When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(83)

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.

*

Backstage, she greeted her well-wishers, many of them wealthy donors to the Muni. It was easy to separate those who truly knew opera from the others. The pretenders told her she had been magnificent. The true fans merely commented on how glad they were that she’d returned to the Muni.

Kathryn Swift was of the former group. “Olivia, darling, you were superb. Spectacular! I so wish Eugene could have heard you tonight.”

Olivia was glad he hadn’t, because he would have known right away that she hadn’t been spectacular at all.

The person she wanted most to see—the person who would understand how she was feeling more than anyone else—was missing. And why should he be here after she’d thrown him out of her life?

Her guests finally left. The dresser took away her costume and wig. Wrapped in a white robe, Olivia sat in front of the mirror removing her makeup. She was drained. Empty. As she wiped away Amneris’s winged eyebrows and elongated lapis eyeliner, she tried to make herself feel better with the reminder that she’d at least had the courage to go onstage tonight. That was something.

But it wasn’t enough.

She took off her wig cap and ran her fingers through her hair. She understood Christopher Marsden’s twisted motivation for doing what he’d done, but how had he orchestrated it? And what about the bookstore and kidnapping?

A knock sounded at her door. She had this absurd leap of hope that it might be Thad. “Come in.”

It was Lena Hodiak. Her tangled blond hair; round, blotchy face; and red eyes told their own story. She dashed across the room and fell to her knees in front of Olivia. “I didn’t know what he was doing! You must believe me!”

Olivia imagined how Thad would view this grand, operatic gesture, and she could almost hear him muttering “sopranos” under his breath. “Please get up, Lena.”

Lena gripped Olivia’s white robe tighter, staying on her knees. “I didn’t know. Please believe me. I would never have let him do something like this.”

As exhausted as she was, Olivia couldn’t dismiss Lena’s anguish. “Sit down,” she said gently.

Lena stayed where she was. Weepy and beseeching, she gazed up at Olivia. “You’re everything I aspire to be. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please tell me you don’t think I did this.”