Dennis turned his head away from the phone. “She needs to talk to me in private. We have a thing going on.”
Olivia heard Rachel laugh. “If you’re planning a surprise party, I’ll kill you both.”
“Hold on. I’m going into another room.” A few moments later, he’d returned to their conversation. “What’s up? Rachel’s birthday isn’t for two months.”
“This isn’t about her birthday.” She steeled herself. “I’m afraid you and I have a problem . . .”
She laid it out. Everything that had happened and Dennis’s part in it. As the story unfolded, he began stammering apologies. “God, Olivia . . . God, I’m sorry . . . I hate myself . . . Rachel keeps telling me I have a big mouth . . . Jesus, Olivia . . . I never meant . . . Shit . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“No more apologies.” Olivia had heard enough. “You’re a gossip, and your blabbering has threatened my relationship with Rachel. I know wives confide in their husbands, but they expect their husbands to keep their mouths shut. How can I ever again talk openly with her if I know she’ll tell you, and you’ll broadcast it to the world?”
“You’re right. I’ve learned my lesson. God, have I ever. Don’t tell Rachel about this. Please. She already has enough issues with the way I butt into her life.”
That was news to Olivia. “Dennis, I swear, if you ever again pass on anything that I’ve told Rachel, I’ll tell her every detail about what happened with Christopher Marsden.” She hung up on him before he could issue any more apologies.
Afterward, she moved over to the piano and began her vocalization. Only a few more hours before the gala when she’d see Thad again.
*
The Muni’s Grand Foyer had been transformed into a facsimile of ancient Egypt. Guests entered through a reproduction of the Temple of Dendur as projections of ancient temple columns and statues of Ramses II, interspersed with the Marchand logo, played on the walls. An array of artificial palm trees decked out with fronds made of twinkle lights added to the glamorous setting.
Her late entrance caused a stir. Heads swiveled, and a brief lull fell over the crowd. The Chicago Tribune’s review of last night’s performance hadn’t yet appeared in the paper, but the online reviews were posted on all the big opera sites, and nearly every one of them used the word “disappointing.” She forced her head higher, even as she wished she were anywhere but here.
Kathryn Swift, the chair of the gala committee, rushed over all in a flutter. “Olivia! My dear, you look incredible!”
Olivia wore her own floor-length gown for the evening—slender, white, and sleeveless, with a narrow gold belt. She’d left her hair long and borrowed an Egyptian-style circlet from the costume department to wear across her forehead. Her fan-shaped gold earrings, like the wings of Isis, were studded with coral and turquoise.
The majority of the men wore tuxedos, with only a handful disregarding the suggested male dress code. One had confused a Greek toga with an Egyptian robe. A few had adopted the more modern djellaba. Fortunately, no one had shown up in a loincloth. Almost all of the women were in some form of costume, many dressed in embellished robes, some with collar pieces. A number of women had donned long, black wigs. Kathryn Swift had chosen a gown with accordion-pleated wing-shaped sleeves in a silver fabric that set off her gray society matron bob. She snatched up Olivia’s hands and examined her rings. “Is that a poison ring? Eugene gave me one from the Victorian period, but I can’t remember what I’ve done with it.”
“It’s a poison ring, but not an antique.” Olivia had paid thirty dollars for it on Etsy, one of her favorite sources for costume jewelry. Of the five rings she was wearing, only the cushion-cut sapphire she’d bought as a gift to herself after winning the Belvedere Singing Competition had any value.
She couldn’t win the Belvedere Competition now. She would barely make it through the qualification round.
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.