When Stars Collide

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Clint parked by the rear entrance, close to the spot that had been reserved for her. Her costume fitting came first, then the meeting she dreaded with the maestro, Sergio Tinari, and then a full afternoon of blocking rehearsals. Her stomach had already been in knots before Thad had shown up with that ugly photo, and now it was ten times worse.

  Thad was right about the poor security in her apartment. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about it, but she’d convinced herself she’d be spending so much time at rehearsals she could make it work. A perfect example of delusional thinking.

  Clint stepped out to open the door for her, something Thad couldn’t do since he was trapped in the tiny back seat, his knees accordioned to his chest. Not that she needed anybody to open a car door for her. What she needed was someone to give her back her voice, her breath control, and her confidence. “Make sure he gets to the DMV today,” she told Clint as she got out of the car.

  “Aw, Livia, there’s not a cop in this town who’d give T-Bo a traffic ticket.”

  “Exactly what I told you,” Thad declared triumphantly.

  She eyeballed Clint. “Just do it.”

  Thad extracted himself from the back seat, a process that would have been entertaining if she weren’t so concerned with what lay ahead. “I’ll go to the DMV,” he said, “but only if you promise to let me know when you’re done so I can come pick you up.”

  “I don’t need a chauffeur,” she declared.

  “You really do.” All of a sudden, Clint, her loyal ally, had shifted allegiance. “Thad filled me in, and you’ve got some crazy sh— stuff going on. You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself.”

  “I’m going to talk to a friend on the Chicago police force.” Thad took a firm grip on her arm, walking her toward the building.

  She nodded begrudgingly. As much as she hated the idea of involving the police, this had gone too far.

  “You’re going to be great,” he whispered, when they reached the rear door. “Toi, toi, toi.”

  “Toi, toi, toi” was the traditional good-luck wish opera singers exchanged, their version of the theater world’s “break a leg.” The expression was well known among classical singers, but not to the general population, and she was touched that he’d taken the trouble to discover this.

  He smiled and opened the door. She stepped back into her world.

  * * *

  She’d sung at the Muni multiple times, but nothing felt the same. Yes, the costume department smelled as it always did of steam irons, fabric, and must. The Egyptian headpieces fit well, and her costumes needed only a little alteration. She chatted with the wardrobe mistress as she always had and exchanged pleasantries with the technical director. She passed a rehearsal room where singers were at work on an upcoming concert. But she was more aware of new faces when they passed her in the hallway, more alert as she walked from one room to the next.

  On her way to meet with the maestro, she mentally reviewed the master schedule. She wouldn’t have to sing today for the blocking rehearsal, and she could easily mark at piano tech, which was for the benefit of the production team, but she’d have to sing in full voice for sitzprobe, their first rehearsal with the orchestra. And, of course, she needed to bring her best to next Thursday’s dress rehearsal, not to mention Saturday’s opening night.

  She braced herself at the door of the maestro’s office and knocked.

  “Avanti!”

  Sergio Tinari, the Muni’s great conductor, was short in stature but giant in presence. With his lion’s mane of gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and long Tuscan nose, he was a caricaturist’s dream subject. “Olivia, mia cara.” He kissed her hand with Old World graciousness.

  She switched to Italian, telling him how happy she was to see him, how much she was looking forward to working with him again, and that she was recovering from a head cold and would need a few days before she could sing.

  Sergio replied in his beautifully accented English. “But of course. You must protect your voice. Tomorrow, if you are able to mark, we can rehearse the phrasing in ‘A lui vivo, la tomba!’”

  Alive in the tomb . . . She twisted her lips into a smile. “Of course.”

  The note she’d just received . . . You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.

  Her fake ruby pendant felt as if it were choking her.

  As she left the maestro’s studio, she knew she couldn’t offer up the excuse of having a cold for very long.

  A striking woman about Olivia’s age emerged from the last rehearsal room. Olivia’s spirits immediately brightened. “Sarah!” She hurried down the corridor to greet the gifted South African soprano who would be singing Aida.

  She was no longer comfortable singing Amneris opposite a white Aida. Having a black artist singing the enslaved Ethiopian princess added complexity and dimension to the production for modern audiences, and Sarah Mabunda was one of the best. But as Olivia reached out to hug her, Sarah drew away, and her tight smile had an off-putting brittleness to it.

  Olivia was taken aback. She and Sarah were friends. They’d performed Aida together before, once in Sydney and once at the Staatsoper in Vienna, where they’d spent free afternoons exploring the city’s museums and where Sarah had told her about her life growing up in Soweto before she’d made her way first to Cape Town Opera School and then on to the Royal Academy of Arts in London. They’d established an immediate connection, and the only part of today she’d been looking forward to was seeing Sarah again.

  Olivia searched her mind for what she could have done to offend her but couldn’t think of anything. Maybe Sarah was simply having a bad day? “How have you been?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Very well.” With a formal nod, Sarah swept past Olivia.

  Olivia stared after her. Stunned, she entered the rehearsal stage. Lena Hodiak, the Polish mezzo who had been covering for her during the early rehearsals, greeted her enthusiastically. “Ms. Shore!” She rushed forward with a wide smile. “It’s such a privilege to be working with you.”

  Lena, a statuesque blonde with lush features, regarded Olivia with the adoring eyes of a young singer meeting her idol. Olivia thought how excited Lena would be if she knew she had a real chance of performing in Olivia’s place. But she couldn’t think that way. “Please. Call me Olivia. Rachel Cullen speaks highly of you.”

  Olivia remembered her own days covering for bigger artists. The work had given her a steady paycheck when she’d badly needed it, and since covers had to attend every rehearsal, she’d learned from watching the best. But the frustration of perfecting a role, yet not having the chance to perform it, had been real. Still, although stories abounded of a young understudy stepping in at the last minute for the incapacitated star and soaring to instant fame, that seldom happened. In reality, covers spent most of their time stuck in a room offstage playing games on their phones.

  “Let me know if I can help in any way,” Lena said.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Someone wants you to stop singing.”

  That was Thad’s opinion, and Olivia rejected it. Lena was immensely talented or she couldn’t be here, and taking over a role as important as Amneris—especially on opening night when critics would be present—could advance her career immeasurably. But her welcoming manner hardly marked her as an understudy planning to sabotage the leading lady.

  “Olivia, I’m so glad you’re here.” Gary Vallin, the director, came over to greet her. Opera directors, unlike musical conductors, generally weren’t musicians, but the best of them brought a fresh perspective to a piece, seeing it as a work of theater and not just a musical score. Gary was one of those.

  As he familiarized Olivia with the staging, Lena sat off to the side keeping a close eye on the rehearsal and making notes exactly as she was supposed to.

  By the time the day ended, Olivia was exhausted from the strain of pretending everything was normal. She needed to hear a friendly voice, and as soon
as she got to her dressing room, she called Rachel.

  It didn’t take her friend long to get to the point. “How are you really doing?”

  Olivia hedged. “Okay. I’m not where I want to be, but . . .”

  “You’ll get there. You will!”

  “Sure, I will.” But Olivia wasn’t sure of anything right now.

  When their conversation ended, she stowed her phone in her tote and gathered up the rest of her things. As she came out of her dressing room, she glimpsed a figure ducking around the corner. The shadowy light at the end of the corridor made it impossible to see whether it was a man or a woman, but something about the way the person moved seemed furtive. Still, too many things seemed furtive these days, and she no longer trusted herself to judge what was real and what wasn’t.

  She passed Sarah Mabunda on her way out of the building. The Muni’s current Aida walked by without a word.

  * * *

  “Let me see your driver’s license,” she told Thad as she slipped into the front seat of a very expensive snow-white Chevy Corvette ZR1 that looked as if it belonged on a NASA launchpad. She’d wanted to call an Uber, but she wasn’t up to the confrontation that would surely follow.

  He flipped open his wallet to show her his temporary license. “For future reference, sending two of the town’s most recognized jocks to the DMV together wasn’t your best idea. We nearly caused a riot.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

  As he pulled out onto West Kinzie, she began to unwind. His presence didn’t exactly relax her. How could she relax with memories of all their creative sex acts ping-ponging in her brain? Instead, being with him, absorbing his self-confidence and energy, made her feel as though she might be able to regain control of her own life.

  “I’m guessing you want to stop by your place first to pick up some of your things,” he said.

  “I phoned my real estate agent this afternoon. He’s going to find me a safer furnished rental in the next few days. Moving in with you is only temporary. Very temporary.”

  “It better be. I’m not sure how long I can handle having a high-strung roommate. And if you get into any of my beauty products, I’m kicking you out.”

  She smiled. As far as she knew, his only beauty products were a bar of soap and a tube of sunblock.

  He parked in the garage next to her beloved old BMW, and they rode the elevator up to her apartment. She unlocked the door and gazed at the mess she’d left. Unfortunately, no magic elves had appeared to unpack all her suitcases.

  Except . . . the dagger Thad had been toying with . . . She distinctly remembered watching him set it next to the inkpot instead of by the Lady Macbeth crown where it belonged. Now, it was lying on an end table next to the couch.

  Someone had been in here.

  16

  The small suitcase that held her toiletries lay on its side. Two more suitcases didn’t seem to be where she’d left them. There were other small things. The bedroom door had been closed when she’d left, and now it was open. She hadn’t used the master bathroom this morning, but the drawer next to the sink was ajar.

  Not surprisingly, Mr. Chill lost his cool, erupting with an astonishing string of locker room obscenities that concluded with his insistence that they immediately go to the police. This would be her third visit inside a police station in a little over two weeks—a record she’d never counted on achieving.

  All she wanted to do was curl up in her pajamas with a glass of wine and some good jazz. But she knew he was right.

  His “friend” in the Chicago Police Department turned out to be a leggy brunette about her age, and, if her suspicions were correct, a former girlfriend. Olivia confirmed the details he’d already given Lieutenant Barbie in a telephone conversation they’d apparently had earlier in the day. And calling her “Lieutenant Barbie” was totally unfair. Lieutenant Brittany Cooke was efficient, competent, sympathetic, and Olivia was a jealous disgrace to the sisterhood.

  “I’ve talked to the police in New Orleans and Las Vegas,” the lieutenant told her. “And I’m making some inquiries about your ex-fiancé’s sisters and one of your superfans.”

  Olivia glared at Thad. “Rupert is not part of this!”

  “Just following protocol,” the lieutenant said with a soothing smile. “For now, be smart about what you do and where you go.”

  Thad looked as if he had something to say about that but kept his mouth shut.

  * * *

  Thad’s condo was exactly what she would have expected a multimillionaire bachelor with excellent taste to own. Modern and spacious with sweeping windows showcasing both city and lake views. The decor was contemporary, mostly tones of gray, steel, and blue with unexpected hits of color here and there. But with the exception of a full bookcase and a great vinyl collection, Thad himself was missing. No personal photos sat on display. Nothing that reflected the people he’d met over the years, the places he’d traveled. And not one object that testified to his many accomplishments on the field.

  “I’m putting your things in the guest room,” he said, “but I’m requesting that not include your actual body.”

  She tugged on her necklace. “We need to talk.” But Thad had already disappeared with the two suitcases she’d brought along, and he either couldn’t hear her or chose not to.

  She took in an abstract painting she recognized as a work by the famous American street artist Ian Hamilton North—a vast, multicolored kaleidoscope that took up most of a wall.

  She had to find a new place quickly. Definitely by the time the show opened. She’d talked to her real estate agent twice already today, and he’d assured her it shouldn’t take long to locate a more secure apartment. Definitely by the time the show opened. Maybe she could find a temporary rental. Or maybe . . .

  Maybe this was a sign from the universe that she was allowed to relax her vigilance for a few more days—a week. Maybe a little more.

  They ate turkey sandwiches and potato chips for dinner. She learned Thad had planned to use part of the next two weeks until the Aida gala to visit his parents in Kentucky. “You should definitely go,” she told him.

  “Maybe.” He reached into the potato chip bag. “I have a couple of business deals I want to look into.”

  Meaning he wasn’t budging from Chicago, and she doubted it had anything to do with business deals. His sense of responsibility toward her was a weight he shouldn’t have to bear. “As you’ve pointed out ad nauseam,” she said, “your building is secure. I’ll be in rehearsal most of the day, and when I’m not, I’ll babysit this hovel for you, so there’s no need to change your plans.” She set down the remains of her turkey sandwich. “Just to get any awkwardness out of the way, I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom tonight.”

  “Fine with me.” He couldn’t have looked less interested.

  * * *

  She was sleeping in the damned guest room! What kind of crap was that? As much as he wanted to argue with her, she was tired and on edge, so he let it go. For now.

  Her vocalizing awakened him the next morning. It was her real voice, not the tape-recorded version, and she sounded amazing. But he knew her well enough by now not to compliment her because she’d only say her voice was too fat or too skinny or coming from her elbow instead of her butt or some crap like that.

  She walked in on him as he was shaving. She’d dressed casually for rehearsal. Slip-on sneakers, a pair of perfectly fitted black joggers, and a long, black knit sweater. A purple woven scarf looped her neck to protect her from the drafts that were the archenemy of serious singers. Her makeup was flawless—bold eyeliner, dark brows, and crimson lips. She looked as formidable as The Diva she was. But he knew she didn’t feel that way.

  “Sitzprobe is next Monday,” she said. “Counting today, I have five more rehearsal days until then.”

  “Siltz probe?” Thad lifted his head to shave under his chin.

  “Sitzprobe. It’s the first time the singers and orchestra really come together.
There are no costumes, no props. Everything gets stripped away except the music. You sit and you sing.” She gazed at a spot above the mirror, no longer seeing him, lost in her thoughts. “Sitzprobe is pure. The instruments, the voices. There are these magical moments when the music becomes transcendent.”

  He thought of those moments when he no longer heard the roar of the crowd. It was just him and the field and the ball.

  “It’s my favorite rehearsal.” She gazed down at her hands. “You can’t fake it in sitzprobe. There’s no marking. You either have it or you don’t.” She gazed at his reflection. “I lied,” she said.

  He waited.

  “I lied to the maestro. I told him I had a cold.” She turned away and disappeared into the hallway. “I’m driving myself to rehearsal.”

  * * *

  Olivia had loaded up her tote with everything she’d need for the day: an extra sweater, her reusable water bottle, a pencil, a highlighted copy of the score so she could note any new blocking. She’d packed Throat Coat tea, cough drops, saline spray, a couple of packs of almonds, an apple, hand sanitizer, makeup, tissues, her wallet and phone, her Carmex lip balm. Now all she needed was a big box of nerve. Sitzprobe. A week from yesterday.

  She’d left her own car in one of Thad’s two parking slots. He’d surprised her by not putting up an argument about her driving herself until she looked in her rearview mirror and saw a sleek, snow-white Corvette following her to the Muni. And parking right behind her.

  He got out of his car and came toward her, the lenses of his sunglasses flashing in the cold morning sunshine. Even as she felt a stab of trepidation, she thought how much she loved this man. What if—?

  No what-ifs. She grabbed her tote and got out of the car. Drawing herself to her full height, she offered up her haughtiest, “Yes?” as if he were her vassal instead of the man she so desperately loved.

  He slammed her car door shut, grabbed her arm, and marched her around the side of the building with her tote banging against her leg. In warmer weather, the singers gathered in the small, enclosed green space for fresh air. Now, the wooden benches were unoccupied, the big flower urns waiting for spring planting.