A Nashville Collection (60 page)

The heavy sanctuary doors creak as we enter. Several heads turn to see who's coming to worship so late. I dodge the curious stares by hiding behind my sunglasses and sticking close to Connie.

The sanctuary is packed. I spot Robin Rivers a few rows up and over. She's leaning against a broad-shouldered man I recognize from my days of hanging out with Janie Leeds. Good for Lee Rivers, finding a gem like Robin. As Connie finds two spare seats, I spot the familiar tilt of Scott's head near the front.

When the man praying at the pulpit says, “Amen,” a pretty, bubbly-looking woman with a red Gibson takes center stage. “Let's stand and worship the Lord.”

The band kicks in with an up-tempo song, and the congregation begins to clap with the beat. The song is fun and fresh, but I can't help but close my eyes and lower my God barrier.
Here I am. I'm Yours.

Pastor Bolz teaches about God's kind intentions toward us, reminding us that from the foundation of the earth, He's had a plan. He's not surprised by anything.

Kind intention.
I ease forward, listening.
God has a plan for me. Despite all
I've done to distance myself from Him, He has a plan.

Connie leans close. “Doing okay?”

Face in my hands, I nod. “Perfect.”

26

“I played the Gaylord Entertainment Center with her when I first signed with SongTunes. She treated me like an equal, goofed around with the crew, came early for her sound check. Just being around her taught me volumes about being an artist and entertainer.”

—Mallory Clark, SongTunes artist

Jen,

GO TO COLLEGE. If this Buck guy is the right one, he'll be around
when you finish school. Don't lose your vision for your life.

I did, for a while, but I've been thinking a lot about God lately and His part in
my life. It all started when Connie and some other friends encouraged me to pray about
marrying Car.

Not sure if being engaged to this man is right for me. I want stability, I want family,
but I can't get married just because I'm thirty and counting.

We had an incident that forced me to look at our relationship. He moved in with
me a few weeks ago and inadvertently threw out the boxes of stuff I saved from when
Daddy and Momma were alive. Photo albums, records, yearbooks, this and that.
Clothes. Daddy's letter jacket.

He claims he thought I wanted him to throw them out, but it was a catalyst in my
life and forced me to examine my heart.

I thought I was being silly, making a mountain out of a molehill, until a few days
later we go to his parents for dinner and his dad produces old family movies Car
thought were lost.

Jen, he flipped. Talked about how great it was to have the old family movies, keep
their heritage alive. It hit me how much he regarded his family, but not mine. Dead or not.
I left, pondering my life. I chose the road I'm on, but I wonder if it's time to reevaluate
my journey.

If I could impart any of my wisdom to you, Jen, it'd be to always examine your
heart. Don't give in because you can't think of a logical way out.

I accepted an engagement ring before really considering my heart. Before talking
to myself or God about it. Not that God and I have been all that close lately . . . But
hear what I'm saying. Do as I say, not as I do.

You'll have a blast at college. Make friends you would never make anywhere else
in the world. Love and marriage will come. Take this time in your life to discover who
you really are.

Enough finger wagging, I guess.

Love, Myra

Car unfolds his napkin and sets his silverware beside his plate. He arrived
home early tonight, gathered me in his arms, and with a tender kiss, suggested a drive down West End Avenue for dinner at Amerigo's.

“You were at the studio today?” he asks, reaching for his water.

“All day, but we're getting there. We recorded three songs—one I wrote with Robin, two of her originals. Oh, Car, she's such a magical songwriter.” I reach for a slice of Amerigo's warm bread.

“Good, Brie, good. Seems like it's working out fine.” He nods, but his eyes search the faces of the dining room. No doubt he's looking for people he knows.

Our server approaches the table. Her eyes are lined with heavy black eyeliner. “Good evening. Welcome to Amerigo's. Are you ready to order?” She stares at me for a lingering moment, then smiles.

With a quick glimpse at her nameplate, Car points to a menu item. “Yes, Carissa, I'll have the flame-grilled salmon.”

“Very good.” She takes his menu and tucks it under her arm. “For you, Miss James?”

“I'll have the flame-grilled filet with portabella mushrooms.”

“Excellent choice. Would either of you like a glass of wine tonight?” “Not for me, thank you.”

“Me, neither.” Car shakes his head.

When Carissa leaves, he picks a slice of bread from the basket and absently dabs it in the oil and spices. “Have you thought more about us?”

“Yes.”
The
conversation I've been avoiding is starting. Courage, please, God.

“Me, too.” His posture is square and stiff, his back pressed against the booth.

“What have you decided?” My taste for the bread vanishes.

“What have you decided?”

“Well, I've been talking to God, but—”

“Is that why you went to church yesterday?” He tears absently at his bread.

“One reason. But with everything that's gone on this summer, it's made me think a lot about my life. Who I am, who I want to be. Church seemed like a safe place to find myself.”

“Did
God
say anything?”

My heart beats a little faster. “Maybe.”

Our server returns with our salads and the intimate conversation stops until she's gone. “I wish I could offer you more, Car, but I can't.”

He stabs at his salad. “You're acting a little like a flake.”

I peer at him over the flickering table candle. “I'm trying to keep from making a wrong decision.”

Carissa appears around the side of our booth with a fresh glass of tea for Car and a Diet Coke for me.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

For a while, the only sound is the clinking of silverware against our salad plates, but my appetite is waning under the sharp tension. As we finish our salads, Carissa arrives with our dinner entrees.

“How's the SoBro project?” I ask, trying to restart our conversation.

“Dad and I are flying to New York next week to meet with the head of an investment firm. They have a branch here in Nashville and want to invest in the city, but we need to meet with the CFO before he'll approve the capital.”

“How long will you be gone?” Is now the time? Do I say it in public?
Car, maybe we should take a break . . .

“Leave Monday, come back Friday. Dad wants to take a few days in the city.” He carves a slice from his salmon. “Aubrey, I'm calling the movers to come next week.”

The movers? I watch him stir sweetener into his tea. “What movers?”

“The ones coming to move my things.” His spoon clinks against the side of the glass over and over while he stirs. “I'd like to ask Gina to supervise their packing, if that's okay with you.”

“What are you saying?”

A camera phone flashes from the adjacent table.

Car stops stirring. “I'm making this decision for us.”

“I see.” Despite my own intentions, his confession stings, and my eyes fill with tears. “I thought I'd be the one to say it.”

“I wasn't going to without some kind of indication from you. Your hesitation, confessing you can't give me what I want, is confirmation enough.” He slides into the booth next to me. “Be honest. You never said yes when I asked you to marry me.”

“You surprised me.”

“But you never said yes.”

Tell him.
“I never said yes.”

He leans with his elbows on the table. “I thought we knew each other, but we don't. We're two very different people. You were right that night at my parents'. By the way, your favorite color is purple.”

I laugh softly. “No, it's yellow.” I hate the mounting sensation of rejection because he said it first.

“Yellow, huh? I should've known from all the decorations at the house.”

“My old friend, sarcasm.” Under the table, I slip Car's ring from my finger. “So, are we over?”

“Are we over?” he echoes, a watery sheen in his eyes.

I press the ring into the palm of his hand. “This belongs to you.” The diamond casts a prism of colors across the linen tablecloth. “I planned more of a three-step approach. Ask you to move out, then get sidetracked with our busy schedules—”

“ Then eventually break it off because we drifted apart?” he concludes.

“More or less.” My smile is weak. “See, in my plan you can play the jilted lover for a while, and all your friends can hate me and throw out my CDs. After a few months, you fall in love with a lovely and charming Nashville society girl. You'll get married, have five children, and invite me to all their birthday parties. The young Mrs. Carmichael will whisper in her friends' ears, ‘Car was once engaged to her.' ”

His laugh is sincere, though his eyes are sad. “Spare me your tawdry scenario.” Absently, he slips the engagement ring onto his little finger. It stops just below the first knuckle. “And what will you be doing?”

“Oh darling, I'll have become romantically cauterized and added two more dogs and ten cats to the household. I'll do retro albums and entertain on cruise liners trying to recapture my glory days. Piper, of course, will be married to a Music Row exec and whisper to the new artists how not to be like me. Gina will stay with me because she's desperately loyal. And Juan will be the head groundskeeper at Cheekwood.”

“Zach? What's become of your manager?”

“Tragic really.” I shake my head with an exaggerated exhale. “Managing boy bands out of Orlando.”

Car chuckles and squeezes my hand. “You should be a novelist.”

I kiss his cheek. “I'm horrible at good-byes, you know.”

He kisses my fingers. “No, I didn't.” He raises his pinky to me. “Keep the ring if you want.”

“How can I? You gave it to me with an intent and a promise, which
we
are now breaking.” I close my hand over the ring. “Give it to the future Mrs. Carmichael. When she whispers to her friends you were once engaged to the great Aubrey James, you can whisper to their husbands that your wife is wearing my ring.”

His taps the ring against the table. “I didn't even pick out the ring you liked.”

“No, but coincidentally you picked out a ring Tammy Arbuckle likes.” I wrap my arm around his and rest my head against him. “I'm sorry, Car.”

He lays his chin on my head. “I can't say my heart isn't breaking a little.”

My tears surface. “Neither can I.”

Carissa returns, asking if we want dessert, but we've barely touched our entrees.

“Just the check, please.” Car's voice is rough as he flips her his credit card. While we wait for her to return, he tells me a story about his assistant, Ilene.

This is good—to end dinner with laughter instead of tears.

“She had on these spiky heels and caught a thread in the new carpet.” He pops his palms together. “Bam, nose-dive to the floor, landing in front of the men's restroom door just as Dad was coming out.” Car laughs. “Hilarious.”

“Poor Ilene.”

“Yeah, she was embarrassed, but laughing about it by the end of the day.”

Car signs the bill Carissa brings and, folding my napkin, I pick up my purse. “Guess we should go.”

Car lifts my chin with his fingers and kisses me. Our final kiss is good-bye. I can't help it, tears spill down my cheeks. He wipes them away with his thumbs. “This is right, isn't it?” His voice is husky.

I dab the end of my nose with my napkin. “Yes, it is. You know that, don't you?”

“Unfortunately.”

When we slide out of the booth to go home, relief mingles with emptiness in my heart. Change is never easy.

As Car holds the door for me, I step into a swarm of blinding paparazzi.

“Miss James, did you end your engagement tonight?”

“Aubrey, this way.”

Ducking behind Car, I shove his back. “Go, go, go.” We dash around the street corner.

“How do they know already?” Car calls to me.

“My guess is our friend Carissa.”

As we dash for the parking lot, Car pulls his Humvee key fob from his pocket. Two more photographers pop out from behind a car.

“Just press through.” I grab his hand and move out in front, forging ahead with my head down.

Did
not
see the pothole . . .

27

Associated Press

(Aug. 2) “Diva Down—Aubrey James nose-dives into parking-lot pavement. Fiancé Car Carmichael looks on.”
[Click for more of the story]

Scott

Miami Beach. Hot, balmy, and beautiful. Rafe and I cruise south down
Collins Avenue, away from Kevin Murphy's Murph's Grill.

“A cowboy-singing defensive lineman. I've seen it all now, Rafe.”

“He wasn't all that bad.”

A snort escapes my nose. “I've heard better singers auditioning for
Nashville Star
.”

Rafe laughs and pounds the console of our rented Explorer. “Did you see how thick his fingers were? How did he press down the right guitar strings?”

A laugh rolls out of my gut as I picture Murphy, whose neck is as thick as a post, who on any given Sunday averages six tackles a game, strumming his guitar while perched on a stool in the middle of the stage. He would squish up his face as he bemoaned and whined some lost love in true country fashion.