by Rachel Hauck
I stick my tongue out at him. “Spoilsport.”
We fall into a chopping and prepping rhythm while talking about our favorite dishes.
“My mom makes the best biscuits,” Scott says.
“My momma made a wonderful chili,” I say. “And hot buttery corn bread. We’d come home from school on a wintry day, our noses running, our cheeks red, and she’d have a fire in the fireplace, chili on the stove.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in. “The smell was wonderful and the house felt warm and cozy.”
The memory strikes me as some odd fairy tale. Wonderful but not true.
Scott draws a sheet of tinfoil from the box and tears it away, explaining to the camera. “Prepare your tinfoil with about two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil. Mix finely crushed bread crumbs—or flour, if you prefer—with your favorite spices. I use garlic and rosemary.”
He’s mixing and rolling. I ask, “What do I do?”
“You’re going to make tinfoil boats for the veggies.” With quick hands, he demonstrates for me and the Inside NashVegas viewers how to make tinfoil boats. “Add the olive oil, salt and pepper, fresh garlic, and seal them shut.”
Concentrating on the tinfoil boats, I realize I’m actually enjoying this grill-out day. “Now what?”
“We’re ready to grill. Aubrey, why don’t you do the honors?” Scott gestures to the shiny grill-beast. “Fire it up.”
Fire it up? Sure. Not a problem. Except how to fire it up. Wiping my hands down the sides of my apron, I consider the knobs and buttons. Rafe follows me, zooming in on my confusion. Scott watches and waits. Gina and Piper huddle in the corner, holding back their big grins.
For about sixty seconds, I simply stand there, perplexed, then look back at Gina. “How’s it work?”
Scott gasps. “You’re kidding.”
I shake my head. “Wish I was.”
He motions for me to step aside, rubbing his hands together. “Let the expert.” Facing the grill, he mutters, “Let’s see. A grill is a grill.”
“It’s tricky,” Gina calls.
Studying the knobs, Scott points to one. “Turn this to Light, see? And then press this button to ignite.”
I nod. “Turn to Light, press this to ignite. Got it.”
He stoops down and opens the front panel doors. “I’ll open the gas valves.”
“Okay. Say when.” I poise my finger. Light and ignite.
“ The valve is stuck. When did you use this last?”
“Gina?” I ask, my finger still hovering over the button.
“Last summer, maybe. It’s been a while,” she says.
“The valves are slightly rusted. Don’t turn the knob to Light yet.” Scott stoops lower, his face even with the grill rack. “Almost . . . okay, Aubrey, you can—”
I turn the dial to Light.
“Now, just—”
I mash the Ignite switch.
Poof! Fire explodes from the grill bed, consuming the racks . . . and Scott. He falls to the granite floor with his face buried in his hands.
I drop to my knees next to him. “Oh my gosh, are you all right? I’m so sorry!”
“Burns . . .”
I press my hands over my middle, horrified. “Oh, Scott. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Gina gently moves me out of the way. “Put this over your eyes, Scott.” She hands him a damp cloth.
“Scott, I didn’t mean it—” My apology is punctuated with short gasps. I feel ill. What if he’d been seriously hurt?
“Let me see.” Gina pries the cloth away from his face.
A deep pink colors his face, accented with black smudges. And . . . “Oh, man.” Rafe lowers the camera.
“What?” Scott asks, wincing as he shifts his gaze from Rafe’s to me. “What?”
Rafe shakes his head with a guttural sound.
Shoving himself off the porch floor, Scott dashes inside. I look at Piper, and try as we might, we cannot hold our laugh.
In the next moment, Scott’s broad shoulders fill the porch doorway. “Aubrey James, you seared off my eyebrows.”
14
When Car arrives home after another downtown SoBro development dinner, I’m in bed, e-mailing.
“Finally . . . home.” When he leans to kiss me, jerking his tie loose, George growls low, baring his teeth.
“Stop,” I hiss at him, setting my laptop aside, returning Car’s kiss. “How’d the dinner go?”
Car tosses his keys and pocket change onto the dresser. “Too many people with too many opinions.”
At his closet, he stuffs his white shirt into the dry cleaner bag. “By the way, Mom wants tea with you tomorrow at three.”
“What?” I look up from nuzzling George. “Just like that? Come to tea tomorrow?” I point to the clock. “It’s after ten p.m., Car.”
“Brie—”
“Car, she can’t summon me like I’m one of her servants. Tomorrow at three? What if I’m busy?”
“Are you?”
I scrunch down into the pillows. “No, but still.”
He steps out of his trousers. “She’s concerned about the tabloids and the blogosphere.”
“Car, no.” I pull the covers over my head. “I’m not discussing my life with your mother.” The idea makes me queasy.
The mattress yields as Car sits next to me and yanks back the covers. “Believe me, she’s more intimidated by you than you of her.”
I sit up. “Hardly. The grand dame of Belle Meade? The queen? I’m a mere entertainer.”
Car laughs and kisses my cheek. “You’ll be fine. Do what I do: nod your head and mutter, ‘Yes, ma’am, you’re right’ as much as possible.”
I bob my head, grinning. “Yes, sir, you’re right, sir.”
Laughing, Car wraps me in his arms and quiets me with a kiss.
Dear Jen,
I meant to e-mail you days ago. Is this a busy summer or what? Congratulations on deciding to go to the University of Oklahoma. I’m very proud of you!
Funny about your old “flame” Josh. I hope he finds happiness. Anyway, speaking of marriage . . .
I’m engaged. (Ahhhh!) Car asked me to marry him.
Can you believe it? He’s a great guy, Jen. Handsome, successful, from an old, established Nashville family.
I’ve been thinking a lot about family lately. Don’t know what it is about this summer, but all points of my life seem to be merging. After fourteen years, I still ache for Daddy and Momma. Peter is who-knows-where. I stopped trying to contact him after the last time. The memory of our conversation, short as it was, still makes me wince.
But with Car, there’s hope of gaining a family. His parents are major socialites, members of elite clubs and various charities. He’s an only child, but he has family— second, third, and fourth cousins—all over Nashville and middle Tennessee. I’ve only been to one family get-together, but it was large and fun, if not a tad overwhelming. I think I told you about the lake gathering.
This summer is about change for me. Perhaps finally closing all the doors on my past so I can realize my future. We shall see. Pray for me? Hello to your parents.
Much love,
Myra
Piper insisted I wear a bold orange Tory Burch top and a pair of Prada wedges for my tea with Mrs. Carmichael.
Her theory? “A woman always feels confident in wedges.”
As I approach the Carmichael’s grand double doors, a maid wearing a gray dress and a starched white apron greets me. “She’s waiting for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Following the woman down a long, dark corridor, I wonder how tea with the queen of Belle Meade can be more nerve-wracking than tea with the very proper and staid queen of England.
Never mind that Prada wedges are doing nothing for my confidence.
“Miss James, ma’am.” The maid bows and backs away.
Poised with a fixed smile, Mrs. Carmichael greets me with her manicured hands stretched out. She’s beautiful, sophistication wrapped in a pale pink linen su
it. Her blonde hair is short and stylish, her figure trim and curved in all the right places.
“Aubrey, dear.” She clasps the tips of my fingers with hers and draws me close, kissing the air beside my cheek. Her skin is warm next to mine and, I’m sure, freshly Botoxed.
“Thank you for inviting me to tea, Mrs. Carmichael.”
“Ah, now, are we on such formal terms?” She steps back, still holding my fingers. “Call me Grace, please.” Her smile is still fixed, but perhaps Car was right. She’s as intimidated by me as I am of her.
Moisture coats my hands. “All right, Mrs. Car—Grace.”
She releases her grip and returns to her chair at the head of the table. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Aubrey. What are you going to do about your bad press and dragging the Carmichael name through the mud?” Her eyes are steely.
I set my purse on the floor by my chair and grip my hands in my lap. “Bad press? I can hardly rein in the media. They print what they want.”
Grace spreads a linen napkin across her lap and rings a tiny silver bell. “I realize you showbiz people have your own moral code and way of life”—her tone is patronizing—”and perhaps thrive on being tabloid news, but Aubrey, you are marrying a Carmichael. We have our own code of conduct, our own rules and traditions that must be observed.”
My hands shake as I spread my napkin over my legs. “Grace, being tabloid news is not a value of mine, trust me.”
She rings the little bell again. “My friends tell me they see your face every week on the cover of some ragtag magazine. Perhaps this is from your lack of upbringing, but you must learn to be discreet. Let me advise you, cancel the Inside NashVegas interview.”
Lack of upbringing? My heart thunders at her insult. “The Inside NashVegas interview is set and, quite frankly, none of your business—” “You made it my business when you accepted my son’s ring. Such as it was . . .”
“Pardon me?”
A different maid, with freckled skin, appears pushing a cart of tea and pastries. Grace quiets as the woman fills our cups and offers us a treat from a platter. I pick a cinnamon scone, though I’m not sure I can swallow it.
“Anything else, ma’am?” the maid asks.
“You’re dismissed, Bonnie.” Grace sweetens her tea, adding a drop of cream. “Car assures me the coliseum proposal was his idea.”
“Then believe him, Grace.” I flick a packet of Splenda against my fingers. “He surprised me. I had no idea. We had barely discussed marriage.” “Nevertheless, the fact remains you’ll be my son’s wife, my daughter-in-law, a Carmichael.”
“I understand, and am honored to become a member of the family.”
Her smile is quick, almost as if she doubts me. “Adjustments will need to be made.”
“Such as?”
“Avoiding the tabloids and those infernal bloggers.”
“Grace, the issue is they don’t avoid me.”
“Make our family holidays more of a priority.”
“I apologize for missing the Fourth, but I have my own tradition.”
“And Easter at the beach.”
“I can hardly cancel a stadium concert for a beach weekend.”
“Something will have to give then, won’t it?”
“Yes, on both sides.” She can’t sincerely believe I’m the only one who must bend.
“The Carmichaels and Beechums were early settlers in these parts—” She continues as if I’ve said nothing at all. “Founding members of our great city. We’ve been leaders and business innovators since the Revolutionary War. Both my husband’s and my ancestors came to salvation under Sam Jones’s preaching. Our men helped build the Ryman. We have a name and honor to protect.”
Breaking off a corner of my scone with the tip of my fork, I ponder her implication. “Innovators? I see. Does that include the moonshiners who ran hooch down from the hills? And the Carmichaels’ fifty-year feud with the Murdocks?”
Her expression does not change. She appears to be presiding over a grand court. “Before the Second World War, a set of Carmichael sisters married into the Winston family. They were the bootleggers.”
“Grace, all families have skeletons in the closet. It’s no shame. And all families have honor and traditions they uphold. Including mine.” Though I’m not sure of all the James and Roth family traditions, I intend to keep the ones I know.
“Dear,” Grace says with a lilt, “which of your family traditions are you upholding, hmm?”
Her tone heightens my defenses. “The traditions of music and serving others.”
She sips her tea, tapping the bottom of her cup with her fingernails. “Perhaps you should adhere to your family’s gospel roots and stop cavorting around, telling the world about your relations with past lovers and my son.”
“Mrs. Carmichael—” Calling her Grace is too intimate in this formal conversation. “You may find this shocking, but your son seduced me.”
“You are very sensual and beautiful, Aubrey.”
For a moment, my thoughts swirl like a violent wind, and fury grips me. She can’t be serious. Implying Car had no control over his actions, that I’m some sort of Helen of Troy.
When I force myself to peer at her, my ire fades. I see her with new eyes. She’s confined to the social prejudices in which she was born and raised. She’s without freedom to venture out into the world and discover all it’s beauty. While I love to discover the rubies and emeralds buried in the heart of others, she only mines for diamonds.
Is this where I push away from the table and bid her good day? Or do I endure for Car’s sake? “Mrs. Carmichael, I love your son.”
“Do you?”
Is she going to challenge every word?
“As much as I’m marrying a Carmichael, your son is marrying a woman with a public persona. The press, the image, the invasion that comes with a public life cannot be avoided.”
The blue-blood southern belle lifts her teacup and stares beyond me. “We all thought Car would marry Tammy Arbuckle.” She chortles. “They were such sweethearts all through college. I don’t know what happened.”
Folding my napkin, I tuck it under my plate and reach down for my handbag. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Carmichael.”
She looks up, undisturbed by my abrupt departure. “Thank you for coming. And please, don’t forget our conversation, dear.”
“Not even in my dreams.”
15
“Aubrey James stole the D from Demanding and put it in Diva. I love her for it.”
—Zach Roberts, Roberts Management
Odd. My house is sprouting furniture. There’s a new table in the foyer and a plasma TV hanging on the wall in the great room. In the downstairs office, there’s a new computer and desk. And a plaque on the wall:
In Appreciation to Brown “Car” Carmichael III
City of Belle Meade
Is he moving in?
Strolling through the foyer to Gina’s office, I peer inside. Her redwood desk is neatly cluttered with piles of bills and papers—all the things she does to manage the household. Her nineteen-inch TV is on, but muted. She likes to keep up with her soaps. “Been watching All My Children for thirty-five years. They’re practically family.”
On the other side of the foyer, the formal living room is still white walled and spartan. No sign of new furniture.
The grandfather clock chimes twice. As if on cue, the doorbell rings. I open to Dave standing on the other side with his guitar.
“Come in.” I give him a slight hug.
“Ready to write?” He pats his guitar case.
“It’s been so long.” I wince, motioning down the hall. “We can work in the music room.”
“Got any of Gina’s chocolate-chip cookies?” Dave asks, grinning. “Didn’t have time for lunch.”
I tip my head toward the door. “Go check. If she doesn’t, I’m sure she’ll make some.”
Dave returns a second later with Gina shoving his back. “Apparently I’m not allowed
in the kitchen.”
I look up from tuning my Ovation.
“You work, I’ll bring refreshments in a moment. Gee whiz, been here five seconds and you already have your hand in my cookie jar.” Gina whirls around with a huff.
Dave rubs his hand as if they were slapped. “Didn’t know you had a kitchen gestapo.” “Careful now, they don’t come any better than Gina.”
Dave settles on the piano bench with his guitar. “I checked Robin’s schedule on her MySpace. She’s playing at the Bluebird a week from Saturday. We should go.”
“If we plan to use her, I suppose we should. You think your instincts are right? She and I will click?”
Dave shrugs. “I don’t know her as well as I know you, but my hunch is you are twins separated at birth.”
I smile. “Always wanted a sister.”
We spend the afternoon playing around with melodies and lyrics, not getting very far song wise, but the process stirs my dormant creativity, and my songwriting confidence eeks to the surface.
Just like that? Without asking me?”
“I’m practically living here anyway.” Car sets his laptop down in his new office, flipping through the mail lying on the edge of his desk. “I bought a few pieces of furniture and decided to have them delivered here.”
“And, your mail?” I point to the change of address sticker.
“It was a hassle to keep going by my place.”
“Car, the United States Post Office knew you were living here before me.”
Sitting on the side of the desk, he lifts his hands. “Okay, let’s discuss this.”
“This sucks, Car. I feel like the whiny baby here, but you’re the one who decided to move in without talking to me.”
He shrugs. “Are you saying you don’t want me to move in?”
His statement sparks a head-splitting debate. We wander down every rabbit trail of our relationship, from my personal bank account to his mother’s expectations, from his business dealings to how my fame effects his life. The argument leaves me cold, feeling abandoned on the other side of the battle line.
“So, where are we here?” I press my fingers to my temples. How could two intelligent people talk so long without finding a resolution. “Me moving in.”