by Rachel Hauck
Scott: Hurtful?
AJ: Downright, sometimes. Look, I’m not saying my pain is worse than anyone else’s. But when my private life is played out in celeb magazines, entertainment shows, the tabloids, or whatever, it’s hard to move past the pain of a broken relationship or an ill-spoken word.
Scott: Being on the other side, reporters can get so focused on the story, or the inside scoop, they lose sight of people.
AJ: You have a job to do, I understand.
Scott: Speaking of relationships in the news, is your fiancé, Car, with you today? We’d like to meet him.
AJ: No, he couldn’t make it. He had a prior commitment.
Jeff taps me on the shoulder. “The band is setting up.”
Swerving around, I see my bandmates strolling across the field dressed casually in shorts and tank tops. Seeing them makes me eager to play and sing. The concert is going to be fun.
Vickie notices me and waves. Signaling I’m on my way, I hop down from my chair. “Better go.”
He slides down from his chair. “Thanks for today . . . it-it’s been fun.”” With a grin, I confess. “More fun than I thought it would be. Thank you.”
Scott
Olivia McConnell, my producer and the goddess of all research, discovered footage of Ray and Myra James performing in concert while digging through the archives Sam inherited from the defunct Nashville Morning Show. She sent three videotapes by a runner over to Music City Park in the middle of the Red, White, and Blue Forever fireworks finale.
I glance at the runner as he hands me three cassettes in the glow of exploding rockets. “She has nothing better to do on a holiday?”
He shakes his head. “It’s sad.”
There is a note taped to the first cassette.
Check out ten-year-old Aubrey on this one. Olivia Back in my apartment, sunburned, tired, and a little queasy from my sixth hot dog, I twist open a bottle of FRESH! citrus water and drop to the couch with my remote.
“Okay, Olivia, what’d you send me?”
When I press Play, the tape deck whirs and clicks. In the next second, Ray James walks across my TV screen holding onto a light-wood, polished guitar. He’s wearing blue jeans with a tucked-in button-down shirt, a wide leather belt, and cowboy boots. Any other day or time I’d guess him to be George Strait without the hat. There’s an ease about him, as if being on stage, singing about Jesus, is as right as rain.
Without a doubt, Aubrey inherited his charm. From the moment he smiles and greets the crowd, I can tell he’s real and genuine. His character emanates from this twenty-year-old tape.
After he greets the audience—looks like a large church congregation— Ray James introduces his wife, Myra. I jolt forward as she enters. Aubrey is the image of her mother, right down to her delicate features, long chestnut hair, almond-shaped eyes, and lean body.
Whistling low, I up the volume. The tape is starting to connect the dots for me.
Ray and Myra sing a half dozen songs in a style that seems dated now but was cutting-edge in the day—a country rock sound with a dash of Motown. I swig my water, musing over how much Christian music has morphed since the ’80s.
“Now, I’d like to introduce the real stars of the James family.” Ray motions stage right. “Our children, Peter and Aubrey.”
A tall, gangly boy with dark punked hair walks on stage holding the hand of . . . I put my fist to my lips, trying not to spew water all over my leather couch. Swallowing hard, I gag and cough, then laugh, slapping my knee.
Aubrey is almost as tall as her brother and twice as gangly. Her face sparkles from too much ’80s makeup. And her hair . . . oh my. It’s like a bomb went off. She looks like . . . No. The camera zooms in on her.
I burst out laughing. Aubrey looks like a mini Rosanne Rosannadanna from Saturday Night Live. Inside NashVegas fans won’t believe this. The lost tapes of Rosanne Rosannadanna, played by Aubrey James.
Grabbing my pen and paper, I make notes, rewinding the tape, laughing still.
After a couple of family songs, young Aubrey moves to center stage, alone. The lights go down except for a single spot that falls on the future queen of country soul. My humor over her wild hair dissipates.
The music behind her is subtle and ten-year-old Aubrey sways back and forth, her face to the light, eyes closed. Wearing an oversized pastel-green belted shirt, with black leggings and black flats, she could’ve been a cast member for Blossom. But when she starts to sing, the tall bony kid with too much hair becomes pure magic.
The song feels deep and personal, like a love song. Aubrey holds the last note of the verse, raising her free arm over her head. The drums escalate the dynamic of the song. The electric guitar wails and young Aubrey James leans into the music and belts out the chorus.
And then I saw the Man,
Who hung on that tree,
Wounded, bleeding, all because of me.
Nailed to a cross, dying so I can live,
He loves me eternal. That is why I’m His.
Tears surprise my eyes. I sniff and blink. Cough. Swig my water. Ten-year-old Aubrey is anointed, and capturing me.
As she sings the chorus a second time, the camera pans the audience. They’re on their feet, arms raised, heads tipped back, many with tears streaming down their cheeks. Enraptured, they seem oblivious to the girl on stage pouring out her heart and soul. They don’t see Aubrey. They see Jesus.
Salty tears pool in the corner of my mouth, and I don’t wipe them away. Snatching up the remote, I rewind. Again. And again.
It’s approaching midnight when I fast-forward through the last tape Olivia sent over. Pretty much the same footage as the first, but a different venue, mostly without Peter and Aubrey. Taking out the tape, I slip in the first one again and watch Aubrey one last time. When the song ends, and I cut off the TV, silence rings in my ears.
Collapsing against the back of the couch, I close my eyes, unable to shake the image of Aubrey singing, undone by the love it awakened in me. When did I start to grow cold?
Pressing my hand over my heart, I half expect to feel the chill.
12
“Aubrey James wasn’t the greatest basketball player, but she had more heart than the whole team combined. But her three-point shot? Money in the bank every time. And she loved to win.”
—Coach Phoebe King, The Tennessean
I shut my office door the next morning and fish out Jeremiah Couch’s number. Since watching the James family tapes last night, I can’t get Ray, Myra, Peter, and Aubrey out of my head.
What I saw of Peter James, I liked. Fast-forward twenty years, I guess he’s about my age, or close to it. Great voice. Excellent guitarist. His interactions with Aubrey seemed sincere, loving, and affectionate.
So why is he AWOL?
I dial Jeremiah. Then press End before the first ring. Would she want this? Certainly she has enough resources to take care of the matter herself. Reaching for my mini bat, I pace around my desk. Think. What would she want? I dial again, choosing to be a lion rather than a chicken.
Jeremiah answers.
“Jer, Scott Vaughn here.”
“Scott, my man. How are you?”
“Good. You?” I flop down in my chair, knocking my knee against the desk’s edge.
“Can’t complain. What’s up?”
“I wonder if the best private detective in the city could do me a favor?”
He laughs. “Favor? Or job?”
I rub my knee. It still stings from banging against the desk “Job, really. But I can’t go too far with this. I’ve limited funds.”
“You have limited funds, or that tight wad Sam Watson has limited funds?”
“Me.” I’m not ready to take this to Sam yet.
“What’s the favor?”
“See if you can find a Peter James, born in Nashville. Current whereabouts unknown.”
“Peter James? Holy smokes, Vaughn, which one of the thousands would you like me to track down? Only thing worse is John Smit
h or Tom Jones.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re the best. Peter James is all I have namewise. He’s the son of gospel legends Ray and Myra James, around thirty-two years old. Brother to country superstar Aubrey James.”
“No kidding. And she wants me to find him?”
“No . . .”
Jer’s exhale is loud. “Scott, what are you doing?” His tone challenges me.
Rocking back in my chair, I stretch out my knee. “I’m doing an exclusive on Aubrey this summer. She mentioned her brother was AWOL, and . . .”
“The last time you tried to help two people connect, Inside NashVegas almost got sued.”
“Why do you think I’m leaving Sam out? Look, if I can find Peter James, talk to him, maybe we can arrange a reunion.” I still see Aubrey’s expression and hear the sad tone in her voice when she said, “AWOL.”
“What’s your time frame?”
“Yesterday.”
Jeremiah whistles. “I’ll see what I can do. Listen, consider this a favor for now. We’ve been slow this summer, but if I start burning too many daylight hours on it, I’m going to have to charge you.”
“I understand.”
“If you can find out more, like a middle name, social, birth date, city last seen, shoot me an e-mail.”
“No paper trail, Jer.”
“Have it your way. Call me, then.”
Hanging up, I walk over to the window and gaze down into the city street, not sure I’ve done the right thing, but unwilling to call off the search. I’d envisioned this whole interview with Aubrey as one huge pain in the backside. But now . . .
13
“Scott Vaughn here for Inside the Music’s special feature, ‘Inside the Diva Life,’ an intimate look at the life of Aubrey James. Join us Monday mornings throughout September as I chat with the queen of country soul.”
Aubrey
Since the covered porch is airy and open, and the home of my never-used built-in stainless steel grill, Inside NashVegas sets up outside for the cooking segment. There’s even enough counter space for prepping and chopping.
The July day is blue and beautiful, and slightly cool for midmorning. The ceiling fans spin gently over our heads, stirring the breeze. Around us, Juan’s garden blooms with an array of blues, yellows, greens, purples, reds, and pinks, trimming the green, thick lawn like a floral wreath.
I feel rested, even content. Last week’s Sandlott concert was a blast—Jennifer Nettles so blows me away with her power pipes—and ticket sales raised over fifty thousand dollars for the city’s youth athletic league. An excellent prize for such a comparatively small venue.
Car and I had a nice weekend just hanging around the house. The tension from me missing his parents’ Fourth of July party has dissipated.
Then Dave Whitestone and I spent most of Monday discussing my new album and how to record it in a month.
“Nathan is not going to stand for me to do something different. He wants the standard Aubrey James album. Big voice. Drive-time appeal.” Dave shook his head. “I don’t want to give up our idea. We can still get Aubrey James, queen of country soul, but with a different type of song. A different feel. I’ve met a new songwriter, Robin Rivers, and I got a hunch you two will connect. She’s your lawyer’s cousin, by the way.”
“Really? Skyler Banks has a songwriting cousin. She’s holding out on me.”
“I heard Robin over at James Chastain’s place—he’s her biological father—and she blew everyone away. She’s married to Janie Leeds’s ex-fiancé, Lee Rivers.”
I gaped at Dave. “James Chastain has a daughter? The same Music Row legend who makes artists weep and songwriters gnash their teeth? How could a guy like that dare to have a daughter?”
Dave laughs. “Robin was raised by her mom and her dad in Alabama. Jim is a new development. Anyway, I’d like you to consider her.”
So Dave and I mapped out a plan to record an album in a month.
“Hey, you, over there. Daydreaming?” Scott’s resonant voice breaks my reminiscing.
“A little.” I walk over to the grill where Gina is helping Scott set up. “Are we ready to cook?”
“Almost.” He looks into my eyes. “You all right?”
Swallow. The rich tone of his voice sends a warm tingle down the back of my neck. “I’m fine.”
Scott stands back and surveys the cooking set up. “Gina, I think we’re ready. Chicken? Check. Portabellas, green peppers, scallions, yellow squash? Check. Tinfoil? Check. Spices, extra-virgin olive oil, grill? Check. Knives—”
“Phone to dial 9-1-1?” I hold up the portable. “Check.”
“Very funny.” Scott tightens the ties of his Kiss the Chef apron. “Who knew the diva had such a sense of humor?”
“Yeah, who knew? She’s such a snot.” I slip on the only apron I could find. It was hanging on a hook in the back of the pantry. Gina doesn’t wear an apron, and I certainly have no need of one.
“Never said that—” Scott stops, wagging his hand toward my off-white burlap apron. “Are you wearing that for the show?”
“Yes, why?”
“You look like a fajita.”
I retort by flicking white flour in Scott’s face. Gina snickers while Piper laughs outright from her gallery seat—the wicker chair on the far side of the porch.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just saying . . .” Scott gestures to my apron again. “Fajita.”
I defend myself with a huff. “I happen to like fajitas.”
Scott gives the apron tie a gentle tug. “Yeah, me too.”
He makes my insides flutter again. Scott Vaughn, what is it about you? With a quick, jerky motion, I snatch up a knife. “What do I do?” My gaze roams the bowls of fresh vegetables.
“Hold on, let me do a little intro for our Inside NashVegas audience.” Scott smiles at Rafe’s camera. “Three, two, one . . . For your Labor Day cookout, Aubrey James and I are going to show you how to make Scott Vaughn’s easy fried chicken and veggies on the grill. Trust me, you’re going to love it. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .”
I listen as Scott explains how to prepare the meat and the vegetables. He’s so natural and confident in front of the camera, witty and real.
That’s what I like about you.
He faces me. “Ready, Aubrey?”
With a quick smile, I nod. “Ready.”
Gina laughs behind her hand. “Scott, seriously, she burns water.”
“Hey, now.” I shake my knife at her. “I didn’t burn the water, just the pan boiling the water.”
“What were you trying to make?” Scott asks.
“Tea,” I mumble.
“Tea? In a pan? And you burned it?”
With the camera on his shoulder, Rafe moves gracefully around us. “She did. I’m telling you, Scott, beware,” Gina warns.
Laughing, I wink at her. “Why do you think I keep you around?”
Scott drops a tomato and green pepper onto the cutting board. “Aubrey, cut these into quarters? Can you do that?”
I square my shoulders. “I’m not a complete imbecile.”
“Just in case . . .” Scott shoves me aside, reaching for the pepper. “Cut like this . . .”
His subtle clean fragrance mingles with the spicy aroma of the pepper, and without much thought, I lean against him to watch. It’s crazy, I know, but I like being around him. He makes me feel . . . safe. He’s sweet, kind, and funny, with very kissable . . . Stop.
I glance down at Car’s ring, feeling ashamed. “S-so what are you saying? I’m sorry, I, um, lost my train of thought.”
“You . . . cut out the middle . . . like this . . .” Scott’s words are punchy and low. “You . . . um . . . cut . . . like . . . a-hem . . . and . . .” He looks over at me. “And . . . Are you getting this . . .” Scott drops the knife and grabs his hand. “Man—”
“What happened? Are you all right?” I pry his hand away to examine his wound. Blood oozes down his finger.
&n
bsp; “Here, let me.” Gina takes command, walking Scott inside to her mini medical center in the downstairs guest bathroom.
I follow. “Is it bad?”
“The cut is deep, but he won’t need stitches,” Dr. Gina declares. “You disappoint me, Scott.” She dabs the away the blood with gauze before applying ointment and bandaging up the gash. “I expected this of Aubrey. Not you.”
Scott leans to see around her. “Yeah, me too.” He smiles. My heart jumps.
“I-I’ll be on the porch.” Whirling around, I shake the image of his white smile from my mind’s eye. Okay, I’m attracted to him. No big deal. Passing fancy. Just a pre-wedding crush.
In a few minutes, we’re back on track, Scott’s wound doctored and his dignity slightly restored. While he preps the meat and talks to the camera, I resume chopping veggies, careful to keep my fingers clear of the sharp blade.
“Scott, you don’t mind if I just cut up the vegetables and not my hand, do you?”
He flicks flour at my face. “Coward.”
I duck away from the powdery cloud. “What happened to you looked painful.”
He laughs. “Never mind, just start cutting.”
Rafe zeros in on me as I cut my first veggie. “Here we go Nashville . . . Please, do not try this at home.” When faced with an uncomfortable situation, a certain goofy savoirfaire comes over me.
Setting a green pepper on the cutting board, I raise the knife over my head, and with a samurai warrior cry—“Hiya!”—I whack the pepper, execution style. The knife thuds against the cutting board, shooting the pepper halves across the porch like green bullets. One fires at Scott’s head. The other wings across the porch, slapping into the wall before landing on the granite floor.
Rafe lowers the camera. “Holy cow, girl.”
“Mercy—” Gina inhales.
“Have you gone crazy?” Piper picks up the pepper half from the floor.
I cock my hip to one side. “I hate peppers.”
Scott’s laughter fills the porch. Catching his breath, he reproves me with a raw chicken breast dangling from his hand. “All right, you, no more executing veggies. Got that?”