“Something we’ve been good at up until these last few days.” He rose onto one elbow, gazing down at her. “Fortunately, we’re both disciplined. We know how to set goals and work toward meeting them.”
“We do,” she agreed, nuzzling his shoulder.
“You have Wednesday and Thursday off between performances next week. Does Thursday work for you?”
She lost herself admiring the dark arch of his eyebrows. “Thursday?”
“Or Wednesday if you’d rather. For us to get married.”
His words finally registered, and she shot up in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. “You want to get married next week?”
He tugged the sheet from her hands. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, it’s not what you said! We were just talking about taking the next two years to figure things out.”
“Right.” He kissed the top of her breast. “After we get married, we’ll definitely need to figure things out.”
She grabbed for the sheet, launching into their first postcoital argument. “We’re not reckless people! We don’t just jump into something this big. We’re systematic. We take our time. Prepare.”
He laughed and pulled her back down beside him. “Liv, sweetheart, we’re already prepared. We know exactly what kind of mess we’re jumping into, and we also know that—with our work ethic and big egos—we’ll have to make it work because neither of us can handle failure.”
That was true, but . . .
He stroked her temple. “You’re slippery, honey, and I’m not taking any more chances of losing you. I need a commitment. A real commitment. Enough of a commitment so I know you won’t go crazy again and tell me that you’ve decided you can’t sing Figaro or whoever else you’ve taken a fancy to sing while I’m in your life.”
Figaro was a man, but she understood his point. She tunneled her hands through his hair. “I’d never do that to you. I promise.”
“Good. Next week then.”
*
And next week it was. On a Thursday night when the Muni had no performances scheduled, the two of them stood onstage with their friends and family seated around them. The bride was deliriously beautiful in a long, Egyptian-style gown that was an updated copy of Aida’s costume. The groom was resplendent in a perfectly cut tuxedo with a square pocket handkerchief made from his beloved’s favorite flamenco shawl.
Thad’s parents had raced up from Kentucky. Coop was best man. Clint walked the bride down the makeshift aisle as Rachel sang, and neither the bride nor groom—both of whom were used to working under pressure—could make it through their vows without choking up.
It was a beautiful ceremony. The flowers, the guests, the music. As Thad and Olivia exchanged the kiss that sealed their union, Cooper Graham leaned over to the man sitting next to him and whispered, “One marriage. Two divas. This is going to work out just fine.”
Clint Garrett couldn’t have agreed more.
Epilogue
Thad stood in the wings of the Lyric Opera of Chicago, his arms crossed over his chest to keep his heart from spilling out as he watched Liv deliver the best “Habanera” of her life. Her Carmen was a headstrong rebel—sultry, sexy, foolhardy, and answerable only to herself—everything Liv wasn’t, except for the sultry, sexy part.
After three years, she still took his breath away.
He liked helping people be their best, whether it was motivating Liv to reach new heights in her career or cheering on the idiot through every game. Damn, but he loved that guy.
Onstage, Carmen had caught ol’ Don José’s eye. Liv did way too great a job of dying, and Thad made it a policy never to watch the last act. Plus, he’d been forbidden to stick around backstage that long because he made the tenor singing Don José nervous.
Their first year of marriage had been just as messy and hectic as they’d anticipated. He’d started training camp on the exact day Liv had to be in Munich. When the Stars played their first game, she was in Tokyo and after that Moscow. They talked all the time and competed with each other to come up with the most innovative way of keeping their sex life interesting, although it meant installing lots of extra software to guard against hackers.
After Moscow, Liv was back in Chicago sitting in Phoebe Calebow’s skybox watching Thad win two games back to back when Clint was out with an ankle sprain. One of the Calebow kids had sneaked photos of Liv screaming her head off every time Thad completed a pass. Embarrassing, but Mrs. Calebow was a big opera fan, and she didn’t seem to mind.
The second year of marriage grew more complicated as he finished his contract and moved ahead with his retirement plan. He’d become a certified financial planner so he could play a more active role in keeping stupid, young rookies from blowing all their money, satisfying work but a sideline to his real job. He was Piper’s full-time partner in her volunteer crusade to put an end to child sex trafficking. Follow the money. He’d gotten very good at exactly that, and whenever he helped put another of those bastards behind bars, he felt better than he’d ever felt winning a football game.
He was a little busier than he wanted to be, but as a bonus, his work was portable so he could travel with Olivia as much as either of them wanted, which was most of the time.
“I entertain people,” The Diva was fond of saying. “You save lives.”
Then, just when things were running smoothly, The Diva decided she wanted a baby.
*
The ovation rolled over her in an endless wave. She’d killed as Carmen tonight, and everyone in the audience knew it. She was ecstatic, triumphant, gratified, and drained—more than ready to go home to her child and the man she loved with all her heart.
This would be her last Carmen for a couple of years. With her family growing, she was cutting down on the number of time-consuming operas she performed and stepping up her concert appearances instead. She loved the concerts. She could spend much less time on the road, reach even more audiences, and also experiment with a broader repertoire. She planned to ramp up her time in the recording studio, beginning with recording a selection of lullabies, all of which she was auditioning in front of Theodosia Shore Owens, her squirmy, cuddly, dark-haired devil-angel. “She’s going to be a soprano for sure,” Thad had said after Sia had thrown a particularly dramatic temper tantrum because her father wouldn’t let her eat the kitchen sponge.
Olivia had never sung better than when she’d been pregnant with Sia. The baby had provided additional support to her abdomen and diaphragm, which—right up until the last month—made singing even the most taxing passages easier.
Unlike Dennis, Rachel’s ex-husband, Thad had no interest in micromanaging Liv’s career. Thad had more than enough to do staying on top of his own work. She didn’t keep her nose out of his career nearly as well as he did hers. She was as passionate as he about his work with Piper, and she liked staying up to date. She’d also developed a fondness for some of the rookies he was coaching. He said he was only helping them manage their money, but since when did money management involve watching hours of game film with them?
Sometimes when she performed, Olivia stole glances into the wings or out into the audience looking for him. The sight of that beautiful face, the knowledge of what they’d created together, gave her singing extra meaning.