Finally, after a few more pictures, the bride and company left. Gabe came over and gave Emory a brief hug.
“Emory, it’s been years,” he said.
“Not years,” she said. “The funeral . . . ”
He closed his eyes and nodded. For the first time, his expression didn’t look like it was put on his face to cheer up the universe.
“Of course. Bad day.”
“For sure.” She nodded. “Sorry about the fan club. I almost had them herded out.”
“That’s fine.” He brushed at the air like he was sweeping away cobwebs. “Haven’t you heard how much I love myself? I live for that.”
“Then I’m glad I could accommodate you. Now, where do you want everyone? Ginger’s in the blue room. Other than that, everything’s company-ready.”
“Yeah. Good old Ginger.” He took Emory’s arm and stepped a little farther from the others. “Let’s see. How about Troy in Rafe’s rooms? He won’t care. And Jamal and Tasha in Aunt Amelia’s old rooms? That would be nice for Tasha, I think, what with that big tub and all.”
“What about the others?”
Gabe’s head snapped up in surprise and she got the feeling he had forgotten about the copycats.
“Hmm. Courtney is in with me and you can put the other two anywhere in the guest wing. If Troy wants to issue an invitation for a roommate, that’s for him to work out. But I wouldn’t want to put anyone in Beau’s rooms. He might come home.”
“Really?” That would make Jackson so happy. “Have you heard from him?”
“No. But he always might come home.”
“Okay. I’ll get everyone settled and Sammy will bring up the bags. Gwen is planning some hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Do you want them served on the side porch or downstairs in the family wing?”
“Porch,” he said decisively. “That’ll be way easier for Gwen since it’s not as far from the kitchen door. If we get hot, we can take it inside ourselves.”
No point in telling him Gwen had extra help for the duration of his stay.
“All right. Anything else?”
“Do you know where my brother is?”
“He went into Nashville to see about a new guitar. He was planning to be back by the time you got here but there’s no predicting the traffic.”
“It was rough. Is he going to my sister’s memorial show?”
“He is.”
Gabe nodded. “Good. Do you mind taking everyone up? I want to say hi to Gwen and then I’ll find Sammy and help him with the luggage.”
After Emory deposited Troy, the Washingtons, and a very smug Courtney in their designated quarters, she turned to the other two.
“We just need to go around to the guest wing now.”
Neither of them looked very happy.
“I thought I’d be staying with Troy,” one of them said, though Emory hadn’t sorted out who was Carmen and who was Cameron. The only reason she knew it wasn’t Courtney was because she wasn’t there at the moment.
The other one said, “There’re two more doors here. Where do they go?”
Aw, hell.
“One belongs to Gabe’s older brother.” What? Did she think if she didn’t say his name they wouldn’t know who it was? Truth was, she’d just done some math and come up with an extra C. “The other belongs to the youngest brother, Beau.”
“Is he here?” asked the one with the slightly lighter highlights, as opposed to the one who was pouting over Troy.
“No.”
“I wouldn’t mind staying in there. You know, in close proximity to Jack Beauford.” Light Highlights giggled. Emory hated giggling—and long, bronze legs and perfectly straight hair.
Well, Miss C of the perfect teeth and gel manicure, I guess you’ll have to sleep on my porch to accomplish that. But was that true? There was no guarantee that Jackson would come to her tonight. He might want to be here with the fun, beautiful people.
“There’s a possibility Beau might come home.” Not a lie. It was possible. “So if you’ll just follow me.”
• • •
Jackson pulled into Audrey Crawford’s driveway. He wondered if he hadn’t been intending to come here all along. He’d told himself he was coming to Nashville to look at that 1950 Fender Broadcaster, and he had gone to Gruhn Guitars and done just that. The predecessor to the Telecaster was a rare and special instrument and he had wanted one for a long time. But when he’d held it, it hadn’t felt right.
Finally, he’d worked out why. It had been easy to avoid thinking about Trace’s family at Beauford Bend. But driving through Nashville and entering the legendary guitar shop where he and Trace had spent so much time jamming and bought so many guitars, had brought to the forefront what he should have done a long time ago.
So here he sat. At least he hadn’t pulled around the corner like he had the day he’d flown in. Today he had to go to the door. He couldn’t go play in the Mother Church of County Music without telling Audrey—though it had been easy enough to avoid going to the First Baptist Church of Nashville for Trace’s funeral without consulting her or anyone else.
Of course he’d also missed Brandon’s and Cody’s funerals, plus the three roadies’. He ought to have paid his respects to all of them but Trace was the one who’d been with him from the beginning, who’d had kids and had still had a wife.
He got out and made the long walk to the front door. The door chimes still played “Stand By Your Man.” Trace had bought it as joke for Audrey because he was gone so much, and she had turned the tables on him and refused to let him reprogram it.
Jackson was just beginning to think no one was home when the door swung open and there she stood. She looked good, maybe a little thin, but her hair was fixed and she was wearing makeup and nice clothes. He’d been afraid he’d find a crumbling mess of a woman in dirty pajamas with matted hair. Of course, her outward appearance didn’t mean she wasn’t a mess inside. After all, the mirror told him he looked pretty good, too.
Her mouth twisted and she stepped aside and held out her hand to him.
So she was granting absolution—absolution he didn’t deserve. They held each other for a good five minutes without speaking a word. Finally, he pulled away.
“What you must think of me,” he said.
“You know what I think of you.” She took his hand and led him to the couch in the living room. “You’re my friend. I love you.”
“Don’t make this easy for me, Audrey. I don’t deserve it.”
She shook her head and took a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes.
“Oh, sugar. I don’t think I am. I doubt there’s anyone who could make any of this easy for you. But I would if I could.”
“I’m ashamed that I didn’t come—”
She held up a hand. “So what? There were over 500 people at that funeral, most of whom I haven’t heard from since. You’re here now, like I knew you would be when you could.”
“I came here a while back—when I first came back to Tennessee. I sat in my truck around the corner all afternoon. I wanted to at least tell you that if you or the kids need anything—”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Do you think I don’t know that? And thank you for the trust funds for the kids’ educations.”
He looked around. “How are Ben and Stacy?”
“Fine,” she said. “Coping. They’re swimming at the neighbors’ right now. We’re going to Disney World over the Fourth of July with my sister and her kids.”
So she’d be gone for the concert; that was probably the point.
“The kids are looking forward to that.” She gave out a watery little laugh. “Oddly enough, so am I.” She placed her elbows on her knees and folded her hands beneath her chin. “You know, I’m a sucker for Mickey.”
“I’m sorry, Audrey. That’s all I’ve got.”
“And you don’t even need that. You know, I have some guilt, too. You could have used some comfort. I knew you were in bad shape but I couldn’t bring m
yself to drive to Beauford Bend. I was afraid to see you, too. I thought if we saw each other we might both start crying and never stop.”
He shook his head. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, Audrey Carlene?”
She made a face. “Don’t call me that,” she said like she always did when Trace used her middle name.
“I came to tell you something else,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to do the memorial concert this year. I just didn’t think I could. But I changed my mind. I know you’ll be gone, but I wanted you to know.”
She smiled a real smile for the first time. “Jackson. I’m so glad. We’ve all wondered and worried. That’s wonderful news. The guys will be so pleased. Have you told them?”
Hell’s bells and damnation. “No.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. “I don’t intend to. I thought I’d just play alone. I’ll have to have some of the techs, of course. Dave, Randall . . . maybe Bobby Lee. But the band—no.”
“Jackson.” She put a hand under his chin and raised his eyes to hers. “They won’t die if they go on stage with you. You need to call them.”
He shook his head, though whether it was in disbelief or denial he couldn’t have said.
“No. You listen to me,” Audrey said. “They need this. Not the money, of course. They do this for free anyway. But they need to play—they need to play with you. You all need to be together.”
Again he shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can. They understand why you haven’t been in touch and no one is angry with you. But they need you and they have been holding their breath, hoping you’d come out for this.”
“But what about Trace? And Cody?” Surely she could see that he couldn’t replace them, surely the realization would come to her and she’d tell him that of course he was right, that she shouldn’t ask this of him.
But no. “You know every musician in this town worth knowing. You know who Trace and Cody respected. Make yourself a short list and get on the phone. It has to be done.”
He let out a long sigh. “All right. Okay.”
Because what other answer could he possibly give this woman?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Everything was on track for the wedding. It was a second marriage for both the bride and groom and it was going to be an understated affair—a heavy hors d’oeuvre reception instead of a sit-down meal, a string quartet instead of a band, and a cupcake tower instead of an elaborate cake. Best of all, it was all inside so there would be no complicated setup outside. Emory idly picked up the liquor list. Maybe she should order another case of Champagne.
If the clients didn’t drink it all, it was a safe bet that the C-Squad would.
The roar of Jackson’s truck interrupted her thoughts. She made herself read over the liquor list again twice before she went to look out the window.
Jackson was just approaching the side porch where Gabe and his friends were gathered. Gabe leapt off the porch in a single bound to go meet him. She expected them to embrace but they just clapped each other around the shoulders briefly and exchanged a few words before heading to the porch. Sammy, who was hanging around pouring drinks and refilling trays, got Jackson a beer from the copper tub while Gabe made introductions. Jackson shook hands with the men and hugged Tasha. He must’ve already known her because he didn’t hug the other women—but when people settled back into their seats, Miss Light Highlights prissed over to where Jackson was leaning against a column and got in his personal space.
What made women think that high heels went with short shorts? Really, was there anything tackier—even if it did make her legs look even longer and her perfect butt look even tighter? Emory let the curtain fall and went back to her chair. She ought to print out the pictures of the girls who were attending charm school. Amelia had taught her to put faces with names before they arrived.
Yes. She should get started on that. There were twenty this year, including three from town, but that left seventeen to learn.
Fifteen minutes later, she was still staring at the first page (Alexander, Phoebe Christina; Anders, Kathryn Michelle (Kate); Bellemy, Ellis Elizabeth) when the light knock came at the door.
She knew who it was before he stuck his head in the room. Ginger always bolted in. Sammy knocked and waited to be asked in. Gwen just opened the door. Dirk knocked and called her name at the same time, but he was gone anyway. Only Jackson tapped lightly and then stuck his head in.
She met his eyes as he came in and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.
“Hi.” He rested his right ankle on his left knee. His eyes were red like he was sleepy or had been driving without sunglasses. Or maybe crying.
“Did you get your guitar?”
“No. Yes.” He yawned behind his hand. “I mean, I didn’t. But then I changed my mind. So I called and bought it. But I don’t have it yet.”
“So you’re going to get it tomorrow?”
“No.” He shook his head. “They’re bringing it to me. Monday. That’s soon enough. I’ve done without it this long.”
Could he act any odder? Must be a reason. A little fear went through her.
“Did you hear from Dirk?”
“No. Not yet.” He picked up her printout and leafed through it. “What’s this? An adolescent dossier, complete with mug shots?”
“Yes. They’re all secret agents. Most of them agreed to become spies in exchange for staying out of prison.”
He smiled. “What did they do to get hard time?”
“Blew up mailboxes with cherry bombs. Ran over dogs with their rollerblades.”
“Which are they? Secret agents or spies?” he asked.
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“Sort of, depending on your point of view. If they’re working for you, they’re secret agents. If they’re gathering intel on you, they’re spies—and dead if they get caught. Benedict Arnold is a traitor or a hero, depending on if you’re British or American.”
“True.”
“I saw Gabe outside.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes.
“I saw him inside. He looks good.”
“He’s got a lot of women with him. But then he always does.”
“Most of their names start with C.”
“They do? About that—”
Here it comes. Whatever it is.
“They”—Jackson gestured toward the porch with his head—“are going out for dinner tonight.” He hesitated. “In Nashville. I was hoping you might go. But it is Nashville. And you should know that Gabe invited Nickolai Glazov and that woman—Tewanda—that he’s seeing.”
Not exactly a heartfelt invitation. And if you wanted to count heads, you’d realize there would be an extra female if she went. Little doubt who the odd woman out would be and her name wouldn’t start with C.
“But I want to go with them. I want to be with my brother.”
“Of course you do. And you should.”
“I understand if you don’t want to go but I’d like it if you did.”
“Then I’m going to say no.”
He nodded. “I expected that.” He looked toward the window. “Gwen made some food. Little shrimp pies and some mushroom thing. You want me to bring you some?”
“No, thank you.” She picked up the liquor list for the wedding. “I’m not hungry. You should go visit with Gabe. I have all this work.” She waved the paper.
He looked conflicted. “I tried to get them to go to Mill Time but they want to go to Nashville. And Gabe had already made a reservation and invited that Nickolai . . . ”
Truth was, Nickolai wouldn’t bother her. Nashville would be harder but she was determined to go to the concert and it might not be bad to have a trial run. If she believed for one second that he really wanted her to go, she would at least consider it. But she didn’t. When Jackson wanted something, he stated it clearly with vehemence, without any room for no. And that wasn’t what she was hearing.
“You should go out again. Help Gabe entertain his guests.”
“Ha. Like he needs any help.” But he got to his feet.
He started toward the door but came back and gave her an afterthought, closed-mouth kiss.
• • •
Emory didn’t see Jackson again before he left for dinner, unless you counted watching out the window when he and the others loaded up in the two rented BMW SUVs they had arrived in. And she didn’t count that.
The Washingtons had climbed in the back seat of the second vehicle while Jackson opened the passenger door for Light Highlights C before he slid behind the wheel. She might not have made it across the hall from Jackson but by the end of the night she would probably have secured an even better spot.
By the time Emory went to bed at eleven o’clock that night—after staring at the adolescent dossier for a few hours, eating a tomato sandwich at Gwen’s kitchen table, and flipping television channels for two hours—she had figured out what had happened.
She understood completely why Jackson’s interest in her was waning. (Or completely gone, if she was going to be honest.) It was really quite simple. He’d been lonely and bored and now he had a distraction. And, for whatever reason, he had been committed to punishing her attacker and he was about to close the deal on that.
What she didn’t understand was why she was surprised and disappointed. What had she thought was going to happen?
She had been living in a playhouse—a lovely, safe place, but also lonely at times. And then she’d gotten a brand new, unexpected and very shiny playmate—indeed, the shiniest playmate in all the land—and she had loved the playhouse even more. Now that it looked like her playmate had gotten bored and broken out, her beautiful, cozy playhouse was feeling a little like a prison cell.
Damn him and damn his silver-sage eyes, sweet whiskey voice, and hands that could play a magical melody on her skin better than on any guitar.
And about that. He was probably getting tired of her inability to close that deal. They had gotten closer—very close, indeed. She could lie over him with open legs and move until she came and came and came and he spilled on her stomach—but she had not been able to cross that final barrier.
Nashville Nights Page 22