A Nashville Collection (54 page)

“Doing just fine.” He drives his big thick fist into my face.

Aubrey

A dozen wonderful red roses wait for me when I arrive home from Dave's
Monday afternoon.

“Robin Rivers is phenomenal,” I announce to Gina and the dogs, settling my guitar just inside the great room. “One day into our partnership and we have three fabulous songs.”

Gina smiles. “If the light in your eyes is any indication, you're on your way to another platinum album.”

I bury my nose in the red-velvet sweetness of the roses. “I'm not after status. I just want to sing from my heart. So, who are these from?” George and Ringo swirl around me, wagging their tails, sniffing my shoes. “Yes, boys, I was at Dave's. His poodle sends her love.”

Gina squirts 409 on the island counter top. “How should I know? Do I read your private notes?” She shudders. “What if it's something about your
bloom
.”

I make a face. “I'm sure it's not about my
bloom
.”

For the library and our future together.

Love always, Car
“They're from Car.” I breathe again the subtle fragrance of the roses. “Very lovely.” Gina turns from where she's unloading the dishwasher. “Guess he's trying to get in on your good side.”

I tuck the card under the bottom of the vase. “My good side?” We've had our differences lately, but how would Gina know? Most of our disputes have been behind closed doors.

Piper comes around the corner, papers in her hand. “Good, you're home. How was your day?” She waves the papers at me. “Contracts for the new distributor on your Aubrey Bags. You need to sign them today so I can fax them back. We're backing up on orders already.”

“Eli's looked over the contract?”

“Yes, it's straightforward. We pay them to ship the handbags. Period.” She holds out a pen and the contract. “Can't get any easier.”

We huddle at her desk, reading over the contract one last time, then discuss the possibility of designing a new handbag for the spring. “I'll call the designer tomorrow.” Piper taps a note into her Palm Pilot.

I flop down on the couch, humming the melody of the last song Robin and I penned. It has a lot of minor chords and I love the sound. “So, Gina, what do you mean Car's trying to get in on my good side? He didn't paint the library black, did he? Or turn one of the upstairs bedrooms into a putting room? What?”

Piper works the fax machine. “You gave Car the library?”

“I did.”

“Guess compromise is key to all relationships, though I wouldn't know.” Piper presses the big green Send button and turns to me, hand at her waist.

I nod toward her. “Your day's coming, friend.”

Gina comes around with the dogs' leashes. George and Ringo flip and twist around her legs. “I told Car if he threw out all the stuff, you'd be madder than a hornet, but he insisted—”

Rising to my knees, I address Gina over the back of the couch. “What do you mean ‘threw out all the stuff'?”

“Your boxes. He said you wanted to get rid of them.” Gina snaps a leash onto George's collar, then Ringo's.

My heart nearly stops beating. “He threw out my boxes? I told him to store them in the rec room.”

Gina tips her head to one side. “Tried to tell him, but he was a hundred percent convinced you said you didn't need to keep them.”

I charge for the stairs, running up two at a time. Piper is close on my heels. Opening the library door, I stop just inside. Light from the southern sun fills the windows and paints the burgundy carpet with golden flecks.

“Oh my gosh, this is beautiful. Where did he get this furniture?” She lightly touches the shelves containing the leather-bound books.

The deep mahogany and leather surroundings speak Car's name. “The question is where did he store my boxes?”

Down the hall, third door on the right, is the rec room. I peer inside. Empty except for the pool table I bought last year. No boxes, no Momma's couch, no Grandma's plant stand.

Piper pulls something from a crate just inside the door. “An old, muddy golf shoe.” Wrinkling her nose, she drops the shoe back in the box. “There's a pair of dried-up, sweaty golf gloves too. And a stack of magazines.”

“Those have to be Car's.” I thunder down the hall, looking in every room for my belongings.
Did he store the boxes in the garage?

But the garage contains only my antique Mercedes.
I'm surprised he
didn't throw it out too. Make room for his Humvee and golf cart.

A slow, deliberate chill creeps over me. I begin to shake.

“Piper, get your keys, we're going downtown.”

I glance at my watch, hoping Car's not in a meeting. It's almost five. His
admin, Ilene, jumps from behind her desk as I approach. “A-aubrey. Was Mr. Carmichael expecting you?”

“ This is a surprise visit.” I walk into Car's big and bright Fourth Avenue corner office.

Car turns from his computer. “Brie, what are you doing here?” He greets me in the middle of the room with a light kiss.

Remain calm. There's a logical explanation. I just know it.
“Car, honey, where's my stuff?”

“Your stuff?” His brows knit together. He smoothes his thumb over the back of my hand.

“My stuff. From the library. The boxes, the furniture.”

“Oh, y-your stuff . . .” He swallows as the color drains from his face. “Well—” He walks over to his desk, keeping his back to me. “Y-you said you didn't need it. Right?”

“Nooo . . . When would I have said such a thing?”

Car faces me. “Friday night. When we were in bed. You told me I could have the library because you didn't need to keep the boxes.”

“Yes. In . . . the . . . library. I asked you to put them in the rec room.”

“Aubrey, you said you didn't want to keep the boxes. I heard you.”

My heart pounds against my chest. “Then why didn't you hear me ask you to move my things to the rec room?”

“Because you didn't ask me.”

“Car, I did ask. You answered.”

“How could I answer a question I didn't hear?”

“Oh my gosh.” My stomach tightens as I sink down to Car's office sofa. “Where's my stuff?”

He gestures with his hand, his mouth open, but words don't come. “Did you put it in storage? In your condo?”

“I-I had the movers—I specifically heard you say you didn't want to keep the stuff, Brie. I did.”

I rise slowly. “Where did the movers take my things, Car? Where?” My voice rises, demanding an answer.

“They hauled it away. To the dump.” His words are clipped, his expression tight.

For a moment, I can't breathe. I can't think. “The dump?” My jaw is clinched so tight I can barely talk. My body trembles. “How could you send my childhood memories, all I have left of my parents, to the dump?” My fist flies at him, landing on the side of his arm.

He snatches me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine. “I would've never thrown away your personal things unless you okayed it.” “You did this on purpose,” I say as tears form.

“What? Why would I do such a thing?”

“And why would
I
do such a thing?” I swear. “Why didn't you check with me?”

“I don't know. The movers were moving your boxes from the library, and they asked where to take them—Aubrey, I'm sorry.”

I brush the tears from my jaw. “Tell me about the box of old golf gear in the rec room. It's yours, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you've kept them because . . . ?”

“Aubrey—”

“Car, answer me?” I stomp my foot.

“Because they are my first golf shoes and gloves.” He lifts his head and peers into my eyes. “The gear Dad bought when he taught me to play.” “Old, worn golf gear you keep. But my memories you haul off to the dump.” My voice breaks.

Everything's gone. The pictures, the diaries, the bluebird of happiness.
I twist the diamond ring around my finger. “I don't know what to do, Car.”

“Aubrey, come on.” With an awkward step, he pulls me into his arms. “This is a misunderstanding, a mistake.” His words touch nothing inside me. I feel odd and empty. “Our relationship is about more than boxes of stuff, right?”

I shove away from him. “But somewhere in the core of our relationship, shouldn't you have an understanding of who I am?”

“Brie, of course. But boxes of junk?”

“Car, call it junk one more time, and you'll wish you hadn't. Those boxes were the only physical evidence remaining of my parents.” I feel like a broken record. “Why can't you understand that?”

“Fine, but Aubrey, it's too late now. I can't go dump diving.” He looks at me expectantly. ”What do you want from me?”

“I—”

A knock interrups my reply. “Car.” Ilene's face appears around the door. Two men in dark suits wait behind her. “The Harrington reps are here.”

Car glances from me to Ilene, then back to me again. He bends toward my ear. “Can we finish this at home?”

The men stand aside as I leave, mouths agape. When the elevator doors creep open, I hear one mutter, “My gosh, that was Aubrey James.”

Connie sets a big glass of sweet tea in front of me, along with a box of
Kleenex. “One tough summer for you, girl.”

“He makes me so freaking mad.” I blow my nose then smash the tissue in my hand.

Driving home from downtown, I asked Piper to drop me off at Connie's. We were stuck in rush-hour traffic and the longer we crept along, the madder I got.

“Honey, did you consider he might have thought you really wanted to get rid of all that stuff?” Connie stores the pitcher of tea in the fridge, then pulls open the drawer by the sink.

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours.” She scatters silvery-wrapped chocolate kisses across the table. “But you do realize losing your boxes and that old furniture is not the real problem.”

Popping a chocolate drop into my mouth, I bite without waiting for it to melt. “What's my real problem?”

She taps her blouse over her heart. “Right here.”

I squeeze the tiny tin wrapping into a ball. “My heart? Something is wrong with my heart?” My patience is thin and fragile.

“Sweetie, I'm just trying to get you to see the bigger picture. All the emotion and energy you spent protecting waterlogged boxes proved to be exactly what Jesus taught: perishable things perish. The legacy of your parents is
you.
Aubrey. Who you are. What you've become. The faith they taught you.”

Scooting away from the table, I carry my tea over to the sink and pour it out. “I tried to keep the faith for a while, but found no comfort in serving a God who took away my family. By the time I realized being mad at a God who loves me did me no good, I'd become accustomed to ignoring Him. Couldn't figure out the road home.” I move over to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Besides, He must be pretty angry with me.”

Her laugh is high and airy. “Angry with you? Darling, have you seen your life? Maybe you're too close to realize, but you are blessed. Your first album sold four million units.”

“What's your point?”

“Your second album, eight million. Third album shot you right into the land of the legends. Aubrey Jo, if God is angry with you”—she rises from her chair, pointing to herself—”I'll take a gallon to go.”

Her expression makes me laugh. “No fair. I was on my way to a good meltdown.”

She tosses me another chocolate kiss. “Tough being a diva, isn't it?”

“ This isn't about me being a diva.” I twist the water bottle cap off, then on. “This is about a girl in crisis.” A few thin tears slip down my cheeks, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “But I can't deny that I've been very blessed.”

“Can I say one more thing?”

I peel the silver paper away from the chocolate kiss. “Now you ask permission?”

“Don't go into this marriage with your eyes closed, hoping for the best. If Car's not the one . . . And I'm not saying this because he tossed out your boxes. I'm saying this because I've been watching and listening. I love Car. I love you. But, honey, got to tell you I don't love the two of you together. Please, pray before this thing gets too far. Why don't you talk to Pastor Bolz?”

“I haven't seen Shawn in years. I'd feel ridiculous.” Peering into her eyes, I add, “But, Connie, I am praying about Car and me. After today, all the more.”

21

“The Coming Home Gospel Celebration is about combining great music with a great faith. This year, we're thrilled to have Aubrey James singing with us at the Ryman, doing a tribute to her parents. If you ask me, it's long overdue.”

—Ralph Lester, The Tennessean

Dear Myra,

Please remind me I can't fall in love. I'm going off to college. But I
just got home from a date with a guy named Buck Carroll and sigh . . .

Maybe there's something to this falling in love, getting married thing. I mean, it's
only one date, but I have never felt this way about a guy before. I can literally see
myself with him for the rest of my life.

I'm sure that's how you feel about Car, right?

Anyway, Buck is the nicest guy. Very cute in a rodeo rider kind of way. And he
works at his daddy's mill. At my suggestion, we went bowling tonight, which is the
worst thing to do on a first date. Or any date. Not only am I a terrible bowler, but
every time I walked up to the lane, all I could think about was Buck staring at my
backside when I went to bowl.

But, **ahh** we had a great time. Laughed until it hurt. When he dropped me
home, he asked if he could kiss me good night. **Blush** I said yes. We're going out
again next week, I think.