Free Words Unspoken by Elizabeth Musser Page A

that you?”
    “You bet it’s me, Mr. Clouse, and I’m madder than a hornet! I thought we had an understanding. You promised me there would be no phone calls, no reporters. And you let some hot shot journalist call me at home and ask for an interview! I have a good mind to take my book and move to another publishing house right this very instant.”
    “Miss Green. Forgive me. Please let me explain—”
    “I don’t want any explanation, you hear me? I want anonymity. Now I’ll have to change my phone number before that thieving reporter gives it out to every sleazy journalist out there. Do you understand me?”
    Edmond Clouse replied meekly, “Yes, ma’am. I am so sorry for the mistake. I will call the journalist immediately and have him destroy the number.”
    “Oh, it’s too late for that. You certainly are a trusting soul. Break your promise to me and expect someone else to honor his? The only person in the book business that I ever want to hear on the other end of the phone line is you! And that is to tell me how the book is doing and what the royalties are. Is that clear?”
    “Very clear, Miss Green.”
    “Good.” She slammed down the phone.
    Stella couldn’t help but smile at the memory. She and Ed had both been young, inexperienced. Still, he was a good publisher with a lot of business sense. He’d suggested Jerry Steinman to her for her broker.
    “If you really want anonymity, Miss Green, let Jerry and me deal with the paperwork. We’ll send you monthly reports if you like.”
    She could not complain. The plan had worked well for all these years. The foundation was thriving. But she wanted to make absolutely sure that the young, talented Mr. Ted Draper understood the rules of the game. She picked up the phone, flattened the crumpled letter, and found the phone number.
    After two rings, a man answered. “Ted Draper.”
    “Mr. Draper. This is Stella Green.”
    “Stella!” he sang through the line, his voice warm and assured.
    “Miss Green.”
    “Excuse me, of course. Miss Green. Thank you for calling. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you today? And how may I help you?”
    “You may help me by stopping the sweet talk and getting down to business. I need to know I can trust you, and I do that better face-to-face.”
    “Tell me when and where to meet you, and I’ll be there.”
    She smiled with satisfaction as his voice became professional. “You know Chicago?”
    “Like the back of my hand.”
    “The Berghoff, 17 West Adams Street. Lunch, 12:30 next Tuesday, September 29. Be on time. I don’t tolerate lateness.”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”
    “Good.” She mashed the button on the phone until she heard a dial tone.
    He seemed compliant. But one could never tell. Better to meet him in person. Much better.
    ________
    Perspiration dripped down Janelle’s back as she waited in the Marseille airport for Brian’s plane to arrive. Fifteen minutes late. She was sitting in a low metal chair in the big open room, watching humanity pass by. The screen announcing the flight still proclaimed Retardé without saying how late it would be. She didn’t use to feel afraid when Brian flew back and forth from Algeria. Now, with the latest events of violence, it was only natural to be anxious, she told herself.
    But that wasn’t the real reason. For most of their twelve years in France she had never felt terror, a debilitating fear, a premonition of tragedy at every turn. Before, she trusted. Now she panicked. If something happened to Brian too—
    This line of thinking was preposterous!
    Fill your mind with things above.
    What things?
    God is good, God is love.
    God allowed my son to die!
    She fought the tears, blotted her eyes with a handkerchief, and concentrated on the people walking by: veiled women wearing the hijab , brown-skinned men ushering the veiled women around, a French mother pulling her small children close as she cast a suspicious glance toward the men.
    This was the new