“Obviously, he wasn’t the one who made the call.”
“Whoever he got to mail the letters must have done it. I don’t know. He was never vindictive.”
“Until he sent you his suicide email.”
“It was wrenching. And these notes . . .”
“Either he planned this before he killed himself, got someone to mail the notes and make that phone call, or you have an enemy on this side of the grave. Do you have any idea who that could be?”
She hesitated, but she was already in this far, and she might as well go the rest of the way. “His sisters were devastated, and they blame me. Growing up, it was only Adam, his mother, and his two sisters. He was the golden child. They all doted on him. Every spare dollar any of them made went toward his voice lessons. After his mother died, it was just his sisters. When I came into the picture, they weren’t happy.”
“They were jealous of you?”
“It’s more that they were protective of him. They wanted him with a woman who’d put his career first. Definitely not one with a big career of her own. If they found out he blew an audition or didn’t get a part, they blamed me. They thought I wasn’t supporting him in the way I should—that I put my career ahead of his. But I didn’t!” She looked up at him, pleading for understanding and hating herself for needing it. “I did everything I could to help him. I recommended him for roles. I turned down some opportunities of my own so I could be with him.”
He shook his head at her. “You women. How many men would do something like that?”
“He was special.”
“If you say so.”
She rubbed her arm and felt the gritty trail dust on her skin. “There was an autopsy, so the funeral was delayed. I don’t check my email regularly, and I didn’t see it until a week after he died.”
“The suicide email?”
“I should never have gone to the funeral. It turned into a scene right out of Puccini. Two sisters mad with grief publicly accusing me of killing him. It was horrible.” She blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. “Adam was everything to them.”
“That doesn’t excuse them for blaming you.”
“I think that’s what they need to do to work through their grief.”
“Very self-sacrificing. I’m traveling with Mother Teresa.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it? From where I stand, it looks like you’re hauling around a truckload of guilt for something you didn’t cause.”
“But obviously I did cause it. I was a coward. I agreed to marry him, even though in my heart I knew it wasn’t right. And then I waited until a week before the ceremony to end it. How’s that for cowardly?”
“Not as cowardly as going ahead with it.” He drew her gently to a stop. “Promise to tell me if you get any more of these surprises.”
“This is my problem. There’s no need—”
“Yes, there is. Until this tour is over, whatever happens to you affects me. I want your word that you’ll tell me.”
She shouldn’t have said this much, but there was something about him that invited confidences. She reluctantly agreed.
On the way back, she checked the number on her phone and tried to call. A recorded message said it was no longer in service.
*
When they returned to the suite, Henri greeted them with the news that there was a weather alert for San Francisco. “I heard from the pilot. We need to leave quickly, or you’ll miss your afternoon interviews.”
Olivia took a fast shower, grabbed a clean pair of yoga pants, and put on a long white sweater. She’d pull herself together on the plane.
*
Thad had never seen Olivia without makeup. Even that morning when they’d hiked, she’d had on lipstick and maybe some kind of tinted sunscreen. Now, with a scrubbed face and her hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked younger. Less like a diva and more like a really hot barista working at the counter of a funky coffee shop where none of the mugs matched.
Mariel was already on the plane when they got there. She drew Henri aside for what appeared to be a volatile conversation that indicated a less-than-friendly relationship. Paisley was intimidated by Mariel in a way she wasn’t by Henri and spent the trip huddled against the rear bulkhead trying to make herself invisible.
Not long before they landed, Olivia emerged from the plane’s bathroom in one of her classic outfits. A charcoal power dress with a crisscrossed purple belt and a couple of her big jewelry pieces. It was stylish, elegant, and expensive. He missed the hot barista.
Mariel sent Paisley off to deal with the luggage and accompanied Henri to Thad and Olivia’s live appearance on a noontime news and talk show. Afterward, they taped an interview at one of the local cable stations. The photograph of Thad carrying Olivia came up, and this time Olivia dove right in with the bench-pressing story. The host laughed, the watches were spotlighted, and a good time was had by all.
Except Mariel.
“Olivia should not be so frivolous in her interviews,” the Frenchwoman told Thad later that day, as she escorted him to another radio station, while Paisley hid and Henri shepherded Olivia to afternoon tea with a group of fashion bloggers. “There is a certain dignity associated with the Marchand brand.”
Mariel’s imperious manner was getting under his skin. “It made good television. You’re trying to reach younger consumers, and dignity doesn’t count for much with them.”
Mariel gave one of her Gallic shrugs. She was an imposing woman—no doubt about it—but he was glad to see Henri waiting for him at their San Francisco hotel.
This time, he and The Diva were placed in separate smaller suites, and that night’s client dinner took place in the hotel dining room. Thad was growing to heartily dislike these dinners, which lasted forever and required too much small talk. Still, they were part of what he’d signed up for, and he was too well paid to complain.
The Diva, he’d noticed, had been restricting herself to a single glass of wine since their altercation on the terrace. Mariel dominated the conversation with facts and figures about the Marchand brand, and Henri’s customary affability seemed ruffled at the edges.
At eleven, when dinner finally ended, Thad headed for the fitness center instead of going to bed. But even after a long workout, he had trouble falling asleep. He kept thinking about the disturbing notes The Diva had been receiving.
He also had the disquieting feeling there was more she wasn’t telling him.
*
After his morning shower, he called her. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“I’m never eating again.”
“Problematic.”
“Did you see the way I demolished that crème br?lée last night?”
“Not my favorite. Too sweet.”
“There is no such thing as too sweet. What’s wrong with you? And why are you calling me?”
“I was getting ready to order room service breakfast, and I don’t like to eat alone.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It was, but you sound grouchy, so forget it.”
“Black coffee for me, and I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Wait. I said I was reconsid—”
She’d hung up. He smiled and put in a call to room service—coffee and a couple of poached eggs for him. Coffee and a Belgian waffle for her.
She and the food cart arrived at the same time. She was ready for the morning’s photo shoot—a dress that showcased her legs, stilettos, the pigeon’s egg ruby necklace. He’d gone for jeans and a multicolored shawl-collar pullover. “You look so comfortable,” she said wistfully.
“Another glaring example of gender inequality.” He admired the shining swing of her hair, then directed her to the table by the window and pulled the warming covers from their meals.
“You’re a sadist,” she said, as he set the strawberry-and-whipped-cream-topped waffle in front of her.
“I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
“Touch this and you die.”