Read Online THE GOD'S WIFE by Lynn Voedisch - Free Book Online Page A

women he’d just been called away on some essential business. He zipped off before anyone could quiz him about the details. Rebecca’s confidence slipped. Randy almost never ran out on a meeting like this. She had been counting on him to take some of the pressure off the conversation. Now it was the haughty choreographer and her lead dancer eating alone. Rebecca wondered who was going to be stuck with the tab.
    “Have a few?” Sailor said, as she passed the heavy plate Rebecca’s way. “I surely can’t eat all this and an entrée, too.” Rebecca fished two of the canapés off the plate and onto her side dish. She placed the serving platter back in the middle of the table.
    “Well, this is most awkward,” Sailor said, breathing out in exasperation. “Randy was supposed to go over set design with me.”
    Rebecca tried to stifle a gasp. The set was just the exact subject she wanted to bring up. She nibbled on the edge of one spinach pie, finding it oily and somewhat fishy tasting. So much for the Strand’s reputation as a fine restaurant.
    She put the morsel down and fought to meet Sailor’s eyes, which focused on her above a long, thin nose. Rebecca knew the choreographer was famous for browbeating her underlings, but she also realized the two of them had come to some understanding — at least in the dance studio.
    “Actually,” Rebecca said, fighting a knot in her chest. “I had some things to mention about the scenery …” Rebecca started to cough on inhaled bits of food. She grabbed her water and swallowed.
    “You?” Sailor slipped her appetizer onto her dish and stared as if examining an ant. “You’re … a dancer.”
    “Yes, and I think we agree that I’ve added some authentic flourishes to this production.” Rebecca felt her face reddening but held her ground.
    “About movement, yes, but how would you possibly advise a world-renowned scenic designer like Hugh Dekker? He won a Tony, you know.” She picked up her spinach pie again and began to wolf it down.
    “I’ve done plenty of research on my role. I’m reading quite a bit and feel like I’ve earned a degree in Egyptology. Right now, I’m quite certain the designer doesn’t have enough color on the walls.”
    “You’ve done research?” Sailor said with a hint of a sneer. “And I’m supposed to take this dabbling seriously?”
    “Ms. Sailor, please …”
    “It’s Emmylou.”
    “Emmylou, please, it’s all in Description de L’Egypt by the savants of Napoleon. They drew exacting pictures and paintings of the temples when they were still half buried by sand. The colors are all there.”
    Sailor took off her glasses and glared across the table at Rebecca as if noticing her for the first time.
    “You read French?”
    “A little. The point is they — the savants — lavished their books with bright colors — reds and lapis blues and even violet shades for the irises.”
    “I’ve never known a dancer to even pick up a book before. And you tell me you’ve read Napoleon’s savants? In French?”
    “Why, yes,” Rebecca lowered her head and considered grabbing a roll. She needed something to do with her hands.
    “Well, even I haven’t read that, so you’ve got me beat,” she monitored Rebecca with one eyebrow raised. “Why are you so keen on besting the rest of us?”
    “It’s not like that at all, Ms., I mean ... Emmylou …” Rebecca meant to drop the errant roll on a dish, but her fierce grip sent it flying across the tablecloth and onto the floor. A fastidious waiter picked it up and offered her a fresh one. Rebecca shook her head.
    “It’s just the dreams —”
    “Ah, the dreams, where you got this,” Sailor said as she mimicked the playing of the sistrum. She stopped and frowned. “Is it so consuming for you, Rebecca?”
    Rebecca leaned forward, letting her sheet of hair flow onto the table. She was confused about her Egyptian obsession, yet unwilling to let the subject go. So much of it involved those