Diva NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  “Right.” Full circle. Our words took us nowhere. I look around for a place to sit, but there is none. “You’ll need a chair.”

  “Bringing the furniture from my home office.”

  “The burgundy suede set?”

  “The very same.”

  “It’ll look nice.” My headache eases a little. “I suppose you’ll want to paint in here.”

  “Called a guy yesterday.” Car stretches out and pulls me into his arms. “Are we okay here?”

  I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “Please, don’t pull crap like this without talking to me. I would never do this to you.”

  He brushes my hair off my shoulders. “All right. But sometimes—”

  “Car . . .” I gaze into his eyes.

  “All right.” He wraps his arms around me. “All right.”

  16

  Scott

  Thursday, July 12

  Sam tosses me a box of new golf balls when he walks into my office after the morning show.

  “Nice show this morning with Hannah. Liked your Sandlotter piece.” He folds himself into the chair opposite my desk and gestures to my face. “Those things going to grow back soon?”

  “Hopefully.” I trace the bare skin over my eyes, then hold up the golf balls. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.” He leans forward, smiling like a New York gangster. “Just congratulations.”

  “For . . .”

  Sam points. “Read the logo.”

  I open the package. The golf balls are labled. Inside NashVegas on CMT. I grin. “So, it’s a done deal?”

  Sam reclines in the chair. “We debut during November sweeps with Aubrey’s story, ‘Inside the Diva Life,’ then pick up a time slot the first quarter of next year.”

  I wrap my fist around the ball and punch the air in silent victory.

  “Your interview with Aubrey put us in the pocket.”

  Glancing at my watch—Need to leave for Aubrey’s in a minute—I ask, “When do I move into my sports director office?”

  Sam gets up and strolls over to the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. “You’re certainly my top candidate.”

  “Top candidate?” I bolt out of my chair. “Why am I not the only candidate, Sam? Inside the Game is my creation. Part of the deal with doing the Aubrey James interview.”

  He turns the doorknob. “Come on, Vaughn, you weren’t born yesterday. You know how these things go. They put us on a national network, we do a little tap dance with talent, producers, directors. Got to give a little.”

  My eyes narrow. “And why does the giving have to be my sports director job?”

  “Hopefully, it won’t.” He steps into the hallway.

  “Sam, don’t belly up on me. Sacrifice someone else.” I hate the idea of dogging a fellow crew member, but the director job is mine.

  “Vaughn, CMT wants us to consider someone else, that’s all. And, uh . . .” He can’t look at me. “They mentioned a coanchor team they’d like to bring on board.” Sam holds up his hands. “All part of the dance. Don’t worry. We’re still negotiating.”

  “Who’s the coanchor team?”

  Sam takes a few steps down the hall like he’s in a hurry to leave. “Todd Knight and Chip McGuire.”

  Knight and McGuire. Perfect. Big names from ESPN. This whole dance scenario is pure bull. “It’s a done deal, isn’t it?”

  Sam ducks his head. “My hands were tied. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What? I’m fired?”

  “No, you’re going to Miami the first week of August. Got a Miami Dolphins player who owns a sports bar, moonlights as a country singer in the off season. CMT thought it would make a good opener in January.”

  “A singing Dolphin.” I fire the CMT golf ball at my wall. “Just great.”

  In Aubrey’s great room, I hold the video of her ten-year-old performance with rippling thoughts on circulating my résumé. Blasted Sam.

  But the moment Aubrey walks in, my turbulent thoughts cease, although my heart races. She has this aura about her—graceful and larger than life. If her life’s journey had taken her down a simpler road, she would still be a star. Somehow.

  “Ready?” I ask, motioning to her chair.

  “If you are.” She smiles, but I notice the famous light in her blue-green eyes isn’t as bright.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  I wave her off. “I’m fine. Long morning.”

  “What time do you have to wake up for the show?”

  “Three.” I hand the videocassette to Rafe who walks it over to the player.

  She shakes her head. “On the road, that’s when I go to bed.”

  “We have a surprise for you, Aubrey.” I take my place in the chair opposite her.

  A quizzical expression molds her face. “What kind of surprise?”

  “You’ll like this one.” I check to see if Rafe’s ready. “Aubrey, nice plasma TV. Is it new?”

  “Yes, a recent surprise.”

  “I see.” Plasma TV? Not a nice diva surprise. “Ready, Rafe.”

  Piper comes around and sits on the edge of the couch. “What’s this?” “Something Olivia found,” I answer over my shoulder.

  A second later, Ray James appears on the screen. Aubrey gasps. “Daddy.”

  “He looks so young,” Piper mutters.

  Ray James introduces his son and daughter. Twelve-year-old Peter and ten-year-old Aubrey walk toward him, their faces beaming.

  “How old are you there? Ten?” I ask.

  “Yes. W-where did you find this?”

  “They were in the archives from the old Nashville Morning Morning Show.”

  As soon as Peter starts his guitar solo, Aubrey begins to weep. Piper slips her arm around Aubrey’s shoulder. “I miss him so much.” Her cheeks are smudged with watery mascara.

  “You have an incredible solo coming up,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t count on the tape having this much emotional impact.

  “Yes, ‘The Man.’ The song I wrote with Daddy.” As the spotlight zeros in on the young Aubrey James, the older rises from the couch. “I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Aubrey,” Piper calls after her. “Honey . . .”

  Jumping up, I follow Aubrey out of the room. “Door at the end of the hall, upstairs.” Piper calls to me.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I chastise myself. Should’ve warned her. The heels of my loafers echo down the hall as I approach the closed door. “Aubrey?” There’s no response, so I knock lightly while turning the knob. “Can I come in?” The door eases open.

  She’s sitting sideways on a country-style blue couch staring toward the bay windows. Her chin is propped in her hand. From the odd angle, I can see the tear tracks in her makeup.

  “Interesting décor in here. The whole boxes-everywhere thing. I like it.”

  She shrugs, chewing on the end of her thumbnail. “I like it.”

  Since she doesn’t order me away, I pick a path through the boxes to where she sits. “I’m sorry. I never imagined seeing them on video would be so emotional.”

  She faces forward, wiping her face with her fingers. “Me, neither.”

  “Something was wrong before I got here, though.”

  Aubrey reaches for a fringed throw pillow. “Car’s moving in.”

  “Darn him.” I pound my fist against my palm.

  She pinches her lips together, fighting a smile. “You make fun, but we didn’t talk about him moving in. He decided on his own. We fought over it, made up, but the tension is still tangible.”

  Gesturing to a row of boxes, I ask, “What’s all this stuff?”

  “Memories. Things that belonged to my parents.” She points the tip of her shoe at a water-stained box. “I stored them in Connie’s basement after we sold my parent’s house, and they got caught in a flood.”
r />   “So you moved to high, dry ground?” I push back one of the box’s flaps to peek inside. Looks like knickknacks.

  She hugs the pillow closer. “I had this idea of creating a memorial to my parents, but there’s a wide chasm between wanting and doing.”

  “Best-laid plans . . .” In another box, I find photo albums and pull one free.

  “Momma was an only child,” she says. “Daddy had a brother in California we rarely saw. Both sets of grandparents had passed away when I was a child, so when my parents were killed, Peter and I were truly alone. A few kooky relatives came out of the woodwork after I became famous, but they were just looking for money.”

  “Aubrey, I’m sorry about the tape.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t be—you didn’t know.”

  “Still . . .” I hold her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  She wipes away fresh tears, thinking for a moment. “It’s fine, really.”

  “Do you want to call it a day?”

  She exhales. “No, but let’s invite Rafe up here.”

  17

  “Life dealt her a rough hand. But she played the game and won.”

  —James Chastain, president of Nashville Noise

  Scott: Your parents were pioneers in gospel music, blending the new contemporary sound of the ’80s with soul and country sounds of the ’70s. How’d they get started?

  AJ: Daddy grew up in the ’60s, playing in garage bands from the time he was young. Thirteen, I think. He was into the ’60s psychedelic scene. But he loved sports and music.

  One summer, ’71 or ’72, one of the members of his garage band organized a “tour” and off they went. No guarantees, no manager, just the yee-haw thrill of going on tour. They slept in their VW microbus. Washed in rest-stop bathrooms. Naturally, a bunch of musicians with no manager ended up in the wrong place at the right time. They thought they were doing a rock concert but found themselves playing for a church camp in Georgia.

  While waiting to perform his Doors-like rock music, Daddy listened to the preacher and learned for the first time God loved him. It changed his life.

  Scott: How old was he at this time?

  AJ: Twenty-two or -three. The quintessential hippy turned Jesus freak.

  I love the old pictures of Daddy with his long hair and raggedy bell bottoms. And Momma with a crown of daisies on her head. Scott: Your mother was a Jesus freak too?

  AJ: Not the quintessential kind. She was the innocent, goodiegoodie college cheerleader. Such opposites, my parents. Daddy’s band played at Momma’s church on the invitation of the pastor’s son. Little Alliance Baptist was overrun with a bunch of longhaired, antiestablishment, antireligious, rock and roll-loving teens and twenty-somethings. Daddy’s band set up drums [gasp] in the sanctuary, and brought in electric guitars and a portable Hammond. They turned Alliance Baptist on its ear.

  Scott: [chuckling] I bet.

  AJ: Momma claimed she fell in love with Daddy the moment he started to sing. But her father was one of the church deacons who helped the pastor run the band offstage midway through their set. “Cut your hair and change your clothes, learn some decent music, and we’ll let you come back,” they said.

  But Daddy always knew it wasn’t about the outside, it was about the inside. I remember watching him once during an interview trying to explain how he felt back then. He said cutting their hair wouldn’t make them love people or Jesus more. Or make Jesus love them more. Their long hair symbolized to them how radical they were about being true to themselves, about not selling out to staid traditions.

  Scott: So being on the edge was second nature to your daddy.

  AJ: He wasn’t a rebel for rebel’s sake. He felt God gave him melodies and lyrics that were different from what was being played in the churches of the time. But he knew—well, I think he knew—a bunch of ex-rock and rollers would never be comfortable in an organ playing, five-hundred-year-old hymn-singing church. He wanted to worship with the words and music of their day.

  Scott: A lot of great value and theology in hymns.

  AJ: Absolutely. There’s great truth in modern songs too. Daddy loved hymns, even made an album of them. But you know he had to do it with new arrangements and, of course, an electric guitar. If he were alive today, he’d be cheering on bands like Reliant K and Switchfoot. He’d love David Crowder, Misty Edwards, Phil Wickman, Matt Redman, Martin Smith, and Charlie Hall. Daddy produced records for some great singers of his day—gospel singers—because he loved the power of gospel music, the power of voice.

  Scott: You spent many of your summer vacations traveling the world.

  AJ: Yes, Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, Australia. I’d been to five continents by the time I was fourteen.

  There’s a shift in the room’s light as the morning surrenders to the afternoon.

  Scott: Tell us about their death.

  AJ: [exhaling] This is the hard part. Okay . . . the summer of ’93. I’d just turned sixteen and was not into one more summer on the road with my parents. I mean, please. [rolling her eyes] The year before, I’d fallen in love with playing basketball.

  Scott: Don’t forget our one-on-one challenge.

  AJ: Believe me, I’m looking forward to whupping you.

  Anyway, I’d missed a lot of summer practice because of being on the road with The James Family, and when I returned to my sophomore year of play, my game was awkward and out of rhythm. I practiced every night in the driveway after dinner until bedtime.

  Scott: All year?

  AJ: All year. Even Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. Daddy and Peter helped by running drills with me, playing offense or defense.

  Scott: You were driven and determined even back then.

  AJ: About some things. Not math. Hated math. But I loved basketball. It was the first thing I’d ever done that was all me. I earned it on my own. No Peter, no Daddy or Momma. Not a family performance. Just me. Singing was something I did because of Ray and Myra James. Without them, I never would’ve had any notoriety. Peter, like Daddy, loved baseball and played in high school. I followed in his footsteps and found an outside interest.

  Scott: Back to the summer of ’93.

  AJ: I wanted to stay home that summer and hang with my friends and the team, play ball every day. Peter had turned eighteen in the spring, was working part time at Kroger, playing Sandlott, and dating a girl named Gailynn.

  Scott: Ah, your parents were fighting a losing battle to get you to go on tour.

  AJ: [smiling] Yeah, in the end they supported us. Daddy reworked our schedule and focused on other projects he had lined up. The only performing dates he kept on the schedule were within a day’s drive or short flight.

  Scott: By then, your parents had earned a big name in Christian music.

  AJ: Yes, Ray James was as big a name as Michael W. Smith or Wayne Watson. He’d written a lot of songs for big-name artists.

  We couldn’t turn on the Christian radio station without hearing one of Daddy’s songs.

  Scott: Financially, he was doing well?

  AJ: We weren’t rich, but songwriting was beginning to pay off for Daddy. We had a nice brick two-story over off Granny White Pike. Took vacations, were spoiled on birthdays and Christmas. Had a nice allowance and frequent trips to the mall.

  Scott: Did you have any idea you would become a music superstar?

  AJ: [big laugh] None whatsoever. Basketball quickly replaced music as my first love, and I wanted a college scholarship to Vandy or UT.

  Scott: What changed?

  AJ: Death changes everything, Scott. And if it hadn’t been for Connie Godwin, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me today.

  Scott: How does she fit into this picture?

  AJ: Daddy hired Connie as his, our, manager. Connie had managed country artists for years, but she wanted to work with Ray James, so she called him up and convinced him to hire her.

  Scott: Go, Connie.

  AJ: Yeah, she’s been a real treasure, and I honestly don’t know where I’
d be without her. She turned out to be way more than a manager or friend. She probably saved my life.

  Scott: So, the summer of ’93 you’re all about basketball.

  AJ: [nodding] One of the bookings Daddy didn’t cancel that summer was a Gospel Fest in Gatlinburg the first of August. He insisted we all go, do the show, then take a family vacation before Peter went off to college.

  But eighteen-year-old Peter would have none of it. He didn’t want his dad dictating his life. He had all the pride and arrogance of most young men. The two of them argued off and on throughout July, and then the night before we were to leave, the argument blew up. Pete went ballistic, stormed out, and stayed away all night. Didn’t come home to say good-bye to Daddy and Momma.

  Momma convinced Daddy I should stay home, be there for Peter when he came back. The whole thing was one of the few really ugly moments in our family’s history. Unfortunately, it was our last moment as a family. If I dwell on it too long, it haunts me for days.

  Scott: Are you okay to go on?

  AJ: I’m okay for now. Peter came home the next evening, feeling foolish, but back to his charming self. We ordered pizza and talked out the situation. He felt horrible and anxiously waited for Daddy to call so he could apologize. He jumped up every time the phone rang. Pete is—well, was—a strange mix of temper and sensitivity. The fight with Daddy really ate at him.

  We were dishing out ice cream, planning on watching a late movie with our friends, when the phone rang around eleven o’clock.

  Peter dashed to answer it. “Dad? It’s me, Pete.”

  I’ll never forget his face. First hopeful and expectant. Then crestfallen and ghost white. His whole body convulsed. Then he just start to wail, “No, no, no! You’re lying.”

  Meanwhile, I’m shouting, “What, what, what?” I had no idea what was going on.

  Finally, he slumped to the floor, crying—[voice breaking] Scott: How incredibly hard. I can’t imagine.

  AJ: [moving her hand over her heart] It was sickening and terrifying. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Trapped in our worst nightmare without the hope of waking up. I loved Peter so much, and seeing him balled up on the floor, weeping and wailing, ripped my heart out. “Peter, it’s okay. It’s okay. What’s wrong?”