THE GOD'S WIFE Read Free Page A

they didn’t notice her peculiar behavior.
    “And it’s not just here in Chicago,” she continued. “We are taking it to New York, Amsterdam, London and Rome … and, oh my God, Jonas, we’re taking it to Paris. Imagine that. An Iowa girl in the most glamorous city in the world.”
    “You’re not making any sense at all, ‘Bec,” he said, turning a bit red as she continued to cause such confusion on the sidewalk. “Please slow down and tell it straight.”
    “I’m too excited. I think I need a drink or something.” She wasn’t just excited, she was conflicted — frightened of the blackouts. But now was not the time to tell Jonas that. A drink would do her good.
    He gestured with his thumb to O’Shay’s, a yuppie hangout next door. Rebecca bobbed her head in agreement. Thoughts were coming at such a rush that she hardly knew which one to settle on. Like a bird sweeping between branches, she sought a stable place to land.
    He walked ahead, pulling her through the crowded pub, making way for the two of them. Jonas found stools and ran off to get drinks at the bar.
    She admired his attentiveness almost as much as she enjoyed seeing his rear view in a snug pair of jeans. Thank goodness Jonas never fell for that hip-hop style — all baggy this and baggy that ...
    “Here you go,” Jonas said, pushing a chilled glass of Chardonnay in her direction, while he held a frosty mug of beer. They locked eyes as he slipped into his seat. She steadied under his gaze. His solemn, light blue irises blazed under black brows. His energy was devoted and sure, tender and unwavering. Rebecca knew fortune shone when she first found him.
    “Okay, tell the story,” Jonas said grabbing for her hand. He cradled it. “With a beginning, a middle and an end.”
    Jonas was an editor for a science magazine, and Rebecca knew he didn’t have the benefit of her arts background. To him “Aïda” might be something Tarzan yelled when swinging from tree to tree. He was an intelligent man, but this explanation might take a while.
    “You know Randy …”
    Jonas nodded, but his eyes looked doubtful.
    “He’s the company artistic director.”
    The eyes blinked. Right.
    “He came up with the idea of a jazz-dance version of the opera ‘Aïda.’ Do you know anything about ‘Aïda’?”
    Jonas pressed his lips together and shook his head. He took a long swallow of beer and waited for an explanation.
    “That’s an old Giuseppe Verdi chestnut the Lyric Opera puts on every ten years or so. A few years ago, Broadway did a pop version with Tim Rice and Elton John music. Now we’re doing it as a dance. We’ve never done an evening-length piece before.” Rebecca stopped the lecture to sip some wine and let it ease her nerves as the drink warmed her stomach.
    “And you’re going to be the star?” His eyes widened, and he squeezed her hand.
    “You got it.” She rested her head in her other hand and tried to let the moment sink in. “Even Buckley, that awful ballet teacher, can’t stop me. I’ll be a princess, and he can kowtow to me.”
    She checked herself, stopping the flow of words when she detected that burst of arrogance. Wow, that’s the flip side of being dissed all those years in Iowa. Sometimes, I just want to shove it in their faces.
    “Anyway,” she said, pushing away the last thought. “It’s about a slave girl who is really a princess — that’s me. She’s captured by the Egyptians and falls in love with the son of the Pharaoh. He’s sworn to another woman but falls in love with the slave. Well, you know how these things go.” She stopped and let out a sarcastic laugh.
    “Not well,” Jonas guessed.
    “Nope. She ends up dying sealed up in a tomb.”
    “Don’t make them like they used to, do they?” Jonas said with a chuckle, but his eyes glittered. She could see he was eating up the star talk, loving the fact that his girlfriend was going to be toast of the town.
    Jonas dropped his gaze to the floor for a