We discuss scheduling details, performance frequency, and rehearsal space requirements, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. My thoughts keep drifting to Ruby. Her car has been missing from the driveway since yesterday, and I’ve sent her three texts today, receiving nothing in return. I don’t even know if she’s in Vegas, if I’ve ruined everything by admitting how I feel.
“What about the rehearsal schedule?” Zara asks, pulling me back to the present. “I’ll need at least three weeks of setup time before opening night.”
“Not a problem,” I assure her. “We can close the Palestra during the day for a full month before your premiere if needed. The space will be completely yours from nine to five.” I force myself to focus. This deal is important—potentially transformative for the Olympus. I need to be present.
My phone vibrates against the table, and I fight the urge to check it immediately. Another minute passes as Zara outlines her lighting preferences, and the phone vibrates again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to resist any longer. “Would you mind if I quickly check this? It might be important.”
She waves a hand in permission, and I pick up the phone, my heart racing when I see Ruby’s name on the screen.
Sorry for the late reply. I’m in San Francisco with my parents.A second message follows:I’m thinking of you.
Relief floods through me. She’s safe. She’s with her parents.
“I take it that’s good news?” Zara asks. “You’re smiling.”
“Yes,” I say, typing a quick response just to let her know she’s on my mind too, not pushing for more. “Apologies for the interruption. I’m all yours.”
When I look up, Zara is studying me. “Is that her? The special someone?”
I hesitate, then nod. There’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”
“She’s a lucky woman.” Zara traces the rim of her flute, her gaze drifting momentarily to the panoramic view of the Strip beyond our window. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I suspect I know where this is headed.
“To explore that side of myself.” She smiles ruefully. “My whole life is decided for me down to who I’m allowed to be seen with.”
“Have you had these feelings for a while?”
“Always.” Zara hesitates. “I fooled around with girls in college sometimes, but that was a long time ago. And then fame came knocking on my door. I’m grateful for that, but it also meant my days of experimenting were over, and I fantasize about dating women all the time.” She studies me for a moment before adding, “I wish I could be you for a day.”
“Me?” The comment almost makes me laugh. Zara Nova has millions of adoring fans and chart-topping hits. “I’m not sure I understand where you’re coming from.”
“There’s this sexual confidence radiating from you,” she says. “I picked up the vibe immediately—that you’re queer and completely comfortable with it. You just own who you are.”
I frown and shake my head. “Between you and me? I’m not as out and proud as you might think.” The confession slips out before I can consider it. “I don’t hide exactly, but I don’t date in public either. The business pages feature me occasionally, and word travels. I’ve spent my life making sure my family in Greece doesn’t find out, so I’m careful.”
I wonder why I’m sharing this with her. This meeting is supposed to be about her residency, not trading personal secrets.
“You’re not out to your family?”
“My sister knows now. Found out recently, actually. She’s supportive. But my mother is traditional Greek Orthodox, so it’s complicated.” I take a sip of champagne. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like too. To walk through my casino with a woman on my arm.”
“Huh.” Zara tilts her head as she looks me over. “Who would have thought?”
“We all have our blind spots,” I say. “Areas where courage fails us, despite how strong we appear elsewhere.” I lean back in my chair and smile. “I think this residency could be good for you in more ways than one, and my offer stands on introducing you to some likeminded women. No pressure, no expectations, and certainly no headlines. Just…possibilities.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I catch a glimpse of the woman behind the platinum records and magazine covers. “Possibilities,” she repeats. “I like the sound of that.”
FORTY-SEVEN
RUBY
“Are you sure you can’t stay just one more day?” Mom asks, collecting the dessert plates from the table. She’s wearing her favorite navy cardigan—the one with the little embroidered flowers along the hem that she’s had forever. Even at sixty-two, she’s still beautiful, with laugh lines that deepen when she smiles and green eyes exactly like mine.
“Mom, I’ve already extended my stay four times,” I say with a laugh, helping her clear the table. “If I don’t get back to the office tomorrow, things will start falling apart.”
