She was beginning to understand why, and their four weeks together no longer seemed quite so long.
* * *
“You didn’t have to come with me, you know?” Olivia said, as they climbed the trail above the Griffith Observatory, not far from where the Uber had dropped them off. It was barely six in the morning, and the air smelled of dew and sage. “If I’d known you were going to be such a grouch, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“You didn’t invite me, remember? I overheard you last night at dinner talking about hiking up here this morning.” Thad yawned. “It wouldn’t have been right for me to stay in bed while you’re working yourself to death.”
“I’m not the only one. Whenever we have any downtime, you’re either on the phone or on your computer. What’s that about?”
“Video game addiction.”
She didn’t believe him, although she’d noticed he never left his laptop open. “We’re leaving for San Francisco in a couple of hours.” She took in the Hollywood sign far above them. “This was the only time I could get any exercise.”
“Or you could have stayed in bed.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve been working out while all I’ve done is eat.”
“And drink,” he pointed out unhelpfully.
“That, too. Unfortunately, the era of the obese opera singer is over.” She stepped around a pile of horse manure. “In the old days, all you had to do was take center stage and sing. Now you have to look at least a little bit plausible. Unless you’re doing the Ring cycle. If I had the voice and the endurance to sing Brünnhilde, I could eat whatever I wanted. Let’s face it. You can’t sing Brünnhilde’s battle cry if you’re a sylph.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
She wished she could let loose with a little of Brünnhilde’s “Ho-jo-to-ho!” right here on the trail just to see if she could make T-Bo lose his cool, but she didn’t have it in her.
They were gaining elevation and moving at a fast enough clip that she needed to watch her footing. She remembered hiking up here with Rachel a few years ago. Whenever the two of them approached a steep ascent, Rachel, who was less fit, would ask Olivia a question requiring such an involved answer that Olivia would end up talking through the entire climb while Rachel conserved her energy. It had taken Olivia forever to catch on to her tricks.
“Enough about me.” She beamed at him. “Tell me your life story.”
He took the bait as they climbed. “Great childhood. Great parents. Almost great career.”
He began walking faster. She fell into his rhythm, at the same time keeping her distance from the drop-off to her left. “I need details.”
“Only child. Spoiled rotten. My mom is a retired social worker and my dad’s an accountant.”
“You, of course, were a star student, quarterback of the high school football team, and homecoming king.”
“I got robbed. They gave the crown to Larry Quivers because he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, and everybody felt sorry for him.”
“That’s the kind of tragedy that builds character.”
“For Larry.”
She laughed. The trail was getting steeper still, the city stretching below them, and again, he’d picked up the pace. “What else?” she said.
“I worked for a landscaping company during the summers. Played for the University of Kentucky and graduated with a degree in finance.”
“Impressive.”
“I was drafted and signed by the Giants. Also played for the Broncos and the Cowboys before I came to Chicago.”
“Why the two middle names? Walker Bowman?”
“Mom wanted her father honored. Dad wanted the honor to go to his grandfather. They drew straws to see which name came first, and Mom won.”
They were practically jogging, and she berated herself for that slab of chocolate truffle layer cake she’d had for dessert last night. This was what happened when you hiked with a competitive athlete. A leisurely morning climb turned into an endurance contest. Which she didn’t intend to lose.
No question he was the stronger of the two. Her thighs were starting to burn, and she seemed to be getting a blister on her little toe, but he was already breathing harder than she was. Any second now, he’d realize exactly how much breath control a professionally trained opera singer possessed.
“Married? Divorced?” she asked.
“Neither.”
“That’s because you haven’t met anybody as good-looking as you, right?”
“I can’t help the way I look, okay?”
He actually sounded testy. Fascinating. She was storing that information away as ammunition for future use when she came to a sudden stop. “Look at that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she’d spotted a small hole in the ground underneath some brush. And right in front of that hole . . .
An arm slammed around her chest, pulling her back. She yelped, “Hey!”
“That’s a tarantula!” he exclaimed.
“I know it’s a tarantula.” She wiggled free. “It’s a beauty.”
He shuddered. “It’s a tarantula!”
“And it’s not hurting a soul. Remember our agreement. I handle the bugs and snakes. You deal with the rodents.”
The tarantula scampered back into its hole. Thad pressed her ahead of him on the trail, away from the nest. “Move it!”
“Sissy.” She’d begged for a tarantula as a pet, but her staid, conservative parents had refused. They’d been older when she was born, dedicated musicians who’d preferred not having their lives disrupted. Still, they’d loved her, and she missed them. They’d died within a few months of each other.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know that female tarantulas can live for twenty-five years,” she said, “but once the male matures, he only lives for a few months.”
“And women think they have it tough.”
Her cell rang in her pocket. The number wasn’t familiar, probably a junk call, but her thighs needed a break, and she answered. “Hello?”
“Che gelida manina . . .” At the sound of the familiar music, the phone slipped from her fingers.
Thad, with his athlete’s reflexes, caught it before it hit the ground. He put the phone to his ear and listened. She heard the music coming faintly from the phone. She snatched it away from him, shut it off, and shoved it back in her pocket.
“You want to tell me about that?” he said.
“No.” They hadn’t reached the summit, but she turned and began heading back down the trail. Then, because she didn’t have to make eye contact with him, she said, “It’s Rodolfo’s love song to Mimì in La bohème.”
“And?”
“Che gelida manina . . . It means, ‘What a cold little hand.’” She shuddered. “I told him not to sing it.”
“Who?”
The sun was coming up, and so was the temperature. She fixed her eyes on the observatory in the distance. She didn’t have to say anything. She could clam up right now. But he was steady and solid, and she wanted to tell him. “It’s a popular audition piece for tenors, but Adam couldn’t manage the high C. He had to take it down a half tone—high C becomes a top B-natural. But that only showcases a weakness. I tried to talk him out of auditioning with it, but I couldn’t.”