Nashville Nights

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Then how?”

  “Never mind. That’s for me to know and you not to find out. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  And the hell of it was, he did trust Dirk—which meant he couldn’t trust Emory. And when and why had that become so important to him? He thought they’d made some kind of connection—what exactly, he wasn’t sure. But, for a little while, it had made him happy and happy wasn’t something that came along very often.

  And now that happiness was gone and it wasn’t coming back.

  Suddenly, a wave of anger hit him full force and carried him out to the Sea of No Turning Back. He got to his feet. He would fire her right now! No more parties, no more weddings, no more quilting bees. Best of all, no more lying Emory Lowell with her little-girl curls, big-girl scent, and smile that could bring him to his knees. He was done.

  Done. Done. Done.

  “So Emory was never raped at all!”

  “I never said that. Sit down, Jackson,” Dirk said.

  And he did. He hated himself for the small glimmer of hope that rose in him. He was a monster. What kind of man hoped a woman had been raped? But he didn’t hope that; he just wanted her not to have lied to him. He wanted her not to have betrayed every woman who’d ever been violated by a man.

  Dirk shook his head. “I admit your reaction was also my first one. But I decided to think it through—something you might want to consider from time to time.”

  “Okay.” Jackson closed his eyes but he couldn’t make out anything that made sense. Finally, he said, “I’m not coming up with anything.”

  “At least you tried,” Dirk said. “Thirty seconds is better than nothing. Though, I admit I have some information you don’t.”

  “Then get to it. I don’t have all day.”

  “Debatable, but that’s a debate for another day.” Dirk leaned forward in his chair. “I started thinking about when Emory first came here. Miss Amelia announced she was coming and told me there was no need to do a background check, that she’d known her for years.”

  “She had,” Jackson said. “I don’t really remember Emory from that time. I was on the road for most of it. But she came to charm school and then spent summers volunteering for several years. Aunt Amelia was fond of her and would mention her in passing.”

  Dirk nodded. “Gwen knew her from those summers. Of course, I was in the military then so I was seldom home and when I was, apart from Gwen, I wasn’t studying who was working at Beauford Bend. But Gwen was excited that Emory was coming and kept assuring me I didn’t need to check up on her.”

  “But you did.” It was a statement.

  Dirk barked out a little laugh. “Of course I did. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Yes. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Look, buddy. I was working for you, not Amelia. And you told me to make sure everybody here was safe. So I made a few calls and found out exactly what I told you before. She went to Harvard. She made good grades, never got into any trouble except for her tendency to park where she wasn’t supposed to on campus. She wasn’t in debt. In New York, they liked her at Jennings-Caldwell and she was up for a promotion. They were baffled the day she called and said she wasn’t coming back. It seemed odd that she’d want to leave a job like that to come here, but I figured it was her business and put it out of my mind. And Gwen was glad she was coming. Finally, after about a week, I asked Amelia when she was coming and she said she was already here.”

  “But you hadn’t seen her?”

  “No.” Dirk shook his head. “Amelia said she wasn’t feeling well and was keeping to herself for a while. There was no sign of her, apart from Amelia sometimes asking Gwen to fix a tray of food. But she would never let Gwen take it upstairs.”

  “And how long did this go on?” Jackson asked.

  “A month. Maybe more. Though Amelia seemed as sharp as ever, she was getting on in years. Gwen and I began to worry that she was becoming delusional and that Emory wasn’t here at all, though that didn’t jive with her leaving her job. I was on the verge of calling you about the whole situation when, one day, Emory just appeared.”

  “After a month?”

  Dirk nodded. “I figured she’d been sick like Amelia had said. Frankly, I was so relieved Amelia hadn’t gone crazy that I didn’t give it much thought. But looking back . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Emory had some faint bruises. I’d forgotten it, but I noticed one day and thought she must have had an accident and that was why she quit work suddenly.” A disgusted look passed over Dirk’s face. “I should have given it more thought. But Julie was teething and Emory was no threat to anybody, so I was done.”

  “So what makes you think she was raped and didn’t just fall down some stairs or have a fender bender?”

  Dirk shook his head. “I don’t know. Again, it wasn’t my business, but she didn’t leave the grounds for months. I only remember because Miss Amelia was always running this errand or that and I thought she ought to send Emory. But finally Emory did start going to town.”

  “Beauford?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever know her to go to Nashville?”

  Dirk shook his head. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t. I didn’t monitor her comings and goings. But come to think of it, there were a few times that Gwen and Christian went shopping in Nashville and Emory kept Julie. I’m sure they would have asked her to go.”

  Jackson looked out the window. “That fits. I tried to take her to Nashville for dinner and she had a come apart—jumped out of the truck and was going to walk back here. Doesn’t make any sense. She could be hurt anywhere.”

  “I don’t know that a woman who has been so brutalized that she has to hide for a month has to make sense.”

  “So you think she was raped—like she said—and didn’t report it?” Jackson said.

  “I’m no mind reader,” Dirk said. “But looking at the facts, yeah, I believe she was raped. I don’t think it happened like she said though. I think she was date raped and knows exactly who did it.”

  “Then why would she lie to me?”

  Dirk gave a grim little shrug. “I’m not good at why but I can guess. She’s probably ashamed. Blames herself.”

  “She has nothing to be ashamed of!” Jackson exploded.

  “Don’t jump on my ass. I know that. But I did some reading on this. It’s not uncommon for rape victims to blame themselves. And date rape victims often convince themselves they led the guy on.”

  “Aunt Amelia never talked to us much about sex, but she always did tell us that no means no, even if it was yes the minute before.”

  “Too bad Emory’s attacker didn’t have a Miss Amelia. I expect another reason Emory lied to you was because you were pressuring her and she wanted to get you off her back. She didn’t imagine you’d send me on a manhunt.”

  “She doesn’t know much about me, does she?”

  “Who does?” Dirk rose. “Okay. My wife’s got my kids in the kitchen and she’s got a party to get ready for. I need to go get them.”

  “What kind of party is it?” Jackson asked.

  “One with people who are going to be coming through my gate and have to be watched.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Here you go, Mr. Beauford.” Sammy set a plate of food on the coffee table in front of Jackson and removed the domed cover.

  Jackson sniffed at the food. “I’ve told you to call me Jackson.”

  “Yes, sir, Jackson.”

  “That’s some better.” He poked at the food on his plate. Not all of it was familiar. “Did you eat this?”

  “Not yet. We get to eat after the guests get finished and the dancing starts. We take turns. Emory has a schedule.”

  “I bet she does.” A thought, and not a good one, occurred to him. “Hey, Sammy. You don’t have to eat what they mess over and leave on their plates, do you?”

  Sammy’s face turned red. That happened a lot.

  “No. Emory wou
ldn’t let us do that. We don’t always get everything if the guests are big eaters but we get new food.”

  “That’s good. Did somebody take Ginger some food?” Jackson knew he ought to at least be eating some meals with Ginger but his instinct for self-preservation outweighed his desire to be a good host.

  “No. She was in the kitchen helping Gwen chop stuff earlier. I guess she’ll eat down there.”

  “No kidding? She must be out of anything to do.” Jackson salted his food. “I know boiled potatoes when I see them, and I guess that’s parsley on them. Do you know what this other stuff is?”

  Sammy came over and looked at the plate. “That’s a roll.”

  “Yeah, believe it or not, I got that. What kind of meat is this? Fried catfish?”

  “No. Gwen called it Chicken Kiev. It’s fried chicken with a hunk of butter inside. And there’s creamed carrots.”

  “I am particularly concerned about this slab of Jell-O with eyeballs looking at me.” Jackson nudged it with his fork and it jiggled. Might not be much good for food, but could prove to be an excellent toy.

  “Gwen called it perfection salad. There’s raw cabbage and olives in there. I forget what else.”

  “That right?” Jackson jiggled it again. Too bad Gabe wasn’t here; he’d think it was culinary brilliance. “And Gwen thinks this is perfection?”

  “No. I believe Gwen thinks it’s all pretty disgusting. But it’s a fiftieth anniversary party and they wanted the same meal they had at their wedding.”

  “Is that a thing? Do people do that?”

  Sammy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess. These people did it.” He opened a drawer and took out some cleaning supplies he’d stashed there. “I’m going to take a minute and dust the top of the doorframes while I’m here. I don’t think those women from the cleaning service can reach them. I tried to help them out in here last week but they didn’t like it.”

  “I have never understood people who get persnickety when you’re just trying to be helpful.” Jackson took a bite of the chicken. Not bad. “I know what I want for my wedding food if I’m going to have to eat it fifty years later. That is, if I get married.”

  “What’s that?” Sammy asked, like he really wanted to know. That was the thing with Sammy. He really did want to know.

  “I want steaks, grilled by you. Would you do that for me, Sammy?”

  Sammy blushed again. “I’d be honored. I would do the best job I could.”

  “I know you would. And you need to keep yourself in good health so you can do it again fifty years later.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said solemnly. “I’ll remember that.” He put his rags away. “I thought I’d wash and wax your truck tomorrow. But right now, I’d better get going. They were just about to have dessert. I need to go. But I’ll bring you some of that baked Alaska when it’s my turn to eat.”

  “Thank you, Sammy. Bring your plate up here and eat with me.”

  “Yes, sir. Page me if you need anything. I have a headset. Not everybody has one. Just Emory, the bartender, Gwen, security, and me.”

  “And you notice I’m not on that list, Sammy. So I can’t page you.”

  “Well, text me. Uh-oh.” His walkie-talkie buzzed. “That’ll be Emory. She needs me to bring down another case of wine. The temps aren’t allowed in the pantry.” He pushed a button on his headset as he headed out the door.

  And Jackson was alone again. He picked up his plate and began to eat as he wandered over to the window that overlooked the wedding grove. It looked a lot like it had the night he’d come back. Fairy lights, portable bar and dance floor, big fans set back discretely in the trees. The musicians were setting up. Not country tonight. He could tell from those big, boxy music stands that it was a big band orchestra—which didn’t really make a lot of sense if these people were trying to recreate a 1960s wedding. Seems like they’d have Beatles and Beach Boys music. But maybe they’d had a big band the first time around.

  As soon as Emory hurried onto the scene, his eyes went to her. She was wearing a sleeveless straight pink dress that came right below her knees. I was wearing a short skirt, she’d said with raw honesty. She probably hadn’t shown her knees since. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore and he set the plate on a nearby table. She was talking to one of the band members, nodding. Then she went around lighting candles and straightening tablecloths, making a perfect party.

  How had he thought for even one second that she hadn’t been raped? Sure, she’d lied about the details, but it didn’t change that she’d been violated—violated and robbed of her life. And he’d get the truth out of her. That son of a bitch was going to pay and he’d see to it that she got back everything she’d lost—her self-esteem, her short skirts, and her career. It wouldn’t make up for all the hurt and loss he’d caused others, but setting Emory to rights was all he had.

  God, she was pretty. There was no other word for her. Beautiful meant flashy and striking. She wasn’t that. She was just divinely, sweetly pretty—classy, too. He hadn’t seen much of that in the last few years.

  Suddenly, he had an idea. He didn’t want to take the time to text so he called Sammy’s cell.

  “Hey. Take your time, but when you bring me that—whatever you said, I need something else.”

  • • •

  “You look beautiful, my dear.” Betty Neill smoothed Emory’s dress. “Such a lovely dress. Classic.”

  “Thank you,” Emory said. “I hope the party is everything you wanted it to be.”

  “Perfect!”

  “I’m glad.” Emory supposed it was perfect—even the food, if you judged it on what the clients wanted. “You let me know when you’re ready to cut your wedding cake. After you cut the first piece we’ll take care of serving.”

  “I think I might wait a while. Dinner was pretty heavy.”

  No kidding. Heavy like a dump truck full of bricks—not that Emory had eaten any of it.

  “Then I’ll—” Just then Emory caught sight of a tall figure out of the corner of her eye and he was coming toward her. The light was dim but there was no mistaking who it was. No one else moved that way. And what was that he was wearing? She couldn’t believe it! Khaki shorts, white leather running shoes, and a dark blue golf shirt with Around the Bend Staff embroidered on the left breast. What in the hell?

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Neill. There’s something I need to see to.”

  She met him a short distance from the bar and pulled him off to the side.

  “What are you doing here dressed like a member of my staff? Are you out of clean clothes? Where did you get those?”

  “The shorts and shoes are mine. Sammy provided me with this fine shirt. I am incognito.” He smiled, very pleased with himself.

  “The only way you could be incognito is if you cut off your head!”

  “Excuse me.”

  Oh, no! It was the woman with the ever-changing mind, the honorees’ daughter, Cindy Neill Hampton. And she was staring at Jackson with a look of wonder on her face. In about two seconds this party wasn’t going to be about the Neills anymore.

  “Aren’t you Jack Beauford?”

  He smiled that stage smile. “No, ma’am, I am not, but I thank you for the compliment. I’m Jack’s cousin, Jason Jackson, on his mama’s and my daddy’s side. We do favor some. They say we take after the Jacksons. Now, my sister Missy, she’s a blonde like Mama and so are her kids. Hard to tell where they got it though. She married Harris Bragg. You know who he is? Used to play for Alabama.”

  Apparently, no one had ever told Jackson to keep it simple if he was going to lie.

  “The resemblance is uncanny,” Cindy said.

  “We don’t look that much alike,” Jackson lied on. “I like to say I got the looks even if he did get the talent. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “I’m Cindy Hampton. This party is for my parents.” The woman smiled at him and there was nothing wholesome about it. She was good-looking even if she was too old for J
ackson. Wasn’t she married? Hmm. No ring and, come to think of it, there had been no husband sighting.

  “I am so pleased to meet you.” Charm rolled off Jackson like rainwater on a toad.

  Cindy Neill Hampton was probably writing a letter in her head. Dear Penthouse, I never dreamed that the night of my parents’ fiftieth anniversary would be the most passionate of my life.

  “Do you like the party?” Jackson asked.

  “Oh, yes. My parents are very pleased.”

  “Since your family is giving the party and all, I’d like to ask a little favor,” Jackson said.

  What now?

  “This is some really great music and even if I can’t sing like my cousin, I can dance.”

  Cougar, Penthouse-letter-writing Cindy was practically salivating.

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly.

  “And since there doesn’t seem to be any work to do right this minute—”

  “Yes?” Cindy’s smile widened.

  “I wondered if you would mind if I used a little of your music to dance with Emory.”

  What?

  Cindy went cold. “As long as she doesn’t neglect her duties.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

  “I don’t think you can count on much of a tip,” Emory said.

  Jackson cocked his head and held out his hand. “Dance?”

  And then the band shifted from a jazzy swing number to something slow and smoky. She hesitated.

  “Come on. I just lied my soul down a road to hell for the privilege.”

  Reluctantly, she let him lead her onto the dance floor where he pulled her against him and settled her head against his chest.

  He hummed a little. “Do you know what this song is called?” he asked.

  “No. I should. After tracking this band down, I ought to be an expert on big band music. It’s familiar though.” The only music she was an expert on was Jackson Beauford’s.

  “‘Moonlight Serenade.’ It’s been said that it’s the most romantic song ever written.”

  “Oh?” She leaned her head back and smiled at him, just like a woman dancing with a man would do, just like she should never do. “Who said that?”