When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Olivia stared at Paisley as the pieces came together. If she hadn’t been so distracted, she’d have figured it out days ago. Those four photos: Phoenix, LA, New Orleans, and yesterday’s kiss on Michigan Avenue. “You’ve been following us,” she said, stating what was now so obvious.

Thad rose from the table, and Paisley took a step back, as if she were afraid he’d hit her. “So what if I did? You got twice as many interviews as you’d have gotten if all you had to talk about was your lame watches.”

“That’s not the point,” Olivia said.

Paisley looked down at her hands. “I told you I know how to work hard. Like, I got up really early to take that shot of you and Thad coming back from your hike. And I know how to get publicity. Obviously.”

Thad’s expression was as stern as Olivia had ever seen it. “You didn’t have any right to expose our private lives.”

“I was doing my job! Exactly what you said, Thad. If you sign up to do a job, do the work. And that’s what I did.”

“What you did was unprofessional and unethical,” Olivia said.

“I’m sorry, okay!”

She wasn’t sorry, and Olivia dug in. “Becoming successful means working hard, but it also means working with integrity. You won’t go far with any celebrity if you’re not discreet and trustworthy.”

Paisley began picking at a cuticle. “I guess I shouldn’t have done it. But seeing how lame their feeds are made me crazy. I knew I could do better.”

“Then be straightforward about it,” Thad said, “and do some photo mock-ups for Henri. Images that feel fresh but also work for the Marchand brand.”

“Images that don’t involve Thad’s butt,” Olivia added.

Paisley looked only momentarily disappointed. “I can do that.” She tugged on her hair. “So are you guys still pissed? Because if you’re not, maybe you could, like, write a recommendation for me?” She hurried on. “And maybe you could ask Clint if he’d show me around Chicago or something.”

“You’re pushing it,” Thad said. “Let us see those mock-ups before you show them to Henri, and then we’ll talk.”

*  *  *

The Logan Square jazz club sat half a flight of stairs below street level. It was tiny and dark, with mismatched chairs, sticky tabletops, and an eclectic crowd of hipsters, boomers, and suburbanites. This was mellow, introspective jazz. Restrained and melodic, played behind the beat, a perfect counterpoint to the roiling emotional mess she’d become.

Tonight was their last night in a hotel. Tomorrow, she’d move back into the apartment she’d rented not long before the tour had started and Thad would return to his condo. Tomorrow, she’d go to her first rehearsal. Tomorrow, their relationship would be over.

She gazed at Thad’s hand curled around the tumbler of scotch. Those strong, capable fingers were as beautiful as the rest of him. He’d restrained his wardrobe for tonight: jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his Victory780. No bright colors or fashion-forward cuts—his sockless ankles visible above a pair of designer loafers the only concession he’d made to his status as a male fashionista. As much as she loved giving him grief over his clothing choices, he wore everything beautifully.

They should be in bed now, but they weren’t, and Thad seemed as reluctant as she to bring this last night to its natural conclusion. She focused on the music. If she let her mind stray, she’d lose the beauty of this last night, a night she wanted to hold on to forever.

He sipped scotch. With her unsettled stomach, she avoided her single glass of wine. The combo slid into “Come Rain or Come Shine.” She wanted to take the stage in this seedy jazz club, close her eyes, and let those dusky notes pour from her. She could become a jazz singer. She could rewrite her career, travel from one jazz club to another singing all the old standards. She loved jazz, and she sang it well.

But jazz wasn’t in her bloodstream. It wasn’t opera. Thad might not be able to tell the problems with her voice, but the moment Sergio heard her sing—the moment anyone at the Muni heard her sing—they would know something was wrong. Her voice was good enough for a small-town opera company, but not for the Muni. Not for the Royal Opera House or La Scala or Buenos Aires. Not for the Lyric or Munich or the Palais Garnier. Most of all, not for herself.

He gave her a lover’s smile, affectionate and full of promise. But the only promise between them was one more night of sex, and that suddenly felt tawdry, which was all wrong. There was nothing tawdry about what they’d shared these past few nights. She returned her gaze to the stage, determined to push the blues away and enjoy every last moment.

They didn’t leave the jazz club until after midnight, which was technically their fourth day, but she wasn’t that much of a stickler. Back at the hotel, they made long, slow love, hardly speaking. She’d never been so conscious of the rawness, the vulnerability, of seeing a person she loved stripped of his public face, her skin pressed to his.

It wasn’t quite dawn when she opened her eyes. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. Even in sleep, he was perfect.

Blinking hard, she turned away and crept from the room.

*  *  *

She sneaked out of his bed like a thief in the night, although technically, it was five in the morning. He heard her, but he needed to be clearheaded for the conversation they had to have, and he pretended to be asleep. She was due at the Muni at ten this morning, but first, they needed to have a reckoning.

Three hours later, after a shower, a few phone calls, and two cups of coffee, he banged on her apartment door. Their personal reckoning was no longer the first item on his agenda.

She answered, perfectly coiffed—dark slacks and white blouse open at the throat, with that pigeon egg–sized fake ruby necklace on display. Her expression softened, but only for a moment before she looked at him as though he’d noisily unwrapped a piece of candy in the middle of her aria. “How did you get in?”

“All I had to do was hop into the elevator with one of your neighbors. Now tell me this: Why would a diva like you live in an apartment without security?”

She didn’t shift to the side to let him in. “I only moved here a few months ago. I told you that. It’s temporary until I find a permanent place.”

He slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and pushed past her into her two-bedroom apartment in the River North area of Chicago. Polished hardwood floors, a postage-stamp balcony, beige carpet, and expensive, but generic, modern furniture that had probably come with the rental because it wasn’t her style. The place would have been boring if she hadn’t personalized it with career mementos: framed photos, posters, some cut-glass trophies. Various props and bits of costumes sat on tables and chests: Venetian carnival masks, a collection of Cherubino cherubs, the crown he’d seen in photos of her as Lady Macbeth, along with a wicked-looking dagger.

His Heisman, on the other hand, was shoved away on the top shelf of his guest room closet, along with a bunch of plaques, game balls, and a couple of his own cut-glass trophies. He didn’t display any of it. Instead of making him feel good, those mementos only reminded him of unfulfilled potential.

He stepped around one of the seven thousand pieces of luggage the limo driver must have hauled up to her apartment. He hoped to God she’d made sure the driver was legit before she’d climbed in. “For somebody who spends so much time on the road, you’d think you’d have figured out by now how to downsize.”

“I have an image to maintain.” She shoved a makeup bag into her tote. “When I go on vacation, I only take a carry-on.”

“Hard to believe.” A poster from TheMarriage of Figaro hung next to a framed, autographed photo of her with a guy who looked like a young Andrea Bocelli. The message at the bottom was written in Italian, but he didn’t have any trouble translating the word “amo.”“Liv . . . you know this isn’t going to work.” He picked up a needlework pillow that read, When Basses Go Low, I Go High.

She regarded him warily.

“You can’t stay in a building without security.”

“There’s an intercom system,” she said defensively. “Which you could have used.”

“No need. All I had to do was step into the elevator, remember?” He set the pillow back down. “Bottom line—any moron carrying a pizza box could get in this place.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about, but she still protested. “I’m being careful, and I’ll find a permanent place as soon as I have time. I like Chicago.”

“I remember. Middle of the country and all.” He bumped into one of her wheeled garment bags. “The point is, you were attacked in New Orleans, kidnapped in Vegas. Do you really think this is over?”

“I’m home now,” she said carefully. “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding.”

“We’re not talking about the rest of your life. We’re talking about now.” He hadn’t planned on this, but he couldn’t see another way around it. “I want you to move in with me for a while.”

Her head shot up. “That’s ridiculous. We’re over, remember?”

“I’m not talking about us living together.”

“That’s exactly what you’re talking about.”

“No, this is about security. Your personal safety. And this place can’t provide it.”

“So I’m supposed to pack up, and—”

“You’re already packed up.”

“—move in with you?”

Her skittishness wasn’t surprising, and he tried to make this more palatable. “Full disclosure—I’ve never invited a woman to move in with me, and I wouldn’t be doing it now if you weren’t living here. My God, you have a broom handle stuck in your sliding doors.”

“I’m on the tenth floor!”

“With other people’s balconies on each side of you.”

He picked up the deadly-looking dagger and pointed it in her general direction. “My building is secure. There’s a doorman, cameras, alarms, a concierge. You don’t have any of that.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, you do.” He couldn’t avoid this any longer. He set the dagger next to an inkpot with a feathered plume and withdrew the folded, letter-sized envelope he’d already opened from his back pocket. She hesitated before she took it from him. She extracted what was inside as carefully as if she were handling a snake. Not far off.

It was the newspaper photo of the two of them kissing on Michigan Avenue. Except someone had ripped a hole in the paper where her head had been and written a note in red ink across the bottom.

“This was delivered to your room at the hotel an hour ago,” he said gently.

She snatched the paper from his hand, ripped it, and shoved the pieces into the wastebasket by the couch. “I’m not letting this get to me. I’m absolutely not.”

“You already have, and ripping it up won’t make the threat go away.”

She sank into the couch, dropped her head, and rubbed her temples. “I hate this.”

He sat next to her and took one of her silver rings between his fingers. “The message says, ‘Think of me with every note you try to sing.’ What does that mean to you?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It means—” Her head came up. “I don’t know.”

“Whoever is sending you these messages knows you’re having trouble with your voice and is capitalizing on it. Someone wants you to stop singing.”

“That’s impossible. No one knows about my voice except you.”

“And Rachel, right? The best friend you tell everything to.”

“I’d trust Rachel!” she exclaimed. “Besides, I haven’t told her all of it. She has no idea how bad it’s gotten.”

He knew she didn’t want to hear this, but he had to say it anyway. “The two of you are in competition for the same roles. You told me she also sings Amneris, right?”

“So do dozens of other performers!” she exclaimed. “Rachel and I are on different career paths.”

“But maybe Rachel wants to be on the same path.”

She jumped up. “I won’t hear another word. I mean it, Thad. I’d trust Rachel with my life.”

Which might be exactly what she was doing, but he knew better than to say that. “Regardless of who’s behind this, someone is threatening you, and you can’t stay here.” He rose and cupped her shoulders. “We’ve been traveling together for almost a month. We know how to share space. This doesn’t have to be complicated. You can go your way. I’ll go mine.”

She looked away. “You know it won’t be that easy.”

“It’ll be as easy as we make it.”

She turned from him. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll . . . rent another apartment.”

“That’ll take some time.”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

“I know,” he said. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”

*  *  *

If the Lyric Opera’s baronial, throne-shaped, art deco building was the grand dame of Chicago opera, the Chicago Municipal Opera was its stylish, sassy granddaughter. In the chilly, midmorning sunshine, the Muni’s flowing, contemporary glass-and-concrete curves were perfectly reflected in the Chicago River.

“I went here once,” Clint said, as they pulled into the parking lot.

“Your audition for The Bachelor?” Thad chimed in from the back seat where Clint and Olivia had exiled him.

Clint grinned. “Dude, I haven’t been to one of those since you made me hold your hand when you auditioned. Remember how hard you cried when they said you were too old?”

Thad snorted, and Olivia smiled, her first of the morning. Watching the two of them spar was her brightest moment since she’d gotten out of Thad’s bed that morning.

Thad had insisted on driving her to the Muni, even though her beloved old red BMW M2 waited patiently in the garage. He’d shrugged off her reminder that his license had been stolen, along with his wallet. “When you’re playing for a Chicago sports team, the cops tend to overlook crap like driver’s licenses.”

“Not all of them, I’m sure,” she’d said. “And the last thing you need is to be picked up for driving without a license.”

So he’d put in a phone call to Clint, and now here she was—with an unsteady voice and the ominous mental image of her headless body in the newspaper photo—being driven to her first day back at work with two of the city’s most famous jocks. Her life had shot so far from its orbit she’d entered a different universe.

Clint parked by the rear entrance, close to the spot that had been reserved for her. Her costume fitting came first, then the meeting she dreaded with the maestro, Sergio Tinari, and then a full afternoon of blocking rehearsals. Her stomach had already been in knots before Thad had shown up with that ugly photo, and now it was ten times worse.

Thad was right about the poor security in her apartment. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about it, but she’d convinced herself she’d be spending so much time at rehearsals she could make it work. A perfect example of delusional thinking.

Clint stepped out to open the door for her, something Thad couldn’t do since he was trapped in the tiny back seat, his knees accordioned to his chest. Not that she needed anybody to open a car door for her. What she needed was someone to give her back her voice, her breath control, and her confidence. “Make sure he gets to the DMV today,” she told Clint as she got out of the car.

“Aw, Livia, there’s not a cop in this town who’d give T-Bo a traffic ticket.”

“Exactly what I told you,” Thad declared triumphantly.

She eyeballed Clint. “Just do it.”

Thad extracted himself from the back seat, a process that would have been entertaining if she weren’t so concerned with what lay ahead. “I’ll go to the DMV,” he said, “but only if you promise to let me know when you’re done so I can come pick you up.”

“I don’t need a chauffeur,” she declared.

“You really do.” All of a sudden, Clint, her loyal ally, had shifted allegiance. “Thad filled me in, and you’ve got some crazy sh— stuff going on. You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself.”

“I’m going to talk to a friend on the Chicago police force.” Thad took a firm grip on her arm, walking her toward the building.

She nodded begrudgingly. As much as she hated the idea of involving the police, this had gone too far.

“You’re going to be great,” he whispered, when they reached the rear door. “Toi, toi, toi.”

“Toi, toi, toi” was the traditional good-luck wish opera singers exchanged, their version of the theater world’s “break a leg.” The expression was well known among classical singers, but not to the general population, and she was touched that he’d taken the trouble to discover this.

He smiled and opened the door. She stepped back into her world.

*  *  *

She’d sung at the Muni multiple times, but nothing felt the same. Yes, the costume department smelled as it always did of steam irons, fabric, and must. The Egyptian headpieces fit well, and her costumes needed only a little alteration. She chatted with the wardrobe mistress as she always had and exchanged pleasantries with the technical director. She passed a rehearsal room where singers were at work on an upcoming concert. But she was more aware of new faces when they passed her in the hallway, more alert as she walked from one room to the next.

On her way to meet with the maestro, she mentally reviewed the master schedule. She wouldn’t have to sing today for the blocking rehearsal, and she could easily mark at piano tech, which was for the benefit of the production team, but she’d have to sing in full voice for sitzprobe,their first rehearsal with the orchestra. And, of course, she needed to bring her best to next Thursday’s dress rehearsal, not to mention Saturday’s opening night.

She braced herself at the door of the maestro’s office and knocked.

“Avanti!”

Sergio Tinari, the Muni’s great conductor, was short in stature but giant in presence. With his lion’s mane of gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and long Tuscan nose, he was a caricaturist’s dream subject. “Olivia, miacara.” He kissed her hand with Old World graciousness.

She switched to Italian, telling him how happy she was to see him, how much she was looking forward to working with him again, and that she was recovering from a head cold and would need a few days before she could sing.

Sergio replied in his beautifully accented English. “But of course. You must protect your voice. Tomorrow, if you are able to mark, we can rehearse the phrasing in ‘A lui vivo, la tomba!’”

Alive in the tomb . . . She twisted her lips into a smile. “Of course.”

The note she’d just received . . . You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.

Her fake ruby pendant felt as if it were choking her.

As she left the maestro’s studio, she knew she couldn’t offer up the excuse of having a cold for very long.

A striking woman about Olivia’s age emerged from the last rehearsal room. Olivia’s spirits immediately brightened. “Sarah!” She hurried down the corridor to greet the gifted South African soprano who would be singing Aida.

She was no longer comfortable singing Amneris opposite a white Aida. Having a black artist singing the enslaved Ethiopian princess added complexity and dimension to the production for modern audiences, and Sarah Mabunda was one of the best. But as Olivia reached out to hug her, Sarah drew away, and her tight smile had an off-putting brittleness to it.

Olivia was taken aback. She and Sarah were friends. They’d performed Aida together before, once in Sydney and once at the Staatsoper in Vienna, where they’d spent free afternoons exploring the city’s museums and where Sarah had told her about her life growing up in Soweto before she’d made her way first to Cape Town Opera School and then on to the Royal Academy of Arts in London. They’d established an immediate connection, and the only part of today she’d been looking forward to was seeing Sarah again.

Olivia searched her mind for what she could have done to offend her but couldn’t think of anything. Maybe Sarah was simply having a bad day? “How have you been?” she asked uncertainly.

“Very well.” With a formal nod, Sarah swept past Olivia.

Olivia stared after her. Stunned, she entered the rehearsal stage. Lena Hodiak, the Polish mezzo who had been covering for her during the early rehearsals, greeted her enthusiastically. “Ms. Shore!” She rushed forward with a wide smile. “It’s such a privilege to be working with you.”

Lena, a statuesque blonde with lush features, regarded Olivia with the adoring eyes of a young singer meeting her idol. Olivia thought how excited Lena would be if she knew she had a real chance of performing in Olivia’s place. But she couldn’t think that way. “Please. Call me Olivia. Rachel Cullen speaks highly of you.”

Olivia remembered her own days covering for bigger artists. The work had given her a steady paycheck when she’d badly needed it, and since covers had to attend every rehearsal, she’d learned from watching the best. But the frustration of perfecting a role, yet not having the chance to perform it, had been real. Still, although stories abounded of a young understudy stepping in at the last minute for the incapacitated star and soaring to instant fame, that seldom happened. In reality, covers spent most of their time stuck in a room offstage playing games on their phones.

“Let me know if I can help in any way,” Lena said.

“Thanks. I will.”

“Someone wants you to stop singing.”

That was Thad’s opinion, and Olivia rejected it. Lena was immensely talented or she couldn’t be here, and taking over a role as important as Amneris—especially on opening night when critics would be present—could advance her career immeasurably. But her welcoming manner hardly marked her as an understudy planning to sabotage the leading lady.

“Olivia, I’m so glad you’re here.” Gary Vallin, the director, came over to greet her. Opera directors, unlike musical conductors, generally weren’t musicians, but the best of them brought a fresh perspective to a piece, seeing it as a work of theater and not just a musical score. Gary was one of those.

As he familiarized Olivia with the staging, Lena sat off to the side keeping a close eye on the rehearsal and making notes exactly as she was supposed to.

By the time the day ended, Olivia was exhausted from the strain of pretending everything was normal. She needed to hear a friendly voice, and as soon as she got to her dressing room, she called Rachel.

It didn’t take her friend long to get to the point. “How are you really doing?”

Olivia hedged. “Okay. I’m not where I want to be, but . . .”

“You’ll get there. You will!”

“Sure, I will.” But Olivia wasn’t sure of anything right now.

When their conversation ended, she stowed her phone in her tote and gathered up the rest of her things. As she came out of her dressing room, she glimpsed a figure ducking around the corner. The shadowy light at the end of the corridor made it impossible to see whether it was a man or a woman, but something about the way the person moved seemed furtive. Still, too many things seemed furtive these days, and she no longer trusted herself to judge what was real and what wasn’t.

She passed Sarah Mabunda on her way out of the building. The Muni’s current Aida walked by without a word.

*  *  *

“Let me see your driver’s license,” she told Thad as she slipped into the front seat of a very expensive snow-white Chevy Corvette ZR1 that looked as if it belonged on a NASA launchpad. She’d wanted to call an Uber, but she wasn’t up to the confrontation that would surely follow.

He flipped open his wallet to show her his temporary license. “For future reference, sending two of the town’s most recognized jocks to the DMV together wasn’t your best idea. We nearly caused a riot.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

As he pulled out onto West Kinzie, she began to unwind. His presence didn’t exactly relax her. How could she relax with memories of all their creative sex acts ping-ponging in her brain? Instead, being with him, absorbing his self-confidence and energy, made her feel as though she might be able to regain control of her own life.

“I’m guessing you want to stop by your place first to pick up some of your things,” he said.

“I phoned my real estate agent this afternoon. He’s going to find me a safer furnished rental in the next few days. Moving in with you is only temporary. Very temporary.”

“It better be. I’m not sure how long I can handle having a high-strung roommate. And if you get into any of my beauty products, I’m kicking you out.”

She smiled. As far as she knew, his only beauty products were a bar of soap and a tube of sunblock.

He parked in the garage next to her beloved old BMW, and they rode the elevator up to her apartment. She unlocked the door and gazed at the mess she’d left. Unfortunately, no magic elves had appeared to unpack all her suitcases.

Except . . . the dagger Thad had been toying with . . . She distinctly remembered watching him set it next to the inkpot instead of by the Lady Macbeth crown where it belonged. Now, it was lying on an end table next to the couch.

Someone had been in here.