Most of the guests had taken their places at the tables, which were draped in white linen with the Marchand logo embossed in gold. Over Kathryn’s shoulder, Olivia spotted a place waiting for her at the center table, where Henri sat with a good-looking younger man she assumed was his husband, Jules. Mitchell Brooks, the Muni’s manager, and his wife were also at the table, along with the chairman of the Muni’s board of directors and a man she recognized from photos as Lucien Marchand. Then there was Thad.
A man appeared at Kathryn’s side. He was around forty, stocky, with a ruddy complexion and an Ivy League haircut. Olivia recognized him from a family photo Eugene had shown her as his stepson. “Excuse me for interrupting, but Wallis and her husband want to talk to you about the hospital ball,” he said.
Kathryn brushed him off impatiently. “I’ll get to them. My son Norman Gillis,” she said, as he retreated. “He’s more interested in basketball than opera.”
Kathryn squeezed Olivia’s hand. “I suppose I do need to go. Have a wonderful time tonight, my dear.”
“I’m sure I will,” Olivia said, even more sure she wouldn’t. Excusing herself, she approached the table. Time to get this over with.
Centerpieces of flowers and pomegranates, along with pyramid-shaped place cards, brightened each table. Paper masks hung from the gilt chair backs—Tutankhamen for the men and Nefertiti for the women. Some of the guests had put them on for photos. A few others wore them on top of their heads.
Henri greeted her with an embrace and introduced her to Jules, then to Lucien Marchand. “And this is my uncle.”
Olivia inclined her head. “Enchanté, monsieur.”
The president and CEO of Marchand Timepieces had a stately beaked nose, a carefully groomed mane of silver hair, and an elegant manner. “Madame Shore. I’m delighted to finally meet you.”
Mitchell rose to greet her. She suspected he’d rather be sitting at the adjoining table with Sergio, Sarah Mabunda, and Mariel Marchand, instead of near his disappointing diva.
She couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer, and she nodded at Thad’s date for the evening. “Lieutenant Cooke.”
“Please. Call me Brittany.”
*
Liv and Brittany were hitting it off as if they’d been girlfriends forever, something he didn’t appreciate. He hadn’t exactly invited Brittany to make Liv jealous, but he’d at least hoped seeing him with another woman would give her a taste of what she’d thrown away. Namely, him.
Plus, he wanted to make her jealous.
But La Belle Tornade was above such petty human emotions.
Olivia wasn’t as elaborately dressed as some of the other women, but she outshone them all like the empress she was. She had to know by now what the opera cognoscenti were saying about last night’s performance, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She was every inch a queen, graciously allowing the ordinary people around her to breathe her rarified air. She couldn’t have been more different from the soft, giving, everyday woman he’d once held in his arms.
At the next table, Mariel Marchand looked as if she’d swallowed a bowl of bad mushrooms. Mitchell Brooks took him over to make introductions. Thad seemed to be developing a fondness for sopranos, because he immediately liked Sarah Mabunda.
He returned to his own table as the speeches began. There were lots of thank-yous, a speech about the after-school music program that was receiving the proceeds from the evening, and still more thank-yous. Mitchell Brooks introduced Lucien Marchand as the evening’s sponsor, even though Henri should be taking credit. But Uncle Lucien, with his French accent and diplomat’s mien, did cut an impressive figure. He called up Thad and Olivia to draw the winning tickets for tonight’s grand prizes: a Victory780 and a Cavatina3. Thad was glad he didn’t have to give a speech because he wasn’t up to it.
On their way back to the table, he took Liv’s arm. The gesture was automatic, and for just a moment, he could have sworn she leaned against him.
The moment passed. She drew away. “Rupert! How lovely to see you.”
Rupert?
She introduced him to a small man sitting at a table off to the side. “Rupert, this is Thad Owens. Thad, Rupert Glass.” She shot Thad a telling look he immediately understood. Rupert resembled one of the Seven Dwarfs, the one who wouldn’t look at anybody. Bashful? The top of his head came just to Olivia’s shoulder. He had a tuft of hair at the crown, a couple more tufts near his ears, and he looked about as dangerous as a plastic spoon.
“My dear,” he whispered, turning several different shades of red. “My deepest apologies if I did anything to distress you with my meager gifts.”
“You could never distress me, Rupert.” Olivia patted his hand. “But there are so many young singers who would bloom under the kind of support you’ve given me.”
Thad couldn’t help himself. “Plus the IRS won’t bother them like they do her.”
Olivia quickly excused them both. “You didn’t have to say that,” she hissed, as she hustled him away.
“It’s those quiet ones who turn out to be serial killers.”
Just for a moment they exchanged one of their quick smiles, but then he remembered he was furious with her and wiped his away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
“You didn’t,” he snapped back.
She squeezed his arm. That was it. Just squeezed it.
Back at the table, she chatted with Brittany in English and with Lucien en fran?ais. The Muni’s conductor came over to the table, and they spoke in Italian. Then—son of a bitch—didn’t she switch to German when an old dude with a silver-topped walking cane appeared.
Damn, but he missed her. He’d never been so in sync with another person. None of his ex-girlfriends. No buddy or teammate. No one.
He told himself to snap out of it. She said she was in love with him, but it wasn’t like he’d marry her. That would be a nightmare and a half—living his life as Mr. Olivia Shore. All he wanted was for them to be together for a while. Simple. Uncomplicated. Why couldn’t she see that?
He barely tasted his food, a filet topped with some kind of shrimp thing. As Liv and Brittany chatted away, he mainly talked to Henri’s husband, Jules, an interesting guy who was a big soccer fan. Still, he wanted Liv’s attention for himself.
Between dinner and dessert, the room darkened to show a video of the student music program. Olivia whispered something to Brittany about the ladies’ room and excused herself.
He didn’t realize he was staring after her until he caught Brittany’s sympathetic smile. “You shouldn’t have let that one get away,” she whispered.
He wouldn’t tell her it was the other way around.
*
Olivia hadn’t intended to duck out on the after-school music program video, but her drunken binge two nights ago had temporarily soured her on alcohol, and she’d drunk one too many glasses of water. She entered the ladies’ room to find Mariel Marchand washing her hands at the sink. Mariel gave her a cool nod in the mirror. “You look lovely tonight, Olivia.”
Mariel didn’t. Although she wore her black gown and glittering jewelry with all the elegance of a true Frenchwoman, her skin looked sallow, and she seemed tired.
“Thank you. And your gown is beautiful,” Olivia replied honestly.
“Chanel.” The word was sad, almost bitter, as if she were reciting her state of mind instead of the luxury designer’s name. “I suppose you’ve heard by now that Henri’s campaign was a rousing success. Hideously expensive, of course, but sales of Marchand products doubled. A triumph for him.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Henri did not say anything to you?” She snatched up a towel. “He has always been so much a better person than I am.”
Olivia refrained from agreeing.
“Lucien raised us both on the Marchand tradition, but it seems Henri was smarter than me.”
Olivia sidestepped. “I’m happy the campaign is doing so well, but I know this must be a challenging time for you.”
“I am an ambitious woman, something you understand.” She dried her hands on the towel as if she were scrubbing them. “The press release goes out tomorrow. Lucien Marchand is retiring in September, and Henri is taking over as president and CEO while I continue my role as chief financial officer.”