Page 99 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

Olivia didn’t know exactly how the pieces fit, but she was certain they did. Rachel knew Olivia was guilt-plagued about Adam’s suicide, and she’d suspected Olivia’s vocal issues were worse than Olivia was letting on. Rachel had put two and two together and mulled it over with Dennis. If Dennis knew, he could very well have told Lena’s husband sometime when the couples were together.

Lena hadn’t been her saboteur. It was Christopher, Lena’s husband, a man who had a sizable stake in his wife’s career. A man who wanted his wife onstage instead of Olivia.

Lena lifted her tear-streaked face to her husband. “What happened to Florence?”

“That’s not Florence!” he exclaimed.

“It is Florence! Look at the white on her tail feathers, the little dash by her eye.”

Christopher addressed the rest of the room with a fake, dismissive laugh. “Florence is Lena’s pet canary. The bird stopped eating, and Lena’s been worried, but . . .” He returned his attention to his wife. “Florence was alive when I left home. I swear.”

His swearing lacked conviction. Lena, looking lost and confused, her dead pet cradled in her hand, gazed up at Olivia. “I don’t understand.”

From the speaker, the opening notes of the overture began to play. “You and your husband need to have a long talk,” Olivia said. “And if I were you, I’d hire a lawyer.”

* * *

She hurried back to her dressing room. When she got there, she made a quick call to Piper outlining what had happened and then muted her phone.

The stage manager’s voice came from the speaker. “Mr. Baker, Mr. Alvarez, please report to the stage.” Her call would be next.

She locked the door and turned off her dressing room lights. She had so many questions, but for now she had to set them all aside. Lena’s husband’s sabotage had stolen enough from her. She wouldn’t let it steal any more.

Be fearless. She drew herself to her full height and breathed into the darkness. Long inhales. Slow exhales. Even, deliberate breaths. Trying to trust herself once again.

Inhale . . . Exhale . . .

“Ms. Shore, please report to the stage.”

19

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.

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