Henri accompanied Paisley to show her out, as if he didn’t trust his assistant to do the job alone, leaving Thad with less than a minute before the next reporter appeared. He pulled Olivia off the couch and hauled her through the closest door.
“What . . . ?”
He pressed her against the powder room sink. “Will you relax and stop acting like they found a sex tape.”
“How can I relax? Everybody is going to think we’re—we’re—”
“Lovers? So what? We’re both adults, and as far as I know, neither of us is married. You’re not, are you? Because I don’t mess around with married women.”
“Of course I’m not married!” she sputtered.
“Then we’re good.”
“We’re not good, and we’re not messing around. It looks like we’re—whatever. We only met two days ago.”
“I get it. You don’t want Rupert to think you’re easy.”
“I’m not easy!”
“Tell me about it. Now stop getting so wound up. Relax and smile.” As Thad turned her toward the powder room door, he smiled to himself. It wasn’t like him to give a woman a hard time, but The Diva was such a worthy adversary that he couldn’t seem to help himself.
They emerged together, directly in the path of the next reporter.
To his surprise, The Diva pulled on a smile. “You’re welcome, Thad.” And then, to the reporter, “He wouldn’t believe me when I said he had half his lunch stuck in his front teeth. A shame to let a ham sandwich spoil those shiny, white veneers. I’m sure he paid a fortune for them.”
His teeth were all his own, but that didn’t mean a thing. The Diva had grabbed the ball out of his hands and run it into the end zone.
* * *
That night, after the obligatory client dinner, Thad met some of his LA buddies in the hotel’s rooftop bar for a late-night drink. He didn’t invite The Diva to come along, even though the bar’s ivy-covered pavilion and great views were more her style than last night’s venue.
He hadn’t seen these guys in months, and he should have had a great time, especially since Garrett didn’t show up. But after last night, the evening felt anticlimactic, and he was in bed by two.
* * *
As Olivia’s best friend Rachel Cullen and her husband Dennis settled under a blue umbrella on the hotel restaurant’s patio the next day, their hands met, and Olivia regarded them wistfully. “You two are disgusting.”
Rachel squeezed her husband’s hand. “You’re sooo jealous.”
“An understatement,” Olivia replied. “You found the only man on the planet who was born to marry an opera singer.” If Olivia could find his clone, she might be able to have a lasting relationship.
“Best job ever,” Dennis said.
Olivia gazed at her friend. “I hate you.”
Rachel gave her a smug smile. “Of course you do.”
With her silky, ash-blond hair, generous curves, and girl-next-door features, Rachel could have passed for the neighborhood’s prettiest soccer mom, while Dennis Cullen’s unruly mop of brown hair, big nose, and wiry build made him look more like a musician than his wife, although he made his living working temp jobs in IT.
Olivia and Rachel had met over ten years earlier at the Ryan Opera Center, the prestigious artistic development program at Chicago’s Lyric Opera. In the old days of opera rivalries, two mezzos competing for the same roles would never have become such close friends, but at the Lyric, mutual support and collaboration weren’t only encouraged but were expected. They’d formed a tight bond, helping and commiserating with each other as they’d worked side by side on the mezzo repertoire. Olivia was the more gifted singer and performer, but instead of being jealous, Rachel had become Olivia’s most enthusiastic cheerleader.
As the years had passed, Olivia’s career had soared, while Rachel’s merely remained respectable, but that hadn’t interfered with their friendship. Olivia continued to recommend Rachel for roles. They laughed and cried together. Olivia had been at Rachel’s side when her mother had died, and Rachel had held Olivia’s hand through Adam’s horrible, soul-wrenching funeral, something neither of them would ever forget. As Olivia studied the menu, she pretended not to see her friend’s concerned look. Rachel was intuitive, and she knew more was wrong than Olivia was letting on.
Their server appeared. Dennis ordered a chopped Thai salad for Rachel and crab cakes for himself.
“He even orders for you,” Olivia said as the server disappeared.
“He knows what I like better than I do.”
Olivia had a flashback to Adam, who used to ask Olivia to order for him because he couldn’t make up his mind. Being around Dennis could be painful. His dedication to Rachel’s career formed a distinct contrast to the resentment Adam had worked so hard to suppress. Dennis was an opera singer’s dream husband.
Rachel unwrapped her napkin. “Tell me the story of how you and Dennis met.”
“Again?” Olivia said. “I’ve told you the story a dozen times.”
“I never get tired of hearing it.”
“She’s like a child,” Olivia remarked to Dennis. And then to Rachel, “Should I start before or after he hit on me?”
Dennis groaned.
“Before,” Rachel chirped.
Olivia settled in. “I’d just started my period, and I had crazy bad cramps—”
“And a sugar craving,” Rachel added.
“It’s my story,” Olivia protested. “Anyway, I decided to soothe myself with a Starbucks Red Velvet Frappuccino.”
Rachel, whose sweet tooth continued to plump up her curves, nodded. “Very sensible.”
“I’m standing in line and this crazy-looking musician type tries to strike up a conversation.”
Rachel poked her husband. “You were totally hitting on her.”
Olivia smiled and proceeded with the unnecessary story. “I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but he was persistent. And kind of cute.”
“And not a singer,” Rachel said. “Don’t forget the best part.”
“A techie, as I learned even before the barista finished making my Frappuccino.”
“Which he gallantly paid for.”
“And which made me feel obligated to talk to him. The rest is history.”
“You’re skipping the best part. The part where you gave him my phone number without asking my permission, even though he could have been a serial killer.”
“Which he wasn’t.”
“But I could have been,” Dennis said.
Olivia smiled. “I liked him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep him for myself because I was still under Adam’s spell.” The table sobered, and Rachel’s look of concern returned. Olivia assumed an overly bright smile. “Bottom line. I loved being maid of honor at your wedding last year.”
Rachel nodded. “And you sang the most beautiful ‘Voi che sapete’ anyone has ever heard.”
Their food arrived. Rachel was in town auditioning for a role next winter at the LA Opera and they began trading opera gossip—a tenor with too much head voice and a conductor who refused to give Rossini the room to breathe. They talked about the amazing acoustics at Hamburg’s Elbphilarmonie and a new biography of Callas.