by Rachel Hauck
I love seeing him here. But I have so many questions. Why is he here? How did he find me. How does he know Scott?
“Are you surprised?” Scott tugs open the fridge door and looks inside. “Got any root beer?”
“No, just juice, water, and diet.”
“Water it is.” He taps the fridge closed with his heel.
“Scott, how do you know Peter?” I ask as he twists off the bottle cap and tosses it in the trash, then retrieves the pie plate from the other side of the kitchen.
I pull out the cutting knife from the island drawer and hand it to him. “Are you ignoring me?”
Focused on cutting a large slice of pie, Scott still doesn’t answer.
“Scott.” I pull on his elbow. “How do you know him?”
“The pie looks good, doesn’t it? You want a piece?” He drops his cut onto one of the paper plates Gina leaves out now.
“Great dinner, Aubrey.” Peter approaches with his empty plate.
“Would you like a piece of pie?” I feel like a diner waitress, tossing away his used paper plate and asking if he wants dessert.
But we have to start somewhere. The rapport with my brother has been stifled by years of silence.
Peter tucks his hands in his pockets. “Sure, I’d like what Scott is having.”
“So,” I venture, slicing Peter a big piece of pie. “How do you two know each other?”
There’s more than one way to find out information. Scott concentrates on eating, while Peter takes the plate from me.
“I punched him.” He chuckles, pointing to Scott with his fork.
“You what?” I regard Peter, then Scott. “Oh my gosh. Your eye. After that one weekend. You were the one looking for Peter.”
“He was,” my brother says with a swallow of pie. “When the PI first contacted me—”
“PI? What PI?”
“The one Scott hired.”
My mind works to make sense of this. “You hired a private eye?”
“I called a friend—”
“So the day Peter called here, after our first one-on-one game . . . You were the one looking for him.”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do such a thing? Without asking me? You had no right.” I slap the island counter. “This is my life, Scott, not yours. My name. Just because you probed into my life and sniffed around my private thoughts for an interview doesn’t give you the right to hunt down my long-lost brother. Did you need him to be a part of the story? Part of the big sale to CMT?”
“Whoa, Aubrey, no. Don’t assign motives to me.”
I shiver and ball my fists. “Isn’t that what this is all about? More of the story? A big dramatic homecoming to boost the CMT ratings?”
He swings his arm toward the great room. “Do you see Rafe here? Cameras?”
“Did it ever occur to you I might not want Peter back in my life? You can’t go around doing things in my name, Scott.”
“Aubrey,” Peter interjects with a daddylike tone.
I whirl around to him. “What? Aubrey what?”
“He was just trying to help.”
My emotions are twisted so I can’t make sense of them. Do I cry? Laugh? Hit someone? I lean toward Scott. “Next time, ask first.”
He slides his uneaten pie across the island countertop and walks over to the coffee table, snatching up his car keys. “First of all, I looked for him in my name, not yours.” He pauses in the foyer doorway. “And I only did it because of the look on your face the day we talked at Music City Park and you said he was AWOL.”
“You can’t read my expression and make such a huge decision, Scott.”
“Wasn’t my intent to cause a fight.”
Peter whistles low. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” He follows Scott into the foyer.
“Then why did you come? Huh? I haven’t talked to you in six years, haven’t seen you in eight.” I trail after them, my formerly staid emotions erupting. “So, tell me. What made you come back? Money? Do you need money?”
Peter stops abruptly. “No, I don’t need your money. I came here because I—” He presses his fist to his lips and clears his throat. “I-I missed you.”
“You missed me?”
“Yeah, but apparently it was a bad idea.” He picks up a small duffle bag by the door.
He missed me? “Peter, wait. Don’t go.” I step in his way. If he walks out the door, instinct tells me I’ll never see him again. “Please stay.”
“Coming here was a bad idea, Aubrey. Too much water under the bridge.”
“I didn’t sleep for a year after you left,” I blurt as we stand in the foyer, deciding if Peter should stay or go. “When I toured, I looked for you everywhere—on the city street, at the county fair, among the faces at a concert. I wanted to share my success with you.”
Peter drops his duffle bag, pressing his hand to the back of his neck. “I watched you from my place down in Florida. I knew you were doing well, AJ.”
“Did you leave because of me?”
“No, no.” His face is flushed and his hazel eyes shine. He paces to the edge of the foyer, standing in the residue of light coming from the kitchen. “You reminded me of him, okay?” The confession clicks like an unlocking key. “I couldn’t look at you and not remember. I never had the chance to apologize and tell him he was my hero.”
His confession sinks into the fresh, God-tilled ground of my heart. “But he knew.” I adore my brother.
“Maybe I handled it wrong by leaving, but I had to get out of Nashville.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Florida. Destin Beach. I run a deep-sea fishing boat.”
I study his profile. My good-looking brother with the sensitive heart and easy manner. “We’re a mess, you and me.”
He peers into my eyes, and I feel the depths, and his loneliness. Solitude without peace. For a moment, it’s almost unbearable.
“But we’re blood, family. And we love each other, don’t we?”
He bites his bottom lip and nods once.
“ Then you’ll stay?”
“I reckon.”
From the door, Scott clears his voice. “Is my work here done?”
“Once again, you’ve made me look at my life.” I walk over to him. “I’m sorry for being so nasty in there.”
“Hey, I understand. Diva’s gotta do what a diva’s gotta do.”
“Yeah, well, a diva should always be gracious.” I grin, looking at Scott and my brother. “You know, we left Piper alone in there.”
Scott curves his arm around me and walks me to the kitchen. “Shoot, I bet she ate all the pie.”
34
“If you haven’t been watching Inside NashVegas, set your alarm and wake up Monday mornings at seven fifteen. Yesterday, Aubrey James beat Scott Vaughn in a game of one-on-one. Pretty humbling.”
—Brad Schmitt, Brad on 2
Saturday afternoon Peter and I sit outside and talk. He’s leaving tomorrow, and time seems precious.
The crisp breeze blowing through the porch is fragrant with autumn. Though it’s Gina’s day off, she made us a pot of her chocolate-chocolate hot chocolate when she stopped to take care of a few things in her office.
George and Ringo sniff Peter’s hand, unsure of the new man in their momma’s life. After a second, George licks his fingers and drops to the floor by his feet.
“You won them over.” I motion to the dogs and sip hot chocolate.
“Dogs I can deal with. Women . . . now that’s another thing.” He falls against the sofa cushion, holding his mug of cocoa in one hand, rubbing his short golden hair with the other.
“No special lady in your life?” The wind whips past. I shiver and curl my feet under me. Peter seems comfortable in khaki shorts and a GoneFishing T-shirt.
“Loved and lost a few times. After Mandy, I decided to bag relationships for a while.”
“Remember Tracey Bachman from high school?”
He hides his smile, sipping from h
is mug. “Some things I choose to forget. So, where’s this fiancé I read about?”
“Car? We broke up a few months ago.”
His gaze is serious. “Why?”
“The relationship had a lot of holes.” I try to picture Car and Peter sitting down for a nice Sunday afternoon conversation. Shudder. “Remember the people we used to make fun of at the churches we used to visit?”
He nods. “You were about to marry into one of those families?”
“Can you believe it?”
Peter grins. “Oh, the irony,” he says, and it’s the closest I’ve felt to him since he arrived. Most of the communication between us is about facts, not feelings. Which is okay. There’s no guidebook for “catching up with your long-lost sibling in twenty-four easy hours,” so we’re figuring it out as we go along.
Last night, Scott asked us to consider sitting for an interview—a short interview—but Peter passed. Just didn’t seem like the right time to do a Donny and Marie. I agreed.
“Will you come for Christmas?” I ask.
He shrugs. “The holidays are a busy time for me.”
“I could visit you,” I venture, “in Florida. Great place to visit in winter, right?”
“Right.” He doesn’t look at me much. Mostly around me. “Might be a fun thing.”
The temperature continues to plummet and when the rain starts, we move inside. Without asking, Peter lights the fireplace as if he’d visited a hundred times.
“AJ, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll visit some of the old haunts.”
“Have fun.” Home less than a day and my brother seems changed already. Like he faced it, survived, and is finding peace in a place he thought reminded him of terror.
On his way out, he asks if Mike Loudermilk still lives in town. “Last I heard. His parents are in the same place.”
He hums and jiggles his keys. “See you later.”
“Want to order pizza for dinner?”
His smile is warm. “Sounds good.”
While he reconstructs the links to his past, I spend the afternoon at Piper’s desk, getting caught up on e-mail and AubJay business.
Zach e-mailed to confirm our business meeting with Eli on Monday about starting my own label. An idea I’m really starting to hate.
Several e-mail discussions have flown back and forth about the new Aubrey handbag design. I filter through those, make my decision, send an e-mail, and end the cyber argument.
Last but not least, I find an e-mail from Jen.
Aubrey,
School is fantastic. I am having a blast. My engineering classes are hard, but I love the challenge, and I’m getting A’s in calc and physics.
Football Saturdays are a blast. A couple of us are road tripping it up to Kansas for the next away game.
Mom and I decided living in an apartment would be better than the dorms. Great decision now that I’ve visited the dorms. A girl I knew from community college moved to OU the same time as me and needed a roommate, so we decided to get a place together.
She’s really fun, sweet, clean. And guess what, a huge Aubrey James fan. I had to tell her. Please forgive me. I had to. And a few of my best friends at home. I mean, they are my best friends.
But my roommate wants to meet you. Now look, no pressure, but maybe we could road trip to Nashville on a long break. Up to you. Whatever. I’m just saying. She’s really cool. I promise she won’t be a stalker.
Down to business. I found a church near campus I like a lot. I had no intentions of meeting anyone other than God there, and wham, the cutest youth pastor this side of heaven walks up to me. Did I mention he’s single?
What do you think? Do I grab him by the ears and kiss him or what? Bad idea? Yeah, bad idea. I mean, why start something I can’t finish. But every time I see him, my knees go weak. I can tell he’s interested, but sorta standing back and watching. I changed clothes three times before church last week. I’m being ridiculous, right?
I do miss my friends from home, but get to see them over Thanksgiving. Oh, remember Buck? Never called me . . . until the night before I was leaving. Goofball. But we have a date the Saturday after Thanksgiving. (Snicker)
Hope you are doing well. Miss you. Write!
Love lots, Jen
I hit Reply and pour out my heart, telling her about the night at the Ryman, the growing emotion between Scott and me, Peter coming home, and my plans to paint the house. Well, the half I can reach, anyway.
. . . I’d love for you to road trip to Nashville. And we can talk about bringing your friend. I want to trust you, but I’ve been burned before. Had a stalker for a couple of years when a friend brought a friend over. Give me her name and I’ll have Jeff check her out. Oooh, does that sound cynical? Know what? I’ll leave it up to you, Jen. If you say she’s good people, then she is. As for the cute youth pastor . . . just be wise. But don’t be afraid.
I’m attaching a gift certificate to the AubJay store. You and your roommate can shop there for whatever you want. Oh, and I’m forwarding you a gift certificate to Target. All college kids need stuff from Target, right?
Love you,
Aubrey
She returns my e-mail right away. Must be hanging out online today. Smiling, I read.
Aubrey,
OMG, a thousand dollars to Target!!!!!! Are you crazy? No, I guess not. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Seriously, it’s too much. You shouldn’t have. Thank you, thank you, thank you. My roommate is really impressed now. She sends her thanks for the AubJay shopping spree. She’s going to look like a walking billboard for you. Actually, we’re having fun not telling people, but flashing around your name and stuff. Ha!
Better go. I’m in the library with my study group. On a Saturday, no less. Did I mention there are some things about college I don’t like?
Love, and thanks again,
Jen
Shutting down the computer, stretching and collapsing against the back of the chair, I peer out the window at the maple’s red and gold leaves clapping in the wind. Juan is steering a wheelbarrow across the lawn toward the gazebo. He stops and lifts out flower boxes of marigolds. How beautiful. Juan. He never leaves my garden unattended.
The phone’s ring snaps me out of my mindless stare.
“Want to catch dinner with Ami and me?” Zach asks.
“Um, sure. Hey, Peter showed up last night.”
“Your brother Peter?”
“One and the same. Can you believe it?”
“No . . . How are you?”
I smile. “Actually, wonderful.”
“Well, then, do you and Peter want to join us for dinner?”
“He’s out right now. Let me call you when—” I hear the chime of the front door opening and closing. I hear footsteps echoing in the foyer and down the hall. “Pete just came home. What time do you want to meet?”
“Seven thirty at LongHorn.”
“See you then.” I go find Peter. He chose to sleep in the barren but rather large downstairs master bedroom.
“Peter?” I knock lightly and wait for an answer. I call again, but when he doesn’t answer, I inch the door open. “Pete?” No answer.
I know I heard him come in. I check Car’s old office to see if he decided to use my old laptop.
“Peter?” I jog upstairs to check the library and the rec room. He’s not in either place, or in any of the bedrooms. All right, I’m not crazy; I did hear him come in. Puzzled, I stand at the top of the stairs.
Then I hear music. I cock my ear toward the sound. Peter is singing and playing one of Momma’s songs. His voice is still strong, and wrapped with emotion. Leaning my arms on the railing, I close my eyes and sing harmony.
Peter’s bag is in the foyer Sunday afternoon when Connie and I arrive home from church. Connie wipes her eyes when he wraps his arm around her shoulders. “You’re a sight I’ve been praying to see for a long time.”
I set my bag and Bible on the end table. “Do you want some lunch?”
“
Naw,” he waves me off. “I’ll grab something on the road.”
The idea of him leaving sends a pang of loneliness through me. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”
“Probably.” He clears his throat. “I’m proud of you. Momma and Daddy would be proud of you.”
My eyes water. “They’d be proud of you too.”
“That’s debatable.” He puts his arm around me as we walk to the foyer. “See you.”
“Christmastime?”
He pauses at the door. “Maybe. You could drive down, and I’ll string the boat with a few lights and—”
“I still don’t drive,” I confess with a wince.
At first, he’s stunned. Then his rolling laugh bounces off the high ceiling and rains over me. “Holy cow, AJ, learn to freaking drive.”
“Spoken like a true brother,” Connie says.
He opens the front door. “I’ll see you.”
“There’s money,” I blurt.
“I don’t want your money.”
“Not my money, yours. Around a half a million.”
He cocks his head sideways as if I’m speaking a foreign language and steps back inside. “Come again?”
“Half a million. Connie and I finally organized Daddy and Momma’s affairs. We’ve been putting your half of the mechanicals and royalties from their songs into an account. Remember the little publishing company Daddy started the year before he died? Connie keeps it going. ‘The Man’ was covered again and became a gospel hit.”
He circles the room, his hand on his head. “Half million?”
“With your name on it.” I run to Piper’s desk and find his bank information. “The account is in your name—Peter James’s name.”
He reviews the bank’s info, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Can I access this from Florida?”
“Yes,” Connie says, tapping the handwritten pin number and Web site. He beams, scratching his head. “What a beautiful thing.”
35
“Aubrey James is the Susan Lucci of the CMA Awards.
Always nominated, never a winner.”
—Country Weekly
Scott
Oktoberfest. Or, as some in our family call it, Vaughn Fest. The big annual family get-together. All the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends, and friends of friends gather at Dad and Mom’s the first weekend in October.