The aria went on, and she sang and she sang and she sang. The wind picked up, the rain turned to sleet, and that glorious voice challenged the oncoming storm.
* * *
As they walked toward the 103rd Street subway stop, he kept quiet, giving her the time she needed to process what had happened, but the longer the silence stretched between them, the more he wanted to know what she was thinking.
“That was from Götterdämmerung,” she finally said. “The last of Wagner’s Ring cycle. It was Waltraute’s ‘Höre mit Sinn was ich dir sage.’”
“And you chose it because . . . ?”
“Waltraute is one of the Valkyries. I’m not a Wagnerian singer, but I figured I needed supernatural help.”
“It seems like you got it.”
“My vibrato still has a wobble, my lower passaggio isn’t close to where it should be, and I’m strangling my high notes.”
“You’re the expert.”
“But at least I was singing.” She gave a choked half laugh, half something else. “All I need to do now is perform on one leg with somebody feeling me up.”
“Happy to oblige.”
She squeezed his wrist through the sleeve of the rain jacket. Only for a moment before she withdrew. “Thanks.”
“You can pay me back in Las Vegas.”
* * *
Her hair was tangled, and she needed a shower before their client dinner. As she adjusted the water temperature, she saw that her hands were shaking. She understood the psychology of what Thad had done for her. Focusing on keeping her balance instead of thinking so much about the sound she was producing had helped her over one psychological hurdle. But she was still a mess.
She slicked the shampoo through her hair. Amneris’s aria in Aida, “Già i sacerdoti adunansi,” swelled in her head, but even in the protective womb of the shower, she was afraid to try singing it.
Eight more days until she started rehearsals. Two more days until they reached Las Vegas. One event filled her with panic, the other with a mixture of lust and panic.
* * *
Thad had left his sport coat in Olivia’s suite. She didn’t answer the door, so he let himself in with the duplicate copy of the key he made sure he had in every hotel.
The shower was running in the bathroom. His sport coat lay on the couch, right where he’d left it. On his way to retrieve it, he spotted an unopened brown manila envelope on the table by the door. It was addressed to her. He picked it up without a qualm and opened it.
Inside was a glossy photograph of a .38 pistol with the Smith & Wesson logo stamped on its grip.
12
Thad wasn’t an indecisive person. His job required instant decision-making, yet all through their client dinner in the hotel dining room, he wrestled with whether to tell Olivia about the photo. She knew someone had it in for her, and nothing good would come of showing it to her. The aria she’d sung this afternoon might not have been up to her standards, but it had given him goose bumps. One look at that photo could completely derail her. It would be like showing a horror movie to a kid who was already spooked.
But Olivia wasn’t a kid.
As Henri escorted the last of their guests from the hotel dining room, Thad and Liv headed for the elevator. He inserted his room card and pushed the button for the top floor. “Something came for you in the mail.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“I grabbed it before you could open it.”
She cocked her head, waiting. He hesitated. “It’s from whoever’s playing mind games with you.”
“What is it?”
“A photo. You don’t need to see it. There’s no new information, and nothing will be gained from looking at it.”
“Don’t you think that’s for me to decide?”
“That’s why I’m telling you.”
The bell dinged for their floor. She nodded slowly, considering.
The door opened. He blocked it with his body to keep it from closing but didn’t get out. “You sang again today, and you can’t let something this stupid derail you. That’s why I’m asking you to let it go.”
She touched his arm. “I understand you’re looking out for me, but I have to see it.”
He’d known she’d say this. They stepped into the empty hallway with its plush carpet and softly glowing wall sconces. “I’m going to tell you what it is first,” he said.
She stopped walking. “Okay.”
“It’s a photograph of a gun.” He kept his voice calm and level. “A Smith & Wesson pistol.”
She sucked in her breath.
“My guess is that’s the kind of gun Adam used.”
She gave a short, tense nod.
“I suspect whoever is behind this wants you to think it’s a photo of the real thing, but it’s been copied from a site on the Internet.”
“I want to see it.”
“Leave it alone, Liv. There’s no point.”
“I have to see it.” She set off toward their rooms, her stilettos sinking stubbornly into the carpet.
He came up next to her. “If you even think about freaking out, I’ll never let you forget it.”
“Fair enough.” She passed the door to her suite and stopped in front of his, waiting for him to unlock the door. He needed to prepare her as best he could. “One more thing . . . There’s a bullshit message written across it.” He hated what he was about to tell her. “It says, ‘You made me pull the trigger.’ Now go ahead. Do your big freak-out just like whoever’s behind this wants you to do.”
Maybe he’d said the right thing because he liked the way she set her jaw. “Open that door.”
His suite was identical to hers, and she saw the opened envelope lying on the table. She marched toward it and pulled out the photo. He prepared himself for the worst, but instead of looking stricken, she looked mad as hell.
* * *
Thad hated sitting in the passenger seat with Olivia driving, but she’d insisted, and he’d only look like a sexist troll if he’d pressed her.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” she said, as they sped along I-78 toward Plainfield, New Jersey. “As a matter of fact, the way you keep twitching around and scowling makes me wish you hadn’t.”
“I like to drive, that’s all.”
“So do I. And I’m a better driver than you are.”
“You’re deluded.”
“I haven’t forgotten our Breckenridge trip. You speed.”
“Says the lady going six miles over the limit.”
“Six is reasonable. Twelve isn’t.”
She had a point.
Adam’s hometown of Plainfield, New Jersey, lay about an hour west of the city. It was late afternoon, the day after Thad had shown her the photo. Tomorrow night, they’d be flying to Vegas, and they couldn’t get there fast enough, although it bothered him that she hadn’t once brought up their agreement since they’d made it.
“You could at least have rented a decent car.” He sounded sulky.
“Excuse me, Mr. Big Shot, but I don’t need to rent a Rolls. I’m perfectly fine with a Mazda.”
“Because you’re not six foot three,” he retorted.
“I’m also not a whiny baby.”
If he kept complaining, he’d only prove her point. Until today, he hadn’t thought twice about riding with a woman driving, so sexism wasn’t his problem. What specifically bothered him was being Olivia’s passenger.
He’d never regarded himself as controlling. He respected women. Appreciated them. Hell, he worked for Phoebe Calebow. But when he was with Olivia Shore, all of a sudden, he wanted to call the shots, something she clearly wouldn’t allow to happen.
He tapped his foot against the floor mat. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish on this trip.”
“I don’t, either. But I’m tired of feeling like a victim, and I need to do something.”
“What exactly?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
Meaning she ha
d no clue. As she pulled onto the freeway exit ramp, he stretched out his legs as far as the Mazda would allow. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s find a nice Holiday Inn and do what we’ve been wanting to do ever since we met.”
She stared straight ahead, but he saw her blink. “This isn’t Las Vegas.”
“Almost. We’re leaving tomorrow night, remember? And neither of us signed anything. We can change our minds any time we want.”
The troubled crease that formed between her brows made him regret bringing it up. “As soon as we cross that line,” she said, “everything will change between us.”
“It’ll change anyway,” he pointed out, trying to regain lost ground. “You’re the one who set the ground rules. Once the gala is over, we finish our commitment to Marchand, and we never see each other again, remember?”
She turned onto a four-lane road with modest houses set on large, wooded lots and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “There are so many people we can have sex with, but how many of them can we rely on? Can we trust? How many understand each other the way we do?”
It sounded as if Olivia Shore was trying to move him into the friend zone, something he wouldn’t let happen. “Our agreement stands,” he declared, as if he were the only one who had a say. “Our last night in Las Vegas. You. Me. A bed. And a long night of sin.”
* * *
A long night of sin . . . She had a good imagination, and all the erotic images that had been plaguing her for weeks played in her head like a film on fast-forward. How could she help that with Thad sitting right next to her? As the Plainfield, New Jersey, sign slipped into view, she imagined what it would be like to be in bed with him. Explore his body. Hold him naked against her. Feel him inside her.
“Watch it!” he exclaimed.
She slammed on the brakes. After all her bragging about being a better driver, she’d nearly rear-ended a Chevy Malibu.
He seemed to believe that continuing their relationship after the tour ended was a simple matter. It probably was to him, but she knew better. Sex changed everything. As unlikely as it would have seemed three weeks ago, The Diva and the quarterback were weirdly compatible. He was a special man—his humor, his loyalty, his decency—and he was as driven as she. He didn’t see the complication of extending their relationship, but he wouldn’t be the one handing over pieces of himself—little pieces at first, and then bigger ones, until she was once again lost.
She checked the GPS. They were nearly there. As she passed a plumbing truck doddering along in the right lane, she promised herself she’d enjoy every moment of their short, sex-fueled affair, and then she’d let him go. Since they’d never really been together, it wouldn’t even be an official breakup, and it would be easy to get through. She could only have one focus. Getting her voice back. Her goal from the beginning of her career was set in stone. To be the best, the stuff of legends, one of the immortals. She wouldn’t let anything derail her.
* * *
The bakery occupied the end of a strip mall that also included a tile store and a dog groomer. She pulled into a spot close enough to see the window, but not directly in front. Thad checked out the vintage sign hanging from a bracket over the front door. “My Lady’s Bakery?”
“Adam’s grandfather named it. He thought it sounded genteel.” A mess of plastic pennants were draped at the top of the window, and the artificial wedding cake at the center of the display looked particularly unappetizing, even from a distance. “It didn’t used to be this bad,” she said. “It was never exactly cutting-edge, but . . .”
“You’re not going to take responsibility for their bad window display, are you?”
“It seems symbolic. As if his sisters have given up now that Adam’s gone.” She saw the concern written on his too-handsome face. “I have to do this alone.” His jaw set in that stubborn line she was coming to know so well. She set her hand on his thigh. “I’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t argue.
She approached the bakery’s door. The plaster roses on the wedding cake had lost some petals and the groom was missing a hand.
She’d learned a lot about Adam’s family during the time they were together. Neither of his older sisters had married or even dated much. They, along with their mother, were too busy focusing on the unexpected baby brother who’d arrived ten years after Brenda was born and nine years after her sister Colleen.
Their father was largely absent during Adam’s early years. He’d arrive at the bakery at four in the morning, work all day, and fall asleep after dinner, a schedule that resulted in a fatal heart attack when Adam was five. His mother and sisters took over the bakery, but Adam, with his magical voice, was always exempt from duties. Boys needed their sleep, so he was never required to get up early to tend a hot oven. His piano and voice lessons were more important than scrubbing heavy baking sheets or waiting on customers behind the counter. He was their crown prince, and they gave him everything they denied themselves.
Instead of resenting him, his teenage sisters set aside every dollar they could spare to help send him to Eastman, one of the best music colleges in the country. Even after their mother’s death, they still continued to dote on him. He was their life purpose. The only way their lives could have meaning was if he became successful, and they expected Olivia to make sacrifices just as they had. Now they wanted her to pay for failing him.
She took a deep breath and turned the knob.
The late afternoon’s unsold baked goods sat on paper doilies in the glass display case: a few black-and-white cookies, muffins, some cupcakes decorated to look like Cookie Monster. Everything palatable; nothing imaginative.
Both sisters were working behind the counter. Brenda glanced up as Olivia came in, and her welcoming shopkeeper’s expression vanished. Colleen was taking a cake from the case. As she spotted Olivia, she shoved it back inside so hard it slipped off its doily. “What do you want?”
What, indeed? Now that Olivia was here, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
They resembled Adam in different ways. His more sculptured features had become blurred in Brenda—as if someone had run an eraser over her face, leaving her with lost cheekbones, a short, unfinished nose, and small eyes turned down at the corners. Colleen had Adam’s dark brown eyes, but everything else was more angular: sharply pointed chin and nose, inclined eyebrows, rigid mouth. They both seemed to have used the same drugstore hair dye, a shade of red that stripped their short hair of any sheen.
Olivia stuffed her hands in the pockets of her trench coat. Her fingers brushed a crumpled tissue and the edge of her cell phone. “Adam used to talk about how hard both of you worked to keep him in voice lessons,” she said. “He felt guilty about it.”
Brenda’s insignificant chin came up. “We didn’t regret a moment of it.”
A pot banged in the back of the bakery. Colleen splayed her hands against her apron. “He was always good to us. Always.”
Olivia knew Adam frequently sent them money, although if he was short of cash, the money had come from Olivia. When he’d died, Olivia had made a private arrangement with the funeral home to take care of the expenses. The sisters believed Adam’s last opera company had paid for it.
She stepped closer to the counter and pointed stupidly toward the bakery case. “I’ll take whatever you have left.” She had no money on her. She’d left her purse in the car.
“We’re not selling to you,” Colleen said.
Olivia’s chest tightened. Even if she’d been standing on one foot with Thad holding her other foot, she wouldn’t have been able to get a note out. “I couldn’t make Adam happy,” she finally said.
“You broke his heart!” Brenda cried.
“I didn’t mean to.” Only in retrospect did Olivia see that Adam was suffering from depression. She remembered how difficult it had become for him to memorize a new libretto. The way his periods of insomnia had alternated with nights he’d sleep for twelve or thirteen hours. If only she’d go
tten him to a doctor.
Colleen whipped around from behind the counter, her sharp features vicious. “You always had to come first. It was always Olivia this, Olivia that. It was never about him.”
“That’s not true. I did everything I could for him.”
“All you did was rub your success in his face,” Brenda retorted.
That wasn’t true, either. Olivia had made herself smaller for him, giving up her own practice time, downplaying her achievements, but there was no point in arguing with them. No point to this visit. “I’ve been getting some ugly letters,” she said. “I want them to stop.”
“What kind of letters?” The raw hatred in Colleen’s eyes, so like Adam’s, made Olivia feel sick.
Brenda seemed almost smug. “Whatever’s happening, you’ve brought it on yourself.”
This was hopeless. Olivia understood their pain and grief, but that didn’t give them the right to torment her. “I don’t want to go to the police,” she said as calmly as she could, “but if this keeps on, I’ll be forced to.”
Colleen crossed her arms over her chest. “You do whatever you have to.”
“I will.”
* * *
The visit had been a waste of time. She found Thad pacing in front of the tile store, hands shoved in the pockets of his three-thousand-dollar—she’d checked—Tom Ford leather jacket. He stopped walking. “That didn’t take long. How did it go?”
“Great. They fell on their knees begging me to forgive them.”
“I like it better when I’m the sarcastic one.” He reached out as if he intended to hug her then let his arm fall back to his side. “Let’s get going. I’m driving.”
This time she didn’t fight him.
* * *
“Sing for me,” he said, as they passed the sign for Scotch Plains on their way back to Midtown.
“I can’t sing now.”
“No better time. You’re mad, but it won’t take long before your overworked guilt engine kicks in, and you’ll be right back where you were. Let me hear you sing before that happens.”
“I know you want to help, but this isn’t as simple to get over as an interception or an incomplete pass.”
When Stars Collide Page 16
