by Mia Sheridan
Finally, unable to sit for even a second longer, I left my room, walking through the château. The meeting room was empty now, the chairs put away, and though there were people in the bar, Callen wasn’t there. I walked outside the front doors of the château and took the path around the building, walking slowly past the courtyard where Ben and I usually ate lunch.
I could hear people at the pool, talking, glasses clinking, a few shrieks of feminine laughter. Those people had something to laugh about. Callen wouldn’t be there.
I meandered through the garden, getting lost a few times but not caring. I remembered the rose garden and choked back a sob. When I was back on the main path, I picked up my pace, following the cobblestones to a back door.
There were signs that pointed toward the main lobby, so I followed them, winded when I finally stepped into the familiar lobby area, moving quickly toward the elevators. Up, up, to the top floor, where I stepped off and again made my way toward Callen’s room.
This time I saw a beam of light under his door and blew out a relieved breath. I knocked, my heart hammering again as I waited. The walk had calmed me, but standing here, my nerves were buzzing and my hands felt clammy. I ran them down my hips, realizing I was still wearing the cocktail dress I’d put on earlier. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.
The door swung open and Callen was standing there, his hair wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. His expression was blank, devoid of any warmth, and his eyes looked slightly glassy, as if he’d been drinking. “Callen,” I breathed. “I’ve been calling you. I—”
“This isn’t a good time, Jessie.”
“We have to talk, Callen. I have to explain what happened earlier and—”
“Jessie,” he said, the tone of his voice startling me so that I jumped. “I have company.” Company? For a moment I didn’t process his words, and then a blonde stepped from the bedroom into the sitting room behind him, craning her neck to see me. She was wearing a white bikini and a towel tied around her hips, as if they’d just come from the pool. The pool. The laughter.
Oh. Oh God.
My stomach dropped to my feet, and I brought my arms around my waist, hugging myself.
“Callen?” the girl called. I recognized her now. She was the same woman he’d been sitting next to in the bar the other night, the same woman I’d seen him with the first night I’d arrived here. The one who’d whined about him not joining her in the hot tub. Seemed she’d gotten some water time with him after all.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, my voice full of all the anguish I felt, my heart aching.
“Sorry.” He started closing the door, and desperation raced through me. I raised my hand, pushing at the smooth wood.
“Please! Please don’t do this!” I repeated on a desperate cry, banging my hand on the door one more time.
For a moment he looked startled, but then he smiled coldly. “Turning into your mother already?”
I stumbled backward as if he’d hit me. It felt like he had. I shook my head, a denial, but of what?
I hurt everywhere.
My skin.
My bones.
My soul.
Callen closed the door in my face and my heart shattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Callen
The door clicked shut and the world fell out from under me. I clenched my eyes closed, taking a moment to get my bearings before turning to the girl—I still didn’t know her fucking name—who smiled and began approaching me. But whatever was on my face caused her to halt, her smile slipping.
“You need to go.”
A flash of irritation lit her eyes. “Go? I just got here. I thought you got rid of her for a reason.”
Her.
“Yeah, well…” I narrowed my eyes in concentration, trying to remember the girl’s name so I could use it. Laura? Lulu?
She must have realized what I was doing because she bit out, “Layla.”
“Right, Layla. I changed my mind. I want to be alone.”
I want to get drunk and pass out.
I want to be numb.
Layla put her hands on her hips and glared. “Think hard before you throw me out, Callen Hayes.”
I massaged my head. A wicked headache was pounding in my skull. “I’m not throwing you out, Layla. I’m asking you to leave.”
Get out of here.
As much as I hadn’t wanted to be alone earlier, I now craved it badly. I was tempted to pick her up and chuck her out the door. The restraint I was hanging on to was the last bit of patience I had left in my body.
“Fine,” she growled. “But this is it! If I see you around the hotel tomorrow, I’m going to ignore you.”
Promise? “It’s the best thing to do, trust me.”
“I see that now.”
She marched to where she’d dropped her pool bag on the floor next to the love seat and picked it up, swinging it onto her shoulder. Without a word, she walked toward the door, bumping me as she passed by. I took a step backward and then watched her open the door and slam it behind her. Thank God.
I walked the few steps to the love seat and sank down onto it, leaning my head back and gripping the hair at the front of my scalp. I stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Now that I was alone, in the quiet of my room, the alcohol buzz beginning to fade, the anguish crept back in like a prowler slipping through an open basement window.
I clenched my eyes shut as the memories of the interview assaulted me, the humiliation and shame I’d felt at being exposed in front of a roomful of strangers, in front of the world eventually. And there was nothing I could do. “Sue that man!” Nick had said as he’d followed me from the room. But for what? Defamation? What he’d said was true. And what did it matter now anyway? I’d seen the reporters in the front row, scribbling furiously on their notepads, writing down each detail of my stupidity, my now very public shame. I’d spotted the cell phones held discreetly as guests recorded the moment. I could try to sue Cyril Sauvage not to air the interview, but what would that achieve? More press. More attention. More humiliation.
Why did you do it, Jessie? Had she confided my secret to Larry because it was a way to force me to address it? Had she seen him as an ally in her efforts to make me try again to learn to read? And did it even matter? Whatever her reason, I had been able to tell she hadn’t wanted it revealed that way. The look on her face…she’d been almost as horrified as I was. Almost. She hadn’t meant to hurt me publicly, and yet that had been the result. Tonight, because of her, in front of a roomful of strangers, I’d been that same little boy sitting at the kitchen table, being told to read—just read—when I couldn’t…I couldn’t.
She’d told fucking Larry I was illiterate. Larry of all people. She’d stood in this very room and seen the hatred in his eyes toward me. Was that why? Did she feel some sort of warped connection to Larry, the betrayed spouse? Did he represent her mother in that scenario, and I, her father? Yes, I’d been the villain that day—even I admitted it—but Larry was no prince.
But neither was I, and really, wasn’t that what it kept coming back to with me and Jessie?
I’d watched her from my balcony this past week as she’d sat in the sunshine with that guy she worked with. They’d laughed and talked as they ate lunch, sometimes flipping through a book and reading aloud to each other as my gut clenched with jealousy and the despondency of knowing I’d never have that with her no matter how hard I tried. And then today it’d looked as if she was crying (over me?) and he’d taken her in his arms for a moment. It’d made me sick, and I’d turned away. And yet still…still, I’d held on to the morsel of hope that maybe we could work something out. But what? In reality, what? She wanted more from me than I could give, and she was right to want more.
Maybe what she’d done hadn’t been entirely purposeful, but the wound was deep and excruciating and it would bleed for a long, long time. It had told me exactly what it would feel like to saddle Jessie with a fraud like me, to place her in what would now be a public
spotlight surrounding my illiteracy. And so I’d made a point to be cruel and vicious, and there was no turning back from the way I’d dismissed her tonight.
Jessie and I were over.
I couldn’t stay here another day. I sat up and pulled my phone from my pocket, tapping the phone icon next to Nick’s picture.
“Hey, Cal.” Nick sounded grim, tired.
“Would you be against checking out tonight?”
There was a beat of silence. “If that’s what you need, buddy.”
“Yeah, I…It’s probably not a good idea to be in a place where the press know how to find me. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a horde of them in the lobby tomorrow morning.”
“You’re probably right.”
Of course, they’d know how to find me in L.A., too. I wanted to dig a hole and burrow deep into the darkness like a frightened squirrel. “We could bum around Paris for a few days.”
“I’m with you, man, anywhere I can get Internet access.”
The emotion I’d suppressed for the last couple of hours flooded into my chest, clogging my throat. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, Nick. I—”
“You’re not, Cal. I’ll tell you if I need to get back, okay? I’ll call for a car. See you downstairs in half an hour?”
“Yeah, okay.” I let out a shaky breath. “See you then.”
After a few minutes I peeled myself off the couch and went to pack my suitcase, throwing things in with no concern whatsoever, even the damp swim trunks I’d taken off and left lying on the bathroom floor when I’d changed only a little while ago. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I felt like an empty shell that somehow still had the ability to ache.
I stared at the bed for a long moment, the memory of Jessie’s sleeping form causing a sharp blade of pain to slice at the raw wound inside. I flinched, wanting to curl in on myself but forcing my body to turn instead and head for the door.
My half-written composition was on the desk, and I stuffed that into the front of my suitcase, wondering if I’d ever want to write music again, if there was anything left. Wondering if I had a career at all after today. Did I want one? I had enough money to survive for quite a while.
I made my way to the lobby, where Nick was waiting, and after a quick checkout, we got in the car Nick had arranged. As the driver pulled away from the curb. I didn’t look back, not once.
“Where to, gentlemen?” the driver asked.
“Paris,” Nick replied, giving me a wan smile. “Take us to la Ville Lumière.”
I stared out the window. Yes, we were headed to the City of Light, and all I felt inside was darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jessica
In the year of our Lord 1431, on the fourteenth day of May
I am numb as I walk through these days. My heart is broken, my soul shattered. I know not whether my beloved Olivier is alive or dead, and inside, my soul screams with misery, with the agony not knowing brings.
My father arranged for a kindly widow in the town of Compiègne to take me in, and here I have resided while waiting for Jehanne’s trial. I know my father wanted me to stay as a final show of loyalty to the court and the favors that will be bestowed upon our family, including the arranged marriage to some titled stranger I do not love; however, this is where I belong. My father knows not of Olivier and I dare not tell him, nor ask for his assistance in garnering information on Olivier’s status, for fear of what my father’s reprisal might be. I yearn with every fiber of my being to search for Olivier, and pray that he is injured, but not dead, unable to come to me as I am unable to come to him. I find comfort in knowing that, for now, I am where I am meant to be, that it is with Jehanne I must stay. I know in my heart Olivier would want it thus and would advise that I do my duty, as promised, to serve Jehanne. But it is not only obligation that keeps me near to her, nor my father’s directive, but friendship and love and a desire to alleviate her terror.
I meet with her as often as the guards will allow, and she is so frightened that I must be strong for her. Under threat of death she signed a confession and denied that she had ever received divine guidance. I must profess that the relief I felt was vast, but when I saw her and witnessed the way in which the denial tore at her heart, her very soul, I questioned whether I should feel any solace at all.
“Does not a lie of the soul cause more despair than death itself?” she asked me, and I could not disagree. She says she will retract her confession, that she let her fear guide her rather than God.
“But following God will get you killed,” I declared.
Her face was pale and her hands shook as she answered, “Then that is what I was meant for.” Before I could respond, she took my hands in hers and said, “Make me a promise. Live your life with joy and laughter. Do not take one second of it for granted. Live fiercely and without regret. For me.”
“Maybe God wants me dead, too,” I cried, filled with aching sorrow.
But Jehanne smiled in that soft way of hers and said, “No. God has other plans for you. Find your battle and fight it. Be brave and he will not desert you. Listen for him, though his voice be but a whisper on the wind, a birdsong, the deep feeling of rightness in your heart. Don’t stop listening, my dear Adélaïde, and you will never, ever be alone.”
I know not of God’s reasoning, though I try to accept his will as she has taught me I must. But oh Lord in heaven, if she retracts as she says she will, they will burn her at the stake. A girl of only nineteen springs. My friend. And I cannot bear to watch it happen, though she says it is the only thing now that will free her from the chains.
The faint mustiness of my building’s lobby combined with the sweet, yeasty smell of baking bread wafting from Mrs. Bertrand’s apartment welcomed me home. I climbed the stairs slowly, hefting my suitcase behind me, and before I’d even reached the upstairs landing, our apartment door burst open and Frankie was there, squealing and holding her arms out.
I grinned, but once I’d dropped my suitcase and walked into her arms, the tears began to flow, and I was laughing and crying, a mixture of happiness and grief pouring from my body so swiftly I could barely control it.
I’d held myself together these last weeks at the château, working so long and so hard that I could only fall into bed at the end of the day. I’d been severely disappointed to learn that for me Adélaïde’s story would end as she fearfully waited for her friend to face execution—an execution that history told me had most definitely been carried out. We had translated all the papers that had been found, and there were no more to indicate Adélaïde’s fate. I wouldn’t get the closure of knowing Adélaïde went on to live a happy life, would never know if she reunited with Captain Durand and whether or not their love story continued, or whether she was forced to marry another. It was another loss for me to grapple with. But life, I supposed, didn’t always offer closure. I’d taken comfort in rereading Adélaïde’s words, in experiencing once again the lessons she had to teach, as we’d gone over all the writings a second time, verifying and correcting where necessary. I’d let myself disappear into Adélaïde’s world, into her words, shutting out the despair I felt at how my own love story had ended, the intense pain I felt whenever I recalled Callen’s final cruel words. But now, in the security of my best friend’s sympathetic arms, I finally allowed myself to feel.
“Oh, Jess,” she crooned, squeezing me tighter and rocking us both back and forth. “My poor, sweet cabbage.”
I sniffled and wiped at my tears, gathering myself enough to be led into our apartment. I sank down onto the couch, and Frankie went back into the hallway and grabbed the suitcase I’d completely forgotten about and brought it inside. “Water?” she asked.
I shook my head, wiping at my tear-streaked face. “No. I drank a bottle in the cab from the train station.”
Frankie nodded, handing me a tissue so I could wipe my nose. “How was it, wrapping up the project?”
I nodded. “Good. Fine. I didn’t really have to
say goodbye to anyone since I’ll see them all at the banquet dinner on Saturday.”
“Only two days to find you the perfect dress.”
I offered a small tip of my lips. “These are researchers and scientists, Frankie. They won’t notice if I wear a grain sack.”
Frankie raised a brow. “You doubt the genius of Clémence yet again.”
I chuckled. “Never. I just think her genius might be wasted on them.” Plus, I didn’t know if I ever wanted to wear a Clémence Maillard dress again. They reminded me too much of Callen.
Callen.
After that night, that awful, awful night, my heartache and misery were buried under a layer of anger at his cruelty, at disgust for what he’d done. I hated myself for what I’d done to him, and I felt deeply ashamed at my error. But my mistake had been unintentional, and the second we’d had hurt and misunderstanding between us, Callen had turned directly to old habits: drinking and women. He had good reason for being unable to answer me when I’d asked about whether he was trustworthy or not. He’d proven to me what I feared most—I couldn’t trust him.
And yet…despite my best efforts at lecturing my heart, it insisted on loving him anyway. Stupid, stupid, irrational heart.
Frankie was looking at me worriedly, as if she had followed my thoughts. “He’s in Paris, you know,” she said softly.
My heart twisted. “Who?” I whispered, though I knew from her tone she was talking about Callen.
“Callen,” she confirmed.
My shoulders deflated. “Oh.” I purposefully hadn’t turned on the television, looked at the Internet on my phone, or picked up a publication of any sort. Frankie had told me the interview of Callen and Cyril Sauvage had been replayed continuously since it happened and written about in publications around the world. I didn’t want to see any of it. Just the thought alone hurt and shamed me, and I could only imagine what it was doing to Callen. Despite my anger and pain, I still managed to feel compassion for what he must be suffering.
