When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Olivia made her entrance to thunderous applause. Thad had a hard time catching his breath. She wasn’t alone onstage, but she might as well have been. How could the audience look at anyone else? In her purplish gown with that cobra on her head, she was six feet tall.

He’d read the libretto, and he knew what she’d be singing first. “Quale insolita gioia nel tuo sguardo,”“What rare joy shines on your face?”

She’d joked with him about it. “Not your face,” she’d teased him. “Radamès’s face.”

Now here she was, throwing herself at the old dude playing Radamès who wasn’t going to love her back in a million years. Stupid fool.

He’d sneaked in at the last minute, and so far, he’d attracted only the minimum of attention. He didn’t want her to know he was here, but he couldn’t imagine staying away, even though he was still mad as hell at her. But not mad enough to want her to fail.

Aida appeared, dressed in white. Sarah Mabunda had a curvier figure and lacked Olivia’s height, but she had a luminescence that lit up her face and made her a worthy adversary. Too bad she had to die at the end.

His attention returned to Olivia. As magnificent as she was, he couldn’t help wishing she was singing Carmen so he could see her in that red dress.

No. He didn’t need to see her in that dress. Better she was covered up.

The scene came to an end, and the audience applauded. She’d sounded incredible to his ears, but nobody was calling out “bravo,” and the applause seemed more polite than as if the audience had been swept away.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and kept his attention on the stage.

*  *  *

Curtain call . . . Olivia had survived opening night.

She and Sarah had begun to connect in the first act, and that connection had continued through the bedchamber scene in act 2. As for the all-important final Judgment scene . . . Olivia’s pitch had sagged here and there, and she’d smudged some of her runs, but she’d been good. Acceptable. The audience might not be getting everything they expected from La Belle Tornade, but it wasn’t the disaster she’d feared. She hadn’t sung brilliantly, but she’d sung competently. That’s what the critics would say. A competent, if rather lackluster, performance. Competent was fine.

No, it wasn’t fine. She wanted greatness, not competence. Something Thad would understand.

*  *  *

Backstage, she greeted her well-wishers, many of them wealthy donors to the Muni. It was easy to separate those who truly knew opera from the others. The pretenders told her she had been magnificent. The true fans merely commented on how glad they were that she’d returned to the Muni.

Kathryn Swift was of the former group. “Olivia, darling, you were superb. Spectacular! I so wish Eugene could have heard you tonight.”

Olivia was glad he hadn’t, because he would have known right away that she hadn’t been spectacular at all.

The person she wanted most to see—the person who would understand how she was feeling more than anyone else—was missing. And why should he be here after she’d thrown him out of her life?

Her guests finally left. The dresser took away her costume and wig. Wrapped in a white robe, Olivia sat in front of the mirror removing her makeup. She was drained. Empty. As she wiped away Amneris’s winged eyebrows and elongated lapis eyeliner, she tried to make herself feel better with the reminder that she’d at least had the courage to go onstage tonight. That was something.

But it wasn’t enough.

She took off her wig cap and ran her fingers through her hair. She understood Christopher Marsden’s twisted motivation for doing what he’d done, but how had he orchestrated it? And what about the bookstore and kidnapping?

A knock sounded at her door. She had this absurd leap of hope that it might be Thad. “Come in.”

It was Lena Hodiak. Her tangled blond hair; round, blotchy face; and red eyes told their own story. She dashed across the room and fell to her knees in front of Olivia. “I didn’t know what he was doing! You must believe me!”

Olivia imagined how Thad would view this grand, operatic gesture, and she could almost hear him muttering “sopranos” under his breath. “Please get up, Lena.”

Lena gripped Olivia’s white robe tighter, staying on her knees. “I didn’t know. Please believe me. I would never have let him do something like this.”

As exhausted as she was, Olivia couldn’t dismiss Lena’s anguish. “Sit down,” she said gently.

Lena stayed where she was. Weepy and beseeching, she gazed up at Olivia. “You’re everything I aspire to be. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please tell me you don’t think I did this.”

Lena’s incredulity as she’d gazed at her husband was all the proof Olivia had needed that Lena wasn’t the one who’d tried to sabotage her. She drew Lena to her feet and directed her to the room’s single easy chair. “I know you didn’t. And I’m sorry about your bird.”

Lena dropped her head in her hands and started crying all over again. “Florence was special. She’d trill for me when I left the room. I could cuddle her in my hand, and if she didn’t think I was giving her enough attention, she’d sulk.” Lena dragged her sleeve across her nose. “She stopped eating a few weeks ago, and she was sleeping all the time, so I knew she was sick, but . . .” She gulped for air. “I think he killed her.”

Olivia winced.

The words came pouring out. “After you left, he pulled me into the hall and tried to convince me nothing you said was true. I said I knew he was lying. That made him furious and he told me all of it. Everything he’d done to you. He threw it at me. Like it should make me happy. He said since I wasn’t looking out for my own career, he had to.”

Olivia sat at her dressing table and rubbed her eyes. “He wanted to get rid of me so you could have your big moment.”

“Covering for you was my big moment, but he couldn’t see that. He kept talking about how this was my chance and that I should see what he’d done to you as a sign of how much he loved me.”

“Twisted.”

“I should have figured it out. He’s been so secretive. I told him I hated him. That I was divorcing him and never wanted to see him again.” She bit her bottom lip. “I thought he was going to hit me, but Jeremy came out to check on me and kicked him out of the building.”

Jeremy was the big, barrel-chested bass covering for Ramfis.

“You’re not safe with your husband,” Olivia said.

“I know.” Lena plucked at the chair arm. “When I met him, he was so charming. He was interested in everything I did. I’d never had anyone care about me that way.” Lena looked up. “A few months after we got married, things started to change. He wanted to know where I was every minute. Nothing I did was good enough. I wasn’t working hard enough. I gained a few pounds, and he told me I was fat. He started monitoring everything I ate. He made me feel stupid. He said he had to be tough with me because he loved me so much, and he only wanted the best for me. He said I should feel lucky to be married to a man who cared so much. But I knew it was wrong. As soon as the Aida run was over, I was going to tell him I wanted a divorce.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t go back to your apartment.”

“I called a friend. I’m going to stay with her.”

“Promise me you’ll let me know if I can help.”

“How can you say that after what happened?”

Olivia smiled at her. “We sopranos have to stick together, right?”

That made Lena start crying all over again.

*  *  *

Thad banged on the door of Lena Hodiak’s apartment, then moved to the side so only Piper could be seen through the peephole.

The door swung open. Thad shouldered Piper away—exactly what she’d warned him not to do—and stepped into the door frame. “Christopher Marsden?”

Marsden wiped the early-morning sleep from his eyes. “Who are you? Wait— Aren’t you—”

“Yeah. Thad Owens. A good friend of Olivia Shore.”

Christopher tried to slam the door, but Thad wasn’t having it. He shoved his way in before Piper could stop him and delivered a perfectly targeted undercut to Marsden’s jaw followed up with a punch to the gut that sent the vermin sprawling to the floor.

“Okay, that wasn’t helpful,” Piper said. “But completely understandable.” She shut the door, closing them inside the apartment.

Thad wanted to finish the job, but Piper pushed him away and advanced on Marsden. “I have a few questions for you, Mr. Marsden. And I think it’s only fair to inform you that my friend here has a hot temper and short patience when it comes to liars, so I suggest you stick to the truth.”

Marsden whimpered. His lip was bleeding, and he looked like he might throw up. Thad had a strong stomach, and he wouldn’t mind seeing that.

Piper put one of her small feet, clad in a black leather motorcycle boot, on Marsden’s chest. “I think we should start at the beginning, don’t you?”

It all came out. Marsden had formed a friendship with Dennis Cullen, Rachel’s husband, when their wives were appearing together in Minneapolis. From Dennis, Marsden had learned that Olivia wasn’t handling her ex-fiancé’s suicide well. Dennis, who needed to learn how to keep his fucking mouth shut, had repeated Rachel’s speculation that Olivia was traumatized with guilt after her ex-fiancé’s suicide, and that her vocal problems were worse than she was letting on. That was all Marsden needed to hear, and it didn’t take him long to come up with a plan to prey on Olivia’s guilt. The possibility of his wife being able to step into Olivia’s shoes and have her shot at the big time had been his catnip. He saw playing mind games with Olivia as low risk, with a potentially huge payoff for his wife’s career.

“Lena can’t do anything for herself!” Marsden whined, clutching his stomach. “She was happy being second rate. I have to do everything.”

“Uh-huh.” Piper toed him with her motorcycle boot, not enough to hurt him, but enough to establish female solidarity with his wife. “Let’s begin with those notes you sent.”

Marsden started singing like his wife’s canary once had. He’d come up with an idea as an experiment—seeing if he could get into Olivia’s head by sending her the anonymous letters. After a couple of chats with Big Mouth Dennis, he’d learned Olivia seemed to be getting worse, and that motivated him to step up his efforts with the photographs, bloody T-shirt, and the phone call Olivia had gotten when they were hiking. He was behind it all, right up to the moment when Piper mentioned the hotel room break-in and the New Orleans incident.

The guy practically peed his pants. “I’ve never been to New Orleans. I swear. And I didn’t break into any hotel room!” He curled into a ball, afraid Thad would go after him again.

Thad and Piper exchanged a look. Marsden was a coward and a bully—not the kind of guy with the guts to pull off a direct attack or a desert kidnapping. Olivia was still at risk.

*  *  *

Olivia slept in late the next day. Tonight was the Aida gala, her final obligation to Marchand and the last place she wanted to be after her lackluster performance. Holding her head high and pretending not to overhear any of the whispered conversations about her singing last night would be exhausting. Except . . . she’d be able to see Thad again.

She’d kill him if he brought a date.

He’d bring a date. She knew it. He wasn’t a man who’d ignore any kind of rejection without fighting back.

She needed a date, too. She mentally sorted through possible candidates but couldn’t bear the idea of spending the evening with anyone who was part of the opera world. She could ask Clint, but if she brought him, Thad would think she was trying to rub his face in their breakup when all she wanted was to throw her arms around him and tell him once more she was sorry. He deserved his retribution. She’d choke down her resentment, go alone, and make herself be extra nice to the woman he’d almost certainly bring with him. Even though it would devastate her.

She tried to focus on the positive. It would be good to see Henri again. Paisley had somehow landed her dream job as a personal assistant to one of the Real Housewives, so she wouldn’t be there, but Mariel would. Mariel’s blind ambition to best Henri had grated on Olivia from the beginning. The advertising campaign had been expensive, and if it wasn’t paying off, she’d be gloating over Henri’s remains.

Olivia had to talk to Dennis. He needed to know what his loose lips had cost her. She intended to keep this between the two of them because Rachel would be crushed if she found out the part her husband had played in what had happened.

She texted him.

Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Rachel. “Now you’re sending secret messages to my husband?”

Olivia thought quickly. “Somebody with a birthday coming up shouldn’t be asking questions.”

“My birthday isn’t for two months.”

“So?”

Rachel laughed. “All right. Here he is.”

He answered quickly. “Hey, pal. What’s up?”

She couldn’t do this with Rachel standing next to him. “Call me when big ears isn’t around. We need to talk.”

Dennis turned his head away from the phone. “She needs to talk to me in private. We have a thing going on.”

Olivia heard Rachel laugh. “If you’re planning a surprise party, I’ll kill you both.”

“Hold on. I’m going into another room.” A few moments later, he’d returned to their conversation. “What’s up? Rachel’s birthday isn’t for two months.”

“This isn’t about her birthday.” She steeled herself. “I’m afraid you and I have a problem . . .”

She laid it out. Everything that had happened and Dennis’s part in it. As the story unfolded, he began stammering apologies. “God, Olivia . . . God, I’m sorry . . . I hate myself . . . Rachel keeps telling me I have a big mouth . . . Jesus, Olivia . . . I never meant . . . Shit . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“No more apologies.” Olivia had heard enough. “You’re a gossip, and your blabbering has threatened my relationship with Rachel. I know wives confide in their husbands, but they expect their husbands to keep their mouths shut. How can I ever again talk openly with her if I know she’ll tell you, and you’ll broadcast it to the world?”

“You’re right. I’ve learned my lesson. God, have I ever. Don’t tell Rachel about this. Please. She already has enough issues with the way I butt into her life.”

That was news to Olivia. “Dennis, I swear, if you ever again pass on anything that I’ve told Rachel, I’ll tell her every detail about what happened with Christopher Marsden.” She hung up on him before he could issue any more apologies.

Afterward, she moved over to the piano and began her vocalization. Only a few more hours before the gala when she’d see Thad again.

*  *  *

The Muni’s Grand Foyer had been transformed into a facsimile of ancient Egypt. Guests entered through a reproduction of the Temple of Dendur as projections of ancient temple columns and statues of Ramses II, interspersed with the Marchand logo, played on the walls. An array of artificial palm trees decked out with fronds made of twinkle lights added to the glamorous setting.

Her late entrance caused a stir. Heads swiveled, and a brief lull fell over the crowd. The Chicago Tribune’s review of last night’s performance hadn’t yet appeared in the paper, but the online reviews were posted on all the big opera sites, and nearly every one of them used the word “disappointing.” She forced her head higher, even as she wished she were anywhere but here.

Kathryn Swift, the chair of the gala committee, rushed over all in a flutter. “Olivia! My dear, you look incredible!”

Olivia wore her own floor-length gown for the evening—slender, white, and sleeveless, with a narrow gold belt. She’d left her hair long and borrowed an Egyptian-style circlet from the costume department to wear across her forehead. Her fan-shaped gold earrings, like the wings of Isis, were studded with coral and turquoise.

The majority of the men wore tuxedos, with only a handful disregarding the suggested male dress code. One had confused a Greek toga with an Egyptian robe. A few had adopted the more modern djellaba. Fortunately, no one had shown up in a loincloth. Almost all of the women were in some form of costume, many dressed in embellished robes, some with collar pieces. A number of women had donned long, black wigs. Kathryn Swift had chosen a gown with accordion-pleated wing-shaped sleeves in a silver fabric that set off her gray society matron bob. She snatched up Olivia’s hands and examined her rings. “Is that a poison ring? Eugene gave me one from the Victorian period, but I can’t remember what I’ve done with it.”

“It’s a poison ring, but not an antique.” Olivia had paid thirty dollars for it on Etsy, one of her favorite sources for costume jewelry. Of the five rings she was wearing, only the cushion-cut sapphire she’d bought as a gift to herself after winning the Belvedere Singing Competition had any value.

She couldn’t win the Belvedere Competition now. She would barely make it through the qualification round.

Most of the guests had taken their places at the tables, which were draped in white linen with the Marchand logo embossed in gold. Over Kathryn’s shoulder, Olivia spotted a place waiting for her at the center table, where Henri sat with a good-looking younger man she assumed was his husband, Jules. Mitchell Brooks, the Muni’s manager, and his wife were also at the table, along with the chairman of the Muni’s board of directors and a man she recognized from photos as Lucien Marchand. Then there was Thad.

A man appeared at Kathryn’s side. He was around forty, stocky, with a ruddy complexion and an Ivy League haircut. Olivia recognized him from a family photo Eugene had shown her as his stepson. “Excuse me for interrupting, but Wallis and her husband want to talk to you about the hospital ball,” he said.

Kathryn brushed him off impatiently. “I’ll get to them. My son Norman Gillis,” she said, as he retreated. “He’s more interested in basketball than opera.”

Kathryn squeezed Olivia’s hand. “I suppose I do need to go. Have a wonderful time tonight, my dear.”

“I’m sure I will,” Olivia said, even more sure she wouldn’t. Excusing herself, she approached the table. Time to get this over with.

Centerpieces of flowers and pomegranates, along with pyramid-shaped place cards, brightened each table. Paper masks hung from the gilt chair backs—Tutankhamen for the men and Nefertiti for the women. Some of the guests had put them on for photos. A few others wore them on top of their heads.

Henri greeted her with an embrace and introduced her to Jules, then to Lucien Marchand. “And this is my uncle.”

Olivia inclined her head. “Enchanté, monsieur.”

The president and CEO of Marchand Timepieces had a stately beaked nose, a carefully groomed mane of silver hair, and an elegant manner. “Madame Shore. I’m delighted to finally meet you.”

Mitchell rose to greet her. She suspected he’d rather be sitting at the adjoining table with Sergio, Sarah Mabunda, and Mariel Marchand, instead of near his disappointing diva.

She couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer, and she nodded at Thad’s date for the evening. “Lieutenant Cooke.”

“Please. Call me Brittany.”

*  *  *

Liv and Brittany were hitting it off as if they’d been girlfriends forever, something he didn’t appreciate. He hadn’t exactly invited Brittany to make Liv jealous, but he’d at least hoped seeing him with another woman would give her a taste of what she’d thrown away. Namely, him.

Plus, he wanted to make her jealous.

But La Belle Tornadewas above such petty human emotions.

Olivia wasn’t as elaborately dressed as some of the other women, but she outshone them all like the empress she was. She had to know by now what the opera cognoscenti were saying about last night’s performance, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She was every inch a queen, graciously allowing the ordinary people around her to breathe her rarified air. She couldn’t have been more different from the soft, giving, everyday woman he’d once held in his arms.

At the next table, Mariel Marchand looked as if she’d swallowed a bowl of bad mushrooms. Mitchell Brooks took him over to make introductions. Thad seemed to be developing a fondness for sopranos, because he immediately liked Sarah Mabunda.

He returned to his own table as the speeches began. There were lots of thank-yous, a speech about the after-school music program that was receiving the proceeds from the evening, and still more thank-yous. Mitchell Brooks introduced Lucien Marchand as the evening’s sponsor, even though Henri should be taking credit. But Uncle Lucien, with his French accent and diplomat’s mien, did cut an impressive figure. He called up Thad and Olivia to draw the winning tickets for tonight’s grand prizes: a Victory780 and a Cavatina3. Thad was glad he didn’t have to give a speech because he wasn’t up to it.

On their way back to the table, he took Liv’s arm. The gesture was automatic, and for just a moment, he could have sworn she leaned against him.

The moment passed. She drew away. “Rupert! How lovely to see you.”

Rupert?

She introduced him to a small man sitting at a table off to the side. “Rupert, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Rupert Glass.” She shot Thad a telling look he immediately understood. Rupert resembled one of the Seven Dwarfs, the one who wouldn’t look at anybody. Bashful? The top of his head came just to Olivia’s shoulder. He had a tuft of hair at the crown, a couple more tufts near his ears, and he looked about as dangerous as a plastic spoon.

“My dear,” he whispered, turning several different shades of red. “My deepest apologies if I did anything to distress you with my meager gifts.”

“You could never distress me, Rupert.” Olivia patted his hand. “But there are so many young singers who would bloom under the kind of support you’ve given me.”

Thad couldn’t help himself. “Plus the IRS won’t bother them like they do her.”

Olivia quickly excused them both. “You didn’t have to say that,” she hissed, as she hustled him away.

“It’s those quiet ones who turn out to be serial killers.”

Just for a moment they exchanged one of their quick smiles, but then he remembered he was furious with her and wiped his away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

“You didn’t,” he snapped back.

She squeezed his arm. That was it. Just squeezed it.

Back at the table, she chatted with Brittany in English and with Lucien enfrançais. The Muni’s conductor came over to the table, and they spoke in Italian. Then—son of a bitch—didn’t she switch to German when an old dude with a silver-topped walking cane appeared.

Damn, but he missed her. He’d never been so in sync with another person. None of his ex-girlfriends. No buddy or teammate. No one.

He told himself to snap out of it. She said she was in love with him, but it wasn’t like he’d marry her. That would be a nightmare and a half—living his life as Mr. Olivia Shore. All he wanted was for them to be together for a while. Simple. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t she see that?

He barely tasted his food, a filet topped with some kind of shrimp thing. As Liv and Brittany chatted away, he mainly talked to Henri’s husband, Jules, an interesting guy who was a big soccer fan. Still, he wanted Liv’s attention for himself.

Between dinner and dessert, the room darkened to show a video of the student music program. Olivia whispered something to Brittany about the ladies’ room and excused herself.

He didn’t realize he was staring after her until he caught Brittany’s sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t have let that one get away,” she whispered.

He wouldn’t tell her it was the other way around.

*  *  *

Olivia hadn’t intended to duck out on the after-school music program video, but her drunken binge two nights ago had temporarily soured her on alcohol, and she’d drunk one too many glasses of water. She entered the ladies’ room to find Mariel Marchand washing her hands at the sink. Mariel gave her a cool nod in the mirror. “You look lovely tonight, Olivia.”

Mariel didn’t. Although she wore her black gown and glittering jewelry with all the elegance of a true Frenchwoman, her skin looked sallow, and she seemed tired.

“Thank you. And your gown is beautiful,” Olivia replied honestly.

“Chanel.” The word was sad, almost bitter, as if she were reciting her state of mind instead of the luxury designer’s name. “I suppose you’ve heard by now that Henri’s campaign was a rousing success. Hideously expensive, of course, but sales of Marchand products doubled. A triumph for him.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Henri did not say anything to you?” She snatched up a towel. “He has always been so much a better person than I am.”

Olivia refrained from agreeing.

“Lucien raised us both on the Marchand tradition, but it seems Henri was smarter than me.”

Olivia sidestepped. “I’m happy the campaign is doing so well, but I know this must be a challenging time for you.”

“I am an ambitious woman, something you understand.” She dried her hands on the towel as if she were scrubbing them. “The press release goes out tomorrow. Lucien Marchand is retiring in September, and Henri is taking over as president and CEO while I continue my role as chief financial officer.”

“I see.”

“My career is everything to me. You understand. You’re just like me. Our careers are our lives. Women with husbands and children”—she spoke the words as if they were frivolities—“allow themselves to be distracted from their goals, but not us. We do not lose sight of what we want.”

Olivia didn’t like being put in the same category as Mariel. “You’re a bright woman, Mariel. I’m sure you’ll adapt.”

“I don’t want to adapt!” She balled her towel and threw it in the trash. “I want to lead!” The door closed behind her.

Successful people had to be able to adapt, Olivia thought. Throughout her career, she’d learned to be flexible—to new directors, different staging, a variety of teachers. She was good at adapting, something she hadn’t thought much about until this very moment.

She finished in the restroom and stepped into the empty hallway. Music from the video played in the background, and the lights seemed dimmer than when she’d entered.

As she turned into the corridor leading back to the Grand Foyer, she wished she didn’t have to return to the table. If only she could go home now. If only—

Something seized her from behind. Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth.