ve had in a long time.”
He reaches for my hand and kisses my fingers. “Guess I have to give up some of my traditions to live with a wild woman like you.”
I run my hands through his hair, making the sides and ends stand up. “Car, back to the Fourth . . . You know I have to do the Sandlotter concert in Music City Park. I do it every year. Besides, Inside NashVegas is scheduled to be there, and I invited Jennifer Nettles and Joe Diffie. It’s way too late to cancel on them. It would be rude.”
Car’s expression darkens. “Mom sent out invitations. She’ll be humiliated.”
I lift my hands with a shrug. “She should’ve checked with me.”
“How do you know she didn’t?”
“Because Piper would’ve told me.”
He sighs. “No chance of her making a mistake?”
“Sure, but in the ten years she’s worked for me, she’s never missed a personal appointment like this.”
“Babe, sooner or later you’re going to have to work the Carmichael schedule into your life. You missed Easter week at the St. George Island house because you were performing in Centennial Park for the Oasis Center fund-raiser. You missed Grandma Carmichael’s eighty-fifth birthday party for the AMAs.”
My blood pumps with adrenaline. “Are you keeping score? Music City Park is not a bargaining chip. You can either come with me to the event as a doting fiancé or go to your parents, but I’m going to sing for baseball and the city’s youth athletic league.”
He presses his hand on my leg. “What am I going to tell my mother?”
Glancing into his eyes, I feel his dilemma, but it’s not mine to resolve. “Tell her to come to the Sandlotter game. Bring her friends. She’s chairwoman of, what, five charity organizations?”
He frowns, then slowly smiles and breaks into a laugh. “I can see the ladies of the auxiliary sitting in the stands rooting for the home team.” He yanks me toward him and kisses me, his hands sliding low on my hips. “I’ll take care of it. But please, Brie, let’s work on coordinating in the future.” He buries his face in the crook of my neck. “Wanna go for a swim?”
Grinning, I look over at the pool. “Guess so. I can get my suit—”
He rises from the chair and peels off his shirt, slapping his lean, sinewy chest. “Already got it on.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Go ahead. Skinny dip if you dare. But I have one word for you: paparazzi.”
“What? Come on, Brie . . .”
“Nothing doing. Trust me, it’s not a risk worth taking.”
Smiling, he grabs his shirt, flopping it over his shoulder. “Guess you’re right. Too much public exposure is . . . too much public exposure.” He wraps me close and walks me inside. “Let’s take this conversation upstairs.”
6
“I love baseball. To me, it stands for everything great about summertime, our country, and our history. There’s nothing like the crack of a wood bat.”
—Aubrey James, The Tennessean, on her
participation in the Sandlotter Fund-raiser
Midmorning Monday, Piper and I huddle up in her office off the great room and go over my schedule, making adjustments, canceling what we can so I can rest in between Inside NashVegas sessions, making sure we note the appearances I don’t want to cancel.
“Inside NashVegas segments are going to be more like a video biography,” Piper says. “But they do want to do a couple of planned segments to capture you in everyday life, the things you do around here when you’re not on the road.”
“Like what? Me watching you work is pretty boring TV.”
She laughs. “They mentioned a cooking segment.”
“What? Did you tell them?”
She shuffles through a neat stack of papers. “No.” Her voice is barely audible.
“Piper, tell them. I don’t cook.”
“Watching you cook would be hilarious TV.” She gets up to fax some papers. “Are you okay with this interview thing?”
I gaze out the window. “I am. Oddly enough. Feels like a journey of discovery.”
“See, God is already turning Melanie’s bad into good.”
“Maybe.” I let my devoted Baptist friend’s comment glance off me.
“Maybe? One of these days you should stop and let God catch you.”
With my chin in my hand, I mutter, “Maybe.”
“Final thing on your summer schedule, Aubrey, the Coming Home Gospel Celebration at the Ryman with Ralph Lester and his band, plus a half dozen gospel singers. This is the one where they’re doing a tribute to your parents. We gave them a tentative yes last spring.”
I hear the clicking of her keyboard. Outside the window, the sky is perfectly blue. Cloudless. “What do you think?”
“It’s up to you. This is the fifth tribute to your parents you’ve been invited to do. Turned them all down before.”
“It just feels awkward, you know?” A redbird flits past and lands on the low branches of a nearby maple. “My life isn’t very gospel these days.”
Behind me, Piper’s sigh causes me to glance around. Her thin, black-rimmed glasses ride low on her slender nose. “You can change your life anytime . . .” She stops, holding up her palms. “Never mind. No sermons. Do this for your parents, if you want; otherwise, don’t.”
I hesitate for a second. “When is the event?”
“August sixth.”
“I’ll do it. Find out the rehearsal schedule. Do I need to bring my band, or am I singing with Ralph’s?” I turn back to the window as the redbird spreads its wings and launches from the branch into the sunlight. I wonder what it would be like to fly.
“That I know—Ralph’s.”
“Fine, I won’t have to assemble the band after giving them the summer off. The Sandlott gig is their last performance until the fall.”
“Ladies, top o’ the morning to ya.”
Zach strolls from the foyer into the great room, his fake Irish lilt barely audible amid his strong southern drawl.
“Top o’ the morning?” I repeat with a laugh. “Zach, ten thirty hardly qualifies for top of the morning.”
Piper closes out my schedule, and I head to the kitchen. The sweet cinnamon scent of Gina’s homemade breakfast buns has been teasing my senses all morning.
Zach meets me at the island counter, picking up a plate and fork with his eye on the cinnamon buns, though his fork is poised over the pineapple and strawberries. “I’ve got some news for you.”
“Ami’s pregnant.” I pick up a plate and do not hesitate to tear away a cinnamony bun.
Zach ha-has with a shake of his head. “I wish.” Married three months, thirty-eight-year-old Zach claims his biological clock is clanging like a four-alarm fire. “You have a meeting with Nathan Brack, your new, charming, wonderful label president.” He stabs a bun with his fork and drops it to his plate.
Jerking open the refrigerator for a Diet Coke—need something fizzy—I roll my eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “What for?”
Zach reaches around me for a bottle of FRESH! “To get reacquainted, I reckon.”
“Should I enter with, ‘Are you still a jerk?’ ”
Zach scowls. “Aubrey . . .”
Piper joins us in the kitchen. “You’re three months late with your next album. I’m sure Nathan will mention it.”
“Because we were renegotiating money with Greg,” I counter, pouring my soda into a glass of ice.
Zach cuts a bite of his cinnamon bun. “Greg Leininger put SongTunes so far in the red BMG doesn’t know if they can pull it
out.”
“How?” Piper demands. “Look at all the top artists he’s signed. Greats like Emma Rice, Aubrey, Paul Kirkland. Mallory Clark—she’s new, but her first album went platinum.”
“Greg was the artists’ friend,” I say.
“Right,” Zach says. “So much so he wasn’t BMG’s friend. Can’t say as I blame them for bringing in Nathan Brack.”
I swallow my Diet Coke with a cough. “Blame them? The man is all about himself, Zach. His way or the highway.”
My manager shoots me a warning look. “Better get over it; he’s calling the shots.”
My legs quiver a little. “Zach, what will this to do my renegotiations with SongTunes?”
He swigs from his water. “Well, that’s the thing.”
I slide over next to him. “Zach, what’s the thing?”
“He’s playing hardball, Aubrey.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Is he calling off her renegotiation?” Piper asks, her voice moderated. “Worse. If Aubrey doesn’t deliver her next album by the end of summer, he’s going to sue.”
“Sue?” A string of blue words fly out of my mouth. “Cretin. I told you, he’s a cretin.” I kick the service cart.
Zach gently grabs my arm. “Simmer down, Aubrey. We can open up renegotiations in due time. But let’s tap dance a few rounds with Nathan, hear what he has to say, give a little.”
“Give a little?” I look at Piper. “Finally, he’s lost his last marble.”
Give a little. I’m sure money from my last album bought several of the SongTunes execs new Mercedes last year.
“You have a meeting with SongTunes July third, three o’clock.”
Piper retrieves her Palm from her desk. “Three o’clock . . . on the third.”
“Do we have an agenda?” I ask. “Or is this just tea and cakes?”
“Let’s go and find out what Nathan has to say. I’ve called your lawyer. She’ll be there too.”
The bang of french doors swinging wide interrupts us. George and Ringo bound in with their pink tongues dangling. Gina collapses against the door, huffing and puffing, the ends of her short, dyed-red hair perpendicular to her head. Her pink tongue also dangles.
