With a sensuous feeling, she brought the orange to her nose and sniffed its tangy fragrance. She dug the edge of the knife into the peel and burrowed her finger in the whitish sponge. She opened the fruit and separated a section, then placed it in her mouth. Its juice spurted onto her tongue in a sweet taste different from its smell. She separated another section and bit into it, then took a third.

Everyday delights could be so simple. Nola stared out the window, confounded by a new insight. Peeling an orange on her own. That was what ordinary people did. Since Lulu’s arrival, she too, was learning to enjoy these moments of solitude she had once dreaded.

Lulu was asleep when Nola lifted her out of the crib and lowered her into the stroller. “Sorry, Dumpling,” she said softly. “I told you I’m a working mother who keeps odd hours.”

She stood at the entrance to the huge ballroom Jean-Claude had commandeered. In addition to flying in her core American band, he had assembled local musicians. Chairs and music stands for the forty-piece band were grouped in a loose arch formation. Today, only the dozen American musicians gathered to fine-tune her

program for the Great Wall filming the next day. At the far end of the stage, Leslie straddled a gilded chair and observed one of his instructors leading the troupe of male dancers. Jean-Claude stood with his back to Nola, speaking in his singsong French accent to the musicians and the four vocalists.

“—and who knows if she’s coming. She might be playing Mommy again today.”

Fury rushed through Nola's veins. She stepped in. “How dare you speak about me this way?”

His narrow face went crimson. “We had a deal about what I’m supposed to do, and what you’re supposed to do. It’s like with my wife. She raises babies but doesn’t sing. You sing and don’t raise babies. Oui? It’s very simple.”

“You can go to hell.”

Leslie vaulted over the edge of the stage to the ballroom floor. The dancers, all in black, continued to stretch, bend, arch their arms, and practice their pirouettes.

“You’re overstepping your boundaries, Dude,” Leslie told Jean-Claude. “Without the aid of the Divine, a man cannot walk even an inch, and you—yes, you, you prick—can’t compose a single note.”

“All I care about is the music,” Jean-Claude said. “Live or die for the music, Oui?”

“And you need me to flaunt your talent,” Nola called out. “So chill out.”

“He feels insecure with Lulu around,” Leslie whispered in her ear and steered her away. “You should be used to his eccentricities.”

“He’s never targeted them against me. When do I get to act crazy and get away with it?”

“You already have, Love. Ask Wade. He thinks you’ve gone off the deep end.”