More Than Words
Page 46

As I stared into his concerned eyes, I felt my expression crumble. I sat down heavily on the bench behind me. “You’re right, I am.”
“Is it that guy who’s staying here? Callen Hayes, right? The composer?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. We’re here to do a job, and I’m not—”
“We all have lives, Jessica. We can’t put them on hold because it would be more convenient. I’m sure Adélaïde and Olivier would say the same thing.” He sat down next to me.
I smiled. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? It would be more convenient to press pause for a little while whenever we wished.” Plus, it would give me time to figure out a solution. If only life worked that way.
He tilted his head. “I’m a good listener.”
“I don’t want to bore you.”
“Jessica, anything that gets me out of that room for a few minutes is more than welcome, trust me. Bore me, please.”
I laughed. The truth was, sitting in that room translating Adélaïde’s story these last weeks had brought a feeling of camaraderie with Ben. We worked well together, and there was an ease between us. So I took a breath and gave him the short version of my history with Callen and the general state of our current situation. Naturally, I left out the fact that Callen was illiterate; that wasn’t my secret to share.
“I have to admit that I was … surprised to find out you’re dating someone, ah …”
“Like him?”
He grimaced. “I don’t mean that to sound bad. It’s just that he has a reputation as a partier and you seem more like the homebody type.”
He wasn’t wrong. “I know. On the surface we do seem all wrong for each other.”
“I guess on the surface Adélaïde and Captain Olivier Durand seemed all wrong for each other, too.”
I glanced at him. “But we don’t know how that story ends yet.”
“True. Bad example.”
I laughed. Ben hadn’t necessarily offered any advice, but his listening to my story made me feel better, and just purging some of it was a relief. Ben was a genuinely decent guy, and I appreciated the friendship we’d developed while working together so closely.
“Why don’t you have a woman who’s causing you heartache so I can return the favor?”
He laughed. “Because I spend too much time in dusty, windowless rooms.”
I grinned. “Speaking of which …”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “We should get back.”
He helped me up from the bench, and I gave him a quick hug, thankful for his friendship and that he’d taken the time to listen. As we were walking back toward the steps, I saw movement on one of the balconies and glanced up, swearing I saw a man with dark hair duck back inside.
* * *
In the year of our Lord 1430, on the twenty-third day of May
Oh, dear Lord in heaven. I was on my knees for hours begging you to deliver Jehanne and Olivier to safety, and it does not seem your will. Word came that Jehanne was thrown off her horse during battle and the Burgundians took her captive. The men brought the news back after hours and hours of the torturous waiting and praying. I looked for Olivier in the line of returning soldiers, and he was nowhere to be found, and when I demanded the men take me to where the fight occurred to look for him, they said it was unsafe and insisted I return to camp.
I believe they know of my disguise and I do not feel safe among them without Olivier watching out for me. I found a horse and rode to town despite their warnings, my heart racing to the beat of the horse’s galloping hooves, and I walked among the dead and dying still left on the battlefield.
The pain that wrenched my heart and the bile that burned my throat was not only for all the blood spilled in the street, but for the aching terror I carried. I did not see Olivier and know not where he is, or if his body has been carried away. His beloved body. Oh, dear God, please help him. Help Jehanne. My heart is a dark, empty shell to know they are in such peril. And please, dear Lord, shine your guiding light upon me so that I may know my role in this tragedy and act only for your good.
“And so it begins,” I murmured to Ben, the sadness I felt inside infusing my tone.
He looked up from his work. “What’s that?”
“Jehanne’s been captured.”
He sat back in his chair. “Ah. Yes, the beginning of the end indeed.”
And Olivier … where was he? My heart beat hollowly for Adélaïde’s pain.
Ben and I finished up a little later, and I trudged upstairs, tired, saddened by what I’d translated, but energized to see Callen, too. He had told me about the interview Larry had set up for him in one of the upstairs meeting rooms, and I knew he was getting ready for that. It’d take only an hour at most, he’d said, and then we’d go to dinner, something intimate, something special. Another reminder that our time together was dwindling away, the sand flowing ever faster through the hourglass.
I’d planned to head to my own room and take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes into something a little more special.
As I passed the open doorway to the large bar/lounge area, I was surprised when I heard my name called. And then I noticed Larry sitting in an upholstered chair that was part of an intimate furniture grouping near the window. I hesitated, my steps slowing, unsure if I should simply nod my head and keep walking or if I should enter the lounge and say hi. Hi? Well, hello. Our first meeting was sort of horrible, with your wife standing there in her underwear and all, but great to see you again.
Larry smiled and stood, gesturing for me to come inside. I turned, walking slowly toward him. “Jessica, right?” he asked as I approached the seating area.
“Yes.” I shook my head, trying not to look embarrassed but having a feeling I was failing. “I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Larry.” He gestured at the blue silk love seat, and I sat as he took his own seat. “We met under very awkward circumstances,” he said, shooting me a regretful look. I released a breath, unable to help feeling bad for him. I’d been upset, but he … Well, that whole scene had to have devastated him. I could relate in a sense, having been an up-close witness to scenes like that too many times to count.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Callen and I have buried the hatchet. The issue is between my wife and me.” A cocktail waitress came by, and Larry looked at me questioningly.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing for me.”
“One drink?” he asked. “To replace a bad first meeting with a better one?”
I smiled. “Well, all right. Just one. A glass of chardonnay, please.”
Larry ordered another drink, and the cocktail waitress turned to fill our order. “Are you going to Callen’s interview?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” He studied me for a moment. “He mentioned knowing you as a child. A funny stroke of fate that you met again all these years later.”
Fate again. “Yes. Funny.” The cocktail waitress brought our drinks, and I took a sip of mine, the cool alcohol spreading through my veins and relaxing my limbs. I sat back on the couch.
“Long day?”
“Yes, actually. A long week.” I smiled and told him a little bit about the work I was doing in the Loire Valley. He’d read about the find, rare for someone not in the field, so it was enjoyable to answer his questions. The awkwardness faded, and as I sipped the wine I relaxed even more.
“I can see why you’ve become Callen’s latest muse.” Latest muse. I definitely didn’t like the word latest, and I wasn’t sure whether I liked the word muse either. It implied that I alone was responsible for his creativity, and Larry’s words were yet another affirmation that my place in Callen’s life would be temporary. “I know his secret, you know.”
My head snapped up. Oh. Larry took a casual sip of his drink. Well, of course Larry must know. He had to be one of the people who helped Callen manage contracts, read e-mails, business letters … “I, yes, it’s very hard for him. He’s so ashamed of it.”