When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  A few people recognized him—the guy in charge of pressing the wrinkles out of bolts of fabric, a middle-aged woman doing intricate embroidery work, a couple of millennials, but this was clearly Olivia’s show.

  Luella disappeared around the corner and returned with the gown he recognized from YouTube videos of Carmen: a deliberately tatty, low-cut dress with a purposely grimy white bodice, a corseted middle, and a full scarlet skirt. Olivia tensed next to him as Luella spread it out on the table and opened the back.

  “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle,” the woman said. “Love is a rebellious bird.”

  He knew that one by now; it was the official title of “Habanera.” As he took in the neckline, he remembered the way Liv’s oiled breasts had spilled over the top. The way the skirt had swirled around her bare, splayed legs. Sexier than porn.

  Luella opened the back of the gown. “Look at this, Mr. Owens.”

  Three white labels had been sewn in, each one printed in black marker with the name of the performer who’d worn the gown, the act number, and the opera in which the costume had been worn.

  Elīna Garanča, Act 1, Carmen

  Clémentine Margaine, Act 1, Carmen

  Olivia Shore, Act 1, Carmen

  Olivia touched the label. “The history of each costume.”

  “I hope it won’t be long before you wear it again,” Luella said.

  Olivia nodded, even as her lips tightened at the corners.

  * * *

  Luella’s comment stayed with Olivia for the rest of the day. What if she never again wore Carmen’s costume? Or, more pressing, Amneris’s elaborate Egyptian headdress and jeweled collar? The last time she’d sung the Judgment scene as Amneris, the audience had come to its feet. Now, she’d be booed.

  * * *

  Henri accompanied her as she spoke to high school students at an Upper East Side music conservatory the next morning, while Thad visited a group of student athletes with Paisley. The conservatory teens were a dynamic mixture of scholarship kids and kids from wealthy families. Their enthusiasm for music, honest questions, and uncensored opinions reminded her of the way she’d been in that innocent time years earlier when she could never have imagined she’d let her voice be stolen.

  Henri had insisted on a limo, although they could have made the trip faster on the subway. As he spoke on the phone, her thoughts took an unpleasant turn to Adam, the threats she’d been receiving, and her upcoming performance at the Muni. They stopped at a light on Fifth Avenue. She glanced over at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and what had been only the faintest notion grew in urgency. She checked the time on her Cavatina3. It was 9:56 a.m. on the dot. Perfect.

  “Henri, the museum is opening in four minutes, and I’m going to make a quick stop. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “Non, non! Thad has insisted—”

  “It’s the Metropolitan. I’ll be fine.” She jumped out of the car before he could stop her, crossed through a break in traffic to the curb, and waved him on. An impulsive visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art just as the doors were opening hardly counted as high risk.

  “We will wait for you!” Henri shouted, sticking his head out the open window, his brown hair streaming straight back from his face. “Text me when you’re ready.”

  She waved in acknowledgment and climbed the front steps.

  It didn’t take long to clear security and pay her entrance fee. She knew exactly where she wanted to be—where she needed to be—and she took a quick turn to her right. She moved through the Tomb of Perneb without stopping. He was only a Fifth Dynasty court official, and she needed more power than he offered. She wove past the mummies and funerary equipment of the Ptolemies and the chapel reliefs of Ramses I until she reached the Temple of Dendur.

  The hordes of visitors hadn’t yet descended, and the spacious light-filled gallery with its sweep of angled windows was quiet. This might be the Met’s most popular exhibit, but popularity hadn’t brought her here, nor had nostalgia for the times she’d performed in this same spot at cultural events and black-tie galas. She’d come here because the Temple of Dendur was dedicated to Isis, and Isis was one of the Egyptians’ most powerful gods of both healing and magic, two things she sorely needed.

  The reflecting pool representing the waters of the Nile glistened in the morning light. She bypassed the temple’s gate and went directly into the temple itself, passing through its twin columns with their papyrus plant capitals. Two other visitors had beaten her here. Maybe they, too, felt the sacredness of this space because neither was speaking.

  She’d once visited the temple with an Egyptologist who’d been able to read each of the ancient hieroglyphics covering the sandstone walls, but she’d been more interested in imagining the lives of the Nubian people who’d gathered here.

  She touched the wall. Isis, if you have any mojo left, would you fix me? Would you ease my chest, open my throat? Give me back my confidence. Let me—

  “Olivia?”

  She spun around to see a small woman entering the temple. Her hope for solitude vanished.

  “My dear.” The woman took Olivia’s hands. “I was just thinking about you!”

  “Kathryn, how are you?”

  “So busy! With the Aida gala only three weeks away, my head is spinning with ideas. We’re building a re-creation of Dendur at the front entrance for the guests to pass through.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be amazing.”

  Eugene Swift’s widow looked like the stereotype of a seventy-year-old art patron. Slim and trim, with a black velvet headband holding her gray bob away from her face, she wore what was surely vintage Chanel, along with the low, square-heeled black pumps—probably Ferragamo—that women of her age and social status favored. As her husband’s replacement on the board of the Chicago Municipal Opera, as well as one of its most generous donors, she was the last person Olivia wanted to know about her voice. “What are you doing in New York?” she asked.

  Kathryn gave a dismissive wave. “We have a place here. Only myself and my son now that Eugene is gone.”

  “He was a wonderful man,” Olivia said truthfully. “We all miss him.”

  At Kathryn’s request, Olivia had sung at his funeral. Eugene Swift had been a true opera scholar with a deep appreciation of all its forms. He’d also been Olivia’s friend.

  “He would have loved the Aida gala,” Kathryn said. “I’m suggesting costumes, but only for the women. Frankly, the idea of potbellied men draping themselves in white linen would put me off my dinner. I’m having a robe made for the event. I can give you the name of my dressmaker if you’d like.”

  “I’m sure I can borrow something from the costume shop.”

  “You’re a dear. Everyone will look forward to seeing what you wear.” Kathryn gazed up at the temple walls. Olivia knew her real passion lay with art museums, not opera, and Olivia appreciated her continued involvement with the Chicago Muni Opera to honor Eugene’s memory. “I adore this temple,” she said. “Since it’s not looted like the Elgin Marbles, one can admire it without feeling guilty.”

  Olivia was well acquainted with the history of the temple, a gift from the Egyptian government for the part the United States had played in saving it, along with other artifacts, from the bottom of Lake Nasser when the Aswan Dam was constructed.

  Unlike other socialites’ brows, Kathryn’s still had the ability to wrinkle. “It’s such a dilemma. One has to believe museums should return stolen artifacts to their rightful country, but what if it’s a country like Syria or Iraq where ISIS has destroyed so much? I don’t want to be accused of cultural insensitivity, but until those countries stabilize, our museums should hold on to what we have.” She set her hand on one of the temple’s oval cartouches. “I’ll never forgive LBJ for giving Dendur to the Metropolitan instead of to Chicago. It would have been such a magnificent addition to the Art Institute. Still, one has to admit that the Metropolitan’s done well by it.”

  Olivia didn’t hear the rest of
Kathryn’s monologue as a familiar, unwelcome figure made his way through the gate. He headed directly toward them, all athletic grace and frosty glare. As he stopped at Olivia’s side, she offered up her brightest smile. “Kathryn, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Mrs. Swift is our honorary hostess for the Muni gala.”

  Kathryn extended a wrinkled hand displaying, among other things, an impressive jade ring. “Yes. The football player. I’ve met your delightful owner, Mrs. Calebow, several times.”

  Before Olivia could point out that Phoebe Calebow owned the team, not Thad personally, he’d taken the older woman’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Swift.” The look he shot Olivia was anything but pleasurable.

  She appreciated his concern, but she didn’t enjoy having a full-time watchdog. “We have to run, Kathryn.”

  As soon as they cleared the temple gates, Thad started lecturing her. She barely listened. Instead, she was distracted by his Victory780—not the watch itself, but the way his wrist displayed it, with masculine perfection.

  No matter what Mariel Marchand might think, she couldn’t have found a better man to represent that watch. He was a natural leader, protective of others and demanding of himself. He was self-confident, but didn’t take himself too seriously. He was intelligent, charismatic, and sexier than any man should be.

  Desire thrummed through her body. Las Vegas. Why had she struck that crazy deal with him? Why wait for Las Vegas? Why not now? This morning? Tonight?

  Never?

  The world was spinning out of her control.

  “When are you going to get a handle on your porn addiction?” she said, as they stepped out onto Fifth Avenue.

  “My what?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you’re on your laptop, and the way you make sure no one can see what’s on the screen. You’re clearly addicted to porn.”

  He smiled. “When you can’t have the real thing . . .”

  He was messing with her again. He wasn’t watching porn. Something else had his attention, and she wondered what it was.

  * * *

  Four-star hotels excelled at fulfilling their guests’ last-minute requests—in this case, supplying Thad with a pair of rain jackets. Liv’s was too big, his too small, but at least the top half of them was staying dry.

  The weather, in typical April fashion, was cold and drizzly, which gave Thad the opportunity he’d been looking for. They had a few hours before tonight’s dinner, and after this morning’s visit to the Metropolitan Opera and Olivia’s reckless side trip to the museum, Thad’s determination to do something to help her had strengthened. But he needed a special place for what he had in mind.

  Liv peered at him from under the hood of her rain jacket, a few drops slithering down her nose. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Never you mind where I’m taking you. You keep forgetting I’m the man in this relationship, and what I say goes.”

  That cracked her up, as he’d known it would, and she emitted a trio of unladylike snorts.

  They were in his favorite part of Central Park, the North Woods. During his days with the Giants, he’d often come here to run. Because of its location in the park’s far northwest corner, the North Woods wasn’t as heavily visited as the central and southern sections, and today’s inclement weather had left it virtually deserted.

  Which was exactly what he needed. Hotel suites, no matter how luxurious, weren’t soundproofed, leaving him to wonder where, in this busy, crowded city, he might take a woman who could potentially break glass with her voice. The answer had come to him as they were leaving the museum. The North Woods on a rainy day when no one would be around.

  He’d been surprised how easily he’d gotten her to agree to go out with him in this less-than-ideal weather until he remembered she liked being outdoors nearly as much as he did, although in typical diva fashion she’d wrapped her neck in a couple hundred wool scarves.

  “It’s raining,” she pointed out unnecessarily.

  “It’s drizzling. There’s a difference. And I thought humidity was good for your voice.”

  “Not if I’m freezing to death.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. But I might be.”

  “If that happens, we’ll head right back to the hotel, lock all the doors, and settle into whichever one of our beds we get to first.”

  Apparently, he looked exactly as lecherous as he felt because she gave him another of her snorts. “This is Manhattan. Not Las Vegas.”

  “We could pretend.”

  She laughed, but she sounded nervous. He wasn’t exactly calm himself. They’d made too big a deal out of the last-night-in-Las-Vegas thing. They should have been getting it on from the beginning. This was what came of lusting after a high-strung diva.

  He steered her off the paved pathway onto a side trail leading in the general direction of the part of the North Woods known as the Ravine. A woodpecker drummed on a dead tree, and ferns pushed their way through the winter leaf debris bordering the stream that ran through this section of the park. He could hear water rushing down one of the cascades. Frederick Law Olmsted had wanted to re-create the Adirondacks here, and he’d designed the woodlands with a stream, waterfalls, and outcrops of boulders.

  They hadn’t seen anyone for a while, and as they reached a thick grove of ironwoods where the distant sound of traffic was barely audible, he decided now was as good a time as any. “I need a rest. It’s been a busy day and after this morning, I’m in the mood for one of those arias you’re so famous for.”

  She looked so hurt he wanted to snatch the words back, but that wouldn’t help her. “You mean one of those arias I can’t sing well?”

  “I’ve got a theory about that.”

  “You don’t know anything about opera, so how can you have a theory?”

  “I’m that smart.”

  “Seriously?” She managed a skeptical smile.

  “Face it, Liv. You don’t have anything to lose and everything to gain. Start with those warm-ups. There’s nobody around to hear except me, and I’ll stick my fingers in my ears.”

  Her forehead knit in frustration. “I can’t do my warm-ups, not the way I used to. You know that. My chest feels like it has a boa constrictor around it.”

  “That’s why you have to stand on one leg.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What I said.”

  “That’s crazy. I can’t sing on one leg.”

  “You can’t sing on two legs, so what difference does it make?”

  Her face fell. She looked as if he’d betrayed her, and his gut twisted. He fought against it. “It’s starting to rain harder, and we’re not leaving until you try. So do us both a favor and stop procrastinating. Warm up on one leg. And stick the other out in front of you. I dare you.”

  “I’ll do it just to show you what an ass you are!” She shot one leg out in front of her, wobbled, regained her equilibrium, and balanced on the other leg, pulling her scarf up to her chin. She started with her ees. Ees to ewws, then some mahs.

  They sounded okay to him, but they didn’t to her, and he could feel her getting ready to clamp her jaw shut. “Louder!” He grabbed the ankle of her extended leg with one hand and her rain jacket with the other to keep her from falling.

  She shot him a murderous glower, but she kept going. A red-tailed hawk circled above them The ees transitioned into ewws into mahs, and son of a bitch, her voice was gaining strength. He knew it wasn’t his imagination because he could see it in her face.

  He kept his grip on her extended leg and moved it ever so slightly to the side. She wobbled, shot him another death ray, but kept on vocalizing.

  It continued that way as she flew through her exercises. Whenever he suspected she was starting to overfocus, he did something to unbalance her. He’d move her leg. Bend her outstretched knee. He made sure she didn’t fall, but he also made sure she had to focus on keeping her balance instead of judging her singing, because one of the biggest reasons at
hletes choked was from overconcentrating in crunch situations. Tension disrupted rhythm. An experienced player going through a bad streak only made it worse by focusing so much on the outcome he lost touch with his natural instincts. It was exactly the kind of mental disconnect he suspected had happened to her.

  She wasn’t quite done when he cut her off. “That’s enough.” He released her leg. She ducked her head and shook out the leg she’d been standing on without making eye contact. “I’m not done vocalizing.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She raised her head, regarding him with fake condescension. “You know nothing about opera singers.”

  “But I know a lot about athletes, and I want to hear one of those arias you’re so famous for. You get to choose which one.”

  “There’s a big difference between warming up and singing a complicated aria in the freezing cold while—”

  “No excuses.” He pushed his hands under the bottom of her jacket and set them on her waist, just under the hem of her top so he could feel a few inches of bare skin.

  “What are you—?”

  “Sing!”

  She did. Launching into something that sounded like really, really pissed-off German. Her voice began to strain. He gave the bare skin under his right hand a tiny pinch.

  “Stop that!”

  Son of a bitch. She sang the words at him instead of speaking them.

  She looked as shocked as he felt. But she kept going. Launching herself into the dark, foreboding aria.

  The music began pouring from her, the notes big and furious enough to make his ears ring.

  Her skin was warm under his palms, but he somehow kept his focus. If he sensed her struggling for a note, he slid his hands higher along the bumps of her spine. He forced himself to stay below her bra line, not getting nearly as personal as he wanted to because this wasn’t about his goddamn lust. It was about her.