Forgiving Jackson (2 page)

Of course, he might not. He might be off lording himself over somebody else.

“Can we see his room?” Florence Wagman brought Emory back to the present.

“What? Whose room?”

“Jack Beauford! If you would let us see his room, it would distract Kaylee. She loves him.”

“No.” Emory tried to sound regretful. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t point out that the Beauford brothers didn’t have rooms in the plantation house; they had suites, or apartments, more like.

“I read somewhere he has a whole room for his guitars. Could we see that?”

“I’m afraid not. The family wing is strictly off-limits. It’s their home. I just work here.” Technically, that might be true, but Emory’s heart rebelled at the very thought. Those Beauford brothers seldom returned to the ancestral home where they grew up, while it was her very heart and soul. “But I’ll have a basket with Champagne, chocolates, and some of Jackson’s CDs sent over to the bridal suite at Firefly Hall.” Emory reached for her phone to send herself a reminder when a shriek stopped her short.

“Mama!” It was the bride herself running like she was loaded for bear, robe flying, wet hair falling out of a towel wrap.

“Kaylee, what is it?” Florence said.

“I left the bridesmaids’ gifts at home! The silver compacts!”

“Oh.” Florence’s tone dared to carry an
is that all
tone, which made Kaylee frown even more. “You can give those to them when you get back from your honeymoon.”

“No, Mama! I was going to give them out when they come to help me dress, during ‘something borrowed, something blue’ time. I have a little speech planned for each one.”

Florence reached to smooth her daughter’s hair. “It’ll be fine. We’ll plan a nice little lunch when you get back. You can give your gifts and make your speeches then.”

“Mama, no! I need to do it today. I have to!”

Florence looked resigned. “All right. There’s no time to go all the way to Nashville. I’ll drive into that little town and see if I can find something.”

Emory did not point out that Nashville was only forty minutes away. She had a better idea. “I might be able to help. We have a very talented silversmith and jewelry designer in Beauford. She does incredible work. I know if I call her, she could bring some pieces out.”

The town of Beauford had grown up around Beauford Bend and another plantation, Firefly Hall, which was now a bed and breakfast. Over the years, Beauford had evolved into a boutique town comprised of artisans and master craftsmen that brought in droves of people seeking handmade one-of-a-kind goods. Still, they were all dependent on each other for their livelihood. Neyland Mackenzie had recently opened her own jewelry shop and would be glad for the business.

Florence frowned. “We spent a fortune on those compacts already. And we need eight gifts. I was hoping for something like Things Remembered.”

“Mama! That would be awful! They came all this way, gave me a party, and bought their dresses.”

Emory smiled and laid a hand on Kaylee’s arm. “Neyland does some very high-end designs but she also makes some lovely little silver bracelets and earrings in the neighborhood of a hundred dollars.”

Kaylee jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “That sounds perfect! And I could give them the compacts for Christmas!”

“And she would bring them out?” Florence asked.

“I’m sure of it.”

“And we’d want them wrapped.”

Emory reached for her phone and scrolled to Neyland’s number. As the mother and daughter walked away, Emory heard Kaylee say, “Why is it so hot out here?”

• • •

“Is this yours?”

Jackson Beauford looked at the backpack the woman held out toward him like it was an alien six-legged cat before gratefully accepting it. He would have boarded the plane without it. It had been a long time since he’d had to keep up with his luggage, a long time since he’d flown a commercial flight. Big stars didn’t fly commercial, keep up with their own belongings, charge their own phones, or buy their own toothpaste. When had he become so helpless?

Helpless
. Hadn’t he always been? When had he ever been able to do one damn thing when it made a difference?

Careful to avoid his bandaged right arm, he threw his backpack over his shoulder and made his way down the jetway—alone. He had bought out the whole first class section. He settled into the window seat in the last row and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

“Can I get anything for you, Mr. Beauford?” the airline attendant asked quietly. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She’d seen celebrities before, probably plenty of them.

“I’m hungry. Can I have breakfast?” When had he eaten last? Yesterday, probably.

“I’m sorry, sir. I cannot serve you a full meal until we’re in the air.”

Right. Rules. Not something he usually dealt with. If Ginger had been here, she would have gotten that meal for him or—more likely—made sure he’d eaten before boarding. But his longtime assistant wasn’t here; she was in Aruba convalescing. He had taken her there himself. She’d wanted, begged in fact, to return to Beauford Bend with him. But all he wanted was solitude and at the end of this flight he was finally going to have it. Emory Lowell would’ve had plenty of time to shut things down and clear out by now.

“I can get you a snack—something you won’t need a tray table for,” the flight attendant offered. “A muffin? A piece of fruit?”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.” That reporter from
Twang
Magazine
should be boarding soon anyway. It would be more polite to wait for her. And he knew polite. Aunt Amelia had made damned sure of that.

“If you’re sure. The other passengers are about to start boarding.”

“Thanks.” He closed his eyes and pulled his cap down farther.

She turned her back on him but stood between him and the aisle as if attempting to block him from prying eyes.

Still, he heard the gasps of surprise.

“Is that Jack Beauford?”

“No. He died in a fire.”

“He did not. That was some of his band … ”

He put his earbuds in, cranked up Hank, and closed his eyes. Time passed. Cheating and drinking songs always helped the time go by. It was easy to feel superior to the subjects in those songs since he’d never done any of the former or much of the latter—at least not to excess. Not that he’d ever been in a relationship committed enough where there could have been any cheating. Feeling superior was a whole different big bag of black sin and one he excelled at—that and getting people killed.

He smelled soap and sensed someone was near. The flight attendant wasn’t in his personal space but had stepped near enough to get his attention. She had some wisdom. That was rarer than it ought to be. Maybe he would hire her away from Delta. Then he remembered. He didn’t have any jobs to give anyone anymore.

He popped an earbud out.

“Your guest’s flight just landed. We sent a courtesy transport for her.”

Still getting special treatment. Or maybe not. Maybe they did that for everyone.

“Thank you.” If it was special treatment, it wouldn’t last—not after the world got the message that he was done, that he didn’t owe them a song.

There was a mild flurry up ahead and a woman with strawberry blond hair wearing a conservative, expensive-looking gray dress moved down the aisle like she had a mission. Unless he missed his guess, that would be one Carson Hamilton-Knox of
Twang,
the magazine that was the bottom line on the Nashville music scene. As she got closer he realized with horror that she was pregnant. Guilt washed over him. He had made a pregnant woman fly all the way from Nashville to Los Angeles, just to turn around and board this flight back to Nashville.

But he hadn’t really made her, had he? No. He had simply stated his terms for granting this interview—the first and only interview he intended to do concerning the fire. And it would be his last interview. Carson Hamilton-Knox didn’t know that, of course, and neither did the world.

She only knew that if she wanted the interview she was going to have to conduct it on this flight. She didn’t even know if he was changing planes in Nashville or staying there. And at the end of the interview she still wouldn’t know that. She wouldn’t have learned anything he didn’t want her to know.

She approached and his good manners made him stand up and take the hand she extended.

“Carson Hamilton-Knox.” Her voice had that cultured West Nashville/Harpeth Academy tone. He would have recognized it anywhere, knew it from his aunt, his mother, and the charm school days at Beauford Bend. Thank God that was over—for him and Beauford Bend.

“Jack Beauford,” he said.

She laughed. “I know.” She wasn’t flirting. He liked that, though she might be the kind he would have gone for,
if
she hadn’t been married,
if
she hadn’t been pregnant, and
if
he had been looking.

Too late, he remembered to remove his cap. “Sorry. Bad manners.”

A bit of surprise washed over her face. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped dark locks. He still wasn’t used to it. The people he’d paid good money to boss him around had insisted that he keep his thick, straight hair chin length, had said it was sexy the way he unconsciously slung it out of his eyes while on stage. But he wouldn’t be doing that again. “Sometimes you want a change.”

“I understand.” She gestured to the seat beside his. “Should I sit here?”

“Yes. Let me help you.” He took her laptop case while she settled into the seat. She wasn’t pregnant enough that she was likely to give birth on this flight but enough that she had to struggle a bit with the seat belt. She removed a pad and pen from the case.

“If you don’t mind—slide my laptop under the seat, please.” Good. She understood the rules. No pictures. No recording. Just the two of them, a pen, and paper. In return, she had his undivided attention for the entire four-hour flight.

After situating her bag he sat down, buckled his own seat belt, and settled his cap on his knee.

“Why don’t you wear a cowboy hat?” she asked.

This was going to be easier than he thought. He couldn’t believe that’s all she wanted to know. True, people had remarked for years that, unlike most country music stars, he never wore a cowboy hat, but it wasn’t exactly the burning question of the moment. Next she’d want to know his favorite color and what kind of jelly he liked on his biscuit.

“I’m not a cowboy.”

She glanced at his cap. “You’re not a baseball player either.”

“No.” He picked up the cap embroidered with
San Antonio Wranglers Super Bowl Champs.
“My brother Gabe gave me this cap. He got it on the field when he was named MVP.”

“You have a brother who’s a cowboy, too.”

“I do.” He nodded. “Rafe. He’s a champion bull rider. Maybe if he gives me a cowboy hat I’ll wear it.”

She swept her hair back and turned to him. “Why me?”

“Why you?” What did that even mean?

“Why did you grant me this audience?”

“You make it sound like I’m royalty. Or the Pope.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Still, why me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I like that you didn’t call—that I had to call you.”

“I had no reason to think you’d take my call. You didn’t take my boss’s call, or
her
boss’s. Or anyone’s from
Time
,
Rolling Stone
,
The New York Times
… I could go on.”

Truth was, he’d known he had to give an interview, that the world wouldn’t rest until he did. Carson was young and new to
Twang.
He figured he could handle her and so far that was proving to be true. Also, he’d heard she had married her college sweetheart just last year so he figured she still had enough stars in her eyes that she wouldn’t try to screw him in the bathroom.

“I read
Twang
,” he said. “I think you’re a good writer and you seem fair. I could use a little fair these days.” And he pulled out his stage smile, the one that always got them on their feet, the one that made them throw their thongs onstage.

Carson Hamilton-Knox did not divest herself of her maternity underpants. Thank God. But she did smile back.

She opened her notebook. “Fires aren’t fair, are they?”

Given how this was going, he would not have expected that before they were even in the air, but okay. Maybe they could get this over with and take naps. Pregnant women liked to sleep. He’d heard that. And she had been awake for a long time.

He took a deep breath and began to recite the facts as he had practiced in his head. “A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, my manager, and thirty-seven audience members. Their names are—”

Carson put up a hand. “Mr. Beauford—Jack. May I call you Jack?”

He nodded, confused. People didn’t usually interrupt him when he talked. Just then the flight attendant came through, checking tray tables and seat belts with all the sights and sounds of takeoff in the background.

Though they’d had to pause, Carson took right up where she left off.

“Jack, I know the names of those killed, all forty-three. I know Mason Patrick started the fire and we’ll probably never know why because he ran to the roof of the arena and threw himself off. Those are the facts, as reported by the authorities. They have been recorded in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”

True enough, so what did she want?

Apparently, she was about to tell him. “Your assistant, Ginger Marsden, was injured trying to protect you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” he said tightly. If Ginger had left him alone, had not run onstage and tackled him, he could have gotten to Trace, maybe saved him. Jackson closed his eyes and saw himself rushing toward Trace and then being knocked into some equipment by Ginger and her falling off the stage. And, worst of all, the security guys hauling him away while he fought them, fought them so hard, to try and save the people he was responsible for. Ironic that he had broken Jimbo’s jaw and dislocated Martin’s shoulder, but he’d escaped with only a few stitches in his arm. He probably couldn’t have saved the others, but Trace had been close; since the first, Trace had always been close by, playing rhythm guitar and singing backup, while Jackson played his own lead guitar. “Ginger suffered a broken leg and a slight concussion. She’s on a beach getting some much needed rest. She’ll be fine.”