Diva NashVegas (26 page)

“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.

“Man, it was like watching Rosie Greer knit.”

“Needlepoint,” Rafe says.

“Whatever. But I guess two days in Miami is not a bad way to end the week.” At least it got me out of Nashville and, for a moment,
her
out of my mind.

We are spending our last night dining on a nice steak and lobster dinner at Shula's. Courtesy of
Inside NashVegas,
I insist.

“Gotta tell you, Rafe, if this is what
Inside NashVegas
and
Inside the
Game
is becoming, I'm dubious.”

“Hang tight, man. You know how deals like this shake out. The show will change, personnel will change. CMT will figure out you're the one who makes
Inside the Game
work.”

“Choose me over their boys? I doubt it. Tell you what, though, I'm not spending my career looking for the musical soul of every jock we interview.”

“A nice juicy steak will make you forget the singing Dolphin.” Rafe knocks on his window. “Pull over, Kemo Sabe. I need cigarettes.”

Waiting for Rafe, I check e-mail on my BlackBerry. Our flight home Saturday morning is confirmed. Thank goodness.

Next is an e-mail from Olivia:
Check this out. On the wire today. Not a
big shocker, but I have a feeling you'll find it interesting.

Opening her attachment, I find a photo of Aubrey facedown on the pavement with a cutline:
Diva Dive. Aubrey James dumps fiancé. Still in love
with Jack Mills.

I hit Reply:
What happened?

Rafe returns, tapping a pack of Marlboros against his hand. “What's with the goofy grin?”

“Nothing, my man, nothing.” I steer the SUV out of the parking lot.
Aubrey's free
. “We're in Miami Beach, about to order steak and lobster. It's a good day.”

I power down my window, jut out my elbow, and let God's good salty breeze blow against my face.

Aubrey

Hey Myra,

Good advice on Buck and school. You're right. I can't get sidetracked
after a few dates. Besides, he hasn't even called me yet this week.

How's it going with Car? This girl I work with got engaged two nights ago. She's
driving us all crazy with wedding gown photos. Mom and I were in the grocery store
last night, and I admit, I picked up
Bride
magazine. I flipped through two pages, then
decided I'm not ready for a wedding dress.

Good reading on the cover of the tabloids, let me tell you. LOL. There was one,
the
National Inquirer
, with a picture of country singer Aubrey James falling into
a pothole. The headline was something about begging her fiancé not to leave her. How
humiliating.

Mom's like, “That poor woman is always in the tabloids. Every time her relationships
go in the toilet, the
National Inquirer
is there to tell us all about it.”

I can't imagine. What if Buck rejecting me made the local paper? I'd die.

Hey, I'm at work. So better get back to it. Just wanted you to know I'm thinking
of you.

Love, Jen

Sunday morning when Connie comes to pick me up for church, the house is quiet and peaceful. Sadness over Car leaving lingers, but the decision was right. I don't regret it.

After our Amerigo's conversation and paparazzi fiasco, he dropped me home, deciding to stay at his parents until he left for New York.

“Do you miss him?” Connie breaks into my thoughts as we drive down Harding Place.

“You're eavesdropping on my thoughts. The past few nights when it gets dark, George and Ringo wait for him in the foyer. I caught myself expecting him once.”

“That's understandable.”

Absently, I flip through the pages of my new Bible. “Thank you for having the courage to speak the truth to me.”

At the end of the service, I spot Scott and sneak up on him. It's been a week since our studio interview and Noshville Deli confession. I miss his irritatingly odd face and quirky personality. “If you keep stalking me, I'll have to get a restraining order.”

He spins around, grinning. “I can't help it. You're Aubrey James.”

I love how his voice sounds saying my name. I swallow. “Yeah, Aubrey James, and don't you forget it.”

He grabs my left hand. “I saw the picture.”

“Not my best side.” I pull my hand away, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“Is this what you want?”

I raise my chin. “Yes. He wasn't the right man for me.”

“Then I'm happy for you.”

We stand there a second, quiet, then Scott nudges me. “What are you doing today? Care for a little game of one-on-one?”

“Maybe. Are you up for losing again?” Connie waves at me from the sanctuary doors. “I think she's ready to go.” Halfway down the aisle, I turn back to Scott. “Four o'clock? My court?”

He bats a rolled-up bulletin against his palm. “Be prepared to lose.”

Scott and I cool off under the whir of the porch fans after four combative
games of one-on-one. “So, how does it feel, loser?” He rolls the
L
off his tongue.

I gawk at him. “Who won three of the four games?” Pointing to myself, I do a little head bob and weave. “Besides, I
let
you win the last game.”

He stretches out his legs on the glass table with an exaggerated sigh. “Yep, yep, yep, my game plan is working perfectly.”

I flick my water bottle cap at him. “Game plan, my eye.”

He's working up some hokey story when the phone rings. I dash inside to answer.

“Aubrey, it's Connie.”

“Hey, what's up?”

“Is Scott still there?” Her question is rushed. “Can he drive you over?” “Why? What's going on?”

“You'll see. Just ask him.”

“No, Connie, I don't want to ask him.” For the first time in years, I'm aware of how dependent I am on others to take me where I need to go. “Ask me what?” Scott walks into the kitchen, tossing his water bottle in the recycle bin.

I cradle the phone in my hand. “How do you know we're talking about you?”

He looks around, spreading his arms. “Don't see any other
him
's around.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe we were talking about George and Ringo.” “Just ask.”

“Connie wants me to come to her place.”

He reaches for his keys on the island counter. “Let's do it.”

I've never ridden in a Porsche before, and apparently Scott considers this
an opportunity to scare the wits out of me.

“Scott, the car up ahead is braking.” My fingers are white as I grip the door handle. Hillsboro Road is not busy for a Sunday evening, but traffic is always stop and start.

“I see, I see.” He guns the gas, then stops just shy of the car's bumper.

“Oh my gosh, you're a maniac.” My laugh is shaky and my right pinkie has passed out from being pinched against the door.

“You're just now figuring that out?” He revs the gas, making the engine growl so when the light turns green we lurch ahead. Shifting gears, he whips into the right lane and finds some open road.

“Oh, help.” My heart pounds and I close my eyes.

Suddenly, the car slows and the engine whines down. “Why are you slowing down?” The cars we were tailing are now several lengths ahead of us.

“Aubrey, I'm sorry,” Scott says.

“I'm just a big chicken,” I confess, easing my grip on the door handle. “No, you're not. I have no business racing around town like this.” He pries my left hand from where it grips the seat. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

“It's okay.”

“Now, where do I turn for Connie's?” he asks.

A blue Toyota is parked on the street in front of Connie's house when Scott and I pull up.

“Someone is here.” I shove open my door.

“Do you recognize the car?” Scott meets me in the middle of the driveway.

“No. Must be a friend of Connie's.” I start up the front walk, but Scott doesn't follow. “You coming?”

“Do you want me to? I'm happy to play the taxi driver.”

“Come with me, please?”

“My pleasure.” He jogs up the walk.

“Look at us,” I say. “We didn't even change.” I pick at the sleeve of his T-shirt, still a little damp with sweat. His wiry brown locks stick out in every direction.