Forgiving Jackson

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Thank God. Is he all right?”

  “Yeah. He tried to call you but your phone went to voicemail.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Hell’s bells and damnation! I let it die. Let me have yours. I’ll call him back.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Too late. He’s at Fort Bragg but he only had fifteen minutes. I’d have driven to where you were if I could have gotten there in time. He’s got a day or two before his next assignment. He said he’d try you again tomorrow.”

  “Well, hell. But he’s safe. That’s what matters. Did he say anything?”

  “To tell you he’s okay. But about what he’s been up to or where he’s going next? No. I called Rafe and Missy.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “Yeah. Missy can’t come to the concert. Lulu has strep throat. She’s on the mend but Missy won’t leave her.”

  “Missy’s a good mother.” Emory would be a good mother, too, to some lucky children.

  “I guess. Jackson, about the fire … ”

  Jackson let out a sigh. “Which one?”

  “The last one. I’m sorry about it.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “That’s all I was going to say—all I know to say.”

  “Thank you, Gabriel. Has Ginger talked to you about the award presentation?”

  “About eighteen times, the last time about an hour ago.”

  “Yeah. I got Sammy to bring her back here a couple of hours ago. Her leg was hurting, though she didn’t want to leave.”

  “She’s still afraid you’re going to bolt.”

  “I won’t.”

  “So the rehearsals are going okay?”

  “Yeah. Pretty well.” There had been some rough spots, but there had been no panic, no smell of smoke. “I suck.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Jackson shrugged.

  “So the guys are okay?” Gabe asked.

  “It was pretty emotional the first day but everybody’s just glad to be back together playing music. And I guess that includes me.”

  Gabe nodded. “Ginger was worried about the new rhythm guy.”

  “Me, too,” Jackson admitted. “Since I play my own lead guitar, I knew I had to have a certain chemistry with him, you know?”

  “Like a receiver and a quarterback.”

  “Exactly. But every name I came up with, I couldn’t see for one reason or the other. But then I remembered this kid I played with a little at The Café Down On The Corner. He’s a good guitarist, got his own style. And he can sing. We’re doing all right together.” Mostly, Jackson thought, because Chase wasn’t trying to emulate Trace.

  “That’s good.” Gabe got up and stretched. “I think I’ll go to bed. I was just waiting to tell you about Beau.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Goodnight, Jackson.”

  Jackson got up and made his way to the carriage house. She’d left the light on for him. That was nice. He moved through the rooms quietly, determined not to wake her. There was a plate covered in foil on the kitchen table with a note on top. “If you’re hungry. Don’t worry. I didn’t make it. Gwen did.” But instead of signing her name, she’d drawn a little heart. Not that it meant anything—no different than drawing a smiley face. He’d had Taco Bell earlier so he put the plate in the refrigerator and tossed the note into the garbage—but thought better of it and plucked the note out again.

  It was written on a heavy, creamy note card, engraved with her initials—and it was really engraved, too. Not printed. He wasn’t exactly proud that he knew the difference but it was impossible to have been raised by Laura Jackson Beauford and Amelia Beauford and not pick up a few things that no heterosexual Southern man ought to know.

  But Emory had used her best paper to write him that little note—and she’d drawn him a heart.

  Sometimes, he thought if there was any chance at all that he could take care of that heart the way it should be cared for—

  But no. She needed her real life back, or at least to have the choice—though he’d been thinking more and more that he wouldn’t close down Around the Bend. So she might stay. Of course, he might go.

  Still.

  He shook the thoughts away. He had a show to do and that wasn’t a done deal yet. He needed to do that and just see. What if he could take care of her heart?

  He looked from the note in his hand to the garbage can.

  Then he folded it and tucked it away in the back of his wallet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Tonight was the night and two armies of butterflies were fighting to the death in Emory’s stomach. She hadn’t talked to Jackson since early this morning when she’d gotten up and attempted to make him a celebratory breakfast—an omelet that looked nothing like the picture with the recipe and tasted nothing like an omelet should. The instant grits and precooked bacon had turned out better.

  Gwen looked at her phone as they approached the entrance of the Ryman. “Christian says they’re already in their seats. We’re right in front of Gabe and the houseguests.”

  “Wonder how we rated that?” Emory said.

  “Yeah, I wonder. And I wonder where Sammy is. Christian didn’t mention him.”

  “Jackson’s letting him hang out backstage and help the techs.”

  “I’ll say this,” Gwen said. “Since he’s become Jackson’s own personal slave, Sammy has become much more capable.”

  Emory laughed. “Sammy’s not a slave. He’s a very willing … aide? Assistant?”

  “Manservant? Houseboy? But as long as he’s happy, and he is.”

  Weren’t they all?

  As they entered, two men wearing headphones and security shirts approached them.

  “Mrs. Thornton? Ms. Lowell? I’m Warren.” He didn’t wait for verification but handed Emory a laminated card on a lanyard. “Ms. Lowell, if you’ll put this on.”

  “What is it?”

  “A backstage pass. He wants you.”

  He wanted her. He’d proven that at five o’clock this morning. Her heart gave out a little flutter. She hadn’t expected to see him until he stepped on stage.

  “Mrs. Thornton, Eli will see you to your seat. Ms. Lowell, if you’ll follow me?”

  “But don’t we need to show our tickets?” Emory asked.

  Gwen laughed and gave a little wave as they parted company. This wasn’t her first rodeo, while Emory had never even seen a bronco.

  Emory followed Warren through a side door and then a labyrinth of hallways.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, and sure enough, there were more and more people in evidence, darting in and out of doors and yelling instructions at each other. Suddenly, there was a loud commotion and a group of about a dozen people moved like an amoeba through a door. She caught sight of a cowboy hat and looked down until her eyes glanced a face.

  “Was that—?”

  “Yes. He never arrives until the last minute. Drives his people crazy.”

  Emory wondered if Jackson was driving his people crazy.

  “Here we are,” Warren stopped outside a door. “He’s in the Johnny Cash dressing room. You can go in. I’ll wait out here for you.”

  “Why do you need to wait for me?”

  “I’m your bodyguard for the evening.”

  What? “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “I have my instructions.”

  • • •

  Jackson could not have been more surprised when he saw what Emory was wearing. He laughed out loud with delight. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but not sleek, silky black pants topped by a slinky, bright, sapphire blue sleeveless top covered from hip to shoulder in spangles and sequins.

  He threw off the people around him who’d been nattering in his ear and made a beeline for her.

  “You look so beautiful!” When he kissed her, he noticed she was taller. And small wonder. She was wearing a pair of strappy, jewel-encrusted shoes with four-inch heels. He leaned into her ear. “Do you think you could we
ar those shoes for me later? Just the shoes?”

  She blushed a pretty little blush and smoothed her hand over her hip. “You don’t think it’s too much? Gwen said people would be dressed up so we went shopping … but I didn’t know.”

  “Too much? Honey, you’re fixing to see ‘too much.’ But you’re going to show them what classy looks like—well, sparkly classy.” What she needed was some sapphires. And a crown.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  He leaned in. “Are you okay? I hate that I wasn’t with you when you came to Nashville. I was worried.”

  Her big blue eyes went even bigger and she gave out a short laugh. “I’ve been so concerned for you that I think I forgot to be afraid.” She put an arm around his waist. “Are you okay?”

  He ran a finger down her jawbone and echoed her words. “I’ve been so concerned for you that I think I forgot to be afraid.”

  Maybe that’s what love was.

  “Promise you’re okay?”

  He nodded. “No smoke, no fire. I’m going to make it. I don’t know what’s next. I still have to figure that out, but I’m okay.”

  Ginger hobbled up and put a bottle of water in Jackson’s hand. “Hi, Emory.”

  “Hello.”

  “Jackson, you need to take a shower. Sammy laid out your clean clothes.”

  “Why? I’m going on last. We’ve got time.”

  She sighed. “Randall is getting your monitoring equipment ready. You know you’re going to want to make sure they have your guitars set up in the order you want them—even though you’ve already been over it five times. I wish you hadn’t cut your hair.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  Emory had some little glittery gewgaws stuck in her little-girl curls. Pretty. What he really wanted to do was look at her, so he did for maybe thirty seconds. He smiled, hoping she would give him that smile. She did.

  “St. Peter, give me strength! Can we please get out of the tenth grade until this is over?” Ginger said.

  “I’ll go,” Emory said. “I’ll find my seat and see you later.”

  “No. I want you to watch from the wings. Best seat in the house. I promise.”

  She looked puzzled. “Okay. Now, where?”

  He dropped a kiss on her mouth. “The side of the stage. Warren will take you around there.”

  “I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “You won’t. The performers are entering from the right and you’ll be on the left. There’ll be some random people with the other acts hanging around where you are but they’ll just be watching.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “And I’ll see you around there later,” Ginger said over her shoulder as she hauled him away.

  “So,” Randall said as he organized the components of the monitoring system, “are we not good enough to meet your girl?” But he was smiling, in high spirits. Everyone was. It was almost as if everyone had decided to take a break from sorrow tonight.

  Jackson laughed. “Sorry, Randall. I saw her in that sparkly getup and forgot y’all were even here. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

  And it was looking like that might be true.

  • • •

  “Here’s a chair for you.” Warren unfolded a metal chair from the stack against the wall.

  “I’m too nervous to sit,” Emory said, though she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to stand in the shoes that Gwen and Christian had insisted she just had to have. She seldom wore heels at all and never any this high. But Jackson had liked them. Did he really mean what he’d said about the shoes and later? She blushed at the thought but she’d do it. After all, she was a strong, powerful woman who deserved to wear high heels and nothing else for the man she chose to be with—if she wanted. And she did choose him and, more and more, it seemed he had chosen her, too.

  For the next two hours, Emory watched some of the brightest stars of country music perform. During this time, other people came and went from the wings, and though she exchanged idle small talk with them, she wasn’t very concerned with them. Truth be told, the musical history transpiring on the legendary stage was wasted on her.

  She was mentally holding her breath, waiting for the thing that really mattered. Regardless of what he’d said, she wouldn’t relax until she saw for herself that he was all right, that he was happy with his band, in this venue, doing the thing he was born to do. She wanted that for him more than she wanted him for herself. But maybe it didn’t have to be one way or the other.

  After Brad Paisley did an encore and exited the stage to a standing ovation, the emcee—she’d forgotten his name but, according to Jackson, he was some important deejay—stepped up to the microphone. Maybe she should brush up on that kind of thing—especially if there was a chance she could be part of this life.

  “We’re all about some Jack Beauford here in Nashville, Tennessee,” the emcee said and the crowd went wild. “But”—he held up a hand—“there’s another Beauford boy in the house tonight, one who plays a little football down in San Antonio, Texas. Ladies and gentlemen, two-time Super Bowl champ and our own University of Tennessee Heisman trophy winner, Gabe Beauford!”

  Gabe strolled onto the stage carrying a football with Jamal and Troy behind him, all of them looking handsome in formal attire. Gabe tossed the football to Troy, who ran upstage and yelled, “Go long!” Gabe rushed downstage while Jamal pretended to tackle the very flabbergasted emcee. Troy passed the ball and Gabe caught it.

  Then Gabe took a Sharpie from his pocket, all three men signed it, and Troy sent it sailing into the crowd. Emory laughed and clapped along with the audience.

  “Forgive me for that,” Gabe said into the microphone. “See, I’m a very insecure person. After witnessing all the tremendous talent on this stage tonight, I couldn’t just come up here and talk. I had to show you that I can do something. So I got my pals up here to help me. You might have heard of them—Troy Milam and Jamal Washington of the San Antonio Wranglers.” Troy and Jamal gave little bows and exited the stage.

  “I was going to demonstrate my musical ability for you tonight but my brother Jack took away my kazoo.”

  More laughter. Then Gabe took a step closer to the microphone and let his face take on a serious expression—and the audience immediately grew quiet.

  “My brothers Jackson, Rafe, and Beau join me tonight in thanking you for coming out in support of the Camille Beauford Memorial Concert to benefit the Vanderbilt Medical Center Burn Center. Some of you have been with us from the beginning, since Jackson conceived this idea twelve years ago. Some of you are joining us for the first time tonight.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Believe me when I say we appreciate every one of you in equal measure.

  “As you know, fire affected our family when we lost our parents and sister twenty years ago. Again this year, we were affected by fire when we lost friends who were very nearly family. We mourn them tonight.” There was quiet applause.

  “Of course, this would not have been possible without the incredible artists who donated their time and talent tonight or the sponsors listed in your program. They have our heartfelt gratitude. It is my pleasure to announce that this year, we have raised a little over 2.2 million dollars.”

  Gabe smiled and waited for the applause to die.

  “If it was a pleasure to make that announcement, I am humbled to be able to announce the recipient of the Camille Beauford Memorial Foundation Health Care Professional of the Year Award. Martha Evans Caney is a registered nurse who works at the Vanderbilt Burn Center, but she is so much more. Whether they are three or eighty-three years old, she’ll tell you that all her patients are her babies. Not only does she give the very best care to be had anywhere, she’ll stay an extra shift just to hold a hand. She brings a quiet spirit of dignity to her patients that helps them find hope even when there doesn’t seem to be a lot of hope to go around. For the next year, Mrs. Caney will sit as a voting member on the Foundation Board and h
elp decide how this money will be spent.

  “And believe me, she has some ideas. I had the pleasure of having lunch with Miss Martha yesterday and I learned she has a lot of opinions about a lot of things, including a few things I could do to increase my speed on the field. And I’m going to listen to her because she’s wise. Also, I’m a sucker for a woman who calls me baby. Ladies and gentlemen, Martha Evans Caney.”

  A tall black woman with gray hair and a regal bearing walked to the stage on Jackson’s arm. In his faded jeans and tight black t-shirt Jackson was a sharp contrast to tuxedo-clad Gabe but he was so much more appealing. When the crowd got to their feet and lifted the roof with applause, Jackson took a step back and joined in the applause, making clear that this was Martha Evans Caney’s moment.

  Gabe handed Martha a crystal plaque and the three of them posed for pictures.

  Gabe stepped back to the microphone.

  “Tonight when you hit your knees, or commune with the stars, or just spend some peaceful moments with yourself, I hope you’ll spare a good thought for all Miss Martha’s babies, for all the babies in all the burn units everywhere, and for our baby sister Camille. When my brothers and I hit our knees, we’ll remember you.”

  As the three of them walked off the stage, Emory wiped her tears away.

  “Loves to hear himself talk, doesn’t he?” The cynicism of the words was negated by the emotional tone of the voice.

  “Oh. Hi, Dirk. How long have you been there?”

  “Ever since Jackson stepped on the stage. And I’ll be here until he’s done. Jimbo’s on the other side and Martin’s with him now.”

  “Do you seriously think someone would hurt him?”

  “I seriously think someone had better not try.” And he flashed her a rare dimple-deepening smile.

  Yes, it was a good night. It had to be, if even Dirk was emotional and smiling.

  Now the emcee was back, telling jokes, probably stalling a little.

  “What’s that man’s name?” Emory asked Dirk.

  “Hell, if I know. I don’t listen to the radio. But he doesn’t have a weapon on him. I know that.”

  Figured. “… And I give you Jack Beauford and the Barroom Brawlers!”