When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Olivia shuddered. “That song . . . It’s a voice from the grave.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Thad phrased it as a request, but it sounded more like a demand.

“It’s not a happy story.”

“I can handle it.” They’d come to a bench on the trail, and he gestured toward it, but she didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to look at him. She did, however, want to tell him. She wanted to let down the guard she’d been holding on to so tightly it was choking her and tell this man she barely knew what she’d only been able to hint at with Rachel.

She moved ahead of him so she didn’t have to make eye contact. “Adam was a good tenor, but not a great one. He was fine in the more undemanding comprimario parts—secondary roles. He had the will, but not the instrument to handle bigger parts.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me.” She’d also worked harder than Adam, but she worked harder than nearly everyone, and she couldn’t fault him for not keeping up. “We had everything in common—music, our dedication to our careers. He’d go into schools and talk to the students about music. He was great with kids. Loved animals. A sweet, sensitive man. And he adored me.” She stepped over a rocky trench to a smoother section of the trail. “When he proposed, I accepted.”

“Did you love him?”

“He was perfect. How could I not?”

“So you didn’t love him.”

She hesitated. “I was happy.”

“Except when you weren’t.”

Except when she wasn’t. She slowed to keep from slipping on a patch of shale. “I knew it bothered him that I was at a place in my career he couldn’t reach.” She was ashamed of how often she’d attempted to make herself smaller so she didn’t hurt him. She’d turned down a role she should have taken, and when a rehearsal or performance had gone especially well, she downplayed it. But he always knew. He’d grow silent. Occasionally, he’d snap at her for something inconsequential. He’d always apologize and blame his bad mood on lack of sleep or a headache, but Olivia knew the real cause.

They rounded a bend. “I don’t like to fail, and I got very good at self-deception. Even though I was growing more and more unhappy, I wouldn’t admit to myself that I’d stopped loving him.”

“Since none of those rings you like to wear have a diamond in them, I’m assuming you came to your senses.”

“Too late.” Thinking about it still made her cringe. “A week before the wedding, I called it off. One week! It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done. I waited too long, and I broke his heart.”

“Better than condemning him to a bad marriage.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He was devastated and humiliated.” She couldn’t dodge this next part, and she finally looked up at him. “He killed himself two and a half months later. Exactly nineteen days ago.” Her throat caught. “There was a suicide note. A suicide email, really. Modern life, right? He told me how much he’d loved me and that I’d ruined his life. Then he hit ‘send’ and shot himself.”

Thad winced. “That’s tough. Killing yourself is one thing, but blaming it on someone else . . . That’s low.”

She took in the vista around them without seeing a thing. “He was so sensitive. I knew that, and yet . . . I should have been more careful. I should have broken it off as soon as I knew it wasn’t right, but I was too stubborn.”

“The phone call you just had . . . The note you got yesterday . . . There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

Thad was so much smarter than he looked. “There’ve been two other notes.”

“The one I saw said, ‘This is your fault. Choke on it.’ Were the others like that?”

“The first one said, ‘Don’t ever forget what you’ve done to me.’ The morning the tour started, there was another. ‘You did this to me.’” A helicopter chopped overhead. “Until now, I thought he’d written the notes before he died and found people to mail them for him. But that phone call . . . It’s from a recording he made.”

“Obviously, he wasn’t the one who made the call.”

“Whoever he got to mail the letters must have done it. I don’t know. He was never vindictive.”

“Until he sent you his suicide email.”

“It was wrenching. And these notes . . .”

“Either he planned this before he killed himself, got someone to mail the notes and make that phone call, or you have an enemy on this side of the grave. Do you have any idea who that could be?”

She hesitated, but she was already in this far, and she might as well go the rest of the way. “His sisters were devastated, and they blame me. Growing up, it was only Adam, his mother, and his two sisters. He was the golden child. They all doted on him. Every spare dollar any of them made went toward his voice lessons. After his mother died, it was just his sisters. When I came into the picture, they weren’t happy.”

“They were jealous of you?”

“It’s more that they were protective of him. They wanted him with a woman who’d put his career first. Definitely not one with a big career of her own. If they found out he blew an audition or didn’t get a part, they blamed me. They thought I wasn’t supporting him in the way I should—that I put my career ahead of his. But I didn’t!” She looked up at him, pleading for understanding and hating herself for needing it. “I did everything I could to help him. I recommended him for roles. I turned down some opportunities of my own so I could be with him.”

He shook his head at her. “You women. How many men would do something like that?”

“He was special.”

“If you say so.”

She rubbed her arm and felt the gritty trail dust on her skin. “There was an autopsy, so the funeral was delayed. I don’t check my email regularly, and I didn’t see it until a week after he died.”

“The suicide email?”

“I should never have gone to the funeral. It turned into a scene right out of Puccini. Two sisters mad with grief publicly accusing me of killing him. It was horrible.” She blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. “Adam was everything to them.”

“That doesn’t excuse them for blaming you.”

“I think that’s what they need to do to work through their grief.”

“Very self-sacrificing. I’m traveling with Mother Teresa.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it? From where I stand, it looks like you’re hauling around a truckload of guilt for something you didn’t cause.”

“But obviously I did cause it. I was a coward. I agreed to marry him, even though in my heart I knew it wasn’t right. And then I waited until a week before the ceremony to end it. How’s that for cowardly?”

“Not as cowardly as going ahead with it.” He drew her gently to a stop. “Promise to tell me if you get any more of these surprises.”

“This is my problem. There’s no need—”

“Yes, there is. Until this tour is over, whatever happens to you affects me. I want your word that you’ll tell me.”

She shouldn’t have said this much, but there was something about him that invited confidences. She reluctantly agreed.

On the way back, she checked the number on her phone and tried to call. A recorded message said it was no longer in service.

*  *  *

When they returned to the suite, Henri greeted them with the news that there was a weather alert for San Francisco. “I heard from the pilot. We need to leave quickly, or you’ll miss your afternoon interviews.”

Olivia took a fast shower, grabbed a clean pair of yoga pants, and put on a long white sweater. She’d pull herself together on the plane.

*  *  *

Thad had never seen Olivia without makeup. Even that morning when they’d hiked, she’d had on lipstick and maybe some kind of tinted sunscreen. Now, with a scrubbed face and her hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked younger. Less like a diva and more like a really hot barista working at the counter of a funky coffee shop where none of the mugs matched.

Mariel was already on the plane when they got there. She drew Henri aside for what appeared to be a volatile conversation that indicated a less-than-friendly relationship. Paisley was intimidated by Mariel in a way she wasn’t by Henri and spent the trip huddled against the rear bulkhead trying to make herself invisible.

Not long before they landed, Olivia emerged from the plane’s bathroom in one of her classic outfits. A charcoal power dress with a crisscrossed purple belt and a couple of her big jewelry pieces. It was stylish, elegant, and expensive. He missed the hot barista.

Mariel sent Paisley off to deal with the luggage and accompanied Henri to Thad and Olivia’s live appearance on a noontime news and talk show. Afterward, they taped an interview at one of the local cable stations. The photograph of Thad carrying Olivia came up, and this time Olivia dove right in with the bench-pressing story. The host laughed, the watches were spotlighted, and a good time was had by all.

Except Mariel.

“Olivia should not be so frivolous in her interviews,” the Frenchwoman told Thad later that day, as she escorted him to another radio station, while Paisley hid and Henri shepherded Olivia to afternoon tea with a group of fashion bloggers. “There is a certain dignity associated with the Marchand brand.”

Mariel’s imperious manner was getting under his skin. “It made good television. You’re trying to reach younger consumers, and dignity doesn’t count for much with them.”

Mariel gave one of her Gallic shrugs. She was an imposing woman—no doubt about it—but he was glad to see Henri waiting for him at their San Francisco hotel.

This time, he and The Diva were placed in separate smaller suites, and that night’s client dinner took place in the hotel dining room. Thad was growing to heartily dislike these dinners, which lasted forever and required too much small talk. Still, they were part of what he’d signed up for, and he was too well paid to complain.

The Diva, he’d noticed, had been restricting herself to a single glass of wine since their altercation on the terrace. Mariel dominated the conversation with facts and figures about the Marchand brand, and Henri’s customary affability seemed ruffled at the edges.

At eleven, when dinner finally ended, Thad headed for the fitness center instead of going to bed. But even after a long workout, he had trouble falling asleep. He kept thinking about the disturbing notes The Diva had been receiving.

He also had the disquieting feeling there was more she wasn’t telling him.

*  *  *

After his morning shower, he called her. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“I’m never eating again.”

“Problematic.”

“Did you see the way I demolished that crème brûlée last night?”

“Not my favorite. Too sweet.”

“There is no such thing as too sweet. What’s wrong with you? And why are you calling me?”

“I was getting ready to order room service breakfast, and I don’t like to eat alone.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“It was, but you sound grouchy, so forget it.”

“Black coffee for me, and I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Wait. I said I was reconsid—”

She’d hung up. He smiled and put in a call to room service—coffee and a couple of poached eggs for him. Coffee and a Belgian waffle for her.

She and the food cart arrived at the same time. She was ready for the morning’s photo shoot—a dress that showcased her legs, stilettos, the pigeon’s egg ruby necklace. He’d gone for jeans and a multicolored shawl-collar pullover. “You look so comfortable,” she said wistfully.

“Another glaring example of gender inequality.” He admired the shining swing of her hair, then directed her to the table by the window and pulled the warming covers from their meals.

“You’re a sadist,” she said, as he set the strawberry-and-whipped-cream-topped waffle in front of her.

“I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”

“Touch this and you die.”

He laughed. He liked Olivia. He liked her smarts and her quirky sense of humor. So what if she was a little high-strung? So was he. He just hid it better.

She picked up her fork. “Did you see the way Mariel kept raising her eyebrows at me last night? All because I was eating my dinner instead of licking it like she did.”

“Didn’t see that.” But he’d heard Mariel tell one of the guests how fortunate it was that Olivia had chosen a career where she didn’t have to worry about her weight. Since Olivia’s body was as spectacular as her voice, he suspected Mariel was jealous.

“Was your luggage okay?”

It took him a moment to adjust to her change of topic. “What do you mean? Are you missing one of your three hundred and forty-two suitcases?”

“Don’t exaggerate. No, nothing’s missing, but . . .” She shrugged. “I packed quickly, and things shift around when they’re being moved.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it.”

“You think somebody went through your luggage?”

“I’m probably being paranoid.” With more than half her waffle still remaining, Olivia pushed aside her plate.

“Don’t let Mariel stop you from enjoying your breakfast,” he said.

“I’m full. Contrary to her opinion, I don’t make a habit of stuffing myself.”

He refilled their coffee cups. “Have you heard from Rupert?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering if he’s come up with anything new to gain your attention.”

“What’s this thing you’ve got about Rupert?”

“I had a stalker once. A woman I’d never met who decided we were soul mates.”

“Rupert isn’t a stalker. He’s a fan.”

“So was she. She started showing up everywhere I went. Eventually, she got into my apartment. The police were involved. There was a restraining order. It got ugly.”

“So what happened?”

“She spent some time in jail and eventually moved out of state.”

“Rupert isn’t like that.”

His own experience, combined with that phone call, the threatening letters, and now the possibility that someone had gone through her luggage made him wary. There was also the mystery of who’d taken the photo of them outside that Phoenix bar four nights ago. Had it been random or something more deliberate?

He cornered Henri later that morning. “Make sure Olivia and I have adjoining suites from now on, will you? And if you could have the staff move me before tonight so I’m next to her, I’d appreciate it.”

“Adjoining suites?” Henri didn’t seem surprised, but then he was a Frenchman. “Of course.”

Thad didn’t see any reason to tell Henri this was about security, not sex, even though his own lizard brain kept slithering in exactly that direction.

*  *  *

“They moved me because they had to fumigate my suite,” he told Olivia that night as he let himself into the suite next to hers after their last client dinner in San Francisco.

“Fumigate? Against what?”

“Hey, you’re the bug expert. Not me.”

“There are bugs, and then there are bedbugs. You didn’t ask?”

“Naw.” The last thing he needed was Olivia talking to the hotel manager about bedbugs. “I think they said something about ants.”

“That’s odd.”

“I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”

“When it suits you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve got ‘rule breaker’ written all over that exquisite face of yours. You just hide it behind fake charm.” With an operatic sweep, she disappeared into her suite.

He gazed at the door she’d closed between them. He had an instinct for spotting trouble—a free safety shifting his body to the left, a lineman switching the hand he had on the ground. It was part of his job to be alert, and he wanted The Diva nearby. Now all he had to do was come up with a logical reason to keep their connecting door open.

He undressed, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before he rapped on the door between their rooms.

“What do you want?” she said from the other side.

He rapped again.

She finally opened the door. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected her to be wearing, but it was something along the lines of a filmy black negligee with maybe a frilly sleep mask pushed on top of her head. Instead, she wore a Chicago Jazz Festival T-shirt and pajama bottoms printed with dill pickles.

He groaned. “My eyes will never be the same.”

She let her own eyes roam over his bare chest, taking her time. “Mine, either.”

Her open appreciation of his hard-earned muscles nearly threw him off his game. She smiled, knowing she’d gotten the advantage. “You remind me of an art museum,” she said. “Look all you want, but don’t touch.”

“Some museums are designed for a more sensory experience.”

She was tough. She didn’t miss a beat. “Been there. Done that. Not doing it again. What’s wrong?”

He rubbed his chin. “This is embarrassing.”

“All the better.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, but . . . Once you’re ready to turn out the lights, would you mind leaving the door between us open?”

“Oh, dear . . . Afraid of the dark?”

He thought fast. “More like . . . claustrophobia.”

“Claustrophobia?”

“It hits now and then, okay? Forget I asked. I know how you women like to complain about men being afraid to show their vulnerability, but the minute one of us lets you see his sensitive side—”

“It’s fine. I’ll leave the door open.” She regarded him suspiciously. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist.”

“You think I haven’t?” He improvised. “Bottom line—closed-door phobia is nothing to mess with.”

She wasn’t stupid, and one of those dark, arched eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “This is your first step in trying to seduce me, isn’t it?”

He propped his elbow against the doorjamb and gave her a lazy once-over. “Babe, if I wanted to seduce you, you’d be hot and naked by now.”

That rattled her. Unfortunately, he’d also gotten hard, so she wasn’t the only one rattled.

That night, as he lay in bed in the dark, he heard the jazz strains of Bill Evans’s “Peace Piece” drifting through the darkness. The lady knew good jazz.

*  *  *

He escorted The Diva to the hotel lobby the next morning, where Henri delivered the good news that Mariel had left for New York. “Our limo is waiting outside.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see what’s holding Paisley up.”

“Probably texting her BFFs,” Olivia muttered as they made their way outside.

“You’re jealous because she likes me a lot more than she likes you,” he retorted.

She grinned. “And she likes Clint more than she likes you, old man.”

“I’m gutted.”

“Speaking of BFFs . . .” Olivia pulled out her phone and called her friend Rachel. Unfortunately, part of their conversation centered around something called chest voice, which made him want to stare at exactly that part of Liv’s anatomy.

Just as they finished, Paisley slid into the limo. The only makeup she had on was left from the night before. She hadn’t combed her hair, and she didn’t look apologetic. “I overslept.”

Henri got in behind her, grim-faced. “So sorry for keeping you both waiting.”

“Pas de problème,” Olivia said.

Henri and Olivia engaged in a rapid-fire conversation enfrançais,which Paisley interrupted. “Ohmygod! You’re on Ratchet Up!”

“What is this?” Henri asked.

She lowered her phone. “Ratchet Up. It’s this online gossip site everybody reads.” She showed them, and there they were. Thad and Olivia. Returning to the hotel yesterday morning from their hike. Olivia’s hair was falling out of her ponytail, and Thad had his hand on her shoulder. They looked like a couple.

“This is news?” Henri said. “This is nothing.”

Paisley regarded him condescendingly. “People like gossip. I told you that. And Thad and Olivia make a glam couple because they’re, like, so different. This is going to get us all kinds of eyeballs.”

“Eyeballs?”

“People looking at it,” Paisley said impatiently.

Henri remained unconvinced. “I doubt the people who follow that site are interested in buying Marchand watches.”

“Are you kidding? All the celebs read Ratchet Up, and this is the kind of stuff we need to post. Or at least feed to the gossip sites.”

“No feeding to gossip sites,” Olivia said. “I have a professional reputation to think about.”

That pissed him off. “What about my reputation? Do you think I want the guys in the locker room thinking I’m dating an opera singer?”

He’d made his point, and she had the grace to look embarrassed.