A Nashville Collection (51 page)

His eyes scan the room. “Killing trees?”

I growl and crumple up another page. “Trying to write a song.”

“Just
one
song?” Car picks up one of the paper wads.

“Yes, a song.” I play the melody that's been running through my head all day, but can't create the lyrics to match. “Gina left you a plate in the warmer.”

“I ate downtown.” Reading my lyrics, he joins me on the piano bench. “Since when did you write songs?”

“Since I was a kid.”

Being the son of Grace Carmichael, he had seven years of piano, so he plays the chords written on the crumpled paper. “Sounds good to me.”

“Car.” I grab his hands with mine. “I appreciate your encouragement, but it can't just sound ‘good to you.' ” What was I thinking? I can't write an album of songs. Even half an album of songs. I can't even write one song.

“Why are you doing this? Aubrey, you've become a superstar singing other people's songs. It's the economy of the music business. The writers write, the singers sing. Why are you stressing yourself out over this?”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming,” I snap.

Car rears back. “I'm just making a point. You're a huge name, Aubrey. There's not a songwriter in town who wouldn't give his or her eyeteeth to have an Aubrey James cut.”

Did I expect him to understand? “Sorry, babe, I'm just ready to do something different.”

All evening I'd been racking my brain for a unique way to sing, “I'm in love with you,” without rhyming with the words
true
,
blue,
and
new
or sticking in some cliché like “never before” or “first time I've ever felt this way.”

Car kisses my forehead. “Don't overthink it, Brie. If you can't come up with something, just go with the familiar.”

Go with the familiar.
The words hit me like a beam of light. I feel their intent.
Compromise
. Whenever something is hard, I compromise and go with the familiar. Well, not this time.

Car stands at the door. “By the way, the movers are coming Saturday.”

“What?”
Love . . . dove . . . above . . . hug?

“Brie?”

I look up. “Movers. Saturday.”

He nods. “Just wanted to make sure you heard me. I'm going to use the library as my den.”

This I hear and jump up. “You can't use the library. My boxes are in there.”

“Aubrey, you sincerely want to waste that beautiful library storing junk?”

“It's not junk, Car. In those boxes is all I have left of my parents, of my childhood.”

“Then do something with them or throw them out.” His tone is sharp, making me feel like a troublesome child.

Crossing my arms, I step over to him. “There are plenty of other rooms in this house. Make one of them your den, Car, but the library is mine.”

“The library has those beautiful built-in cherrywood bookshelves. You want to hide them with boxes of crap?”

Boxes of crap?
“Pick another room, Car.”

“Aubrey, if you're going to be territorial, then let's sell this place and buy a new one.”

“I'm not being territorial, but you can't come in here and order me around, telling me what I should and shouldn't keep. Whether you like it or not, Car, I was here first.”

Car bangs his fist against the door and walks out. My legs feel weak and wobbly, so I sink slowly to the piano bench.
Oh, Car
. . . This is ridiculous. Moving in together shouldn't be this hard, should it?

“Car, wait a minute . . .”

Basketball day. Thursday. Aubrey James versus Scott Vaughn. Piper is
coming over early to help me get ready. For all my bragging about whupping Scott, I haven't played basketball in years.

“You came to bed late,” Car says, walking out of the bathroom, his skin pink and fresh from a hot shower. The steamy fragrance of his soap fills the bedroom.

“Two a.m. But—” I pull a pair of baggy mesh shorts from the bottom dresser drawer. They're old and winkled. “—I wrote a song.”

“One song?” He tugs open his sock drawer. “Are . . . we okay?”

Fighting a yawn, I tighten the short's drawstring and nod. “Yeah, we're okay.”

He grabs my hips and tumbles me back onto the bed. “Are you sure? You seem rather quiet.”

“I have a lot on my mind. Plus I'm not quite awake yet.”

He runs his finger along my jaw line. “You're so beautiful, Brie.”

I press my hand to his cheek. “Thank you, Car.”

His kiss is passionate as he draws me close and tight, then suddenly releases me, springing off the bed. “Any more of that and I'll be late for work.” He winks at me, straightening his tie.

I pat his back on my way to the bathroom. “Have a good day.”

Dangling my Nikes from my fingertips, I head down the hall to the
library. Piper will be here in a few minutes, but Car's announcement the movers are coming reminds me of something.

My promise to Zach to pray about marrying Car.

Stepping over the boxes and piles of clothes, I land on the couch, pausing a moment to stuff my feet in my shoes. Somewhere in one of these boxes is Daddy's Bible, worn and marked up.

After a brief search, I find it in the box by the door. Returning to my spot on the sofa, I cradle the Good Book to my chest and try to formulate a prayer.

“God, it's me . . .” The conversation feels foreign. “I need to talk about Car and me.” Pausing to formulate my next thought, my mind wanders.
What time is it? I wonder if Gina's out with the dogs? I'm going to need
breakfast before basketball.

Stop. Focus. “Is he the right one for me? Is there even such a thing as the ‘right one'?”

I wait for an answer, but nothing comes. No audible voice. No thunder or lightning crack. “Do you have an opinion here, God?”

Closing my eyes, I focus on focusing.
How will I know if He answers?
With my thumbs, I separate the Bible pages and let the book fall open on my lap. I jab my finger to some spot on the page and glance down.

“Jesus feeds the four thousand.” I laugh. Not exactly the answer I'm looking for except surely if He fed the four thousand with a few loaves of bread, He can take care of me, right?

“I'm going to trust you on this one, God.”

“Hey,” Piper's voice calls up the stairs. “What's the hold up? Let's go if you want to run drills.”

“Coming.” I slip Daddy's Bible back in the box and hurry downstairs.

Out on the court, Piper digs bright orange basketballs out of a canvas
bag. “Can you believe we never use this court? After all the trouble and expense to build it?”

I pick up the first ball. “We were going to have the old team over and play summer ball on Saturday nights.” My nice, easy jump shot hits the rim and bounces high and away.

“Wow, you are out of practice.”

“Keep the balls coming.” I run to the hoop for a layup. “How's your online boyfriend?”

“Not. He called and invited me for coffee at the Frothy Monkey the other night, then no-showed.”

“Pipe, I'm so sorry.” I lob up another ball . . . Miss.

She shrugs. “I didn't like him that much anyway.”

“You're just too special for these guys.” Shoot and miss.

Piper bounces me another ball. “That's the lie I keep telling myself too.”

I laugh. “How do any of us know a guy is right?” Dang, missed again. “Strange question coming from someone who is engaged.” She passes me another orange ball. “My new prayer is ‘God, if you have a man for me, let him come up and slap me.'”

Pausing with the ball, I make a face. “Kind of drastic, don't you think?”

“Well, if a guy slaps me . . .” She grins. “There'll be no doubt.”

“What if he's married?” I set up for a jump shot.
Boing
. The ball bounces off the rim.

“Married? Aubrey, please, it's kind of implied in the whole looking-for-Mr.-Right agreement that he's not married.”

“Just in case, better talk to God about a backup plan.” Another miss. Crud. I have no game. “I can see this slapping thing going way wrong.”

“Speaking of God.” Piper jogs around the court to gather up all the loose balls.

“Smooth transition, Cantwell.”

She lobs a couple of balls to me. “Did you do what Zach asked you to do?”

I regard her for a second. “What did Zach ask me to do?”

“He told me, Aubrey.” She tucks a ball under each arm. “He asked you to pray about marrying Car.”

Dribbling up to the basket, I try another layup. And miss. “I've started to work on my promise.”

She steps closer, passing me one of the balls from under her arm. “How does one
start
work on a prayer?”

Gripping the ball between my hands, I bounce once. “Do the talking but not the listening.” I pause. “Part of me is afraid of what I'll hear.” “Which would be . . .”

“He's disappointed in me.”

Piper motions for me to take a shot. “Aubrey, don't you know? God would kill the fatted calf for you.”

I shoot and miss, then scurry for the rebound and lob up another shot. The ball rolls right over the rim and falls down the other side. “Scott is going to wipe the court with me.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, fatted calf. Prodigal son and all that, right? Prodigal daughter in my case.” I stop and stare out over the lawn. “I never really left, Pipe, just wandered away for a while . . . But wouldn't that be lovely? To be back in my Father's house.”

“It would.” Piper's hand gently caresses my shoulder. “His love never—”

I whirl around. “Never fails. I know.”

She jabs my chest. “Don't forget, okay?”

I smile. “You won't let me.”

She starts clapping her hands. “All right, enough yapping.” Lining up the basketballs on the baseline, Piper instructs me. “Let's get your game back. We're going for a hundred free throws in a row, no misses. Let's go.”

“A hundred? Holy schmoly.” Bending forward, bouncing on the balls of my feet, the familiar feel of this old drill surfaces. “A hundred in a row, a hundred in a row.”

Piper bounces me ball after ball, while I miss shot after shot. After about the thirtieth miss, Piper holds up. “You're rushing. Slow down. Think.”

“Slow down.” I draw a deep, steadying breath.

“Concentrate.” She fires the next ball. “Go.”

I fire it up, and miss again.

“Your wrist. Use your wrist.”

“Scott is going to kill me,” I wail.

“Stop whining, Aubrey. Find your groove.”

A few more shots, a few more misses, then it happens. The magic. The rhythm. The groove.
Whoosh.
“Wahoo!” I raise my arms in victory.

“Don't stop, keep going.” Piper fires the ball back.

I shoot. Nothing but net.

By the time Scott shows up, Aubrey “Abdul-Jabbar” James is bouncing around the court, mopping sweat from her eyes, ready to take him down.

“Hope you're prepared to lose, 'cause I can't miss.”

“No, I didn't come prepared to lose. I hope
you're
prepared to lose.”

“Pipe,” I call, “from now on, Thursday is staff basketball day.”

Gina looks up from where she's stocking a cooler with FRESH! and Gatorade. “Count me out, boss.”

“Ah, come on, it'll be fun. Then we can go for a swim.”

Gina screeches and hurries away, her fleshy elbows pumping up and down.

“Don't let George and Ringo out!” I holler after her with a glance at Scott. “ They like to play chase.”

Scott swaggers to the center of the court, his arms and hips in opposite sway. He's wearing a pair of Adidas slides with white socks, a pair of pale blue Melo shorts with a white sleeveless T-shirt. His shoulders are square and thick, his arms muscled.

I stop bouncing as he saunters pass me. “What are you, the basketball mafia?”

Stopping midcourt, he juts one foot forward and lifts his dark shades to his forehead. “I should be able to beat you on this court. No problem.”

Laughing, I resume bouncing, circling him Apollo Creed style. “You're going down, Vaughn.”

He peers at me over his lowered shades. “Game time.”

With that, I buckle over laughing. His pretense of cool is hilarious. Rafe comes over while Scott exchanges his sandals for sneakers and introduces me to a second cameraman. “This is our summer intern, Owen. He's going to run the mini-DV today.”

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He's a young twenty-something with an eager expression and sky blue eyes.

His grin stretches across his face. “I love my job. Aubrey James . . .” Rafe tugs on his shirtsleeve, pulling him aside. “Be cool, man. Be cool.”

Back to bouncing. Man, this is going to be fun. Courtside, my fans (aka paid employees) set up lawn chairs. Gina's wearing an oversized floppy hat and sipping something pink from a hurricane glass.

Piper-the-coach leans forward with her elbows on her thighs. “Come on, let's go, Aubrey. You can take him.”

Zach, who's just arrived, cups his hands around his mouth, “Take him down, Aubrey.”

“What? No one rooting for the winner?” Scott faces them with his arms wide.

“Got to go with the home team,” Zach reasons with a laugh.

“We're rooting for you, man.” Rafe gives Scott a thumbs-up from behind the camera. “Win this for
Inside NashVegas
.” But when Scott looks away, Rafe catches my eye. ”Win,” he mouths.

I give Rafe a thumbs-up, then challenge Scott. “Are we talking or playing?” Back to bouncing. Man, this feels good.

Scott strides onto the court, palming an orange ball. “Ladies first.” I check to Scott. “First one to twenty-one wins.”