When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  He figured correctly. She finally ran out of steam and sank into the seat across the aisle from him. “I know this isn’t really your fault, but— Nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

  “I understand,” he said with all kinds of sympathy.

  Clint snorted.

  Olivia turned to Henri, showing a depth of concern Thad didn’t feel. He was more upset about having The Diva’s name printed before his in the headline.

  “I apologize, Henri,” she said. “I know this isn’t the image you want for Marchand. Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  Henri gave one of those Gallic shrugs only a true Frenchman could pull off. “You mustn’t distress yourself. Phoenix is behind us, and we have a full day ahead in Los Angeles, yes?”

  To his credit, Marchand didn’t ask what they had been doing last night. Instead, he gave Paisley a series of instructions about the day’s itinerary, but as Paisley retreated, she had eyes only for Garrett. Olivia eventually moved to her seat at the front and donned the purple headset she pulled from her tote.

  Garrett turned his attention back to Thad. “So here’s what I’ve been thinking about, T-Bo. When I was out with that thumb sprain. The Giants game. Third and four. Their D was waiting for the screen, and you shifted to an inside run. How’d you know they were expecting the screen? What tipped you off?”

  Thad gave in to the inevitable. “I was reading the linebacker.”

  “But what did he do? What did you see?”

  “Always watch the middle linebacker, you idiot. Now leave me alone so I can kill myself.”

  Clint reached across the aisle to slap him on the leg. “You know you love me, T-Bo, and we both know why. I’m your last best chance at immortality.”

  With that, the son of a bitch went off to flirt with Paisley.

  * * *

  More reporters showed up in LA than in Phoenix, and five seconds into the first interview, Thad knew why.

  The reporter was young, punk, and tatted. She balanced her notebook on the knee of her black cargo pants and asked her first question. “The two of you come from, like, such different worlds, so how do you, like, explain your attraction?”

  Thad could see The Diva getting all ramped up to deny everything, which would only lead to more speculation, so before she could say a word, he cut in. “Aw, we’re only friends.” He gave the reporter a conspiratorial wink just for the fun of it. What The Diva couldn’t see wouldn’t hurt her.

  Henri rushed forward from his position behind the couch. “Thad and Madame Shore might be from different worlds, but they both appreciate quality.”

  Thad did his job. He showed off the Victory780, and Olivia roused herself enough to talk about the Cavatina3. Henri expanded his pitch. “At Marchand, we understand that men and women want different things from their timepieces. Men’s wardrobes are more conservative, so they tend to like a more ornate watch.”

  “Present company excepted,” Olivia said with a glance at the amoeba print on Thad’s dress shirt.

  He didn’t appreciate her lack of respect for his personal style. Still, he had to admit she looked pretty damn good, even in that black-and-white outfit she’d worn on the plane. Watch on one wrist, bracelets on the other, and her crumpled gold earrings. No other ornamentation, as long as he didn’t count her killer gray stilettos.

  “The more subtle styling of the Cavatina3,” Henri said, “fits perfectly into the life of a successful woman like Madame Shore. It goes from day to night. Office to gym. It’s both classic and sporty.”

  When the reporter tried to turn the interview back to the personal, Olivia stiffened up like a poker. “Thad and I only met two days ago. We barely know each other.”

  The Diva might be a star in the opera world, but she didn’t know crap about dealing with the celebrity press, and that was exactly the wrong thing to say. He smiled. “Some people just hit it off from the start.”

  “Professionally,” The Diva added, as prim as an old lady at a Victorian tea party.

  The reporter shifted her notebook to the other knee. “That photo of the two of you looks like you have more than a professional relationship.”

  The Diva’s lips pursed, and he could see she was about to issue another denial, so he jumped in again. “We were having fun, that’s for sure. Liv didn’t think I could bench press her, but I had my buddy use the timer on my Victory780 to prove her wrong. One minute point four three seconds. I guess I showed her.”

  The Diva regarded him with so much incredulity she might as well have told the reporter straight out that he was lying.

  The reporter laughed. “Okay. I get the message. No more questions.”

  Henri accompanied Paisley to show her out, as if he didn’t trust his assistant to do the job alone, leaving Thad with less than a minute before the next reporter appeared. He pulled Olivia off the couch and hauled her through the closest door.

  “What . . . ?”

  He pressed her against the powder room sink. “Will you relax and stop acting like they found a sex tape.”

  “How can I relax? Everybody is going to think we’re—we’re—”

  “Lovers? So what? We’re both adults, and as far as I know, neither of us is married. You’re not, are you? Because I don’t mess around with married women.”

  “Of course I’m not married!” she sputtered.

  “Then we’re good.”

  “We’re not good, and we’re not messing around. It looks like we’re—whatever. We only met two days ago.”

  “I get it. You don’t want Rupert to think you’re easy.”

  “I’m not easy!”

  “Tell me about it. Now stop getting so wound up. Relax and smile.” As Thad turned her toward the powder room door, he smiled to himself. It wasn’t like him to give a woman a hard time, but The Diva was such a worthy adversary that he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  They emerged together, directly in the path of the next reporter.

  To his surprise, The Diva pulled on a smile. “You’re welcome, Thad.” And then, to the reporter, “He wouldn’t believe me when I said he had half his lunch stuck in his front teeth. A shame to let a ham sandwich spoil those shiny, white veneers. I’m sure he paid a fortune for them.”

  His teeth were all his own, but that didn’t mean a thing. The Diva had grabbed the ball out of his hands and run it into the end zone.

  * * *

  That night, after the obligatory client dinner, Thad met some of his LA buddies in the hotel’s rooftop bar for a late-night drink. He didn’t invite The Diva to come along, even though the bar’s ivy-covered pavilion and great views were more her style than last night’s venue.

  He hadn’t seen these guys in months, and he should have had a great time, especially since Garrett didn’t show up. But after last night, the evening felt anticlimactic, and he was in bed by two.

  * * *

  As Olivia’s best friend Rachel Cullen and her husband Dennis settled under a blue umbrella on the hotel restaurant’s patio the next day, their hands met, and Olivia regarded them wistfully. “You two are disgusting.”

  Rachel squeezed her husband’s hand. “You’re sooo jealous.”

  “An understatement,” Olivia replied. “You found the only man on the planet who was born to marry an opera singer.” If Olivia could find his clone, she might be able to have a lasting relationship.

  “Best job ever,” Dennis said.

  Olivia gazed at her friend. “I hate you.”

  Rachel gave her a smug smile. “Of course you do.”

  With her silky, ash-blond hair, generous curves, and girl-next-door features, Rachel could have passed for the neighborhood’s prettiest soccer mom, while Dennis Cullen’s unruly mop of brown hair, big nose, and wiry build made him look more like a musician than his wife, although he made his living working temp jobs in IT.

  Olivia and Rachel had met over ten years earlier at the Ryan Opera Center, the prestigious artistic development program at Chicago’s
Lyric Opera. In the old days of opera rivalries, two mezzos competing for the same roles would never have become such close friends, but at the Lyric, mutual support and collaboration weren’t only encouraged but were expected. They’d formed a tight bond, helping and commiserating with each other as they’d worked side by side on the mezzo repertoire. Olivia was the more gifted singer and performer, but instead of being jealous, Rachel had become Olivia’s most enthusiastic cheerleader.

  As the years had passed, Olivia’s career had soared, while Rachel’s merely remained respectable, but that hadn’t interfered with their friendship. Olivia continued to recommend Rachel for roles. They laughed and cried together. Olivia had been at Rachel’s side when her mother had died, and Rachel had held Olivia’s hand through Adam’s horrible, soul-wrenching funeral, something neither of them would ever forget. As Olivia studied the menu, she pretended not to see her friend’s concerned look. Rachel was intuitive, and she knew more was wrong than Olivia was letting on.

  Their server appeared. Dennis ordered a chopped Thai salad for Rachel and crab cakes for himself.

  “He even orders for you,” Olivia said as the server disappeared.

  “He knows what I like better than I do.”

  Olivia had a flashback to Adam, who used to ask Olivia to order for him because he couldn’t make up his mind. Being around Dennis could be painful. His dedication to Rachel’s career formed a distinct contrast to the resentment Adam had worked so hard to suppress. Dennis was an opera singer’s dream husband.

  Rachel unwrapped her napkin. “Tell me the story of how you and Dennis met.”

  “Again?” Olivia said. “I’ve told you the story a dozen times.”

  “I never get tired of hearing it.”

  “She’s like a child,” Olivia remarked to Dennis. And then to Rachel, “Should I start before or after he hit on me?”

  Dennis groaned.

  “Before,” Rachel chirped.

  Olivia settled in. “I’d just started my period, and I had crazy bad cramps—”

  “And a sugar craving,” Rachel added.

  “It’s my story,” Olivia protested. “Anyway, I decided to soothe myself with a Starbucks Red Velvet Frappuccino.”

  Rachel, whose sweet tooth continued to plump up her curves, nodded. “Very sensible.”

  “I’m standing in line and this crazy-looking musician type tries to strike up a conversation.”

  Rachel poked her husband. “You were totally hitting on her.”

  Olivia smiled and proceeded with the unnecessary story. “I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but he was persistent. And kind of cute.”

  “And not a singer,” Rachel said. “Don’t forget the best part.”

  “A techie, as I learned even before the barista finished making my Frappuccino.”

  “Which he gallantly paid for.”

  “And which made me feel obligated to talk to him. The rest is history.”

  “You’re skipping the best part. The part where you gave him my phone number without asking my permission, even though he could have been a serial killer.”

  “Which he wasn’t.”

  “But I could have been,” Dennis said.

  Olivia smiled. “I liked him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep him for myself because I was still under Adam’s spell.” The table sobered, and Rachel’s look of concern returned. Olivia assumed an overly bright smile. “Bottom line. I loved being maid of honor at your wedding last year.”

  Rachel nodded. “And you sang the most beautiful ‘Voi che sapete’ anyone has ever heard.”

  Their food arrived. Rachel was in town auditioning for a role next winter at the LA Opera and they began trading opera gossip—a tenor with too much head voice and a conductor who refused to give Rossini the room to breathe. They talked about the amazing acoustics at Hamburg’s Elbphilarmonie and a new biography of Callas.

  Olivia envied the pride Dennis took in his wife’s accomplishments. Rachel’s career always came first, and he arranged his own work around her schedule. Unlike her life with Adam. Only now did Olivia see that Adam had been suffering from depression. He’d had trouble memorizing a new libretto, and his periods of insomnia alternated with nights he’d sleep for twelve or thirteen hours. But instead of getting him to a doctor, she’d broken up with him. And now he was having his revenge.

  This is your fault. Choke on it.

  Rachel grimaced. “Did you hear that Ricci is singing Carmen in Prague? I hate her.”

  Olivia refocused. “‘Hate’ is a strong word.”

  “You’ve always been nicer than me.”

  Sophia Ricci was, in fact, a lovely person, although Olivia had gone through a brief period of resenting her because she’d once been Adam’s girlfriend. That wasn’t, however, the reason for Rachel’s complaint. Sophia was a lyric soprano, and whenever a lyric took over one of the few leading roles written for a mezzo, it always stirred up resentment. “Maybe she’ll get laryngitis,” Olivia said, and then retreated. “I’m being awful. Sophia’s an amazing talent, and I wish her well.”

  “But not super well.” Rachel extracted a cashew from her salad. “Just enough so the critics write something like, ‘Sophia Ricci’s “Habanera,” while competent, can’t compete with the commanding sensuality of Olivia Shore’s exquisite Carmen.’”

  Olivia smiled fondly at her generous friend. More than anyone, Olivia understood how much Rachel would love to perform Carmen in a top-tier house like the Muni, but those invitations never came her way.

  “I’ve taken over Rachel’s social media,” Dennis said. “Exposure is everything. Look at all the mezzos in pop music—Beyoncé, Adele, Gaga. Those women understand how to use social media.”

  A too-familiar face appeared across the patio. Thad spotted Olivia and headed toward their table. As Olivia performed the introductions, she noticed that Rachel had that half-dazed look so many women seemed to adopt whenever Thad Owens came into their view.

  “Please.” Rachel gestured toward the empty seat at the table. “We’re almost done eating, but feel free to order something.”

  “I just finished lunch.” He looked at Olivia. “A couple of sports reporters.”

  Olivia felt a stab of guilt knowing he was working harder than she was.

  Dennis and Thad exchanged some surface football talk before the conversation turned back to opera. “Lena Hodiak told me she’s covering for you in Aida,” Rachel said. “You’ll like her. She sang Gertrude in Hansel and Gretel last year in San Diego, and she’s lovely.”

  Thad regarded her questioningly.

  “That means Lena is her understudy,” Rachel explained. “Covering for Olivia is a thankless job, as Lena’ll discover. Olivia never gets sick.”

  Dennis jumped in. “Tell me about this gig you have with Marchand. How did the two of you snag it?”

  “I was at least their third choice,” Thad said without a trace of rancor.

  “I got a call from my agent last September,” Olivia said. “I had an open spot in my schedule, and the money was great. Also, I thought I’d be traveling with Cooper Graham, the Stars’ former quarterback.”

  “Instead, she got lucky,” Thad said.

  Olivia smiled and glanced at her watch. “I wish we could talk longer, but we have a photo op coming up, and Thad needs time to make sure his hair is perfect.”

  Thad pushed back his chair. “She’s jealous because I photograph better than she does.”

  Rachel frowned at him, ready to leap to her friend’s defense, but Olivia shrugged. “Sad, but true.”

  Thad laughed. Dennis jumped to his feet and pulled out his cell. “Let me get a couple of photos first for Rachel’s social media. I’ll tag you both.”

  Olivia suspected Thad wasn’t any more interested in being tagged than she was, but she adored Dennis’s enthusiasm. How could she not be envious?

  * * *

  They opened the door of their suite to the sight of Henri engaged in a heated conversation with an elegant wo
man who appeared to be around his age, perhaps early forties. She had a sleek European look: an all-black pencil dress with multiple strands of pearls at her neck. Her blunt-cut hair fell from a middle part to just below her jaw. Next to her, a cowed Paisley rapidly blinked her eyes, as if she were trying not to cry, making Olivia suspect this woman wasn’t as inclined to ignore Paisley’s incompetence as Henri. In fairness, while Paisley was spoiled, disorganized, and grossly immature, Olivia had seen the photos on her iPhone, and she had to admit Paisley had a good eye for Thad Owens’s ass.

  Henri broke off the conversation as soon as he spotted them. “Mariel, look who has joined us. Olivia, Thad, this is my cousin Mariel.”

  Mariel gave them a very French smile—cordial but restrained—and a businesslike handshake. “Mariel Marchand. It’s a pleasure.”

  She was more handsome than pretty, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, and small eyes enlarged with bold eye makeup.

  “Mariel is our chief financial officer,” he said. “She’s come to check up on us.”

  Olivia had done enough research to know that Lucien Marchand, the head of the company, was in his seventies and childless. Mariel and Henri, his niece and nephew, were his only blood relatives, and one of them would take over the family firm. It wasn’t hard to see that Mariel had the advantage over genial Henri.

  “I trust my cousin is not making you work too hard,” Mariel replied in an accent less marked than Henri’s.

  “Only Thad,” Olivia said honestly. “I have it easier.”

  “I heard you at the Opéra Bastille two years ago as Klytaemnestra in Elektra. Incroyable.” She turned her attention to Thad without waiting for Olivia to acknowledge the compliment. “You must explain this game you play to me,” she said.

  “Nothing much to it, really. Run a little, pass a little, keep the ball away from the bad guys.”

  “How intriguing.”

  Olivia mentally rolled her eyes and excused herself.

  Mariel was with them at their client dinner that night, lending a touch of French elegance to the affair and flattering Thad outrageously. “You have to be so strong to play this game. So agile.”