Nashville Nights

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Yes, you are. I’d be able to tell a continent away.”

  “Which is where you’re supposed to be.”

  “As it happens, Aruba is located in North America, as is Tennessee and the surrounding areas.”

  “That so?” Jackson rose from the table and got a beer from the refrigerator. “I didn’t go to Vandy or Harvard”—he cut his eyes at Emory—“for some fancy education. I had to go out and earn a living.”

  He defiantly slammed himself back into the chair across from Ginger.

  “I think they teach basic geography in elementary school.” Ginger winced and struggled to straighten her walking-cast-clad leg. Jackson jumped to his feet and helped her prop her foot on a chair.

  “Is that better?” he asked gently.

  “Yes. Thanks.” Ginger took a sip of her wine.

  “You know what would be even better?” Mad Jackson was back. “If you were in damned Aruba in that beach house where I put you with that maid and cook!”

  “I might be if you’d answer your phone and deal with your own business!”

  “I told you to change your number and stop tending to my business.”

  Emory put a hand up. “I’m going to say goodnight. Ginger, I’ll see about having a bed set up for you downstairs.” With any luck, Tom and Mike would be in the exercise room. They often came in before the late shift to work out. It wasn’t their job to move furniture but they’d do it for her. She could put Ginger in the small library off her office.

  “That’s not necessary,” Ginger said. “It takes me a little time but I can navigate the stairs.”

  “All right. All of the guest rooms are clean and ready. Take your pick.”

  “I haven’t been here in a long time but Amelia always put me in a room with blue striped wallpaper.” Emory remembered that Ginger had done a turnaround trip on the day of Amelia’s funeral and hadn’t spent the night—and Jackson hadn’t stayed much longer. “Though I suppose it could have been changed.”

  “Not much. It’s the second door on the left in the west wing. Goodnight.”

  “Wait, hon,” Ginger said. “Would you ask the cook to come up and make Jackson something to eat? And frankly, I could use a little something, too.”

  “Not happening,” Jackson said. “Gwen’s worked all day and she’s got two little kids. Plus, her husband’s out of town.” He turned to Emory. “Send Sammy in here.”

  Emory shook her head and started pulling eggs, bacon, cheese, and butter out of the commercial refrigerator.

  “Sammy doesn’t live on the premises.”

  “I didn’t know that. He’s always here.”

  “No, he’s not.” Though, to be fair, Sammy hung around a lot when he wasn’t on duty. He might even be around somewhere now, but if he was, that was his business and she wasn’t going to put him to work.

  “We should move him here.”

  “So he can be your own personal slave? Did it ever occur to you that Sammy might not want to live here?”

  “Sure, he would. He loves being where I am. Take care of that, would you, Emory?”

  “No. If you want him to live here, you talk to him, and you set it up. And you tell him he’s losing his job and home when the time comes. Right now he only has a job to lose.”

  “I bet if you called him now, he’d come out and cook something.”

  “I am not calling him back here to cook you an egg.”

  “I don’t want an egg. I want a hamburger.”

  “Then go to McDonald’s out by the highway.” She turned on the gas burner and laid slices of bacon in a skillet. “Otherwise, you’re getting eggs and bacon—which is just about the extent of my culinary ability.”

  “Uh—Emory, is it?” Ginger said.

  “All day long,” Emory said wearily. “All life long.”

  “Do you think it’s appropriate to speak to Mr. Beauford in such a manner?”

  Before Emory had time to let the laughter inside her escape, Jackson was on his feet.

  “Emory is not a servant. She can talk to me any way she pleases. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk.”

  Emory picked up the iron skillet she planned to scramble eggs in and rounded on them.

  “Stop it! Both of you, and I mean right now!” She pointed at Jackson. “For reasons I can’t figure out, you’ve reverted to acting like teenager—which admittedly isn’t much worse than usual.”

  “He does that!” Ginger said.

  “And you!” She locked eyes with Ginger. “You show up here with no notice, ordering people around.”

  “I think you’re both hungry,” Ginger said quietly.

  “We wouldn’t be if you hadn’t interrupted our dinner,” Emory said. “Now, not another word out of either one of you. Or I swear I will walk out of here and leave you to forage for yourselves. And don’t think you’re going to eat the chicken salad and pimento cheese Gwen made for the quilters.”

  Miraculously, they remained quiet while she finished cooking and prepared three plates. She set their food in front of them and covered her own with aluminum foil.

  “Okay. Have at each other but wait until I’m out of earshot.”

  “Wait.” Jackson-in-the-box popped out of his chair yet again. “Emory, come sit down. Please.”

  She opened her mouth to decline but there was something in those silver-sage eyes that begged her to stay.

  “All right.” She poured herself a glass of milk and joined them at the table.

  They all ate quietly for a few minutes.

  “These are the best eggs I’ve ever had,” Jackson said.

  “Thank you but I can’t take credit. Gwen buys the best and freshest of everything. She always says, ‘Know your farmer, know your food.’”

  “That’s actually the motto of the U.S. Department of Agriculture,” Ginger said.

  “Ginger is a font of useless information,” Jackson said. “She always read a lot while I performed.” His voice was calm now.

  “Isn’t that, ‘reads a lot while I perform’?” Ginger said pointedly. “As in the present tense.”

  “I bet these eggs would make a good omelet,” Jackson said.

  “I don’t know how to make an omelet,” Emory said.

  He took a bite of toast. “Do we have jam?”

  “He likes peach if you’ve got it,” Ginger said.

  Since everyone was playing somewhat nice, Emory went to the pantry and returned with two jars.

  “There’s plain peach and brandied peach. Gwen made it last summer.”

  “Plain, please,” Jackson said.

  After finishing his toast, Jackson picked up his spoon and began to eat jam straight from the jar. Ginger frowned and shook her head as she reached into her large tote bag and brought out a thin laptop.

  “Since we’re only eating straight jam now, can we talk business?”

  Escape time. Emory picked up the dirty plates and put them in the sink. She’d come down early before Gwen and clean up the mess.

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Goodnight,” Ginger said. “Thanks for the food.”

  “Stay.” Jackson caught her eyes in his.

  She would have gone but there was a bit of jam in the corner of his mouth and, though she couldn’t have said why, something about that beckoned her back.

  “It’s about your sister’s memorial benefit,” Ginger said.

  Ice moved into the room. Emory felt it to her very core but Ginger didn’t seem to.

  “It’s less than two weeks away. We reserved the Ryman last year, of course. I’ve talked to Reba, Blake and Miranda, Keith, Brad, and Vince. They’re all in, of course. Faith and Tim can’t come but they’re going to debut a new duet remotely. And they’ve already sent a big check. But that new kid—Aubrey Jamison. She’s hot and I thought it might be nice include her but I want your approval. You might want to think about her to open for you in the future.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Jackson asked. “I fired you.”
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  “You didn’t mean it. You, understandably, need some time off. So do the guys. But this has to go on. You know that.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  What? He was actually considering not doing this benefit? This concert had been a Nashville fixture for over a decade. People planned their Fourth of July around it. Jackson had been barely out of his teens when he started it.

  “Since I couldn’t get in touch with you and the foundation board needed approval on the recipient of the Health Care Professional of the Year award, I called Gabe and he approved. He’s also going to present the plaque this year. I know you usually do it but I thought with him coming off the Super Bowl win, it would be nice. Rafe can’t come. There’s some bull riding thing he has to do.”

  Jackson put down his jar and spoon. Emory got the idea that Ginger knew how this was affecting Jackson but had chosen to plow on anyway.

  “That’s because bull riding is Rafe’s job and this is the height of rodeo season,” Jackson said with a defensive edge.

  Ginger shrugged. “Really all you have to do is decide about your own set. I’ve talked to the guys and they’re ready to get back to work. Of course, we’ll need to find replacements for Trace and Cody.”

  Jackson closed his eyes. He didn’t make a sound or move a muscle beyond what it took to hide his soul from the world.

  “I have a list of some possibilities.”

  “No,” Jackson said. “No replacements.”

  Ginger was silent for a moment. “It’s different but it’s a different kind of year.” She nodded and bit her bottom lip. “Yes. I think it could work. Just you on a stool with an acoustic guitar.”

  It was hard to imagine Jackson sitting still while he performed, though Emory had always thought he didn’t so much dance as let the music move him across the stage. Either way, watching him in motion was a study in pure fluid magic.

  She glanced at him to see his reaction to Ginger’s suggestion. A fine mist of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. Emory got up and made him a glass of ice water. He looked at her gratefully and gulped it down.

  Ginger continued to talk. “We need to consider how to address what happened in May. On the one hand, we might be criticized if we don’t do something but there’s a case to make for keeping the focus on Camille’s memorial. Still, some mention seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Jackson studied the ice cubes in his glass and rolled the glass back and forth between his palms.

  Ginger typed for a bit. “I think we need to consult with the PR firm. After all, we want to do what’s right for everyone.”

  Jackson breathed a ragged breath and Emory wanted to grab her egg-cooking skillet and beat Ginger about the head and shoulders. She couldn’t do that but she could at least catch her eye and try to convey how much she needed to shut up.

  It was then that Emory noticed how white Ginger’s face was and how her hands on the keyboard were shaking. She was hurting too and likely trying to cope the only way she knew how.

  There were no winners in this room.

  “Let’s talk about the party!” Ginger said with what Emory knew now was manufactured enthusiasm. “We’ve been having it at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum because it was easier. But wasn’t it nice when it used to be at Beauford Bend? It was less formal. We’d have fireworks and barbecue. Don’t you think people liked that, Jackson?”

  Jackson nodded, tightlipped, still staring at the melting ice. “They did.”

  “I thought since you’ve been here, it might be nice to do that again. Emory, is that something you and your staff can handle? It happens the night before the concert. It would be for the performers, the foundation board, sponsors, top donors, and the like. Maybe two hundred people tops.”

  “We could. Certainly.” Jackson must have heard the hesitancy in her voice because he looked up with begging in his eyes. “But you know what I think, Ginger? I think you might want to rethink having a party this year. I think the concert is for such a good cause that people would expect it to go on. But a celebration is something that not everyone would understand.”

  Ginger closed her eyes, shook her head, and sighed. “Of course. You’re right, Emory. I can’t think why I didn’t think of that. I know better.”

  “I think you’re very tired, Ginger. Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll have someone bring your bags up.”

  Ginger nodded and struggled to get to her feet. “Thank you.” She let her eyes settle on Jackson. There was maternal love in her eyes. Emory only recognized it because she’d seen it when Amelia looked at her. “Good night, Jackson.”

  Jackson’s head snapped up and he looked shocked to see her standing.

  “Good night.” He got to his feet and put his hands in his pockets.

  Emory guessed that on a different day, they might have embraced.

  “I’ll bring your suitcase,” Jackson said.

  After Ginger left, he stood there silent and still as if he didn’t know what to do next. Reality had slapped him in the face and he didn’t know whether to stop and fight or run.

  She’d been there. She knew the feeling of being lost, of floating in space without a lifeline and no hope of one. He needed a little warmth, some human contact.

  If she had been the person she was before, she would have gone to him and taken him in her arms, but she wasn’t and the best she could do was offer comfort without assuming he would accept it.

  So Emory stepped toward him and held out her arms. Without hesitation, he came into them and a soft restful sigh escaped his lips as he moved his cheek against her hair. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, just the seeking and receiving of comfort. Neither of them spoke a word but she listened to his heartbeat and took in the warmth of his chest against her cheek. Though her intent was to give him consolation, it had been so long since she’d had this kind of human contact that she couldn’t help but revel in it. His arms around her were strong and hard but she didn’t think of how he could use his strength to hurt her—only of how safe she felt with those arms between her and the rest of the world.

  They stayed like that for a long time—how long, she wasn’t sure.

  Too long and not long enough.

  Finally, as if by mutual consent, they parted. He took her face between his palms and brushed his lips against her temple.

  “I’ll step outside and watch until you’re safe inside your door,” he said.

  In that moment, it would not have occurred to her that she could be anything but safe.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By day, Miss Laura’s Tearoom and Gossip Parlor was exactly what one would expect from a Victorian tearoom—bone china teapots, delicate nibbles, and soft, dreamy music.

  But by night, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the front shutters were closed, the front door was locked, and it became a private club for the women of Beauford, who entered by the back door. The tea served was of the Long Island variety and the music was a mixture of country, old and new, and classic rock. The menu varied, depending on Laura’s whim, but was the same for every table. Instead of cucumber sandwiches, scones, and tiny fruit tarts, what came out on the three-tiered servers were things like pulled pork sliders, individual servings of crab imperial, fried macaroni and cheese bites, ramekins of turnip greens, and slabs of chocolate cake—food that a woman who had worked hard all day could relish.

  And it was only for the women of Beauford. Laura saw this as a gift to those who knocked themselves out all day catering to the tourists who allowed them all to earn a living. Not that the food and libation was free. Laura was nothing if not a good businesswoman; they all were and could, therefore, pay for a night away from reality. If a tourist occasionally sensed there was something going on inside under the pink and white stripped awning and knocked on the door, they were always told there was a private party in progress.

  Christian parked in the lot at the rear of the tearoom, then she and Emory got out.

  �
��Gwen’s already here.” Christian gestured to Gwen’s SUV. Since Dirk was out of town, Gwen had picked up the sitter and dropped her and the children at Abby’s apartment. Usually, Dirk kept all three kids when Gwen, Abby, Emory, Christian, and Neyland wanted to go to Laura’s.

  “Too bad Laura’s feeling poorly,” Emory said, “but I needed this.” They laughed together. Laura feeling poorly was how they referred to these outings. One or the other of them would call and say, “I hear Laura’s feeling poorly. We might ought to take her a casserole.”

  “Did you bring the poppy seed chicken?” Christian asked.

  “You know. I believe I happened to have left that on the counter.”

  Abby, Neyland, and Gwen were already seated at one of the six-top round tables.

  “I love that there are five of us,” Christian said. “It means we always have a purse chair.”

  “Is that why y’all let me in?” Neyland asked. At twenty-five she was the baby among them and had only joined their group about six months ago, when she’d opened her shop and they’d gotten to know her. “So you could get a table for six?”

  “Absolutely,” Gwen said. “We were so tired of having to hang our purses off the backs of our chairs or put them on the floor that we went looking for another friend.”

  Emory waved at three women on the other side of the room—June from Eat Cake, Dayna from White Lace and Promises Bridal Attire, and Ella from The Enchanted Garden. They all looked a little shell-shocked.

  “Looks like the wedding venue folks aren’t having a good day,” Emory said.

  “No,” Neyland said. “Prissy Matthews’s wedding is this weekend at St. Paul’s. I understand everything was going fine until her grandmother flew in from South Carolina. Now, nothing is good enough—not the flowers, the cake, the bridesmaids’ dresses. She’s probably trying to get a different groom.”

  “At least that’s one wedding we don’t have to deal with,” Christian said. Prissy was a local and the reception was going to be at the old opera house.

  Laura came up and set a big pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea on the table. She wore the same frilly pink apron she wore for the tourists.