Nashville Nights

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Though Jimbo and Martin tried to put themselves between him and the photographers gathered outside the gate at Beauford Bend, he stopped, rolled down his window, and let them take pictures.

  “Doing great!” he told them. “Looking forward to spending time with family and traveling.” Traveling? Where had that come from? He’d done nothing but travel for fourteen years.

  He hesitated at the front door of Firefly Hall. Even though it was a B&B now, he felt odd just walking into Christian’s home. But surprise might work in his favor. He opened the door and stuck his head in. There was a teenage girl vacuuming the Oriental rug in the foyer. If she recognized him, she didn’t show it. Good thing, since he wasn’t anybody anymore. She turned off the machine and smiled.

  “Help you?”

  “I’m looking for Christian.” That was best. If he asked for Emory directly this girl might start talking about not giving out information about guests.

  “They’re in the dining room,” she said and pointed.

  Good. He’d tell them both his plan since it concerned Christian. And Christian would be on his side; he was sure of it, even if he had brought only one coffee.

  But it turned out that they consisted of Christian and Gwen, who were seated at the dining table with their laptops open and a stack of file folders between them. He looked around, like maybe Emory was under the sideboard or behind the drapes.

  Christian closed her laptop and rubbed the back of her neck. “Hello, Jackson. I’d offer you coffee but I see you brought your own.” He looked at the cup in his hand and back up again.

  “Where’s Emory?”

  “Gone,” Gwen said. She looked like she’d been crying. They both did. “Dirk took her to the airport earlier.”

  “Airport?”

  “Yeah,” Gwen said. “You know the place you go to get on an airplane? There.” Gwen was furious with him. He might have better luck with Christian so he zeroed in on her.

  “Where did she go? When is she coming back?”

  “New York. And she’s not coming back. She called her old boss, told him what had happened to her, and why she left. He hired her back on the spot. She’s going to stay with a woman she worked with before for a while.”

  His feelings went dormant and his senses went into overload. He heard the whirl of the vacuum cleaner, felt the cold condensation on the cup in his hand, smelled some kind of lemony vanilla mixed with coffee, and tasted metal in his mouth. Then his feelings woke up and slammed into his gut. He sat down at the table without being asked.

  “And Dirk took her, did he? When does her flight leave?” Maybe if he hurried . . .

  Gwen picked up a stray piece of paper from the table. “12:50.”

  “But that’s already passed!”

  “True enough.” Turned out Christian didn’t sound too pleased with him either.

  “But what about charm school? And the other events? She wouldn’t just go.”

  “And exactly what did you think she was going to do, Jackson?” Christian asked. “After you turned that famous irresistible Beauford charm on her and made her feel like she was the most important person in your world, you told her you didn’t love her and never would. You told her that she was no more than a hobby, something that needed fixing.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! That is not what I said.”

  “Maybe not in so many words,” Gwen said. “But it’s what you meant.”

  He had no defense.

  “She wouldn’t do this,” he insisted. “She wouldn’t leave Around the Bend in a lurch.”

  “She didn’t.” Christian gestured to the papers spread out on the table. “We have her plan. Gwen and I are going to do the best we can until the end of the summer.”

  “And then?” he asked.

  “There is no then, Jackson,” Gwen said. “She canceled everything, starting September first, just like you told her to.”

  Gwen picked up a file folder, looked it over, and started to type.

  “She must have been pretty mad at me for y’all to be this pissed,” he said.

  There might have been a little kindness in Christian’s face when her eyes met his. “No, Jackson. She wasn’t mad at all. That’s why we have to do it for her.”

  Gone, back to her real life. Probably for the best.

  When he went out, Dirk had his truck blocked in.

  He approached and leaned on Dirk’s truck. “Seriously, you think something’s going to happen to me between home and here?”

  Dirk shrugged.

  “Though your wife is really pissed at me.”

  “Can’t do anything about that. She’s the one person I’m not willing to kill for you. Well, besides my kids, but they’re no threat. Not yet.”

  “Dirk, there’s no proof that maniac in L.A. was trying to kill me. And even if he was, he’s dead.”

  “Your point?”

  “Never mind. Emory’s gone.”

  “Yeah. I got that when I took her to the airport.”

  “When are you going to stop helping people in my life escape from me?”

  “I guess when they stop asking me to.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “So you say.” Dirk nodded and bit his bottom lip. “Jackson, do you know what post-traumatic stress disorder is?”

  “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “It’s when soldiers have flashbacks to war.”

  Dirk nodded. “Not just soldiers and not just flashbacks. It can happen to anyone and there’s help for it.”

  “Did it happen to you?”

  “No. I was lucky. Either that or too damned hardhearted.”

  “Do you think it can happen to Beau?”

  “Sure it could. Hope not. But we’re not talking about Beau.”

  “Your point?”

  Dirk shook his head. “You’d think I’d notice stuff sooner. Look, just think about it.”

  “Nothing to think about.”

  And Jackson drove home with Dirk on his tail the whole way. This time, he did not stop for the reporters.

  • • •

  It was Ginger who woke him up the next day. He’d never made it to the bed and the television was still on.

  “Come in,” he said and prepared himself for an old-fashioned, Old-Testament-style ass-chewing. Oddly, he hadn’t talked to her since the concert. How he’d escaped that, he wasn’t sure. He could hear it now. What were you thinking? Do you want to ruin your career completely? Could you not have told me? Have I not earned that?

  But she didn’t say any of that.

  “I came to tell you I’m leaving,” she said.

  Another desertion. Though, who could blame her?

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No. Sammy’s waiting for me.”

  “Okay. Have a good trip. Use the plane if you like.”

  She shook her head. “I booked a flight. Don’t you want to know why I’m going?”

  “I can guess.”

  “I doubt it. I saw a doctor yesterday. I’m not healing as I should. I’m doing too much and under too much stress.”

  Her face was white, had been for days. So here was another person he couldn’t take care of. Worse, he hadn’t even asked.

  “So I’m going back to Aruba and I really am going to rest this time. I called my cousin. She and her daughter are going to come down. We’re just going to lie on the beach.”

  “Good. That’s what I want you to do.”

  She looked into his face for a long moment. “Jackson, I’m not abandoning you. I have to go get well.”

  “I know that.” Besides, there was nothing here for her anymore.

  “Why don’t you come with me? After all, you paid the rent. If you will, I’ll call Lisa and tell her not to come.”

  Leave the place where Emory might come back, where she knew to find him? Unthinkable.

  “No. I’m not much for the beach.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  He gave her an awkward hug. “Have a good trip.”


  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Beauford Bend was a tomb—a tomb with twenty noisy teenage girls running amok from early morning until bedtime, but a tomb nonetheless.

  Jackson didn’t plan to start spending most of his time in the carriage house; he’d only gone down there to look for his favorite sunglasses but her smell was there and he wondered if he lay on the sheets they’d slept on, if he might be able to take a nap. He was sleeping less and less and the dreams were getting worse.

  Three hours later, he woke up rested, without having dreamed. He was determined not to become some kind of sappy romantic comedy actor who clung to his lost love’s favorite sweater or ran his fingers over the little bottles and jars on her dresser, but he liked knowing that stuff was there.

  Anyway, he’d never seen her in a sweater. People didn’t wear sweaters in the summer in the South.

  He definitely was not living at the carriage house; that would have been crazy. He went back to his rooms at night to watch movies and try to sleep. But then he’d drift down there and take a nap. On the fourth day of this, he woke up hungry but found he’d already eaten all the cereal bars, popcorn, and cheese.

  Gwen had ceased to care if he had anything to eat and Sammy was too busy helping with charm school to do much. He looked out the window. They’d been playing lawn games earlier but now they were in the rose arbor having a picnic. Christian and Gwen were standing before them talking, probably laying down the law about how a young lady ought to conduct herself while dining alfresco.

  They were all dressed up, wearing hats.

  Emory ought to be here teaching them how to hold their forks, dance, and smile—smile amazing smiles that would make a man go weak and strong all at the same time and know there was no other smile like that in the world.

  But could you teach that? Maybe not. But the fork holding and dancing, definitely. And Emory ought to be doing it.

  His stomach rumbled. If he went the long way around and through the family wing, he could get up to the kitchen in the big house without being seen.

  He entered through the side door and found the same woman and man Gwen had hired to help during Gabe’s visit. They were putting little sandwiches and cookies in storage containers.

  “Hi,” he said.

  They whirled around and their mouths gaped open.

  “Do y’all have anything I can eat?”

  The guy recovered first. “Certainly, Mr. Beauford. We can fix anything you’d like—depending on what we have available, of course. We have some nice salmon and there are some steaks.”

  “No, nothing like that.” He looked at the sandwiches. “Can I just have a couple of those? What is it? Pimento cheese?”

  The woman nodded. “And chicken salad and cream cheese with olives. Would you like us to make you a plate with an assortment and serve it in the dining room?”

  “Don’t go to that trouble. I’ll just grab a few.” He reached in, got a handful, and leaned against the stove to eat them.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the guy asked.

  “Glass of milk would be great.”

  Just then Julie came tearing out of the pantry.

  “Uncle Jack! Sing!” She tackled him around the knees.

  “Hey, kid. Where did you come from?”

  “My castle house. There’s fairy babies in there.” She pointed to the pantry.

  “Really? Living right in the pantry, huh? Who knew?”

  “We’re watching her for Gwen,” the woman explained. “Dirk took the baby to get his shots.”

  “Sing!” Julie demanded and held her arms up.

  He hesitated. He didn’t feel much like singing but he could probably manage a verse or two of “London Bridge” without going completely nuts.

  “Can I take her?” He crammed the last sandwich in his mouth and swung Julie into his arms.

  The kitchen duo ran all over each other to assure him that he certainly could. Give them six months. They wouldn’t remember who he was.

  He carried Julie to the Rose Parlor and sat down at the old baby grand. It didn’t have a good sound. It was a miracle he’d learned to play on it without running from the room screaming, but it would do for “Old MacDonald.” He ought to learn to play that harp while he had some free time. It had cost enough to buy it back and as far he knew, nobody had played it in about a hundred years. His mother would have probably made her angel twins play it if it hadn’t been sold off by then.

  They sang awhile. How long, he wasn’t sure, but long enough that he was getting bored.

  “Hey, Julie, what do you say we try to figure out that harp?”

  “Huh?” She widened her Dirk-like eyes at him.

  “That thing.” He went and sat on the floor and lifted Julie to the stool beside the harp. “See?” He plucked a string. “It makes music. You try.” He guided her little fingers to the strings and showed her how to pluck. It was out of tune but who cared? Julie got into the spirit of things and laughed like a clown had come for Christmas. He lay back on the floor. He could appreciate an enthusiastic musician.

  And then a string—and along with it hell—broke loose. Julie began to wail. “Not ’posed to touch! Not ’posed to touch!”

  Hell’s bells and damnation. He’d done it now. If Gwen’d had it in for him before, he was a dead man now. He’d allowed—no, encouraged—Julie to do something that was forbidden and something had gotten broken.

  He scooped her up and moved away from the harp. “Shh. It doesn’t matter, Julie. We don’t care about that old harp. We can buy more strings. We can buy all the strings and hire somebody who does nothing but live here and replace strings. It’s nothing worth making a sweet girl cry.”

  Her crying subsided somewhat.

  “Hey, let’s write a song.” He began to dance around with her. “Strings get broken and we don’t care! Harps don’t matter, I declare,” he sang. Julie began to giggle. Good. He was getting somewhere. Now for the propaganda. “Mommy doesn’t need to know we broke a string, or Uncle Jack’s bottom might wind up in a sling!”

  And he twirled around and danced right into Gwen.

  “Uh oh.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Mommy!” Julie reached out and Gwen took her. “Me and Uncle Jack, we played that.” She pointed to the harp. “And it went pop!”

  “I gathered.” She dropped a kiss on Julie’s nose and set her on her feet. “Can you go check on your fairy babies? Tell Ronnie and Janet I said you can have a cookie.”

  Stay here and save me, Julie! Don’t desert me! But she did.

  Gwen assaulted him with her eyes. “You are bored, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. People get over being mad. They don’t get over love.”

  That was not good news. “Have you talked to Emory?”

  “Yes. I talk to her every day.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s doing. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything.” And anything was what he’d give to get back in Gwen’s good graces, and thus gain access to information about Emory.

  “Listen, we’re doing all we can, but Christian and I are not as good at this as Emory is.”

  “We all have our strengths,” he said magnanimously. “Emory has the unique ability to make the worst omelet ever produced. And though I couldn’t swear to it, unlike Christian, I doubt if she can play basketball with much, if any proficiency.”

  “Stop trying to butter me up, Jackson. You don’t have that kind of skill and I don’t have that kind of time. Christian and I are doing the very best we can but the girls aren’t getting what they would have gotten if Emory were here.” If you hadn’t run her off, hung in the air. “They don’t know it but we do. But they do know that you’re here. They’ve seen you sneaking down to the carriage house.”

  “I do
not have to sneak on my own property.” Damn. He thought he’d been more careful.

  “Whatever. Anyway, we only have two more days with them. The dance is the last night and Emory had that all planned so we’re good to go. The problem is tomorrow night. She was going to teach them about storytelling and tell ghost stories.”

  No doubt about the Beauford Bend ghost she’d invented. Hard to believe he’d been so mad about that.

  “Christian and I are no good at that. Instead, we’d like to do a little presentation on how to conduct yourself at a concert—”

  “A lot of people could use that.”

  “—and we’d like you to sing a few songs for them.”

  He should have stipulated what anything did not cover.

  “No band, Jackson. No big venue. No hundreds of people. Just you, Christian, and me—plus twenty teenage girls. And they would be excited beyond belief. It would make up for anything where we might have shortchanged them. We could do it up in the ballroom.”

  There was no way out, just like there had been no way out when Audrey asked him to call the band.

  “Okay. But not the ballroom. We’ll do it in my music room.” That way, if he couldn’t play guitar without watching adolescent girls go up in flames he might be able to play the piano. No way was he playing that piano in the Rose Parlor for an audience bigger than two or older than three. He might be washed up but he still had his pride. “They’ll all fit in there easy enough.”

  Gwen gave a nod. “They’ll love it. For the record, I wouldn’t have asked for that.”

  “How’s Emory?” Maybe this time he’d get some kind of answer.

  “She’s asking the same question about you. Now, get out of here unless you want to find yourself in the middle of an embroidery class. Allison from Eye of the Needle is bringing her things in and the girls are washing their hands.”

  • • •

  The impromptu mini concert ended up being for a few more than Gwen had said. Sammy came and Dirk, Jackson supposed, just in case one of the girls decided to try to take him out with an earring. When Gwen told him that the kitchen duo would really like to come, he’d said yes. If he couldn’t hold it together what did it matter if two more lay witness to it?