Diva NashVegas (2 page)

Remembering causes my pulse to pound and my middle to constrict. I fall against Zach.

“Aubrey, you can't go on,” he says, pressing a fatherly hand to my forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I'm going on.” The rest of my band emerges from a dark corner of the stage, and I move away from Zach, forcing my lips to smile. “All set?” Vickie Campbell, my bass player, puts her hand on my shoulder. “Let's do it.”

“One minute.” The stage manager passes again, flashing a finger in our faces. “One minute.” Rascal Flatts is performing on stage two and coming to the end of “What Hurts the Most.”

I breathe deep, shaking out my hands, stretching my neck, wiggling my legs. Tom Petty sang it right—the waiting
is
the hardest part. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and . . .

A firm hand slips over my shoulder, and soft lips nuzzle my neck. My heart races as I whirl around.

“Car, what are you doing here?” Nervous energy fires through me. “I'm about to go on.”

His smile fades as his expression darkens. “I thought you'd be happy to see me.” He pulls me to him. “Surprise.” Then, Brown “Car” Carmichael the Third kisses away my lipstick.

Gently, I struggle free. “Car, honey, I thought we were meeting at the house later.”

“This isn't the welcome I expected, Aubrey.” His tone is clipped.

The stage lights go up and the crowd's rumble deepens.

“Car, what
did
you expect? I'm thirty seconds from a performance.” Stepping backward toward the stage, I hold my expression, pressing the corners of my lips upward. “Can we talk about this later? I'll be all yours then.”

He props his hands on his belt, the sharp edges of his handsome face softening. “Sure. Knock 'em dead, Brie.”

The announcer is on the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the queen of country soul, Aubrey James!”

2

“Once she realized she could capture and hold a crowd, Aubrey became consumed about delivering the perfect, standout performance. She demanded it of herself, her band, and her crew. She drives herself hard and expects no less from everyone working with her.”

—Greg Leininger, CEO of SongTunes Records

“Hello, NashVegas!” Dashing out, I find enough of a spark to brighten my
weariness. With an album-cover expression, I wave to the crowd. The coliseum is a sea of glow sticks, but the exertion cost me my last ounce of energy.

Come on, Aubrey, buck up.

Digging deep, I try to find my diva-self, quite sure she's hiding under a mountain of blankets, sipping a cup of homemade chicken noodle soup. So very tired.

The cheering mounts. Poster boards declare,
We love you, Aubrey.

“Are you having a good time tonight?”

The crowd's response is enthusiastic, but instead of spurring me on, it exhausts me more. Two sentences into the performance and my throat burns and aches. No way will I hit the big notes of the “Borrowed Time” chorus.

Wondering why the band is not counting down the intro, I turn around to see Reba McEntire walking out from backstage.

My smile drops. Reba? What's she doing here? While it's an honor to see her, I'm not sure why she's strolling my way, grinning. Did I forget something? Please don't tell me I'm supposed to sing with Reba. How could I forget?

“Look who's here.” I motion to the country legend. “Give it up for the first lady of country music, y'all.”

In contrast to Car's unexpected appearance, seeing Reba is the kind of surprise I like. While the fans give Reba her due, I slip my arm around her, hoping to tap into the country legend's incredible strength. “I know a secret about you, Aubrey,” she says in her famous twang while flashing her famous smile.

“Me? Y'all know I don't have any secrets. Just read the
National
Inquirer
.”

Laughter balloons among the fans, accompanied by a barrage of hoots.

I try to focus on the crowds, but the stage is bright, and my eyes start to water. Faces are melding with the light.

Reba gives me a squeeze. “This is the last night of Aubrey's hundred-city FRESH! tour”—more cheering— “and her
thirtieth
birthday.”

Well, there's
that
secret. “Shhh, Reba, no one is supposed to know.” Dozens of
Happy Birthday
signs pop up. Camera flashes explode around the coliseum like tiny white bombs. When a couple of stuffed bears and wrapped boxes fly at the stage, the coliseum's security team move into action.

Reba sweeps her arm wide and, looking over her shoulder at the band, begins a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

The fans sway and join the song, their voices chasing around the coliseum.

“Happy Birthday, dear Aubrey . . .”

Cheers and whistles rise as the song ends. The band holds out the last note, crashing the cymbals and whining the electric. Laughing, I face them, cutting the air with my hand. The music stops. But now Car appears from the shadows, walking toward me with a lopsided smile that makes my heart skip a beat. For the first time tonight, I notice how amazing he looks. Clean-cut and all-American.

But what is he
doing
out here?

“This is Aubrey's sweetie, Car Carmichael,” Reba announces. “Vice president of Carmichael Financial right here in downtown Nashville. He has a special surprise for our birthday girl.”

This
news jump-starts my adrenaline.
Car, what are you doing?

Reba hands him her microphone and disappears into the shadows. Car bends slowly to one knee.

The fans go bonkers.

“C-car? Get up.” My legs and arms tremble.

He pulls a small blue box from his pocket and holds the mike to his lips. “Aubrey Jo James . . .” His voice thunders around the coliseum.

Tugging on his hands, I will him to stand up.
Please, Car, not here,
not now.

“. . . will you marry me?”

He opens the Tiffany box to reveal a dazzling, brilliant diamond. A cameraman butts in between us, zeroing in on the prize. Over my shoulder, the ring is splashed up on the Jumbotron. The crowd hoots and whistles.

This is ridiculous. How can a man ask a girl to marry him—at least ask
me
to marry him—in a fan-filled coliseum? I'm
working
.

Car slides the ring onto my finger.

Words escape from my heart. “Oh my gosh.”

The ring is like a fireband, hot and suffocating. A chant rolls forward from the fans: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

My arms feel weak, my feet numb. The roar of the crowd swirls around me as if I'm trapped in the belly of a dark cave. A drop of sweat runs into my eyes and burns.

“Car, I—”

Before I can finish, he swoops me backward for a long, crowd-pleasing kiss. When he sets me upright, all I can utter is, “Wow.”

Cradling me like a pet puppy, Car raises the mike again. “Y'all want to come to the wedding?”

The fans roar back a “Yeah!” making my blood run cold.

“Stop! You're giving ideas to the wackos,” I hiss in his ear.

Car frowns, leaning down to my ear. “Brie, have fun with this. They'll forget by the time we get married next spring.”

You've picked springtime? And no, they won't forget. You have no idea.

Car bends me back again and stares me in the eye for a lingering moment while the folks work up another raucous cheer. Then, with a sudden jerk, he plants his lips on mine. The louder the crowd, the harder he kisses. All I can do is hang onto him with stiff arms until he lifts his face and stands me upright. He bows and waves to the crowd.
Like they're here to see you, Car.

As he walks off, still waving, I watch his straight back and square shoulders. What do I do now? How do I segue from here?

“Guess I'm engaged,” I say with a light laugh, the diamond like an anchor on my hand.

The fans applaud, but I can tell, they're ready to move on.

“Borrowed Time” blasts into the night air, and I morph from stunned girlfriend into a country diva.

“We've had a blast meeting so many of you on the FRESH! Tour. Country fans are the best fans anywhe—” My voice cracks.

A field of fists pump the air above the crowd. One of the cameramen moves in front of me as I start to sing. I wink, flirting with the camera. My voice isn't strong, though, so I push a little. But two measures into the first chorus, my voice breaks and quits. No volume. No energy. No sound.

Immediately, my backup singer takes over the lead with my bassist rounding out the harmony while I carry on as if the whole vocal exchange was planned.

Blinking, I try to focus, but all I see is purple and green. My steps are awkward, my movements clumsy. I keep walking, clapping, trying to sing.

Then, the lights fade. The noise drifts. Everything . . . goes . . . black . . .

I open my eyes. Sunlight warms my bedroom with bright light. Outside my
window, white puffy clouds float along a perfectly blue Nashville sky.

Oh, thank goodness, I'm home, in my room, in my snuggly, comfy bed.

I slip further under the covers and nestle against the pillows. Peace settles over me.
Pure, unfettered peace.

This is the perfect place. The other side of the rainbow.

A light knock resounds, and as I poke my eyes out from under the covers, I see
Momma's pretty, smiling face peeking around my door. “Hey, baby girl. How're you
doing?”

“Good, Momma. Good.” I motion for her to sit on the edge of my bed.

“You're tired, Aubrey Jo.” Momma sits, her back straight, her shoulder-length hair
layered around her face. She looks me over with her lips pressed tight.

“I am tired.” I can't help it—despite my best efforts, water spills from my eyes.
“There's no rest for the diva, you know. Everyone counting on me—”

Instantly Momma cradles my head in her arm and presses her velvet-like fingertip
against my lips. “Shhh, don't worry about it now. You push yourself too hard.
Birthday girls shouldn't worry.”

“Did you feel this old and tired at thirty?” I run the heel of my hand over my eyes
to stop the tears.

She thinks, absently stroking my arm. “I had Peter at thirty. You at thirty-two.
Your daddy had just signed the record deal with Myrrh, and we had tour dates booked
out for the next year and a half.” She moves her hand to her high, lovely forehead.
“Oh, that man of mine . . . Never stopped.”

“See, I get it legitimately. Don't blame me. Blame Daddy.”

“Yes, you're like him—driven, born with music in your soul.” She brushes wisps
of my hair aside—her soft show of affection.

“Tell me the story again.”

“Well . . .” With a smile, she wraps her arm around me a little tighter, and I
burrow down. “I was about seven months pregnant with you and, oh, out to here.”
Her arm extends as far as possible. “We were on the last leg of a five-month tour and
had just landed in Florida for a Gospel Fair at this big Baptist church on Merritt
Island. After a quick sound check and a light dinner, the show started at seven
o'clock sharp.”

She chortles, lacing my fingers with hers. “The music started and you came alive,
jumping and kicking. Oh, my poor bladder.” With a laugh, she tosses back her head.
“You didn't quit dancing until the last note was sung, the lights shut off, and your
daddy and I had crawled into bed. Then you scared us all half to death when you
didn't move for another twenty-four hours.”

“Wore myself out, did I?” I trace her fingertips.

“Like you're doing now. You don't have to hold on so tight, Aubrey.”

“If I don't, I might spiral off into space.”

“Remember what your daddy says: God is always in control.”

“You don't know what it's like, Momma. So many demands, a posse of people to
support.”

“God is more than able. And willing. Hold onto faith and hope, girl.”

“Hope left me a long time ago.”

“Oh, Aubrey, impossible. You always have hope whether you choose to recognize
it or not.” She kisses my forehead, her gentle touch watering the dry places of my soul.
“Why do you put your light under a bushel?”

“There is no light anymore.”

My comment is dismissed with a flip of her wrist. “There's plenty of light. You just
need to let it shine.”

“You don't understand. Ever since the accident—”

“All things work together for good.”

“Not all things.” I peer into her hazel eyes. “Not all things . . .”

“It hurts me to hear you feel this way.” With a sigh, Momma rests her head on the
pillow next to mine and quietly begins to sing. “All to Jesus, I surrender . . .”

3

“I'll never forget her first recording session. First song, first day. It'd been awhile since she'd done music, but when we started playing, she started singing with energy and soul. Sang that song down in one take. It was something else.”

—
Mark Wallace, session guitar player

“How many people does it take to watch a diva sleep?” I peer at the whispering
crowd huddled at the foot of the bed.

“She's awake.”

“Aubrey, honey, how are you feeling?”

“My head is throbbing, but other than that . . . Did my diva dive spice up the show?”

“About gave a hundred thousand people heart attacks.” Connie Godwin, my adopted mom, settles on the bed next to my legs. “Some girls will do anything to get out of turning thirty.”