*
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 be exquisite.”
She knew that as well as he did. She turned to Mitchell Brooks. Ultimately it was up to him, the managing director, to make the final decision. “What do you want to do, Mitchell?”
He was a good man. He set his hand on her shoulder. “No, Olivia. What do you want to do?”
She wanted to push back time. To never have met Adam. To never have become so concerned about his needs that she forgot her own and let her voice be lost in a swamp of guilt. To never again forget that work formed the core of her life.
She must have looked as helpless as she felt because Mitchell spoke kindly. “You have two more rehearsals before we have to decide. We’ll reassess before final dress.”
She ticked off the days in her head. Today, Monday, a disastrous sitzprobe. Tuesday, piano tech, when she could mark. Wednesday, first dress rehearsal. Under different circumstances, she could have marked, but after what had just happened, she would have to perform at full voice, and if she didn’t deliver, Lena would take over, not just for final dress rehearsal, but for—
She couldn’t let herself think about opening night.
As she began packing up her things, Sarah approached, but at the last minute changed her mind and turned away.
*
Thad didn’t ask any questions as he drove her home. One look at her face seemed to have told him everything he needed to know.
“Drop me off at the front,” she said, as he drew close to the parking garage entrance. “Thanks for the transportation, but you don’t need to drive me any longer. I’ve made arrangements with one of the crew. He’s an old friend, and I’ll be perfectly safe.”
With an abrupt nod, he pulled up to the lobby door. She didn’t lean over to kiss him as she got out of the car, and that felt as reprehensible as the way she’d sung tonight.
*
Thad was done with The Diva and her complications. She couldn’t have dismissed him more clearly. He was a simple man. Maybe not simple-simple, but simple when it came to enjoying life and friends, sports, good jazz, good clothes, a great book, and great women. He enjoyed the hell out of great women. He enjoyed their smarts, their insights, their talent, and their ambition. He enjoyed their sense of humor, the way they could spar with him, make him laugh. And God knew, he liked looking at them. Then there was sex. Was anything better than sex with a woman who threw herself into every moment? A woman who could laugh and cry out, who could give as well as take. A woman who would sing “Habanera” naked just for him.
Yes, he cared about her. Cared a hell of a lot. She was his friend, his compadre, but she had a vision for her life that didn’t include him and too many issues he couldn’t help her solve. He was a fixer, a man who took care of problems. But he couldn’t do that with her.
He thought about the ultimatums she kept dishing out. From the day he’d stepped on that plane five weeks ago, his life had entangled with hers. It was time to put a stop to it, no matter how much he hated to erase the plans he’d made for the two of them—sailing together on the lake this summer, going to the beach, catching a Cubs game, hiking. Despite all they’d shared, despite the new interests she’d brought into his life, despite the sex—the most amazing sex—and the music—the incredible music . . . Despite the way she looked at him, as if she could see into his soul . . . Despite her caring, not just for him, but for everyone. It was time to break up with her.
He thought about those interminable dinners. Unlike him, she’d been genuinely interested in hearing about the clients’ lives, their kids’ lives. He’d watched her take their cell phones and FaceTime an elderly parent who loved opera or a student someone knew who was in music school. Despite her drama and her critiques of his wardrobe, she had a moral compass set to true north.