Forgiving Jackson

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  And the nameless but very important emcee faded into nothing as all the bright light that was Jackson walked on the stage. The hall erupted into pure pandemonium, with clapping, catcalls, and stomping.

  Then he stepped up to the microphone and smiled. “I don’t talk as pretty as my brother—or catch as pretty either. But I sure do appreciate y’all.”

  Then he gave a nod and launched into “Spring Break State of Mind.”

  Jackson was loose, happy, and full of energy. Emory folded her hands over her mouth and sent up a little prayer of thanks. He’d crossed this hurdle.

  He did the thing she loved most—threw his head back, closed his eyes, and went deep into the guitar solo where he summoned a certain kind of magic and gave it back to those who had come to hear something special. Then he backed up a step, opened his eyes, and flashed a smile. He tried to toss his hair out his eyes but he didn’t have enough.

  “What a waste.” Ginger had come up to stand beside Dirk.

  But Jackson didn’t care. He bit his lower lip around a smile and looked humble at the audience’s reaction. You’d never know that three-quarters of the audience came from the highest society that Nashville had to offer. They were dancing in the aisles and crying out for more.

  And Emory felt sorry for every woman in the place who wasn’t her because she was going home with him—maybe for always.

  • • •

  Just get through it, Jackson told himself. Don’t let anyone see.

  How could he have been such an idiot? How could he have thought that just because he had been sane during the final rehearsal and sound check on this very stage that he could do this? It had started when he’d stood in the wings and listened to Gabe’s speech but he’d reminded himself that he’d done great in rehearsals, on his porch, in church, and at The Café Down On The Corner.

  But that wasn’t the same—far from it. When he’d walked off the stage with Gabe and Martha Caney, he should have kept walking. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was too much, too many people who could die.

  And Emory was one of them.

  How could he have let her come here? How could he have even begun to entertain the thought that he could have what he wanted, that he deserved anything? Good thing he’d ordered a bodyguard for her tonight. He couldn’t take care of her. He couldn’t take care of anyone. But he smiled and sang and flirted with the crowd; he danced and played the hell out of every guitar that his techs had so carefully lined up backstage.

  The smell of the smoke was strong and the flames so hot that he had to keep looking to make sure there wasn’t really a fire.

  But the worst happened when he turned his head to watch Chase close in to join in on the chorus of “Bankrupt Heart.”

  It wasn’t Chase at all; it was Trace, and, though he sang and played on, he was a human torch.

  But Jackson tossed his head and rocked on. He gave the audience what they came to see. When he’d done his third encore, he was wringing wet and could feel the hoarseness creeping into his throat. Still, he played another hour—the whole time making plans for what he knew he had to do at the end.

  Later, Carson Hamilton-Knox would write in Twang Magazine that it was the performance of a lifetime—maybe anybody’s lifetime. She said that at the end of time, when the magic left embedded in the floorboards of the Ryman was measured, Jack Beauford, along with Hank, Kitty, Patsy, Loretta, and Johnny and June, would have left his fair share.

  Jackson would laugh a bitter little laugh and wonder if all magic was born of terror and failure.

  • • •

  Emory held out her arms to Ginger, even as the older woman stepped toward her with the same idea. They swayed together, their tears mixing on their cheeks.

  “He’s okay. He really is,” Emory whispered.

  “It’s all I wanted,” Ginger said. “I love him like he’s my own.”

  Someone had handed Jackson a towel and bottle of water. He threw the towel around his neck and drank the water down in one long gulp as he stepped up to the microphone.

  “Thank you has been thrown around a lot tonight but I guess that’s one of those phrases you can’t wear out. So I’m going to say it again. Thank you.” The only reason there wasn’t a standing ovation was because the audience hadn’t been in their seats in two hours—but they cheered, oh yes, they did.

  Jackson gestured to the band. “The Barroom Brawlers, ladies and gentlemen. There are none finer.” After giving his band their moment in the sun, he held up his hand for silence. In spite of the frenzied energy, the crowd gave him what he wanted immediately. Emory thought they might have given him their very hearts if he had passed out daggers and asked it of them.

  She could relate.

  “It’s been a terrific ride,” Jackson said, and a cold feeling came over Emory. Somehow, she got the feeling he wasn’t talking about just tonight. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate y’all allowing me to drive this crazy roller coaster and getting onboard with me. But I wanted to tell you this was my last appearance and tonight I am officially announcing my retirement from music.”

  The band stood paralyzed and the silence in the room was deafening; all that could be heard was the click of Jackson’s boots as he walked off the stage.

  Dirk was the first to break the silence. “Oh, hell, no you don’t,” he muttered as he took off running.

  Ginger turned to Emory. “Did you know about this?”

  Emory didn’t have time for this. She gave a little headshake and ran onto the stage and down the center crescent-shaped steps that led to the main floor.

  “Ms. Lowell! Emory! Stop!” That was Warren’s voice. He was hot on her heels. Well, he had his problems and she had hers. She had to get to Gwen.

  It wasn’t silent in the room anymore. Everyone was talking at once and reporters had come out of the woodwork to surround Gabe, who held up his hands to ward them off.

  “I don’t know,” Emory heard him say. “I didn’t know.”

  Christian and Neyland moved toward her. Their mouths were moving but she couldn’t make out what they were saying—nor did she care.

  Finally, she was where she needed to be—the first stop, anyway. “Gwen, give me your keys.”

  Gwen only looked puzzled for a second before opening her evening bag and handing them over.

  She felt Warren’s hand on her arm. “Ms. Lowell, I cannot allow you to—”

  “Then get me out of here.” He strong-armed their way through the crowd, swiped his keycard in the lock of a door, and looked inside. But when he stepped back to let her go first, Emory jerked the door closed in his face, kicked off her shoes, and ran into the labyrinth of hallways.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Jackson had been pretty proud of himself for giving Dirk the slip—and he had to take pride where he could find it tonight. But turns out, he hadn’t even managed that. When Jackson came out of the garage, Dirk was getting out of his own truck.

  “I’m not talking about this, Dirk.” He kept walking.

  “Suits me. I’m your bodyguard, not your wet nurse or your shrink. Now that I’ve set eyes on you, I’m going to bed.”

  That was a lie unless Dirk had put a bed in his office since yesterday because that’s where he went—probably to watch the surveillance cameras.

  Jackson stepped in the shower and let the water beat over him for a long time. His shower, with its multiple jets that spayed extra hard from every which way, was much better than the one in the carriage house—except Emory usually shared that one with him.

  But that was over. He hurt everybody he touched and he’d already touched her too much.

  He was reaching for a towel when he heard the pounding on the door. It was probably Ginger, here to chew his ass out. Oddly, he was looking forward to it. He had an ass-chewing coming but he was in the mood to give as good as he got. He slipped on a pair of shorts and a UT t-shirt and went to the door.

  But it wasn’t Ginger. Why had he not allowed himself to co
nsider that Emory would come to him?

  Of course she would, because she would be worried. She wore sweet heartbreak in her wide blue eyes. And it didn’t take a genius to know that heartbreak was for him and he didn’t deserve it. Knowing that, if he had to look at her face for very long, he’d break.

  “Oh, honey … ” She came toward him with her arms open.

  It was almost his undoing. He wanted to run to her and let her envelop him in her warm sweetness where he could hide until he wasn’t tired anymore. But he could never do that again.

  He stepped out of her path and looked at the floor for a moment before glancing at her face again. Now she looked hurt and confused.

  “May I sit down?” she asked formally.

  “Sure.” He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Do you want a beer?”

  “No, thank you.” Still that formal, polite tone. Good. The distance was already growing. It had to happen.

  He came back into the room and sat on the chair across from where she sat on the couch. It was hard not to take the few extra steps to where he wanted to be.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Sure. It was a good show, wasn’t it?”

  “It was a great show. You know that. It’s what happened after that concerns me.”

  Then he noticed that she was barefoot.

  “Where are your shoes?” Too late, he remembered what he’d said earlier about her wearing them and nothing else for him—but that was when everything had seemed possible.

  Her face said she remembered too but couldn’t reconcile it to the indifference he was showing her now.

  She looked down and swallowed. “I … I kicked them off so I could run. I left them in one of the hallways at the Ryman.”

  A bit of alarm went through him. “Why did you have to run? Where was your bodyguard?”

  “That’s who I was running from.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged and twisted her pretty little mouth.

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought he would slow me down. It seemed important at the time. So I got Gwen’s keys and tricked him into letting me out a side door. Then I slammed the door in his face, ran, and drove here.”

  He wanted to stand up and cheer. His brave girl! He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the thought of her driving around in Nashville and then here so late, but she had been able to function, alone, outside of Beauford. She’d done what she had to! Then he sobered. What she’d had to—to get to him. And there was nothing here for her—or him.

  “Wasn’t that a lot of drama over nothing?” he asked.

  The hurt on her face reflected back into his gut and multiplied a thousand—a million—times. It was unbearable. He shrugged and took a drink of his beer.

  “Jackson, I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “You’re acting so … And you stood up there and said you were quitting music.”

  “You’ve always known it was a possibility.”

  “Yes, but only if … that is, if the performance was painful for you. Clearly that wasn’t the case.” She stopped and searched his face. “Was it? You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

  And he almost did. It would have been so easy to cross the room, kneel at her feet, and lay his head on her lap. She’d stroke his hair and his face and tell him everything would be all right. But it wouldn’t be.

  All right was over. It had been for a while—or it had for him. She had a chance.

  He shook his head. “I just don’t want to do it anymore. And I guess it was nice to prove that I’m not a psycho after all. But I want to be here. I’m really looking forward to fall when we don’t have all this coming and going. It’ll be peaceful. And I can go see Gabe play every week. Do you know how many games I’ve actually gotten to see in person since he’s gone pro? Three. And there’s Rafe, too. I could go to his rodeos. I should.”

  He was talking too much.

  She nodded. “I see.”

  “And I’ll help you with moving Around the Bend to Christian’s.” The moment those words came out of his mouth he felt immediately soothed because, God knows, any time with her was better than none.

  “I really don’t understand. I thought—”

  “That I wouldn’t close Around the Bend? What did I ever do to make you think I had changed my mind about what I originally proposed?”

  Though he had changed his mind. He hadn’t put it in so many words, even to himself, but what he had really wanted was to watch her do what she was so good at and what made her so happy.

  “Nothing. You didn’t do anything to make me think you changed you mind.”

  “But you never have to leave Beauford Bend, Emory.” Hell’s bells and damnation! What had made him say that? But he knew. He said it because he couldn’t stand not to. Now his brain and heart raced to come up with a plan to go with those words.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  If the pain in her face before almost destroyed him, the optimism there now was sending him to hell—because he could see clearly what she hoped. She wanted him to say that even if he didn’t want music anymore, even if he didn’t want Around the Bend at Beauford Bend, that he wanted her—wanted her to go to those ball games with him, those rodeos, to hold him in the night when he couldn’t sleep for worrying about Beau, to have his babies, and make him the worst omelets known to man or beast. For always.

  But he couldn’t.

  “What does that mean, Jackson?” she repeated.

  “It means that you can live here as long as you like—forever if you want. Though I’m sure you’ll eventually marry and no matter how much you love the carriage house, it wouldn’t be big enough.” He had to stop to swallow the image of that. “It’s a short commute to Firefly Hall. You’ll need a car but I’ll buy you one.”

  “I don’t need you to buy me a car.” She put a hand to her head. “I can buy my own car.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “But I guess a car is a hell of a lot better kiss-off gift than CDs or even the jewelry that Gabe is so fond of distributing.”

  He’d forgotten about that. If he could go back to the day when they’d had that conversation about the kiss-off gifts, he’d do things so differently. He wasn’t sure how, but something.

  She rose and walked toward the door—and she almost made it. The Emory he’d found when he first came home would have left then. But his strong, brave, empowered girl turned and came back because she had something else to say.

  And she did not sit.

  “Jackson, we were headed somewhere—somewhere good. You didn’t come right out and say so but you said things that led me to believe that. And you weren’t lying. And I fell in love with you—not your money, your music, your charisma, or even that amazing heart-stopping smile. You.”

  She thought he had a heart-stopping smile, too? She’d never said so. Not that it mattered.

  “It wasn’t my job to love you,” he said slowly. “It was my job to help you. And I did.”

  She stood there for a long moment. Then she nodded. “To help me, to fix me like a project?”

  “It sounds pretty cold when you put it like that.”

  “That’s because it is cold. But what we had wasn’t, even as recently as six hours ago in your dressing room. It wasn’t cold then. And you meant everything you said to me. But clearly you don’t mean it anymore, so I’m out.”

  An alarm went off. “What do you mean by out?”

  “I’m done with Around the Bend.”

  No! That was not what he had intended.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I most certainly do mean it.” She walked toward the door on those precious little bare feet that had kicked off her pretty shoes so she could run to him.

  “But what about Firefly Hall? I don’t know if Around the Bend can make it without you. What about the town? I thought you cared.”

  “I do care. But, as you
would say, it’s not my job to save it. It never was. They’ll find a way. Or maybe you will. You’re going to need a new project. Good luck, Jackson. And if you’ll think back, you’ll remember the only kiss-off gift I wanted was an honest goodbye. Too bad I didn’t get it.”

  She walked out the door and he let her go. He had to. If he went after her he’d make her promises he had no right to make.

  Tomorrow, they’d start fresh with a new kind of relationship, the kind they should have had to begin with. Charm school was coming up in a few days and there were events scheduled for the rest of the summer; she was tied here until then.

  That would be plenty of time to work this out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jackson stood with Gabe on the front steps of the main house, still wearing what he’d slept in. It was almost noon when Gabe woke him to say goodbye. Small wonder. After Emory had left last night, he'd done something he’d only done once when he was much younger—drank until he passed out.

  “Sure you don’t want to go to Colorado with me? Go conquer a mountain?” Gabe asked.

  “Not in the conquering mood, Gabriel. You go get it.” They looked at each other like they always did when they knew there was more that ought to be said but they couldn’t find the words. “Do all you can to keep yourself in one piece.”

  “I always do.” They gave each other a half hug and Gabe walked toward one of the two SUVs where his guests were waiting. He stopped with his hand on the door handle. “Jackson, if I can do anything … ”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just that thing about staying in one piece.” He waved as they pulled away.

  Damn, that sun was a bitch. He backed into the shade of the porch and leaned on a column. He had the mother of all headaches and he still had to work out how to get to a better place with Emory. Maybe he should march right into her office and act like nothing had happened.

  Yeah, genius. That would go over well. Was there a way he could get her to forgive him without saying he was sorry? He wasn’t one of those people who was opposed to apologizing but he couldn’t take back that he didn’t want her. Knowing her, she’d forgive him and then they’d be right back where they’d started—with him screwing up her life.