by Mia Sheridan
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.”
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 onc
e 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?”
For a brief moment Callen looked confused, but then his face went white, his lips lifting slightly but falling, as if he’d attempted to smile—to laugh off Cyril’s question—but hadn’t been able to. His eyes darted around, as if looking for an escape.
A very soft, strange groaning sound reverberated in my ears, and I realized it had come from me. Nick reached over and took my hand, squeezing it in his. I swallowed back the lump rising in my throat. “This is my fault,” I choked so softly only Nick could hear.
Before Nick could reply, Callen said, “I’m not sure where you got your information, Cyril, but—”
Cyril laughed, a booming sound that startled me. “It’s easy enough to disprove me. Just read the lines.” He pointed at the piece of paper still clutched in Callen’s hand and then chuckled again, leaning forward. “And if you can’t, why not admit it here, among friends? France, and America of course, wants to know how a completely uneducated, illiterate man like yourself composes such renowned music. Why, it’s inspirational!”
Callen looked as if he’d gone into some strange trance, staring at the camera, his eyes wide, his body rigid. I wanted to cry for him. To have his most protected secret broadcasted like this in front of…who knew how many watched the show?
Nick let go of my hand, turning toward me. “How is this your fault?”
I let out a small whimper. “I told Larry.”
Nick swore softly and looked over at Larry. Callen suddenly looked away from the camera, right at Nick, and then followed Nick’s gaze to Larry, who was smirking as he stood against the wall. Callen’s eyes widened as if realization was dawning. But then a look of confusion moved across his face as he looked down, maybe considering how Larry had found out. Oh God. His eyes moved slowly to Nick, who was now looking at me, and then settled on my face. He must have been able to tell by my expression that I was the guilty party because a look of such blatant betrayal overtook his expression that I flinched.
“How could you?” Nick gritted out.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know if the words even came out. I felt dizzy with the horror of this situation, woozy with regret.
Callen stood up and tore his microphone off, his hands visibly shaking. He let it fall to the floor.
“Callen, don’t be so quick to leave.” Cyril stood up, too, putting a hand on Callen’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of being illiterate. We all want to know how you’ve managed as long as—”
Callen pushed at Cyril, and the talk show host fell backward, landing with a whoosh of breath into the chair he’d just been occupying. Callen walked past him, not sparing me or Nick a glance. He still looked stricken, his eyes wide with humiliation, his skin pasty except for the two high points of bright red color on his cheekbones. He wove out of the room as if he could barely control his own limbs.
The room burst into an uproar, people who had been staring in silent shock at what was going on in front of them suddenly turning to their neighbors and expressing their surprise. Others were scrawling in their notepads, reporters who would now spread the story even before Cyril’s show aired. Oh God. Oh God.
Nick stood, moving to go after Callen, and I wobbled to my feet, too, grabbing on to Nick’s shirt. He turned, glaring at me. “It was a mistake, Nick, please…”
“Tell it to him. He’s the one who has a knife sticking out of his back.”
I sank back in my chair as if my bones had suddenly turned to liquid.
But when I spotted Larry smiling and talking to Cyril in whispered tones near the front, the rage that overtook me was swift and severe, reanimating my body and giving me the strength to stand again, to move toward them with single-minded pursuit.
“You’re a disgusting snake.”
Larry turned, his expression unsurprised, one side of his mouth lifting in a mocking smile. “It’s just fair play, Jessica. One good turn deserves another. Did you really think I wouldn’t use it?”
“A game? Is that what that was?” I couldn’t fathom these people.
Larry shrugged. “A game? Sure. Do you think Callen thought fucking my wife was anything more than that?”
I flinched. I truly didn’t know. And yet I believed in him. I believed that the man who had involved himself in those games was not the true Callen Hayes.
I shook my head. “What you’ve done…you’ve potentially ruined his career, and your own in the process.”
He laughed. “My career? Do you think he’s my only client? My career has nothing to do with this. It wasn’t me who outed Callen as an illiterate fraud. It was Cyril Sauvage. Where he gets his information is anyone’s guess. Maybe he got it from you. But don’t worry—he won’t expos
e his source.” His smile grew. “As for Callen’s career, who knows? I was going to cut him loose anyway. He was becoming a washed-up drunk who couldn’t write a jingle to save his ass.”
God, he was vile. I was shaking again. “You’re detestable. I pity you,” I said, and turned and walked away as fast as my feet could carry me. I had to get to Callen. I had to try to explain and beg his forgiveness.
I barely remembered the trip upstairs, my mind reeling with the best thing to say, the right words to use. When I rounded the corner into the corridor where his room was, I took a deep breath, knocking loudly on his door. I waited, my heart racing, but there was no answer, no sound from within. I knocked one more time, stepping back and peering under the door. The door was almost completely flush with the carpet, but I thought I’d see a light from within if he was there. Had he not come back here? Where else would he have gone? Nick’s room, maybe? Only I didn’t know which one that was.
I pulled my phone out of my evening bag and dialed Callen’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. Sighing, I knocked on his door one last time, listening closely for any sounds. When I was met only with silence, I turned and headed back toward my room.
For a little while I sat in the chair by my window, staring at the wall, reliving what had happened in my head. I called Callen’s phone several more times only to be sent straight to voice mail again and again. Maybe he was in Nick’s room. Or maybe Nick had taken him out somewhere. That would be for the best, probably. A friend to lend support, to make Callen laugh, help him see the bright side of this.
The bright side.
What was that? No more hiding. I almost laughed. I’d suggested it myself and then unthinkingly made it happen against his will. He must hate me.
It was going to be hard enough to part as it was, but now…to part this way. I couldn’t bear it. I put my head in my hands, but the tears wouldn’t come. I felt hollow, racked with self-loathing.
