More Than Words
Page 47

Larry shook his head. “He shouldn’t be.”
“I agree. A learning disability is nothing to be ashamed of. Just because he couldn’t learn to read as a child doesn’t mean he can’t learn now. There are so many advancements in …” My words trailed off at the shocked look that passed over Larry’s face. Something inside me dropped to my feet. “Weren’t you …? Isn’t that …?”
“Callen’s illiterate?”
Heat flooded my face, and I swayed where I sat, setting my almost empty glass of wine on the table so I wouldn’t drop it. “I thought that’s what you were talking about,” I whispered. Oh God. Oh no. What did I do?
Larry looked off out the window for a moment, as if going over something in his head. When he looked back at me, his eyes had lit up with realization. “Yes, it makes sense,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I was referring to his writer’s block, by the way.”
Oh God.
“Please,” I begged, shaking my head, “please don’t say anything, Larry. He—he trusted me with that information, and—”
“Relax, Jessica. I won’t say a word.”
I managed a smile and nodded. “Thank you. He would”—I sucked in a shaky breath—“be so upset.” Mortified. Angry. Take your pick.
Larry smiled, and for some reason, discomfort slithered down my spine. I studied his face for a moment, but worried I was overreacting. “I should go,” I said, standing. “I have to get ready for dinner.”
“And the interview,” he said, smiling and standing as well. The interview, right.
I nodded. “Thank you for the drink, Larry, and the conversation. And thank you for your understanding about—”
“Of course. I know how important trust is, Jessica.”
I paused, his words, the tone in his voice, causing a jolt of unease, but he turned away from me, so I turned as well, making my way out of the bar. When I got to the doorway, I looked back at Larry, but he was already gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JESSICA
I could hear the buzz from the meeting room all the way down the hall and moved toward it, my heels clicking on the stone floor. I took a deep breath. I’d showered, changed into a navy-blue fitted cocktail dress, and put on a pair of strappy, silver heels. I’d managed to look put together, but inside I still felt a restless panic over having so carelessly spilled Callen’s secret to Larry. Of all the irresponsible things to do. Why couldn’t I have slowed down and listened instead of just blurting it out like that?
Rather than panicking completely, I tried to consider what I’d read before leaving work earlier. This situation with Callen and my loose tongue was something that would work out. Poor Adélaïde was experiencing something utterly hopeless.
I pulled the heavy door to the meeting room open and stepped inside. There were four or five rows of chairs set up in the middle of the floor, most of them already filled, and at the front of the room two chairs for Callen and the interviewer. I glanced at the cameras set up to the side, where the cameraman looked to be testing the equipment.
“Jessie.” I heard Callen’s voice and turned, my heart expanding to see his large smile as he moved toward me. He slowed, his head moving up and down as he took in my dress. “Wow.”
He was freshly shaven, and his hair was combed back from his face, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones and the golden cast of his skin on full display. He was so beautiful that my breath hitched, and for a second I had the urge to cry. The feeling startled me, and I put my hand to my chest as if to tamp the feeling down. “Same to you.”
He smiled. “This shouldn’t take long. I made reservations in town.” He took my hands in his, his eyes growing soft. “I’m looking forward to getting you alone.”
“Me, too.”
“Hey, guys,” Nick greeted, walking up to us. “You ready?” he asked Callen, nodding toward the camera.
Callen shrugged. “Oh yeah. I’ve done a thousand of these. Same questions every time.” He pretended to hold a microphone to his mouth. “Where do you get your inspiration?” He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows. “Tell us about your writing process.”
Nick laughed. “You’d rather them ask if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”
“I’d take anything to mix it up a bit. Japanese cherry by the way.”
A man came up to Callen and tapped him on the arm, and he turned. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” He turned back to Nick and me. “See you afterward.”
I followed Nick to two chairs near the front, and we took our seats. Final adjustments were made with the cameras, and I watched as microphones were clipped on Callen’s shirt and the interviewer’s jacket. The interviewer was an older man with graying hair and a small, round pot belly that strained the buttons of his shirt. Having lived in Paris for the last year, I recognized him as the host of a tabloid-type show that I’d watched once or twice but ended up tuning out because of the smarmy feel to it. He liked “gotcha” questions that left the interviewee floundering for answers. A brick settled in my stomach, and my hands turned icy.
Please ask him about being a tree. Please, please.
“You okay?” Nick asked, glancing at me worriedly.
I nodded. I was being paranoid. Later, when Callen and I went to dinner, I’d confess my slipup so he was aware that Larry knew. It was the right thing to do. I prayed that even if he was mad and upset, he would understand it was an accident. I’d never hurt him on purpose.
“Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs,” the interviewer said, turning to the camera. “Je m’appelle Cyril Sauvage, et voici Le Grand Soir.” He gave a crooked grin to the camera and waited a few beats before nodding to Callen and giving a short introduction in English. I knew from the time I’d briefly watched him interview an English-speaking guest that subtitles would appear at the bottom of the screen for the French viewers.
“Callen—may I call you Callen?”
“Of course.” Callen looked so handsome sitting there under the stage lights behind him, his posture casual, an easygoing smile on his face.
“Good, good. And please, call me Cyril.” He brought his right ankle to his left knee, leaning forward. “Your musical scores have been called emotionally powerful, triumphant, and haunting. As I was preparing for this interview, I came across my favorite review of your work. I think it encapsulates the feel of your music perfectly.” He reached down beside him and picked up a piece of paper. “Would you mind reading it to our guests?” he asked, handing it to Callen.
My pulse jumped, my heart picking up a staccato beat. Callen took the piece of paper, his smile faltering slightly before he handed it back, smiling bigger. “Please, Cyril, you do the honors. I find it embarrassing to read my own praise.”
Cyril laughed, pushing the paper back toward Callen. “Nonsense. It’s only two short lines.”
Oh. My. God.
With a sick shudder, I realized what was going on here. I glanced to the place where Larry was standing, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. He didn’t. Surely not. He looked at me and smiled, winking. No, no, no. You miserable bastard. My throat burned as if I’d actually screamed the words.
Shaking, I looked back at Callen, forcing my breathing to calm. He could handle this. He’d been in sticky situations before. He knew how to change the subject so no one suspected.
Nick seemed to have frozen next to me. He was obviously tense as he waited for Callen to squeeze out of this uncomfortable situation. Only Nick didn’t know that Cyril was most likely setting a trap, because his question hadn’t innocently put Callen in the position he was in. It had been orchestrated. Purposeful.
“Sorry, Cyril, I left my reading glasses at home.” He turned to the camera and smiled, boyish and sweet, as he shrugged his shoulders. Women everywhere—eighty percent of the viewing audience—were swooning and had completely forgotten what the question was.
Callen looked back at Cyril, and the expression on Cyril’s face was suddenly wolfish, his eyes narrowed and his teeth showing in the semblance of a smile that somehow looked more like a growl. “Reading glasses? Why, Callen Hayes, isn’t the real truth that you don’t need reading glasses, because you can’t read at all?”