When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,89
do on the field.”
“Fascinating.”
* * *
Thad spent Sunday night at her new apartment. Since the final week of rehearsals took place in the evenings, she tried to sleep in on Monday morning, but she was up at seven after a fitful, nightmare-plagued night. In twelve hours, she would have to show up for sitzprobe. What was normally her favorite rehearsal was now a writhing snake pit.
When she emerged from the bedroom, she found Thad sitting with his laptop at her new kitchen counter, a mug of coffee in his hand—rumpled white T-shirt, sweatpants, bare feet. Her heart turned over in her chest. This was all she wanted. The two of them forever. She wanted to make his breakfast and have him make hers. She wanted to wash his socks and rub his shoulders when he got home from a long day. He would go into coaching. She’d sit on the sidelines and cheer on his team and maybe make lasagna for the squad. Did they even call it a squad?
She didn’t know how to make lasagna, and she didn’t want to learn, and he could wash his own socks. La Belle Tornade did not sacrifice her quest for immortality, not even for this man who was caressing her with his lazy smile and unending kindness.
She quickly turned away, a beautiful tornado whose heart was breaking with the knowledge that she couldn’t have both—the immortality she craved and a personal happily-ever-after.
* * *
In the old days, everyone had dressed up for sitzprobe, the men in suits, the women in beautiful gowns and their best jewelry. But those days were gone. Now the singers showed up in everything from athleisure to biker jackets. In an effort to boost her self-confidence, Olivia chose slim black trousers, a silky black tunic top, and a cashmere scarf in case the rehearsal hall was cold. She added her Spanish earrings, Egyptian cuff, imitation ruby necklace, poison rings, and a coin Yo-Yo Ma had given her that she tucked in her shoe. She was only missing Rachel’s silver star necklace, the one she’d lost in the Mojave Desert.
Thad drove her to rehearsal despite her protest that it could run late. He knew how nervous she was, and he let her brood in peace, without offering up one of his pep talks.
She’d had a new lock installed on her dressing room. As she opened it, she spotted something that had been slid under the door. She picked it up. An eight-by-ten copy of her engagement photo. There she was sitting at the keyboard of a grand piano with Adam standing close by, the two of them staring into each other’s eyes. She looked like a woman deeply in love, but she was an actress, and even then, she’d known it was wrong. If only she’d had the courage to send the photographer away and call it off before the shutter had snapped.
No note was scrawled across the photo. Her head hadn’t been cut out. Just the photo of the two of them, along with the memory of how Adam had loved her and how incomprehensible his suicide would have been on that day.
She curled the palm of her hand over her diaphragm, willing it to expand. “You’re going to be amazing,” Thad had whispered that morning.
But she wasn’t.
* * *
Everyone else in the company brought their best to sitzprobe. Sarah sang a “Ritorna vincitor” worthy of Leontyne Price. As the last notes faded away, the orchestra musicians tapped their bows on their music stands in the traditional sign of appreciation.
Pit . . . pit . . . pit . . . pit . . .
Arthur Baker might be an aging Radamès, but his “Celeste Aida” was thrilling.
Pit . . . pit . . . pit . . . pit . . .
After she sang, however, those same bows didn’t tap for her. They had expected more from La Belle Tornade. Much more.
Lena, in the meantime, sat offstage taking it all in.
Afterward, Olivia saw the maestro huddled with Mitchell Brooks, the Muni’s esteemed managing director. A sideways look from Mitchell told her exactly who they were talking about. They both looked so troubled she felt sorry for them. This was on her, not them, and she needed to do the right thing.
She forced herself to approach them. “I know I wasn’t at my best.” An understatement.
“The critics won’t be kind, mia cara,” the maestro said bluntly. “It is no longer enough for Olivia Shore to be competent. You must