When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,84
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.
She found herself wedged between him and the side of the building. She lifted her chin and gazed down the length of her nose at him. “What?”
He knew her tricks, and he wasn’t intimidated. “You said you had a cold.”
Her distorted reflection looked back at her from the lenses of his sunglasses. “I told you that.”
His perfect mouth set in a deadly line. “You lied.”
“I told you that, too.” She wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
He whipped off his sunglasses and drilled her with those ridiculous green eyes, which now seemed exactly the same color as a particularly virulent patch of poison ivy. “Guess what, babe? You’ve had a miraculous recovery.”
“You don’t understand.” She tried to get away from him, but he shifted his weight to block her.
“Oh, I do understand.” He shoved his sunglasses in his jacket pocket. “You’re Olivia fucking Shore. The greatest mezzo in the world!”
“I’m not the greatest—”
“You’re at the top of your game. In the starting lineup! A fucking tornado, not some twenty-year-old pretender afraid to open her mouth!”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not—”
“Stop being such a pussy.” He gripped her by the shoulders. “I heard you loud and clear this morning. Sitzprobe. It means everything to you, and you only have five rehearsals to get ready for it. You’ve worked too damned hard to give in to this crap. Your voice is exactly where you need it to be.”
“You have no idea—”
“You’re going in there right now, and you’re going to sing your ass off.” He actually shook her! “Do it one-legged, standing on your head, or with your eyes crossed. I don’t care. You pull yourself the hell together and show them exactly who they’re dealing with. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Louder!”
“Yes!”
“Good.”
He stalked away.
* * *
She straightened the collar of her trench coat and glared at his back—the ignorant jock. She marched from the abandoned garden. It was easy for him to say. He didn’t understand. He knew nothing about the kind of pressure she faced. Nothing about the critics who were waiting to gnaw on her bones, the fans who would desert her, the reputation that would turn to dust. He never had to face—
But he did. He knew exactly how she felt. He’d played hurt. He’d played with the crowd booing him. He’d played in blistering heat waves, frigid snowstorms, and with the clock ticking down to its final ten seconds. He’d played under every kind of pressure, and he understood what she felt as well as she did.
She marched directly to the maestro’s office and rapped on the door.
“Avanti.”
She stormed in. “Maestro.” She dropped her tote by the door. “I know I’m early, but . . . I’m ready to sing.”
It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t horrendous. She didn’t have the breath support she needed to make her vibrato dependable or keep from falling off some of the notes, but she didn’t once go flat.
Sergio still believed she was suffering from the aftereffects of a cold, and he wasn’t overly concerned by what he heard. “Most important now is for you to take care of your voice.”
Back in her dressing room, she made a phone call. The voice that answered sounded distinctly displeased. “Olivia Shore? I do not recognize this name.”
Olivia ignored that. “Can I come in today? I have a long break at one o’clock.”
“I suppose. Bring me plums. The purple ones.” The connection went dead.
* * *
The old woman met Olivia at the door of her musty Randolph Street apartment. She wore her customary black serge dress and pink bedroom slippers run down at the heels. Her coarse, gray-streaked black hair was knotted on top of her head, with wiry strands escaping around her wrinkled face, which bore her customary scarlet lipstick.
She greeted Olivia with a gruff, “You may enter.”
Olivia replied with the gracious nod of her head she knew Batista expected.
Batista Neri was one of Olivia’s longtime vocal coaches,