More Than Words

by Mia Sheridan

  Oh my God. I released a startled breath as I met Dr. Moreau’s eyes. My heart thumped with surprised elation. “Oui,” I breathed as I took the manila folder and opened it to peek inside. I immediately recognized Adélaïde’s beautifully formal script, and my heart leapt as if spotting an old friend coming toward me on the street. Oh. “Thank you, Dr. Moreau.” I struggled not to tear up. “Thank you so much. I’ll e-mail the first one tomorrow,” I said, my voice breathless with the surge of emotions filling my chest.

  Dr. Moreau stood. “Très bien. And remember to attach an invoice for the work.” He came around the desk and took my hand in both of his, kissing me on each cheek once again. “Bonne journée, Jessica.”

  * * *

  I saved my excited squeal until I’d made it halfway from the Louvre to the train station, stopping on a street corner and releasing the joyful sound. A permanent job. At the Louvre. I leaned back against the building behind me, the warmth of the stone seeping into my blouse and heating my skin. I turned my face toward the sun and felt the warm rays on my face. “Thank you,” I whispered. I clutched the smooth manila folder tightly to my chest, hugging it as if it were Adélaïde herself and she were experiencing this moment with me. I was dying to read what was inside, but I wanted to sit by myself in a quiet room so I could absorb every word. So I could return to the fields in the Loire Valley. To my heart.

  I felt more at peace than I had since I’d left the château. It would take time to move on from the pain of losing Callen, but eventually I would. I’d taken a chance on love and I’d lost. Despite how it had ended, I wouldn’t regret the time we’d spent together. That, too, had been a gift, and I would try to ensure the loss changed me for the better. I had no idea what that meant at the moment, but it was a goal and goals were vital. Dreams were vital.

  The half-hour trip home seemed to take longer than usual. Frankie was at work, and I normally wouldn’t relish spending the rest of the afternoon alone, but I had Adélaïde to keep me company and knew her familiar voice would bring me comfort.

  When I rounded the corner of my street and looked up, the sight of a man walking directly toward me caused me to halt. I gulped in a breath.

  My heart clamored with fear as Nick approached me slowly. “Is he okay?” I asked, rushing to him, my first thought that Callen was hurt and Nick had come to deliver the bad news.

  “What? Oh yeah, he’s fine.”

  I put my hand over my heart, and Nick grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t consider you’d think I was here to bring bad news.”

  “His lifestyle doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the state of his health.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?”

  I looked at him in silence for a moment. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt with some website design company logo on it—his probably, though the T-shirt design was faded and I couldn’t make out the exact company name. He looked good, not like Callen had when I’d seen him. “I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Yeah…I know. I’m sorry I walked off on bad terms that day after the interview.”

  “I don’t blame you for that, Nick. I deserved it.”

  Nick shook his head. “No, Jessica. You said it was an accident, and I believe you. Whatever happened, I don’t think you meant to hurt Callen, especially publicly.”

  “No. I didn’t.” My apartment was at the end of the block, and I gestured toward it. “Do you want to sit down and talk?” I asked.

  “I really only have a short time. Callen and I are flying back to California this afternoon.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said softly.

  “But, um, I saw a coffee shop a block over, if you wouldn’t mind joining me for a cup? I spotted some delicious-looking cake in the window.”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  We walked the block over to the coffee shop I knew well, entering and taking a seat at a small table. The scents of rich coffee and sweet desserts hit my nose and made my stomach roil. Nick’s visit had obviously shaken up my system. “Can I get you something?” Nick asked.

  I shook my head and waited while he ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of decadent chocolate cake.

  “Does Callen know you’re here?” I asked after he’d polished off half the dessert in two bites.

  He sat back. “No. I just…I don’t even know exactly why I came.” He let out a small, embarrassed chuckle and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve worried about Callen for a long time, and I guess I’ve come to the conclusion that he has to start worrying about himself if he’s going to move on. What happened at that interview—awful as it was—maybe it will be the thing that will finally make that happen. They say you’ve gotta hit rock bottom before you start to climb out.” He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee.

  I breathed out a huff of air. “I came to the same conclusion, Nick, and I hope you’re right about Callen figuring out how to move forward.” But it’s none of my business anymore, as much as that hurts.

  He tilted his head, watching me for a moment, then setting his cup down and crossing his arms. “He used to go to this boxing ring in L.A. where they let amateurs spar. I went once to watch. Wasn’t my thing. It reminded me of my past, and unlike Callen, I’d never liked being hit.”

  Oh. Both parts of that statement filled me with sadness, but Nick didn’t seem to be there to talk about himself, and I didn’t know him well enough to ask more. “Callen enjoyed it.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know if enjoyed is the right word, but yeah, he sought it out. He wants to hurt himself, Jessica. The drinking, the women, it accomplishes two things at once—it numbs him for a while, and it hurts him because he hates himself for it.”

  “It hurt me, too.”

  “I know.”

  I looked at him, saw the grief etched in his eyes. Yes, he did know. Only not in the same way. But he cared about Callen as a brother would, and so watching Callen ruin his own life must bring him pain as well. “He’s very lucky to have you,” I murmured. “I hope he realizes it.”

  He gave me a wan smile and then studied me for a moment. “Callen told me what he did to you when you went to his room that night.” That night. The ill-fated night when I’d tried to tell him the truth. The truth he hadn’t wanted to hear.

  I flinched, looking away, not wanting to think about that night at all. “Yeah.”

  He took another sip of coffee and then toyed with the cardboard cup for a moment, seeming to be considering something. “It’s not really my place to tell you this, but…nothing happened between Callen and that girl. She left right after you did, Jessica. Callen and I checked out thirty minutes later. He hurt you on purpose, but he didn’t have sex with her. I just thought you should know the truth about that.”

  I blinked at him, furrowing my brow. “Then why…?”

  “To hurt you, and to hurt himself. He’s spent these last weeks in Paris trying to get into the lifestyle he led before, but it’s not working for him. He comes back to the hotel alone every night and sits out on the balcony looking pathetic and completely miserable.” He smiled brightly. “It’s giving me hope.”

  I couldn’t help the confused laugh that bubbled up from my chest as I simultaneously shook my head.

  “He’s sick with jealousy over who you might be with, and he’s never been jealous before. I think it’s making him just a bit crazy. He’s a mess, but maybe…maybe in a good way for the first time ever. Only time will tell.”

  I sighed, watching him polish off the last of his cake. “Nick, I hope he makes a turn for the better, but I can’t invest in hoping. And even if he pulls himself together, there’s no future for us. I’m here, he’s in L.A., and our lives are a thousand miles apart in other ways as well.”

  He nodded. “I know. I hope me coming here didn’t upset you. I meant it as an act of goodwill between two people who care about him. We might be the only people on earth who really do.”

  God, that was a sad thought. And even sadder was that
while I still loved Callen, I couldn’t be part of his life anymore without driving a stake through my heart every day.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have any interest in keeping in touch?”

  I shook my head slowly. “That wouldn’t be good for me, Nick. I hope you understand why.”

  “Yeah.” He breathed out the word, a sound of resignation. “I do.”

  “But I’m so thankful to you for coming to me today. I’ve been…struggling, and now I think I can put some of that to rest.”

  “Good.” He smiled, tilting his head. “I think fate knew what she was doing when she brought you and Callen together.”

  I smiled, a genuine one, as I picked up my things and stood. I agreed. No matter the outcome, I had faith that our time spent together was for a purpose, even if I wouldn’t know that purpose for a long time to come. “I think so, too.”

  “Take care of yourself, Jessica.”

  “You too, Nick.”

  I turned and walked out of the coffee shop, heading toward my apartment while I pondered Nick’s words. Callen hadn’t slept with the girl who had been in his hotel room that night. Why, I wasn’t sure, and maybe it shouldn’t matter whether he had or he hadn’t, because either way, he’d wanted me to believe he was going to. That he was capable of doing it. But it did matter to me, and the relief I felt was like a balm to my heart. It didn’t change anything now, but the knowledge brought me a measure of peace.

  I turned the corner to my street, leaving my past behind, grateful to be able to enter into Adélaïde’s past instead. Inside my apartment, I sat on the couch and brought my legs up under me, taking out the top copy of Adélaïde’s writing.

  In the year of our Lord 1431, on the first day of June

  It is over. Her spirit soars with the angels. I did not want to watch her suffering. My heart bled with agony, and I trembled with horror to see her body tied to the stake, a wooden cross clutched to her chest. I know not much, but I know that what happened to Jehanne today is an injustice of which the world will come to grieve. And so I forced myself to bear witness, to be as brave as she taught me to be, to watch as she met her earthly end with composure and courage. And I vow always to remember the truth she lived: that there is more than what we see with our human eyes, that God shows us our path and fate whispers her dreams for us, guiding with love and grace. It matters not who doubts us, only that we listen with our heart and are fearless enough to look with the vision of faith. In the end, my only hope is that it brought her some small comfort to know that as the flames licked higher, she was watched with celestial eyes of love.

  Live fiercely and without regret, I promise to remind myself when I am afraid or uncertain, repeating the words Jehanne first said to me in that quiet stream what seems so long ago. The same words she whispered to Charles the Seventh, the phrase the wise and kindly priest who gave Charles comfort in his father’s desertion said to him as he passed from this world to the next, words Charles had never repeated to another living soul. But they were more than words. They were the very thing that secured Jehanne an army, won an abandoned king a throne, and gifted France a heroine.

  And I myself shall live by them all the days of my life.

  Now I sit here at the edge of the sea looking out over God’s masterpiece as the sun rises and casts the water in shades of gold. I did not board the carriage my father sent for me; nor will I return home to the life I once led, to the stranger I was promised to by those who do not know my heart.

  The wind is blowing against me, plastering my dress to my body and forcing me to turn my face north, and I swear I feel Jehanne beside me pointing the way. Facing me toward a cave in the Loire Valley where my beloved Olivier promised we’d find each other again if ever we were lost. Is he alive? Is he injured? Will he find his way back to me? Does he love me as I love him? With body and soul? I have no answers, and yet I have faith. I carry inside me the peace of knowing my life will be led fiercely and without regret. Please, dear Lord, dear beloved Jehanne, guide me where you would have me go and I will humbly follow.

  PART THREE

  I am not afraid. I was born to do this.

  —Joan of Arc

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Callen

  The California sunshine blazed through a gap in the blinds, hitting me like a spotlight, causing me to groan and bring my pillow over my eyes. We’d gotten in close to dawn and I’d slept for only four or five hours. Apparently, I hadn’t made sure the shade was completely shut before I stumbled into bed last night.

  I attempted to go back to sleep, but the damn light was too bright now that I’d woken up. I tossed the pillow aside and rolled over, opening one eye blearily to look at the clock: 12:17. I stared at the familiar ceiling of my bedroom, depression settling in around me like the unwelcome visitor it’d become. Would a drink help? It was only noon here, but it was nighttime in Paris.

  Paris.

  Jessie.

  My gut clenched at the reminder that an ocean now separated us. That was good, but still, it fucking hurt. Everything hurt, and I had no idea what to do about that other than what I’d always done. Except that hadn’t worked in Paris, and it no longer sounded appealing, either. Nothing did.

  My mind returned to that balcony in Paris, the way Jessie had looked in the gown of golden roses. Roses. Shimmery and elegant. A beacon of light. So incredibly beautiful it’d clawed at my heart. I’d seen a poster for the gala and gone to find out if she was pregnant, knowing inside that I was hoping for it, praying even, because I still wanted her—so fucking badly—and the agony of missing her had made me selfish enough to cling to any reason she might want me back. Selfish enough to show up uninvited where I knew she’d be, but not before a few shots of liquid courage.

  And then I’d seen him kiss her, touch her. I’d been jealous and hurt and angry, and so I’d been cruel—again.

  You’re a disgrace.

  God, I knew I was. I knew.

  My cell phone rang from somewhere across the room, and I lay there, letting it go to voice mail. But when it began ringing again, just a few seconds later, I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed. “Jesus.”

  I followed the sound and located my phone in the pocket of the jeans I’d tossed aside last night before falling into bed. “Hello?” My voice sounded rough and filled with the sleep I hadn’t gotten enough of.

  “Callen, dear?”

  “Hi, Myrtle.”

  She sighed softly. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, dear, but your father…he passed away.”

  I walked back toward the bed and sat, letting out a puff of air. “My father?”

  “Yes. A man who worked at the VA hospital called you. He found your business number in your father’s records. He left his information so you could call him back. But I thought you’d rather hear the news from me than a stranger.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Myrtle.”

  There was a pause. “I’m here for you, dear. Do you need me to come over and help with any arrangements—”

  “No, thank you. I’m okay. My father and I, we were…estranged.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry to hear that. That’s not easy either.”

  “No,” I murmured. I felt as if I were in a daze. Myrtle gave me the number of the man who’d called and then she rattled on for another minute. I didn’t grasp all her words, but her calm tone soothed me.

  After I hung up, I sat staring at the wall for a very long time.

  * * *

  The old house was abandoned. I wasn’t surprised. It’d been a shithole when we’d lived here eleven years ago, and another decade’s worth of renters had sealed its fate. Even the owner had apparently walked away. The sign on what passed for a lawn showed the logo of a large California bank. They must own it now.

  I wasn’t sure why I’d even driven by. But my dad had moved back to my hometown of Santa Lucinda at some point—I didn’t even know exactly when—and his small, sad funeral had been held up the street. I’d paid for a headst
one for him and shown up. I didn’t think he would expect more from me than that, if he even would have wanted me there at all. He’d apparently had a few old friends, army buddies who’d shown up looking like something the cat had dragged in and then stood around in a group afterward, smoking cigarettes and trading stories, on what topic I couldn’t say.

  My father hadn’t moved back to this house when he’d moved back to town, if it’d even been available for rent at the time. But this was where I was drawn. If my pain resided anywhere physical, this was it.

  The front door had been locked, but I’d been able to push a side window up enough that I could squeeze through.

  What am I doing?

  My footsteps echoed through the empty rooms as I sidestepped animal droppings and garbage that had been left behind.

  There was a large hole in the floorboard in the hallway, likely where animals got in.

  My old room…the closet where I’d hidden the keyboard—that beloved keyboard—only to take it out when my dad wasn’t home, losing myself in the music that I could miraculously read. That was a good memory. The bathroom…my dad’s room…and then the kitchen. I stood in the open space looking around. All the lower cabinets had been removed, along with the light fixtures, even the baseboards. The upper cabinets hung precariously, most of the doors tilted and hanging by a single rusted hinge. The linoleum on the floor was cracked and peeling, and rusty pipes where the sink had once been were exposed.

  Worthless idiot! Read! Read this line. Just this one fucking letter!

  My gut rolled with the echo of my father’s words as my eyes moved slowly to the place the table had been, the location of my misery, my shame and humiliation. I pictured myself there now, a book open in front of me, praying to God to help me read.