Authors: Alicia Hunter Pace
Nickolai's Noel (18 page)
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.”
“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?”
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Praise for
Forgiving Jackson
:
“This story is about much more than boy meets girl. Crisp dialogue …[and] supportive secondary characters add to the solid story line.”—Library Journal
“…[an] engaging story of healing and discovery.”—Heroes and Heartbreakers
For more books by Alicia Hunter Pace, check out:
Praise for
Sweet Gone South:
“Charming and clever with richly drawn characters and a heartwarming, sigh-worthy happily-ever-after, Alicia Hunter Pace is a natural-born storyteller.”—Rhonda Nelson, National Readers’ Choice Award winner
Praise for
Scrimmage Gone South:
“For a sweet and fun romance that will make you laugh and enjoy from beginning to end,
Scrimmage Gone South
by Alicia Hunter Pace is a great choice.”—Harlequin Junkie
Praise for
Simple Gone South
“…
a heartwarming, sweet and entertaining read that will keep you laughing and sometimes even have you shed a tear or two.”—Harlequin Junkie
Praise for
Secrets Gone South
“
What a story! Pace has nailed writing emotions into her stories … She definitely had me jumping for joy and bawling like a baby more than once … This was a thoroughly enjoyable read that I couldn’t put down.”—Pure Jonel
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Lights, Latkes, and Love
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