More Than Words
Page 57

I sucked in a breath, setting the wooden spoon I’d been using on the counter. I took the magazine from Frankie and leafed to the page where the article about the words Joan of Arc had said to Charles the Seventh to get him to give her an army was located. I’d already read the piece, but to see it in print sent a thrill through me. I was still so proud of the work we’d accomplished and overjoyed about the information that had been contained in the misfiled writing.
Frankie looked over my shoulder as I glanced through the article. “We’re framing that, you know.”
I laughed, setting the magazine down on the counter and spotting a large, padded envelope on top of the pile of mail Frankie had set down. “What’s that?” I nodded to the pile.
Frankie grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, bringing it to her mouth. “I don’t know. It’s for you,” she said around a bite of the fruit.
I picked up the envelope. It had a label with my name and address on it but no return information, except the postmark that indicated it was posted in France. I frowned, pulling open the seal and peering inside. I removed a music CD case with a blank cover. “What the …?” Pulling the cover open, I saw a CD with JESSIE’S SONG written in bold, black letters. “Oh my God,” I whispered, leaning back against the counter for support, my hands beginning to shake.
“What is it?” Frankie asked, taking it from my hand and staring at it for a moment. “It’s from Callen?” she asked, blinking at me.
“It—it has to be.” I shook my head. I hadn’t heard a word from or about him for more than two months, not since Nick had stopped by unexpectedly the day they were leaving for the States. I’d asked Frankie for verification that he’d actually left, that there was no news on him in the tabloids, and she’d told me that she’d searched online and there wasn’t a whisper of him anywhere. It was as if he’d just disappeared.
And now … he’d sent me a song. “Jessie’s Song.” What did it mean?
“I think you need to go in your room and listen to that,” Frankie said softly.
I looked up at her. My heart was suddenly beating so rapidly, I could hardly catch my breath. “O-okay.”
She nodded, looking concerned. “I’ll be here when you’re done listening. And stop gripping that so tightly. You’re going to crack it.”
I let out a strangled laugh, releasing my grip on the CD. I walked on wooden legs into my room and closed the door behind me, going to my desk, where I plugged in my headphones and slipped the disk into my computer.
As the first notes played, I clenched my eyes shut, the tune that he’d hummed constantly while we were in the Loire Valley filling my ears, filling my heart. A singular violin, beautiful, but the notes … bleeding somehow. It had been only the soft sound of his voice then, humming the melody, and then later, the harmonies, but now they all came together, an entire orchestra, and it was unbelievably beautiful. I put my hand over my heart as if to keep it from bursting from my chest at the story this music told. Of longing, of despair, of loneliness, of love and joy. He had named the song for me, but this was Callen’s story, being told through notes that had drifted straight from his soul. His heart was here, being laid bare on a thin, silver disk. He had given it to me.
When “Jessie’s Song” ended, another began to play. And then another. Each one told a story, some I thought I understood and others beautiful but mysterious to me. Perhaps speaking of things he had never told me. Maybe of things he hadn’t even told himself—until now.
If heartache and redemption mixed together to form a soundtrack, this would be it. And I understood his pain even more poignantly. Oh, Callen. I listened to each song, tears streaming down my face, sitting in my room as the sun slipped away, waiting with bated breath for the way in which he had chosen to end the final song. And when it came, my heart squeezed so tightly I let out a gasp. The music lifted gently, the sound of a singular violin again, the notes soaring, my heart following.
Callen … Callen.
He’d written an ending filled with happiness. With hope. With love.
* * *
In the year of our Lord 1431, on the seventh day of October
There is a chill in the air today as I sit in the mouth of our cave, the Loire Valley beautiful in all the shades of autumn splendor. Olivier wanders the field below, exercising his leg, and I can see from where I sit that his limp is less noticeable. I can’t help smiling as I recall the day several months ago when we met again under the light of a new moon, the way he swung from his horse, limping toward me as I ran, colliding in a heap of tears and kisses, love and laughter. His words, “You’re here, my love, you’re here,” and the way he shook as he said them, will stay with me forever.
Olivier promises we will make a good life, a peace-filled life, in a distant part of France, growing apples perchance, or maybe grapes. No war, no fear, no rules or strictures, our hearts governed only by God. And I know, with all the faith in my heart, that it will be so, for my destiny has led me here, and it is not only Olivier’s promise that brings me solace, but the knowledge that it is also a promise written on the wind.
I feel certain that we will not return here, that today is goodbye to this wondrous place where Olivier’s and my heart became one. He is my family now. Him and the child that grows in my womb. A tiny speck of hope, of love. Proof that though life takes, so does it give back.
I shall leave my story here, that and the pieces of Jehanne that she lovingly offered. The parts of her that did not belong only to France, but to me, her friend and confidante. Perhaps someday fate will decide it is time for this story to be shared. I cannot help but feel a kinship for the unknown person who will first read these writings, a connection that, if it comes to be, destiny herself will surely orchestrate. In this way, though perhaps through decades of time, we are bonded together. And so my message to you, reader of my words, knower of my heart, is this: I questioned once whether the winds of fate are benevolent or merciless. I know now—believe—with every fiber of my being, that they are only good. For it was Jehanne who taught me so until the moment of her final breath. I hope, dear unknown friend, that you believe it, too. With love, Adélaïde Durand
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JESSICA
It was fall in Paris. The temperature had dropped, and with the tourists mostly gone, Parisians took back their beloved city.
Stepping from the train tunnel and beginning the walk to my apartment, I tugged my jacket around myself, trying to manage the buttons while stuffing files I’d been reading on the train into my briefcase, and failing with the buttons. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I muttered, as a swirl of dancing leaves crossed the sidewalk in front of me.
The first drop of rain splattered on my nose, and I blinked at the sky, letting out a tiny squeak when another drop fell straight into my eye. I swiped at it, picking up my pace. There hadn’t been rain in the forecast, so I hadn’t brought an umbrella.
The rain picked up, falling steadily now as I ducked my head and fast-walked, not daring to run in the work heels I wore. I used my briefcase to protect me from the rain, holding it above my head. I must have forgotten to zip it closed in my haste to stuff the files inside, though, because suddenly the folder fell out in front of me, causing me to let out a scream as I came up short, squatting and attempting to stop the papers from flying away.
Someone bent down next to me, putting his foot on top of a loose piece of paper. The shadow of an umbrella fell over me, and the rain, mercifully, was blocked. I laughed, shaking my head. “Merci beaucoup—” I looked up, dropping the papers I’d just gathered, my heart leaping in my chest.
Callen.
Breath whooshed from my lungs, and I almost fell backward. “Whoa,” he said softly, wrapping his hands around my forearms and guiding me to my feet. “I’m here to save you,” he said, his voice slightly throaty. He tried to hold on to the tilt of his lips, but the smile wobbled and slipped as our gazes locked, his eyes full of gravity.
Oh.
I just stared. The shock of seeing his face, of having him right there in front of me so unexpectedly, had stolen my voice and all my wits, too, it seemed.