Diva NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  He reclines with his arm over the back of the booth. “Before Car, then?”

  I shrug. “Midnight runs to Harris Teeter or 7-Eleven are not a part of my routine. Gina keeps the house stocked with stuff she knows I like.” Wagging my finger, I remember, “Although, there was no popcorn the other night.”

  “Why don’t you drive?”

  Reclining in the corner of the booth, I stretch my legs along the seat. “You’ve been as much my therapist as my interviewer this summer, Scott.”

  “Reminiscing helps us understand our lives. Sometimes.”

  “When my parents were killed in a car accident”—I spin my fork on the tabletop—”I was learning to drive. Their accident sort of freaked me out. Then I went to foster care and didn’t have a chance to drive.”

  He expression is soft. “Makes sense.”

  “My parents were great musicians, and good with money, but had forgotten the little matter of the will and provision for Peter and me if something happened to them. They didn’t think in terms of dying. I didn’t have money for a car. Or to buy insurance if I did.”

  “Then you became a recording star.”

  “Right. Connie drove me to all my appointments and recording sessions since she needed to be there anyway. Next thing you know, I’m living half my life on a tour bus. Then I hired Piper and a bodyguard. They drove me around. Or Gina. Or Derek. Or Car.”

  “How’d you come to buy the Mercedes?”

  The memory of the Mercedes makes me smile. “Jack talked me into buying it. He thought it would motivate me. I do love the car. I’m just too terrified to drive it.”

  “And no one is challenging you to drive? Not even Car?”

  I shake my head. “No. I get where I need to go. He’s not burdened by me.”

  “Don’t you want the independence of driving?”

  “Again, I’ve never had it, so I don’t miss it.”

  “Incredible.” The corners of Scott’s blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Since we’re doing true confessions . . .”

  “Are you finally going to tell me why you left me at the party?”

  He laughs. “It’s lame . . . but I left because I was having such a great time. Suddenly it hit me that a dog-faced sports anchor like me was on a date with someone like you. One of most beautiful women in the world—”

  “According to that rag, People.” I roll my eyes in exaggeration and sigh. “Yeah, what do they know? They think Halle Berry is beautiful.”

  I flick my hand at him. “Oh, I know. All that smooth caramel skin, perfect features, great body. What’s up?”

  “Exactly.” He flashes his lopsided smile, which makes my stomach do a small somersault. “So, there I am on a date with ocean eyes and perfect face.” He methodically folds his napkin into a tiny triangle. “We’d danced. You put your head on my shoulder, your hair kept tickling my chin” He looks up at me. “I never wanted to let you go.”

  “Scott, you’re not making sense.”

  “When I met you, I’d just broken up with my fiancée, Brit, and the ordeal killed my confidence. You were so incredible, I decided you would never want a guy like me.”

  “I never took you for the self-pity type.” I reach for my watery soda.

  “Normally, I’m not, but it took me a while to rebound. Unfortunately, you came along a little too soon in the healing process.”

  “Weren’t we an accident waiting to happen that night?” I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. “An insecure sportscaster and a dependent diva.”

  “I wanted to call you.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I wonder if my life would be different if he’d called.

  “Too much time went by. Then I read about you and Car.” Scott tips his head with a click of his tongue. “My loss. His gain.”

  Next to me, Car sleeps. Golden morning light floods the quiet bedroom. Rolling over onto my side, I stuff the pillow under my head, shove my cold feet under a sleeping Ringo.

  The bedside clock tells me there’s time . . . if I want to go. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe down the hall to the wall phone.

  “Connie, it’s me . . . Yeah, I know it’s early on a Sunday . . . No, I’m not sick. Are you going to church? Yes, it’s really me. Stop! The apocalypse hasn’t come . . . Will you pick me up? Faith Community? Sure. Nine thirty . . .”

  Car stirs for the first time all morning as I finish getting ready. The sandals in the bottom of my closet will look nice with my blue peasant skirt and white top.

  “Where are you going so early?”

  “Connie’s picking me up for church.”

  His abrupt laugh startles me. “Seriously, where are you going?”

  “Seriously. Church. I’ll be home around noon. Remember Gina’s off today, so you have to take the dogs out. I’ll feed them, but please walk them. Otherwise, they’ll terrorize the house and yard.”

  “Babe, I’m going with Dad to the Music City Motorplex for Funday. Got a client in town with his fifteen-year-old son.”

  “Fine, but please take the dogs out first.”

  He swings his feet over the side of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair stands on end, and in the fresh morning light, I can see silver among the thick black strands. “You’re really going to church?” He fixes his blue gaze on me.

  “Yes.” His tone makes me feel defensive, but I don’t want to argue.

  “What’s going on with you?” He reaches for his shorts, neatly folded on the chair. His back is straight, and his bare chest is lean, wiry, and smooth.

  “Nothing.” Did I leave my handbag downstairs?

  “You’ve never mentioned church before.” He tugs on my arm, pulling me down onto the bed. “Are we okay?” His eyes search mine.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Throwing away your past jeopardized my future?”

  I reposition so I can see his face and take his hands in mine. “Remember when you drove by the house last year and saw me outside with the furniture guys?”

  “I almost wrecked my Humvee.”

  I rub my thumbs over the fleshy part of his hand. “You invited me to your parents’ for a cookout.”

  “And you came.”

  “You treated me like a queen, fixed my plate, and made sure my glass was never empty. Then you drove me home and stumbled up the walk to my door—”

  “I was nervous.”

  “You kissed me good night as we stood in a trail of moonlight.” Tears sting my eyes as I peer into his. “Picture perfect.”

  He brushes my hands with his thumbs. “Are we still picture perfect?”

  “Car, I don’t know. You amazed me when I met you. You were so what I needed. A normal, down-to-earth guy who didn’t make his living playing drums or making movies.”

  “You . . . you blew me away. Not so much by your fame, but by your beauty. Pictures don’t do you justice.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder.

  “After Derek and Jack, I never imagined I’d trust enough again to love. Then I met you. This handsome, sweet, normal guy.”

  “But . . .”

  “But I’m just not sure we’re the same two people we were a year ago.” “We could be if you’d just forgive me.”

  “Car, I do forgive you. This isn’t about the boxes. This is about us.”

  He gets off the bed. “Aubrey, don’t play me for the fool, waiting in the wings for you to decide if you want to marry me.” The warmth of his early tone evaporates.

  I say good-bye to Car with a kiss. “Think about us. Pray, if you have the courage. Then do whatever you have to do. I will.”

  Connie humors me and drives slow to church so we can arrive late. After being away from the faith for a decade, a prodigal like me wants to arrive home quietly. This is between my Father and me.

  The heavy sanctuary doors creak as we enter. Several heads turn to see who’s coming to worship so late. I dodge the curious stares by hiding behind my sunglasses and sticking close to Connie.

  T
he sanctuary is packed. I spot Robin Rivers a few rows up and over. She’s leaning against a broad-shouldered man I recognize from my days of hanging out with Janie Leeds. Good for Lee Rivers, finding a gem like Robin. As Connie finds two spare seats, I spot the familiar tilt of Scott’s head near the front.

  When the man praying at the pulpit says, “Amen,” a pretty, bubbly-looking woman with a red Gibson takes center stage. “Let’s stand and worship the Lord.”

  The band kicks in with an up-tempo song, and the congregation begins to clap with the beat. The song is fun and fresh, but I can’t help but close my eyes and lower my God barrier. Here I am. I’m Yours.

  Pastor Bolz teaches about God’s kind intentions toward us, reminding us that from the foundation of the earth, He’s had a plan. He’s not surprised by anything.

  Kind intention. I ease forward, listening. God has a plan for me. Despite all I’ve done to distance myself from Him, He has a plan.

  Connie leans close. “Doing okay?”

  Face in my hands, I nod. “Perfect.”

  26

  “I played the Gaylord Entertainment Center with her when I first signed with SongTunes. She treated me like an equal, goofed around with the crew, came early for her sound check. Just being around her taught me volumes about being an artist and entertainer.”

  —Mallory Clark, SongTunes artist

  Jen,

  GO TO COLLEGE. If this Buck guy is the right one, he’ll be aroundwhen you finish school. Don’t lose your vision for your life.

  I did, for a while, but I’ve been thinking a lot about God lately and His part in my life. It all started when Connie and some other friends encouraged me to pray about marrying Car.

  Not sure if being engaged to this man is right for me. I want stability, I want family, but I can’t get married just because I’m thirty and counting.

  We had an incident that forced me to look at our relationship. He moved in with me a few weeks ago and inadvertently threw out the boxes of stuff I saved from when Daddy and Momma were alive. Photo albums, records, yearbooks, this and that. Clothes. Daddy’s letter jacket.

  He claims he thought I wanted him to throw them out, but it was a catalyst in my life and forced me to examine my heart.

  I thought I was being silly, making a mountain out of a molehill, until a few days later we go to his parents for dinner and his dad produces old family movies Car thought were lost.

  Jen, he flipped. Talked about how great it was to have the old family movies, keep their heritage alive. It hit me how much he regarded his family, but not mine. Dead or not. I left, pondering my life. I chose the road I’m on, but I wonder if it’s time to reevaluate my journey.

  If I could impart any of my wisdom to you, Jen, it’d be to always examine your heart. Don’t give in because you can’t think of a logical way out.

  I accepted an engagement ring before really considering my heart. Before talking to myself or God about it. Not that God and I have been all that close lately . . . But hear what I’m saying. Do as I say, not as I do.

  You’ll have a blast at college. Make friends you would never make anywhere else in the world. Love and marriage will come. Take this time in your life to discover who you really are.

  Enough finger wagging, I guess.

  Love, Myra

  Car unfolds his napkin and sets his silverware beside his plate. He arrived home early tonight, gathered me in his arms, and with a tender kiss, suggested a drive down West End Avenue for dinner at Amerigo’s.

  “You were at the studio today?” he asks, reaching for his water.

  “All day, but we’re getting there. We recorded three songs—one I wrote with Robin, two of her originals. Oh, Car, she’s such a magical songwriter.” I reach for a slice of Amerigo’s warm bread.

  “Good, Brie, good. Seems like it’s working out fine.” He nods, but his eyes search the faces of the dining room. No doubt he’s looking for people he knows.

  Our server approaches the table. Her eyes are lined with heavy black eyeliner. “Good evening. Welcome to Amerigo’s. Are you ready to order?” She stares at me for a lingering moment, then smiles.

  With a quick glimpse at her nameplate, Car points to a menu item. “Yes, Carissa, I’ll have the flame-grilled salmon.”

  “Very good.” She takes his menu and tucks it under her arm. “For you, Miss James?”

  “I’ll have the flame-grilled filet with portabella mushrooms.”

  “Excellent choice. Would either of you like a glass of wine tonight?” “Not for me, thank you.”

  “Me, neither.” Car shakes his head.

  When Carissa leaves, he picks a slice of bread from the basket and absently dabs it in the oil and spices. “Have you thought more about us?”

  “Yes.” The conversation I’ve been avoiding is starting. Courage, please, God.

  “Me, too.” His posture is square and stiff, his back pressed against the booth.

  “What have you decided?” My taste for the bread vanishes.

  “What have you decided?”

  “Well, I’ve been talking to God, but—”

  “Is that why you went to church yesterday?” He tears absently at his bread.

  “One reason. But with everything that’s gone on this summer, it’s made me think a lot about my life. Who I am, who I want to be. Church seemed like a safe place to find myself.”

  “Did God say anything?”

  My heart beats a little faster. “Maybe.”

  Our server returns with our salads and the intimate conversation stops until she’s gone. “I wish I could offer you more, Car, but I can’t.”

  He stabs at his salad. “You’re acting a little like a flake.”

  I peer at him over the flickering table candle. “I’m trying to keep from making a wrong decision.”

  Carissa appears around the side of our booth with a fresh glass of tea for Car and a Diet Coke for me.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  For a while, the only sound is the clinking of silverware against our salad plates, but my appetite is waning under the sharp tension. As we finish our salads, Carissa arrives with our dinner entrees.

  “How’s the SoBro project?” I ask, trying to restart our conversation.

  “Dad and I are flying to New York next week to meet with the head of an investment firm. They have a branch here in Nashville and want to invest in the city, but we need to meet with the CFO before he’ll approve the capital.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Is now the time? Do I say it in public? Car, maybe we should take a break . . .

  “Leave Monday, come back Friday. Dad wants to take a few days in the city.” He carves a slice from his salmon. “Aubrey, I’m calling the movers to come next week.”

  The movers? I watch him stir sweetener into his tea. “What movers?”

  “The ones coming to move my things.” His spoon clinks against the side of the glass over and over while he stirs. “I’d like to ask Gina to supervise their packing, if that’s okay with you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  A camera phone flashes from the adjacent table.

  Car stops stirring. “I’m making this decision for us.”

  “I see.” Despite my own intentions, his confession stings, and my eyes fill with tears. “I thought I’d be the one to say it.”

  “I wasn’t going to without some kind of indication from you. Your hesitation, confessing you can’t give me what I want, is confirmation enough.” He slides into the booth next to me. “Be honest. You never said yes when I asked you to marry me.”

  “You surprised me.”

  “But you never said yes.”

  Tell him. “I never said yes.”

  He leans with his elbows on the table. “I thought we knew each other, but we don’t. We’re two very different people. You were right that night at my parents’. By the way, your favorite color is purple.”

  I laugh softly. “No, it’s yellow.” I hate the mounting sensation
of rejection because he said it first.

  “Yellow, huh? I should’ve known from all the decorations at the house.”

  “My old friend, sarcasm.” Under the table, I slip Car’s ring from my finger. “So, are we over?”

  “Are we over?” he echoes, a watery sheen in his eyes.

  I press the ring into the palm of his hand. “This belongs to you.” The diamond casts a prism of colors across the linen tablecloth. “I planned more of a three-step approach. Ask you to move out, then get sidetracked with our busy schedules—”

  “ Then eventually break it off because we drifted apart?” he concludes.

  “More or less.” My smile is weak. “See, in my plan you can play the jilted lover for a while, and all your friends can hate me and throw out my CDs. After a few months, you fall in love with a lovely and charming Nashville society girl. You’ll get married, have five children, and invite me to all their birthday parties. The young Mrs. Carmichael will whisper in her friends’ ears, ‘Car was once engaged to her.’ ”

  His laugh is sincere, though his eyes are sad. “Spare me your tawdry scenario.” Absently, he slips the engagement ring onto his little finger. It stops just below the first knuckle. “And what will you be doing?”

  “Oh darling, I’ll have become romantically cauterized and added two more dogs and ten cats to the household. I’ll do retro albums and entertain on cruise liners trying to recapture my glory days. Piper, of course, will be married to a Music Row exec and whisper to the new artists how not to be like me. Gina will stay with me because she’s desperately loyal. And Juan will be the head groundskeeper at Cheekwood.”

  “Zach? What’s become of your manager?”

  “Tragic really.” I shake my head with an exaggerated exhale. “Managing boy bands out of Orlando.”

  Car chuckles and squeezes my hand. “You should be a novelist.”

  I kiss his cheek. “I’m horrible at good-byes, you know.”

  He kisses my fingers. “No, I didn’t.” He raises his pinky to me. “Keep the ring if you want.”

  “How can I? You gave it to me with an intent and a promise, which we are now breaking.” I close my hand over the ring. “Give it to the future Mrs. Carmichael. When she whispers to her friends you were once engaged to the great Aubrey James, you can whisper to their husbands that your wife is wearing my ring.”