Nashville Nights

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  But he hadn’t really made her, had he? No. He had simply stated his terms for granting this interview—the first and only interview he intended to do concerning the fire. And it would be his last interview. Carson Hamilton-Knox didn’t know that, of course, and neither did the world.

  She only knew that if she wanted the interview she was going to have to conduct it on this flight. She didn’t even know if he was changing planes in Nashville or staying there. And at the end of the interview she still wouldn’t know that. She wouldn’t have learned anything he didn’t want her to know.

  She approached and his good manners made him stand up and take the hand she extended.

  “Carson Hamilton-Knox.” Her voice had that cultured West Nashville/Harpeth Academy tone. He would have recognized it anywhere, knew it from his aunt, his mother, and the charm school days at Beauford Bend. Thank God that was over—for him and Beauford Bend.

  “Jack Beauford,” he said.

  She laughed. “I know.” She wasn’t flirting. He liked that, though she might be the kind he would have gone for, if she hadn’t been married, if she hadn’t been pregnant, and if he had been looking.

  Too late, he remembered to remove his cap. “Sorry. Bad manners.”

  A bit of surprise washed over her face. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped dark locks. He still wasn’t used to it. The people he’d paid good money to boss him around had insisted that he keep his thick, straight hair chin length, had said it was sexy the way he unconsciously slung it out of his eyes while on stage. But he wouldn’t be doing that again. “Sometimes you want a change.”

  “I understand.” She gestured to the seat beside his. “Should I sit here?”

  “Yes. Let me help you.” He took her laptop case while she settled into the seat. She wasn’t pregnant enough that she was likely to give birth on this flight but enough that she had to struggle a bit with the seat belt. She removed a pad and pen from the case.

  “If you don’t mind—slide my laptop under the seat, please.” Good. She understood the rules. No pictures. No recording. Just the two of them, a pen, and paper. In return, she had his undivided attention for the entire four-hour flight.

  After situating her bag he sat down, buckled his own seat belt, and settled his cap on his knee.

  “Why don’t you wear a cowboy hat?” she asked.

  This was going to be easier than he thought. He couldn’t believe that’s all she wanted to know. True, people had remarked for years that, unlike most country music stars, he never wore a cowboy hat, but it wasn’t exactly the burning question of the moment. Next she’d want to know his favorite color and what kind of jelly he liked on his biscuit.

  “I’m not a cowboy.”

  She glanced at his cap. “You’re not a baseball player either.”

  “No.” He picked up the cap embroidered with San Antonio Wranglers Super Bowl Champs. “My brother Gabe gave me this cap. He got it on the field when he was named MVP.”

  “You have a brother who’s a cowboy, too.”

  “I do.” He nodded. “Rafe. He’s a champion bull rider. Maybe if he gives me a cowboy hat I’ll wear it.”

  She swept her hair back and turned to him. “Why me?”

  “Why you?” What did that even mean?

  “Why did you grant me this audience?”

  “You make it sound like I’m royalty. Or the Pope.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “Still, why me?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I like that you didn’t call—that I had to call you.”

  “I had no reason to think you’d take my call. You didn’t take my boss’s call, or her boss’s. Or anyone’s from Time, Rolling Stone, The New York Times . . . I could go on.”

  Truth was, he’d known he had to give an interview, that the world wouldn’t rest until he did. Carson was young and new to Twang. He figured he could handle her and so far that was proving to be true. Also, he’d heard she had married her college sweetheart just last year so he figured she still had enough stars in her eyes that she wouldn’t try to screw him in the bathroom.

  “I read Twang,” he said. “I think you’re a good writer and you seem fair. I could use a little fair these days.” And he pulled out his stage smile, the one that always got them on their feet, the one that made them throw their thongs onstage.

  Carson Hamilton-Knox did not divest herself of her maternity underpants. Thank God. But she did smile back.

  She opened her notebook. “Fires aren’t fair, are they?”

  Given how this was going, he would not have expected that before they were even in the air, but okay. Maybe they could get this over with and take naps. Pregnant women liked to sleep. He’d heard that. And she had been awake for a long time.

  He took a deep breath and began to recite the facts as he had practiced in his head. “A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, my manager, and thirty-seven audience members. Their names are—”

  Carson put up a hand. “Mr. Beauford—Jack. May I call you Jack?”

  He nodded, confused. People didn’t usually interrupt him when he talked. Just then the flight attendant came through, checking tray tables and seat belts with all the sights and sounds of takeoff in the background.

  Though they’d had to pause, Carson took right up where she left off.

  “Jack, I know the names of those killed, all forty-three. I know Mason Patrick started the fire and we’ll probably never know why because he ran to the roof of the arena and threw himself off. Those are the facts, as reported by the authorities. They have been recorded in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”

  True enough, so what did she want?

  Apparently, she was about to tell him. “Your assistant, Ginger Marsden, was injured trying to protect you, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” he said tightly. If Ginger had left him alone, had not run onstage and tackled him, he could have gotten to Trace, maybe saved him. Jackson closed his eyes and saw himself rushing toward Trace and then being knocked into some equipment by Ginger and her falling off the stage. And, worst of all, the security guys hauling him away while he fought them, fought them so hard, to try and save the people he was responsible for. Ironic that he had broken Jimbo’s jaw and dislocated Martin’s shoulder, but he’d escaped with only a few stitches in his arm. He probably couldn’t have saved the others, but Trace had been close; since the first, Trace had always been close by, playing rhythm guitar and singing backup, while Jackson played his own lead guitar. “Ginger suffered a broken leg and a slight concussion. She’s on a beach getting some much needed rest. She’ll be fine.”

  “Any chance you’re going to tell me what beach?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. Is that where you’ve been these last ten days? With Ginger?”

  “Mostly.” That was a lie. He’d flown Ginger to Aruba in his private jet and sent the plane back to L.A. for the rest of his people to take back to Nashville. He’d instructed his accountant to write some big checks and he’d hidden out on a small island off Aruba until the funerals were over.

  It was almost as if Carson picked up on his thoughts. “There was a lot of talk about your failure to attend the funerals of your entourage. Some even speculated that you were badly hurt or dead.”

  He smiled. “Obviously that was a bit dramatic. Ginger was understandably traumatized. I felt that my place was with her.” Ginger would cut her tongue out before she would tell that he’d hidden to avoid the funerals; any of them would.

  “Ginger has been with you since before your first record went gold when you were nineteen. Is it fair to say you look to her as a mother figure?”

  This had been a mistake. If there had been anywhere to go, he would have walked out.

  “No. Ginger works for me.�
� Though Ginger was exactly the age his mother would’ve been. And she’d done everything for him, short of wiping his nose. That was over. From here on out, he was wiping his own nose.

  “But there is no denying that she’s devoted to you,” Carson persisted.

  “I don’t deny it. I deny that she’s a mother figure.”

  “Some have speculated that there was at one time a romantic relationship between the two of you.”

  “Some have also speculated that aliens descend from outer space on a regular basis to mate with mermaids but that doesn’t make it true.” This was not the first time he’d heard that and it never got any less ridiculous. Funny thing was, he got the feeling Carson knew that. Was she just asking random questions or was this all going somewhere?

  His new best friend, the flight attendant, came through with her cart.

  “Breakfast!” He popped his tray down. Maybe Carson would get distracted and get on with asking him if he liked grits. Which he did, if they were cooked right.

  “Thank you. None for me,” Carson said.

  “Not hungry?” Jackson took a sip of his coffee and inspected the omelet to see what was inside.

  “I had breakfast on my last flight. An hour ago.”

  “Are you going to write down what I’m eating for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I hadn’t planned to. I would rather talk about how this fire took you back to a fire you experienced when you were twelve years old.”

  Jackson hesitated with his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he stopped. “What makes you think it took me back?”

  “How could it not?” Carson said simply, as if she were discussing ducks on a pond or the color of birthday cake icing.

  “That was a long time ago.” Coming up on twenty years, in fact.

  Carson narrowed her eyes. “Is it ever a long time ago when you lose half your family?”

  She had that right. It was yesterday. Last night. This morning.

  “They never discovered what caused the fire that night, did they?”

  “No. They never did.” That was true, but just the same, Jackson knew.

  It had been their last night of vacation at Myrtle Beach. He and the twins were camping out, like they had been allowed to do the previous three years. Beau was supposed to join them for the first time but had gotten sick and been kept inside. They’d done the usual—made s’mores, popped popcorn, and told ghost stories. Like he’d done every year after building the fire, Jim Beauford had admonished his oldest son to make sure the fire was out before they went to bed. Only Jackson hadn’t done it. He’d noticed that ten-year-old Rafe had gotten scared while Gabe was telling “Bloody Bones,” so Jackson had decided to have a little fun. He’d told Gabe to go to bed, ordered Rafe to put out the fire, and followed Gabe into the tent—leaving Rafe alone. When he and Gabe scratched on the side of the tent and moaned, Rafe had run to the tent and scrambled in. Jackson had not even asked his little brother if he was certain the fire was out, let alone checked on it. Worse, later, when he’d smelled the smoke, he’d turned back over and gone back to sleep.

  Then some time later, the cries of his mother had woken them. What followed was a blur—the people from the neighboring beach houses gathering, the sirens, and the confusion about where Beau was. But all that had come after the worst nightmare of Jackson’s life—his beautiful, serene mother standing on the balcony holding two-year-old Camille crying, screaming, and begging Gabe to catch the baby—Gabe, the best athlete among them, who could out-throw, outrun, and out-catch anyone. But not that night. Laura Beauford must have known it was the only hope for her baby because she sent her over the rail into Gabe’s waiting arms—but though he reached and reached, Camille landed at his feet. Laura never knew because she had disappeared into the flames by then.

  And all because Jackson had disobeyed the last directive his father had given him—his kind father with his blond hair, gentle voice, and lanky limbs, who loved leather-bound books, good bourbon, and the UT Vols, who spent his days teaching history at Vanderbilt University and his nights loving his family.

  “What do you think started the fire that night?” Carson asked.

  “I have no idea,” Jackson lied.

  And as the food he had wanted so badly grew cold and finally efficiently disappeared as they flew over state after state, Carson’s questions went on and on. Jackson answered with grains of truth and barrels of self-preservation. He made jokes with just the right amount of sadness hanging in the background. He shrugged it off when she talked about his reputation for being the “good guy” of superstardom, who had hit it big young because he was determined to take care of his family.

  He took no credit for that. How could he?

  It was on the jetway that Jackson realized he had no way to get to Beauford Bend, to quiet and solitude. How could he have been so stupid? Ginger always took care of these things.

  “Carson, do you have a car here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you drop me at a car dealership?”

  Chapter Two

  As Emory had predicted, the brutal heat had mellowed as night set in and the dancing was in full swing down at the gazebo.

  It had not been an easy day. Emory liked to think that she had handled each impending disaster in a way that would have made Amelia proud. And she had handled them. She just hadn’t always been able to make everybody like the solutions as Amelia could have done. She’d had enough of these people. As the day moved on, they had acted like everything was their due. She doubted if they would tip the appropriate people and if they didn’t, Emory would feel compelled to see to it that Around the Bend made it up.

  She sat down on the steps of the side porch of the family wing, where she could observe the party and wait for the next demand. The walkie-talkie clipped to her waist buzzed, and she sighed and reached for the button on her headset.

  “Guardhouse to The Boss.” She smiled. The new guard that security head Dirk had hired was very serious. She suspected he aspired to be a member of the secret service—or at least assigned to Jackson’s road security.

  “Yes, Brett. This is Emory.”

  “The transport van from Firefly Hall requests permission to enter the premises.” Brett most likely balked at having to utter the words Firefly Hall. He would probably like to rename the B&B something like Fort Peril.

  “Tell Christian I’m on the family porch.”

  The original house, built in 1856, was a large, graceful brick structure. The sparkling floor to ceiling windows pointed the eye toward the elegant twin two-story galleries—the focal point of the mansion’s beauty—while the roof with its dentil molding rose over it all like a strong, wise old man watching over his beloved family. The front view of the house always served to remind Emory that there were strong, fine things left in this world, even if she sometimes wondered where they were.

  The original structure housed Emory’s office, a commercial kitchen, and the formal rooms used for events, which were also open for public tours by appointment. According to Amelia, the family had used the main house for holidays and special occasions but they really lived in one of the side additions—where Emory sat now—that had been added fifty years after the main house had been built.

  After Jackson had made his first couple of million, he’d had the original house restored to all its former glory and modernized the family wing, creating apartments for Amelia, each of his brothers, and himself, plus a gym, a security office, some guest rooms, and some common family rooms. Amelia had offered Emory quarters in the family wing but she preferred the carriage house. It was small and she felt safe there, like she could see anything coming at her.

  She’d love to be there now but she couldn’t see the wedding party from the carriage house porch.

  “Hello!” Christian Hambrick’s voice rang out from afar. Christian knew better than to startle Emory, though she didn’t know the reason for Emory’s skittishness. Emory trusted the owner of Firefly Hall as much as s
he trusted anyone alive but she had been unable to tell her about that night two years ago, when she’d had the bad judgment to leave a co-worker’s birthday party with the wrong man. The night had turned into something she thought only happened on made-for-cable movies. Turns out, she should have paid more attention to those movies.

  Emory stood up. “Come on up and have a seat. Or has someone already sent for you to take them back?”

  “Not yet.” Christian settled her tall frame on the steps. “But I can predict this crowd. It won’t be long until the gray hairs will be ready. I don’t want to give them anything else to complain about.”

  “I can’t imagine what they could have to complain about. Nobody gives better service than you.”

  “Well,” Christian said. “First, there’s the heat. Second, there are no shops within walking distance of the inn. There wasn’t any smoked salmon for breakfast. Or marionberry jam. I don’t even know what a marionberry is. Do you?”

  “Some sort of blackberry. Don’t feel bad. The peonies were not the right shade of pink. The bows on the chair backs were not big enough. I could go on. I had four drunk groomsmen before noon. Truth be told, I would have liked to join them. On the upside, Bridezilla left her bridesmaids’ gifts at home so I was able to drum up a little business for Neyland.”

  “I know she appreciated that.”

  Emory laughed. “She did—even though they didn’t like the wrapping paper she used the first time and made her redo them. She had used some beautiful handmade paper that she got from Once Upon a Page. Luckily, we were able to save it. I pulled some old rolls of wrapping paper out of the closet that Amelia probably had for thirty years. They liked that fine.”

  “But we love our jobs,” Christian said.

  “We do. I don’t know if I would love it if every client turned out to be like these, but this is rare.”

  “You love even this,” Christian said. “You see it as a challenge.”

  “I do. But I’ll be happy to see the backside of them tonight. The limo will be here at eleven to bring the bride and groom back to you.”