Forgiving Jackson (3 page)

“Any chance you’re going to tell me what beach?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Is that where you’ve been these last ten days? With Ginger?”

“Mostly.” That was a lie. He’d flown Ginger to Aruba in his private jet and sent the plane back to L.A. for the rest of his people to take back to Nashville. He’d instructed his accountant to write some big checks and he’d hidden out on a small island off Aruba until the funerals were over.

It was almost as if Carson picked up on his thoughts. “There was a lot of talk about your failure to attend the funerals of your entourage. Some even speculated that you were badly hurt or dead.”

He smiled. “Obviously that was a bit dramatic. Ginger was understandably traumatized. I felt that my place was with her.” Ginger would cut her tongue out before she would tell that he’d hidden to avoid the funerals; any of them would.

“Ginger has been with you since before your first record went gold when you were nineteen. Is it fair to say you look to her as a mother figure?”

This had been a mistake. If there had been anywhere to go, he would have walked out.

“No. Ginger works for me.” Though Ginger was exactly the age his mother would’ve been. And she’d done everything for him, short of wiping his nose. That was over. From here on out, he was wiping his own nose.

“But there is no denying that she’s devoted to you,” Carson persisted.

“I don’t deny it. I deny that she’s a mother figure.”

“Some have speculated that there was at one time a romantic relationship between the two of you.”

“Some have also speculated that aliens descend from outer space on a regular basis to mate with mermaids but that doesn’t make it true.” This was not the first time he’d heard that and it never got any less ridiculous. Funny thing was, he got the feeling Carson knew that. Was she just asking random questions or was this all going somewhere?

His new best friend, the flight attendant, came through with her cart.

“Breakfast!” He popped his tray down. Maybe Carson would get distracted and get on with asking him if he liked grits. Which he did, if they were cooked right.

“Thank you. None for me,” Carson said.

“Not hungry?” Jackson took a sip of his coffee and inspected the omelet to see what was inside.

“I had breakfast on my last flight. An hour ago.”

“Are you going to write down what I’m eating for breakfast?” he asked.

“I hadn’t planned to. I would rather talk about how this fire took you back to a fire you experienced when you were twelve years old.”

Jackson hesitated with his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he stopped. “What makes you think it took me back?”

“How could it not?” Carson said simply, as if she were discussing ducks on a pond or the color of birthday cake icing.

“That was a long time ago.” Coming up on twenty years, in fact.

Carson narrowed her eyes. “Is it ever a long time ago when you lose half your family?”

She had that right. It was yesterday. Last night. This morning.

“They never discovered what caused the fire that night, did they?”

“No. They never did.” That was true, but just the same, Jackson knew.

It had been their last night of vacation at Myrtle Beach. He and the twins were camping out, like they had been allowed to do the previous three years. Beau was supposed to join them for the first time but had gotten sick and been kept inside. They’d done the usual—made s’mores, popped popcorn, and told ghost stories. Like he’d done every year after building the fire, Jim Beauford had admonished his oldest son to make sure the fire was out before they went to bed. Only Jackson hadn’t done it. He’d noticed that ten-year-old Rafe had gotten scared while Gabe was telling “Bloody Bones,” so Jackson had decided to have a little fun. He’d told Gabe to go to bed, ordered Rafe to put out the fire, and followed Gabe into the tent—leaving Rafe alone. When he and Gabe scratched on the side of the tent and moaned, Rafe had run to the tent and scrambled in. Jackson had not even asked his little brother if he was certain the fire was out, let alone checked on it. Worse, later, when he’d smelled the smoke, he’d turned back over and gone back to sleep.

Then some time later, the cries of his mother had woken them. What followed was a blur—the people from the neighboring beach houses gathering, the sirens, and the confusion about where Beau was. But all that had come after the worst nightmare of Jackson’s life—his beautiful, serene mother standing on the balcony holding two-year-old Camille crying, screaming, and begging Gabe to catch the baby—Gabe, the best athlete among them, who could out-throw, outrun, and out-catch anyone. But not that night. Laura Beauford must have known it was the only hope for her baby because she sent her over the rail into Gabe’s waiting arms—but though he reached and reached, Camille landed at his feet. Laura never knew because she had disappeared into the flames by then.

And all because Jackson had disobeyed the last directive his father had given him—his kind father with his blond hair, gentle voice, and lanky limbs, who loved leather-bound books, good bourbon, and the UT Vols, who spent his days teaching history at Vanderbilt University and his nights loving his family.

“What do you think started the fire that night?” Carson asked.

“I have no idea,” Jackson lied.

And as the food he had wanted so badly grew cold and finally efficiently disappeared as they flew over state after state, Carson’s questions went on and on. Jackson answered with grains of truth and barrels of self-preservation. He made jokes with just the right amount of sadness hanging in the background. He shrugged it off when she talked about his reputation for being the “good guy” of superstardom, who had hit it big young because he was determined to take care of his family.

He took no credit for that. How could he?

It was on the jetway that Jackson realized he had no way to get to Beauford Bend, to quiet and solitude. How could he have been so stupid? Ginger always took care of these things.

“Carson, do you have a car here?”

“Of course.”

“Will you drop me at a car dealership?”

As Emory had predicted, the brutal heat had mellowed as night set in and the dancing was in full swing down at the gazebo.

It had not been an easy day. Emory liked to think that she had handled each impending disaster in a way that would have made Amelia proud. And she had handled them. She just hadn’t always been able to make everybody like the solutions as Amelia could have done. She’d had enough of these people. As the day moved on, they had acted like everything was their due. She doubted if they would tip the appropriate people and if they didn’t, Emory would feel compelled to see to it that Around the Bend made it up.

She sat down on the steps of the side porch of the family wing, where she could observe the party and wait for the next demand. The walkie-talkie clipped to her waist buzzed, and she sighed and reached for the button on her headset.

“Guardhouse to The Boss.” She smiled. The new guard that security head Dirk had hired was very serious. She suspected he aspired to be a member of the secret service—or at least assigned to Jackson’s road security.

“Yes, Brett. This is Emory.”

“The transport van from Firefly Hall requests permission to enter the premises.” Brett most likely balked at having to utter the words
Firefly Hall.
He would probably like to rename the B&B something like Fort Peril.

“Tell Christian I’m on the family porch.”

The original house, built in 1856, was a large, graceful brick structure. The sparkling floor to ceiling windows pointed the eye toward the elegant twin two-story galleries—the focal point of the mansion’s beauty—while the roof with its dentil molding rose over it all like a strong, wise old man watching over his beloved family. The front view of the house always served to remind Emory that there were strong, fine things left in this world, even if she sometimes wondered where they were.

The original structure housed Emory’s office, a commercial kitchen, and the formal rooms used for events, which were also open for public tours by appointment. According to Amelia, the family had used the main house for holidays and special occasions but they really lived in one of the side additions—where Emory sat now—that had been added fifty years after the main house had been built.

After Jackson had made his first couple of million, he’d had the original house restored to all its former glory and modernized the family wing, creating apartments for Amelia, each of his brothers, and himself, plus a gym, a security office, some guest rooms, and some common family rooms. Amelia had offered Emory quarters in the family wing but she preferred the carriage house. It was small and she felt safe there, like she could see anything coming at her.

She’d love to be there now but she couldn’t see the wedding party from the carriage house porch.

“Hello!” Christian Hambrick’s voice rang out from afar. Christian knew better than to startle Emory, though she didn’t know the reason for Emory’s skittishness. Emory trusted the owner of Firefly Hall as much as she trusted anyone alive but she had been unable to tell her about that night two years ago, when she’d had the bad judgment to leave a co-worker’s birthday party with the wrong man. The night had turned into something she thought only happened on made-for-cable movies. Turns out, she should have paid more attention to those movies.

Emory stood up. “Come on up and have a seat. Or has someone already sent for you to take them back?”

“Not yet.” Christian settled her tall frame on the steps. “But I can predict this crowd. It won’t be long until the gray hairs will be ready. I don’t want to give them anything else to complain about.”

“I can’t imagine what they could have to complain about. Nobody gives better service than you.”

“Well,” Christian said. “First, there’s the heat. Second, there are no shops within walking distance of the inn. There wasn’t any smoked salmon for breakfast. Or marionberry jam. I don’t even know what a marionberry is. Do you?”

“Some sort of blackberry. Don’t feel bad. The peonies were not the right shade of pink. The bows on the chair backs were not big enough. I could go on. I had four drunk groomsmen before noon. Truth be told, I would have liked to join them. On the upside, Bridezilla left her bridesmaids’ gifts at home so I was able to drum up a little business for Neyland.”

“I know she appreciated that.”

Emory laughed. “She did—even though they didn’t like the wrapping paper she used the first time and made her redo them. She had used some beautiful handmade paper that she got from Once Upon a Page. Luckily, we were able to save it. I pulled some old rolls of wrapping paper out of the closet that Amelia probably had for thirty years. They liked that fine.”

“But we love our jobs,” Christian said.

“We do. I don’t know if I would love it if every client turned out to be like these, but this is rare.”

“You love even this,” Christian said. “You see it as a challenge.”

“I do. But I’ll be happy to see the backside of them tonight. The limo will be here at eleven to bring the bride and groom back to you.”

“And I’ll be back to ferry the rest of the guests back.”

“Dirk is off tonight but he’s on the premises. He said he could take some back in the Beauford Bend van if need be.”

They were comfortably silent for a time, as only close friends can be.

Finally, Christian spoke. “Any word from Jackson since the other day?”

“You know there hasn’t been. I would have told you.”

Emory had confided everything to Christian and for a time they had wrung their hands, worrying about what would happen with the demise of Around the Bend. They had even considered the possibility of starting an events business at Firefly Hall but it wasn’t feasible without constructing new buildings—which they couldn’t afford and would defeat the whole purpose anyway. People liked the ambiance of a structure with history.

“I doubt he’ll really show up here,” Christian said. “He has three other houses. I suspect he sent you that email in a moment of panic and forgot all about it.”

“Maybe. At any rate, I’m not going to worry about it tonight.” Emory looked toward the party. “Everyone seems happy, and the liquor is flowing. I’ll think about what Jackson may or may not do tomorrow.”

Her walkie-talkie buzzed.

“You spoke too soon,” Christian said.

But it was Isaac, the bartender. “Emory, I’ve got some folks down here who want to call it a night. Would you call Christian?”

“She’s here and waiting.”

Yes. Smooth sailing for the rest of the night.

Jackson turned his brand new, bright red Super Duty F-450 King Ranch pickup truck onto Beauford Bend property. He would have preferred a black truck or maybe silver, but this was what had been on the lot. After Carson dropped him at the dealership, he’d put on his sunglasses, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and told the first salesman he saw that he’d pay cash if he could get in and out without being recognized.

But fire-engine red or not, the truck would get him where he needed to go—home. Some of the plantation land had been sold off over the years but there was enough left to help isolate him from the world. He drove through the tree-lined winding trails. It was wild out here and he loved it, even more than the orderly and manicured grounds inside the gates. Beauford Bend had some of the most beautiful gardens in the country and it took an army of gardeners to keep it that way. At one time, that army had consisted of him, his brothers, and his father and then just his brothers and him, with Aunt Amelia to direct them. It wasn’t so pristine then, but they had done pretty well.

He wondered if Emory had dismissed the landscaping service. Surely not. It wasn’t like they were employed by Around the Bend. But he had told her to get rid of everyone except security. He hadn’t really thought all of that through. But if she had fired them, he’d have to hire them back. He couldn’t have a jungle.

Or could he? Why not? He wasn’t going to have any garden parties, that was for damned sure.