Diva NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  His taps the ring against the table. “I didn’t even pick out the ring you liked.”

  “No, but coincidentally you picked out a ring Tammy Arbuckle likes.” I wrap my arm around his and rest my head against him. “I’m sorry, Car.”

  He lays his chin on my head. “I can’t say my heart isn’t breaking a little.”

  My tears surface. “Neither can I.”

  Carissa returns, asking if we want dessert, but we’ve barely touched our entrees.

  “Just the check, please.” Car’s voice is rough as he flips her his credit card. While we wait for her to return, he tells me a story about his assistant, Ilene.

  This is good—to end dinner with laughter instead of tears.

  “She had on these spiky heels and caught a thread in the new carpet.” He pops his palms together. “Bam, nose-dive to the floor, landing in front of the men’s restroom door just as Dad was coming out.” Car laughs. “Hilarious.”

  “Poor Ilene.”

  “Yeah, she was embarrassed, but laughing about it by the end of the day.”

  Car signs the bill Carissa brings and, folding my napkin, I pick up my purse. “Guess we should go.”

  Car lifts my chin with his fingers and kisses me. Our final kiss is good-bye. I can’t help it, tears spill down my cheeks. He wipes them away with his thumbs. “This is right, isn’t it?” His voice is husky.

  I dab the end of my nose with my napkin. “Yes, it is. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  When we slide out of the booth to go home, relief mingles with emptiness in my heart. Change is never easy.

  As Car holds the door for me, I step into a swarm of blinding paparazzi.

  “Miss James, did you end your engagement tonight?”

  “Aubrey, this way.”

  Ducking behind Car, I shove his back. “Go, go, go.” We dash around the street corner.

  “How do they know already?” Car calls to me.

  “My guess is our friend Carissa.”

  As we dash for the parking lot, Car pulls his Humvee key fob from his pocket. Two more photographers pop out from behind a car.

  “Just press through.” I grab his hand and move out in front, forging ahead with my head down.

  Did not see the pothole . . .

  27

  Associated Press

  (Aug. 2) “Diva Down—Aubrey James nose-dives into parking-lot pavement. Fiancé Car Carmichael looks on.”

  [Click for more of the story]

  Scott

  Miami Beach. Hot, balmy, and beautiful. Rafe and I cruise south down Collins Avenue, away from Kevin Murphy’s Murph’s Grill.

  “A cowboy-singing defensive lineman. I’ve seen it all now, Rafe.”

  “He wasn’t all that bad.”

  A snort escapes my nose. “I’ve heard better singers auditioning for Nashville Star.”

  Rafe laughs and pounds the console of our rented Explorer. “Did you see how thick his fingers were? How did he press down the right guitar strings?”

  A laugh rolls out of my gut as I picture Murphy, whose neck is as thick as a post, who on any given Sunday averages six tackles a game, strumming his guitar while perched on a stool in the middle of the stage. He would squish up his face as he bemoaned and whined some lost love in true country fashion.

  “Man, it was like watching Rosie Greer knit.”

  “Needlepoint,” Rafe says.

  “Whatever. But I guess two days in Miami is not a bad way to end the week.” At least it got me out of Nashville and, for a moment, her out of my mind.

  We are spending our last night dining on a nice steak and lobster dinner at Shula’s. Courtesy of Inside NashVegas, I insist.

  “Gotta tell you, Rafe, if this is what Inside NashVegas and Inside the Game is becoming, I’m dubious.”

  “Hang tight, man. You know how deals like this shake out. The show will change, personnel will change. CMT will figure out you’re the one who makes Inside the Game work.”

  “Choose me over their boys? I doubt it. Tell you what, though, I’m not spending my career looking for the musical soul of every jock we interview.”

  “A nice juicy steak will make you forget the singing Dolphin.” Rafe knocks on his window. “Pull over, Kemo Sabe. I need cigarettes.”

  Waiting for Rafe, I check e-mail on my BlackBerry. Our flight home Saturday morning is confirmed. Thank goodness.

  Next is an e-mail from Olivia: Check this out. On the wire today. Not a big shocker, but I have a feeling you’ll find it interesting.

  Opening her attachment, I find a photo of Aubrey facedown on the pavement with a cutline: Diva Dive. Aubrey James dumps fiancé. Still in love with Jack Mills.

  I hit Reply: What happened?

  Rafe returns, tapping a pack of Marlboros against his hand. “What’s with the goofy grin?”

  “Nothing, my man, nothing.” I steer the SUV out of the parking lot. Aubrey’s free. “We’re in Miami Beach, about to order steak and lobster. It’s a good day.”

  I power down my window, jut out my elbow, and let God’s good salty breeze blow against my face.

  Aubrey

  Hey Myra,

  Good advice on Buck and school. You’re right. I can’t get sidetrackedafter a few dates. Besides, he hasn’t even called me yet this week.

  How’s it going with Car? This girl I work with got engaged two nights ago. She’s driving us all crazy with wedding gown photos. Mom and I were in the grocery store last night, and I admit, I picked up Bride magazine. I flipped through two pages, then decided I’m not ready for a wedding dress.

  Good reading on the cover of the tabloids, let me tell you. LOL. There was one, the National Inquirer, with a picture of country singer Aubrey James falling into a pothole. The headline was something about begging her fiancé not to leave her. How humiliating.

  Mom’s like, “That poor woman is always in the tabloids. Every time her relationships go in the toilet, the National Inquirer is there to tell us all about it.”

  I can’t imagine. What if Buck rejecting me made the local paper? I’d die.

  Hey, I’m at work. So better get back to it. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.

  Love, Jen

  Sunday morning when Connie comes to pick me up for church, the house is quiet and peaceful. Sadness over Car leaving lingers, but the decision was right. I don’t regret it.

  After our Amerigo’s conversation and paparazzi fiasco, he dropped me home, deciding to stay at his parents until he left for New York.

  “Do you miss him?” Connie breaks into my thoughts as we drive down Harding Place.

  “You’re eavesdropping on my thoughts. The past few nights when it gets dark, George and Ringo wait for him in the foyer. I caught myself expecting him once.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Absently, I flip through the pages of my new Bible. “Thank you for having the courage to speak the truth to me.”

  At the end of the service, I spot Scott and sneak up on him. It’s been a week since our studio interview and Noshville Deli confession. I miss his irritatingly odd face and quirky personality. “If you keep stalking me, I’ll have to get a restraining order.”

  He spins around, grinning. “I can’t help it. You’re Aubrey James.”

  I love how his voice sounds saying my name. I swallow. “Yeah, Aubrey James, and don’t you forget it.”

  He grabs my left hand. “I saw the picture.”

  “Not my best side.” I pull my hand away, tucking my hair behind my ears.

  “Is this what you want?”

  I raise my chin. “Yes. He wasn’t the right man for me.”

  “Then I’m happy for you.”

  We stand there a second, quiet, then Scott nudges me. “What are you doing today? Care for a little game of one-on-one?”

  “Maybe. Are you up for losing again?” Connie waves at me from the sanctuary doors. “I think she’s ready to go.” Halfway down the aisle, I t
urn back to Scott. “Four o’clock? My court?”

  He bats a rolled-up bulletin against his palm. “Be prepared to lose.”

  Scott and I cool off under the whir of the porch fans after four combative games of one-on-one. “So, how does it feel, loser?” He rolls the L off his tongue.

  I gawk at him. “Who won three of the four games?” Pointing to myself, I do a little head bob and weave. “Besides, I let you win the last game.”

  He stretches out his legs on the glass table with an exaggerated sigh. “Yep, yep, yep, my game plan is working perfectly.”

  I flick my water bottle cap at him. “Game plan, my eye.”

  He’s working up some hokey story when the phone rings. I dash inside to answer.

  “Aubrey, it’s Connie.”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Is Scott still there?” Her question is rushed. “Can he drive you over?” “Why? What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see. Just ask him.”

  “No, Connie, I don’t want to ask him.” For the first time in years, I’m aware of how dependent I am on others to take me where I need to go. “Ask me what?” Scott walks into the kitchen, tossing his water bottle in the recycle bin.

  I cradle the phone in my hand. “How do you know we’re talking about you?”

  He looks around, spreading his arms. “Don’t see any other him’s around.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe we were talking about George and Ringo.” “Just ask.”

  “Connie wants me to come to her place.”

  He reaches for his keys on the island counter. “Let’s do it.”

  I’ve never ridden in a Porsche before, and apparently Scott considers this an opportunity to scare the wits out of me.

  “Scott, the car up ahead is braking.” My fingers are white as I grip the door handle. Hillsboro Road is not busy for a Sunday evening, but traffic is always stop and start.

  “I see, I see.” He guns the gas, then stops just shy of the car’s bumper.

  “Oh my gosh, you’re a maniac.” My laugh is shaky and my right pinkie has passed out from being pinched against the door.

  “You’re just now figuring that out?” He revs the gas, making the engine growl so when the light turns green we lurch ahead. Shifting gears, he whips into the right lane and finds some open road.

  “Oh, help.” My heart pounds and I close my eyes.

  Suddenly, the car slows and the engine whines down. “Why are you slowing down?” The cars we were tailing are now several lengths ahead of us.

  “Aubrey, I’m sorry,” Scott says.

  “I’m just a big chicken,” I confess, easing my grip on the door handle. “No, you’re not. I have no business racing around town like this.” He pries my left hand from where it grips the seat. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Now, where do I turn for Connie’s?” he asks.

  A blue Toyota is parked on the street in front of Connie’s house when Scott and I pull up.

  “Someone is here.” I shove open my door.

  “Do you recognize the car?” Scott meets me in the middle of the driveway.

  “No. Must be a friend of Connie’s.” I start up the front walk, but Scott doesn’t follow. “You coming?”

  “Do you want me to? I’m happy to play the taxi driver.”

  “Come with me, please?”

  “My pleasure.” He jogs up the walk.

  “Look at us,” I say. “We didn’t even change.” I pick at the sleeve of his T-shirt, still a little damp with sweat. His wiry brown locks stick out in every direction.

  “You look perfect.” The expression in his blue eyes makes me feel warm and swirly. I’m far from perfect, but in this moment, I am perfect to him.

  “How about me?” he asks with his cocky smile that’s quickly becoming my favorite smile.

  “You look ridic—perfect.”

  Standing under the eaves of Connie’s wide front porch in the early evening light, Scott leans toward me. “Aubrey, can I—”

  “Yes.” I grab a handful of his loose-fitting T-shirt, my pulse thumping in my ears.

  He stops leaning. “I’m nervous.”

  “Me too. A little.” I giggle and don’t care that I do.

  He slips his arm around my waist, dipping his head toward mine. His breath is warm on my face. “Here goes nothing.”

  Laughing, I lean away. “Nice. Way to sweet-talk me.”

  He tightens his arm around me. “Sweet talk? You want some sweet talk?”

  The front porch light clicks on and the door swings open. “Are you going to stand out here all night?”

  Scott releases me, and I spin around toward Connie. The spell is broken. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. He was really going to kiss me. “W-we were just about to knock.”

  “Knock? Use your key.” She stands aside to let us pass. “You didn’t clean up from basketball?”

  “Well, no, you called and we hurried over.” I glance up at Scott as we cross the threshold. His expression tells me, “Maybe this is for the best.” Maybe.

  Connie’s home is lovely and peaceful, my harbor from life’s storms in years past. A candle burns from the tall, dark-wood table in the front hall. Pictures of her daughter and grown grandchildren hang on the wall.

  Her little Yorkie, Romeo, scampers toward us yapping. Startled, Scott jumps behind me. “Just an ankle biter, Vaughn.”

  “Whose ankles?”

  Connie scoops up Romeo. “We’re in the kitchen eating cookies.”

  “Who’s we, Connie? Is this an emergency cookie-eating meeting?”

  Casting a quizzical glance at Scott, I shrug. “Cookies are always a good thing, right?”

  Inside the door of her country kitchen, I stop short.

  A beautiful young woman with brown hair and large hazel eyes sits at the table with an older, dark-haired woman. The girl’s mouth drops open. “Oh my gosh . . .”

  Scott stands next to me, his chest against my back. “Hello, I’m—” I offer my hand.

  “Aubrey James,” she bursts out.

  The older woman studies my face, the lines around her brown eyes deepening. Her expression is a mixture of concern, confusion, and wonder. “Myra?”

  Myra? Covering my face with my hands, I address the women. “Jen? Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “All the way from Oklahoma.” Connie moves to my side and swings her arm around my shoulder, gripping me to her side. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

  “Y-yes. Oh my goodness.” I walk over to give Jen a hug. “Sorry, I’ve been playing basketball with my friend. This is Scott Vaughn.” I point to the confused sportscaster.

  “How do you do?” He wipes his hand on his shorts before shaking theirs.

  This surprise reunion has startled Mrs. Sinclair and Jen. Startled me. Mrs. Sinclair regards Connie. “I don’t get it. Myra Ray is Aubrey James?”

  The tension in the room increases. The older Sinclair feels duped. “Aubrey James is my real name. My parents were Ray and Myra James . . .” “The gospel singers?” A pink hue covers Mrs. Sinclair’s cheeks while Jen listens and watches. “ They were killed in a car accident.”

  “Yes.” A familiar coating of protection washes over my heart. The same one I’ve used in the past with fans, the press, and other inquisitors. Mrs. Sinclair presses her hand to her forehead. “I never expected this.”

  “Me, neither.” Jen’s smile is slow but sure. “My foster sister and pen pal is Aubrey James?” She ekes out a tight squeal. “My friends are going to die.”

  “Why don’t we all sit,” Connie says over her shoulder as she pulls mason-jar glasses from the cupboard by the sink and picks up a stack of paper plates. “Scott, can you help me with the tea and ice? The tea is sweet, y’all.”

  I take the chair opposite Jen. “It’s really good to see you in person,” I start softly. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I lean my elbows. “Selfish,
really. I liked our relationship the way it was. Simple. Free. Honest.”

  “Except the part where you lied about your identity.” Mrs. Sinclair has recovered from her shock.

  “Yes. Jen, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She shakes her head, brushing off my apology with a wave of her hand. “If I’m going to be surprised, this is the best kind.”

  Mrs. Sinclair laughs lightly. “I guess it is a fun surprise. But, Aubrey, you sent pictures a few years ago.”

  “That’s right.” Jen glances at her mother, then me.

  Good grief. At the time, the white lie didn’t seem to be a big deal. What’s an image of a face when Jen and I could share our hearts? But now the deception makes me hot with shame.

  “I sent my assistant Piper Cantwell’s picture.”

  “Oh,” Jen says as if it’s okay. “I guess I can understand why.”

  “No, Jen, don’t let me off. All this time I convinced myself that a few hidden facts about my life wouldn’t change our relationship. After all, I could speak my heart and mind to you. Free to be me. Who cares, really, if I sent you someone else’s picture, changed a few names to protect the innocent, or omitted a few details about my career—”

  “A few?” Scott murmurs.

  I shoot him a glance. Quiet. “Forgive me, Jen.”

  “O-of course. Please, I understand. Given your position, I would’ve done the same thing.” Her laugh is sweet.

  The weight of deception is eased by her forgiveness. “Just so you know, I was traveling a lot this spring—on tour. And I do have a business, AubJay, Inc., where I sell—”

  “Aubrey Bags,” Jen says. “Mom, the one I showed you on the Web site for my birthday.”

  “Oh, right. Those beautiful handbags.”

  “Jen, I’ll give you as many as you want. You can take some to your friends.”

  “Really?” Her eyes pop wide.

  “Absolutely, and I have a bunch of FRESH! merchandise, too, and, oh, ‘Borrowed Time’ T-shirts. Didn’t those turn out cool?”

  “Yeah, the ones with the image of a take-no-guff country girl stealing the watch from her boyfriend’s wrist?”