When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “I know that. And the big gala at the Muni is the next night.” He hooked the towel around his shoulders. “I’m going to take a wild stab and guess that performing has become a problem.”

  Her head wobbled in a jerky nod as she turned back to him. He’d never seen her look so defenseless. “When I try to sing—really sing, as opposed to warbling Garth Brooks with a karaoke machine—nothing comes out the way it should.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  She collapsed at the end of one of the loungers. “It started the day I opened that email. I had a concert that night, and I noticed a constriction in my chest. The more I sang, the thinner my voice grew, until, by the end, I barely sounded like myself.” She plucked at a loose thread on the towel. “Since then, it’s only gotten worse. I’ve seen a doctor.” She seemed to be forcing herself to look at him. “I have what’s called a psychogenic voice disorder, a polite way of saying I’m crazy.”

  “I doubt that.” He could either loom over her or sit down, too. He chose the end of the adjoining lounger. “You’ve lost your voice because you believe you’re responsible for your ex killing himself, is that right?”

  “It’s abundantly clear that’s the case.” She pushed her feet into the flip-flops she’d left nearby. As serious as this conversation was, he wished she’d drop the towel. He was a dick.

  “I told you. He was sweet, handsome. He loved me. We were part of the same world. We loved the same composers, the same singers. It seemed natural for us to get married, even though I knew how sensitive he was. But instead of ending it when I should have, I let it drag on.” She tugged on the strap of her bikini top. “I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I told him. Like I’d shot him. Ironic, right?”

  “You didn’t shoot him. You broke up with him. It happens all the time.”

  “Adam was a better person than I’ll ever be.” She pulled the towel tighter. “Thoughtful. Kind.”

  “Kids and dogs. Yeah, you already told me.”

  She tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “I did love him. Just not the same way he loved me.”

  “Who doesn’t screw up when it comes to relationships? You made a mistake. It happens.”

  “This mistake cost Adam his life.”

  Thad didn’t like that. “Adam cost Adam his life.”

  She gazed at him, looking both raw and mystified. “He thought we were forever.”

  “People break up. Afterward, you get drunk, cry, whatever. You move on.”

  She finally dropped the towel. It settled in a damp fold at her waist. “How do you break up with someone? What do you say? I assume you’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “Sometimes they break up with me.”

  He’d sounded defensive, and of course she picked up on it. “But it’s usually the other way around, isn’t it? Do you give them that old line, ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”

  “Never say that when you’re breaking up with someone.”

  “Now you tell me.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “So how do you do it?”

  “I’m upfront from the start. I don’t have anything against marriage for other people, but I enjoy my life the way it is. I don’t like committing to the kind of beer I drink, let alone to marriage. I’m selfish like that.”

  “I can’t believe in your long, serial monogamy journey, you don’t run into women who think they can change your mind.”

  “They’re easy to identify. Also, not every woman is in a race to the altar, as you know. Plus, I have good taste, and most of the women I date are smart enough to see right through me.”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  He leaned toward her. “I’m too self-centered for marriage. And even thinking about taking on the responsibility of having kids makes me break out in a cold sweat.”

  “So you’ve never had one of those dramatic breakups? Tears and screaming matches?”

  “There’ve been some hurt feelings, but nobody sure as hell ever killed herself!”

  “Lucky you.”

  An older couple came through the door and headed for the whirlpool. The man had a furry gray chest, and unlike Olivia’s sleek swim cap, the woman wore one of those old-fashioned bathing caps with rubber flowers all over it.

  The noisy bubble of the whirlpool kept them from being overheard, but he still lowered his voice. “Maybe you should have been upfront with him earlier, but waiting too long to break up with someone isn’t a crime. This is on him, not on you.” He could see she didn’t believe him. “You know what your trouble is?”

  “No. Be sure to tell me.”

  “You’re a perfectionist. You want to be the best at everything you do. Singing, acting, dancing, promoting watches, and relationships. In your mind, there’s no room for error. No room for mistakes. But whether you want to accept it or not, you’re human.” He realized she could shoot those same words back to him. But she didn’t.

  “So am I forgiven for deceiving you?”

  “I guess that depends.”

  “On?”

  He cocked his head at her. “On how serious you are about that night of sex you offered me if I forgave you for your grievous betrayal of our friendship.”

  “I don’t think I was serious.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  She shrugged, looking more like an insecure teenager than a seasoned opera singer.

  “So just to make certain everything’s out in the open . . . You want to get down and dirty with me, but you’re worried that could lead to a relationship. Which you don’t want.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Hardly an insurmountable problem since neither do I.” He tugged on one end of the towel draping his neck as he briefly debated how far to push her. “Here’s my suggestion. Las Vegas. The last night of the tour before Chicago. You, me, and a bedroom. We have all the sex we can pack in before morning. And then . . .”

  “Then?”

  “We fly to Chicago. Hang out together for two weeks until the gala. After that, I dump you forever.”

  She smiled. “Go on.”

  “This gives us something to look forward to—Las Vegas—and it also solves the relationship problem you’re worried about.” It didn’t solve the problem of the danger she was in, a complication he still wanted resolved.

  She thought it over. “Just to clarify . . . You’ll look past my small deception, but only if I have sex with you?”

  “Your brutal, hurtful deception. And, as a gentleman, I’m deeply offended that you believe I’d bargain with sex. Unlike you.”

  She tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder. “I’m forgiven, right?”

  “As long as you promise to be straight with me from now on.”

  “I promise.” She made a cross over her heart that was such a little girl move, he wanted to kiss her. “We have three days of interviews in Chicago, then a two-week break while you laze around and I work hard in rehearsals. Assuming I have the voice to show up at rehearsals.” The distress he’d hoped never again to witness clouded her eyes. She combed her fingers through her hair. “But as soon as those rehearsals start, we’re done.”

  “Hold on. Once the gala is over, we’re done. It’s our last obligation to Marchand, and no way are you depriving us of those two weeks of sexual bliss.”

  “Wrong.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “We have sex the last night in Las Vegas. Sex for those three nights we’re in Chicago before rehearsals start. And then you dump me on Sunday night, right before my rehearsals start on Monday morning.”

  “Fine. I’ll compromise. We have the last night in Las Vegas. Three nights in Chicago. And the two weeks while you’re in rehearsal. I’ll have dinner and a back rub waiting for you when you come home. The night of the gala, I dump you.”

  “Exactly how is that a compromise?”

  Because he wanted it to be.

  She pointed a long, elegant finger at him. “There’s no compromise. As soon as rehearsals start, I�
��m on the job, completely focused, and we’re over.”

  “Now, Liv, be reasonable.”

  “The only time we’ll see each other again is at the gala. We’ll greet each other like old friends, pose for photos, and go our separate ways. That’s it. We’re history. No dates. No cozy dinners. No lakefront walks. Nothing.”

  “You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  She shifted her knees. “Do you agree or not?”

  “This is like a bad labor negotiation, but I agree.” For now, anyway. Once things unfolded, he intended to revisit the situation.

  “Great.” She gave him a bright smile. A smile he had to spoil because he couldn’t stand the knots that had formed in her shoulders, the tension in her neck.

  “Liv, you need to get your head together.”

  “How do you suggest I do that?”

  “Ease up on yourself about Adam. Accept your many imperfections—which I’ll be happy to keep pointing out, starting with your tendency to run off by yourself.” A thread of an idea formed in the back of his mind. “You also have to start singing for me.”

  She jumped from the chaise, leaving the towel behind. “I told you. I can’t sing!”

  The elderly couple in the hot tub looked over at them. He rose and blocked their view of Olivia. “I didn’t say you had to sing opera. Maybe some blues. Rock. ‘The Wheels on the Bus.’ I don’t care. I’m only a football player, remember? I won’t know if what I’m hearing is good or bad.”

  “We’ve listened to jazz together, remember? You know music. And that’s the worst idea ever.”

  “Is it? I have to deal with Clint Garrett, remember? A guy with all the talent in the world who still manages to choke under pressure. The two of you have strong similarities.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’re both a hell of a lot of work.”

  What had only been the glimmer of an idea began to take shape.

  * * *

  When Thad pounded on her bedroom door an hour before they were scheduled to leave for Atlanta the next day, she politely suggested he go to hell. Unfortunately, that didn’t discourage him, and the next thing she knew he’d barged inside her room, grabbed her hairbrush from the dresser, and held it out. “Sing!”

  “No.”

  “Don’t mess with me on this, Olivia. We’re going to try a little of my kind of therapy.”

  She pushed his arm away and tried withering him with her most condescending look. “Opera singers don’t use microphones.”

  He was un-witherable. “Right now, you’re not an opera singer. You’re an ordinary singer. And they use mikes.” Once again, he extended the stupid hairbrush. “I was thinking I’d enjoy some Ella or Nina Simone.”

  “Try Spotify.”

  His lip curled, but not in a good way. “And you brag about your work ethic. What I see is a woman who’s given up. Instead of fighting the good fight and doing the work to fix what’s wrong, all you want to do is whine.” As if that weren’t scathing enough, he added, “I’m disappointed in you.”

  Nobody was ever disappointed in Olivia Shore. She snatched the hairbrush from his hand and gave him Billie Holiday. A few stanzas of “God Bless the Child” sung so badly it was a good thing Billie was already dead, because if she’d heard Olivia’s choppy phrasing, she would have killed herself.

  Thad smiled. “You could take that to Carnegie Hall right now.”

  She threw the hairbrush at him. She targeted his chest instead of his head—unnecessary, as it turned out, because he plucked the hairbrush right out of the air before it could land.

  “I’m that good,” he said at her expression of astonishment.

  If only she were.

  “And you’re not as bad as you think.” He patted her cheek. “I ordered us breakfast. Strawberry cheesecake French toast.”

  She regarded him glumly. “Only for me, I’m sure. While you have an arugula-kale smoothie with a side order of garden grubs.”

  “Now don’t you worry about it.”

  As it turned out, she never got to enjoy that French toast because she made the mistake of checking her phone before she sat down to eat.

  10

  Her New Orleans attack had gone public. The mainstream newspapers restricted the item to a few factual sentences, but the Internet gossip sites were all over it.

  Police are giving few details about a bizarre attack on opera star Olivia Shore. The assault occurred in a New Orleans alley. Shore was apparently unharmed, but what was she doing in a back alley? And what part did Thad Owens, the Chicago Stars’ backup quarterback, who is rumored to be involved with the opera diva, play in the incident? So many questions.

  It couldn’t have looked sleazier.

  Thad was still upset as they rode the elevator to the lobby where they’d meet the limo taking them to the airfield for their flight to Atlanta. “They’re insinuating that I beat you up!” he exclaimed.

  They were doing exactly that, but she tried to minimalize it. “Not really,” she said weakly.

  “Close enough.”

  “I don’t understand why we’re getting all this attention.”

  “Because I’m a dumb jock and you’re a high-class diva, and it’s too good a story to pass up.”

  “The only thing dumb about you is your taste in T-shirts.” His, she happened to know, was a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Valentino.

  He gazed down at the navy-and-red graphic of astronauts floating in space. “Might have been a mistake.”

  “You think?”

  Only Henri and Paisley were waiting by the limo. Fortunately, Mariel had left the tour, but Olivia suspected she’d turn up again, like a head cold that wouldn’t go away. She’d probably run off to Uncle Lucien so she could complain about the rubes Henri had hired to represent the company.

  “We’ll look on the bright side,” a less-than-cheerful Henri said as they arrived at the airfield, “two new radio outlets called to schedule an interview.”

  “For all the wrong reasons,” Thad said.

  Once they were on board, Thad received a phone call of his own. Since he’d taken a seat across from Olivia, she could hear his side of the conversation, which mainly consisted of unhappy grunts. When he pocketed his phone, she regarded him with concern. “Everything okay?”

  “The Stars press office. Phoebe Calebow isn’t happy.”

  Even Olivia knew about the legendary Phoebe Calebow, the owner of the Chicago Stars and the most powerful woman in the NFL.

  He extended his legs as far as the space would allow. “Phoebe has a low tolerance for anything that even hints at one of her players abusing a woman.”

  “I can talk to her, if you’d like.”

  He curled his lip. “No thanks, Mom. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  “Nobody just ‘talks’ to Phoebe Calebow, not unless they’re royalty. Or a member of the Calebow family. She’s the most intimidating hot woman you’ve ever met.”

  “I’ve seen the photos. She could have been a Playboy centerfold in the old days when she was younger. Or even now, if they still had centerfolds.”

  “People used to underestimate her because of her looks, but only an idiot makes that mistake now. Trust me when I say nobody wants to get on her bad side.”

  She could see he was worried, which meant she was worried for him.

  * * *

  As the next few days unfolded, Marchand Timepieces received more press coverage than they could have expected, but not entirely the right kind. Too many of the country’s X-rated morning radio show hosts suddenly wanted interviews, all of which Henri refused in favor of the more respectable media.

  Olivia quickly perfected her responses to questions about New Orleans. Instead of disclosing that the attack had happened in a bookstore, which only made it seem more bizarre, she referred to a small shop in the French Quarter and a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “It was so random. Obviously, someone who�
��s mentally disturbed was behind it. I’m so thankful Thad rushed over to meet me at the police station. He’s a good friend.”

  That ended the questions from all but the most persistent.

  They moved from Atlanta to Nashville, and Thad kept trying to make her sing. She appreciated what he was attempting to do for her, but singing a few bars of Billie Holiday wouldn’t overcome the kind of block she was dealing with. Still, he was persistent and she was desperate. Whenever they were alone and had a break between interviews, he shoved his phone at her with song lyrics displayed. Today it was “Georgia on My Mind.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  “This isn’t going to fix me,” she retorted.

  “Stop being so negative. You sounded better this morning than you did yesterday, and you like singing jazz.”

  She glanced at the lyrics to “Georgia on My Mind.” “There’s a big difference between singing Ray Charles and launching into an F-natural for Amneris’s “Quale insolita gioia nel tuo sguardo.” At his quizzical expression, she translated. “‘What rare joy shines on your face.’”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not your face. Radamès’s face. And he’s thinking about his love for Aida, not any passion he holds for Amneris, worse luck for her.”

  “Shows what happens when a woman gets too serious about someone, even in ancient Egypt.”

  “Exactly.” She thought of Adam. Of Aida. Of the way Amneris sends Radamès to his death. She snatched the phone from him and began to sing. “Georgia . . . Georgia . . .”

  Thad closed his eyes and listened.

  This was jazz, not opera, and her chest constriction eased. Not enough to produce the sounds she needed to perform. Far from it. But as he’d said, better than yesterday.

  * * *

  Thad had promised to take some of his Nashville buddies out that night, but he’d committed before he’d gotten tangled up with keeping The Diva safe. He couldn’t see himself dragging her along into another noisy bar. She’d have to strain her voice to talk, and she was under enough stress. Besides, it was guys only, and he was supposed to meet them in an hour.