The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “He loved her, Al. Always did. Besides, his religious roots wouldn’t allow him not to forgive her.”

  Even in his most broken state, Dad never uttered a disparaging word about Blanche. Nor would he tolerate one from Tenley.

  “She’s your mother and you will respect her.”

  “What does Holt say?” Alicia tossed back a swig of her drink with a glance at Addi, whose face was covered with Cheerio bits.

  “Paris, of course.”

  “For once I agree with him. So how did this Paris gig come up?”

  “Nicolette Carson—”

  “There’s a name I didn’t expect. Where did he run into her?”

  “She was at the Phipps Roth Award. She invited Holt to a screenwriting and film symposium she’s hosting. By invitation only. So it’s an elite crowd.”

  Alicia wagged her finger at baby Addi. “Look what you made me miss, young lady.”

  Tenley smiled, running her thumb over her bare ring finger. Alicia’s shallow scolding meant nothing. She’d walk across cut glass for her daughter, for her family, and not think twice.

  Married right out of NYU, she and Drake bought a house one block away from her parents, who still lived in the house where she grew up.

  Tenley envied Alicia. She had family. Close and tight, sharing every birthday and holiday, watching each other’s houses when one or the other went on vacation. They circled the wagons when sickness or hardship hit.

  Tenley had Dad. And Grandpa until he died. They did their best. But when tragedy struck, there were no family wagons circling.

  If not for Alicia’s family, Tenley would’ve stood alone at Dad’s funeral.

  Alone was the loneliest place on earth.

  “Where are you on your book?” Alicia said.

  “Same place I was last time you asked.”

  Wide-eyed, Alicia filled Addi’s tray with more Cheerios. “Isn’t your deadline coming up?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you got nothing?”

  “Zip, zero, nada.”

  “Then you have to go to Paris. Find some inspiration. Oh—” She reached for Tenley’s left hand. “Let me see your ring. I saw a picture in the paper but . . .” She made a face with a quizzical glance at Tenley. “It looked much bigger in the photo. And sparkly. Where’s your ring, Tenley?”

  “In its home.” She pulled her hand free, hiding it under the table. “The Tiffany box.”

  “Why—”

  “I don’t want to gunk it up with soap and stuff . . . you know . . . hamburger meat or whatever.”

  Alicia spewed her mouthful of Diet Coke. “Hamburger meat? When did you ever make a hamburger?”

  “Look, this isn’t about the ring or when I ever made a hamburger, which, for your information, was my senior year of college.”

  “Right, when you almost caught our kitchen on fire.”

  “And you dated one of the firefighters for six months. You’re welcome. Back to my problem.”

  “Easy. Go to Paris, then go help Blanche. How long is the symposium?”

  “A week, but Holt booked an apartment for three months. He wants to write there.”

  “When does Blanche need you?”

  “By Monday.” Tenley rose from the table, the caffeine from the pop energizing her anxiety. “Blanche assures me Cocoa Beach is an inspiring place to write. Her house has a huge library I can use. She said she should only need me on treatment days and maybe a few days after if she’s sick.”

  “Who will cook? Clean? Run errands?”

  “Me, I guess.”

  “Then you’re both doomed. You can’t write if you’re so distracted. Look at how far you’ve gotten with all the time in the world.”

  “You don’t need to remind me. And I haven’t had all the time in the world. I’ve done a second book tour, interviews for radio, TV, and print. I’ve attended book fairs. It’s exhausting being a success.”

  More exhausting to realize it was all a facade.

  “Then you need Paris. A sort of beautiful isolation. You can’t go on a promotional junket or call in to a radio show if you’re in Paris. I swear, Barclay has kept you running with promotions, book clubs, special appearances, this thing or that.”

  “People miss my father.”

  “It’s not just about your dad. You wrote a great book. Don’t cut yourself short.”

  Tenley drained her Diet Coke and dumped the can in the recycle bin. “Tell me what to do, Al.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” she said. “Apparently your heart is telling you something different. You know, if you go to Paris, you could get married there. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  “Married in Paris?” But she’d never really said yes, had she? “Al, I don’t wear the ring because I never really said yes. He asked me in the limo on the way to the event. Then Wendall knocked on my window and opened the door, telling us we were late. Holt slipped the ring on and I—”

  “Went with it.”

  Going with it was Tenley’s superpower. Only child of a single dad, she’d learned to roll with almost any situation. The upside was very little ruffled her. The downside was very little ruffled her.

  Except failing when everyone—everyone—anticipated success.

  Otherwise, she lived with a man she wasn’t sure she loved. She accepted a book deal she wasn’t sure she’d earned.

  “Go to Paris, Tenley. Blanche is the past. Holt is the future. Book writing is your calling. Figure out if your answer to his proposal is yes or no. Spend sunny afternoons writing. Take weekends in the country. Dream. Drink good wine, eat fabulous cheese and great bread. Make the kind of love that destroys the bed.”

  Tenley’s eyes watered. “You should be the writer.” She peeked at her best friend. “You know it won’t be like that, Alicia. We’ll work until midnight, when one of us will look up, realize the dinner hour has passed, and all we have in the fridge is leftover Chinese.”

  Alicia laughed. “Even in Paris, leftover Chinese is romantic.”

  “There will be no romance. That went out the door the first time we . . . well, you know.”

  “So use this opportunity to find the spark again.”

  “I’m not sure there ever was a spark.”

  “Never?”

  “A small one. I was in so much pain after Dad died. I’d see Holt at the coffee shop and he became a sort of solace, a friend in the night.”

  “Go to Paris, Tenley. Write. Find your passion. Get married in a country chapel if you’re so inclined. Gain five pounds. Do it. Just don’t debate it ad nauseam. Indecision makes people unstable.”

  “Exactly. I feel like I’m free-falling.” Tenley slapped her hand against the faux-wood tabletop. “Paris. I’m going to Paris, and I’m going to love it. And Holt. Find our spark. Commit. Write an amazing book.”

  With each confession, her words swirled and inspired, raised her soul to confidence.

  “I can’t believe I let Blanche mess me up. Again. You’re right, she’s been doing it since she left twenty years ago.”

  “Although . . .” Alicia said, low and slow.

  “Alicia.” Tenley covered her face with her hands. “Don’t! You always do this. I make up my mind, then you present a different view.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s how my brain works. Paris is great, but helping your mom could really change your relationship with her. Give you what you’ve always wanted.”

  “I’m twenty-nine years old. I don’t need her approval. Or her affection. It’s enough we text and e-mail a few times a year.” Lies. Fat ones. Dripping from her lips.

  “Yet here you sit in my Larchmont kitchen, wondering if you should go to Florida or Paris.”

  A sheen of tears exposed Tenley’s true emotions. “I guess I do wonder if going to Florida would change things between us. Is this my chance to have a relationship with her? What if the cancer defeats her? Would I always wonder . . . ?”

  “If saying yes to her would’ve been a turning p
oint?”

  Tenley pressed her forehead to the table. “Yes. Maybe that’s why she’s asking.”

  Alicia’s warm arms came around her shoulders. “Go to Florida, Tenley. It’s what your dad would want. I think it’s what you want, or you wouldn’t be here. This is a time for Holt to support you. Be there for you. Trust his love, Ten.”

  Tenley raised her head, peering into her friend’s beautiful eyes. “How did I ever deserve you?”

  Alicia laughed. “You stalked me all the way to my dorm room.”

  “Excuse me, but as I recall, you broke into my dorm room pretending it was yours.”

  But it was fate, or God, who brought them together as roommates their freshman year at NYU.

  “So, Florida it is.”

  “Al, do you think I’m with Holt because I’m afraid to be alone? Is fear why I have writer’s block?”

  “Tenley, those are questions only you can answer.”

  From her chair, Addison fussed, demanding attention and sending Cheerio crumbs over the side of her tray with a quick swish of her chubby hand.

  When Drake came home, Tenley headed out, turning down an invitation to dinner. She yearned for the train ride home to think. To be.

  As she walked to the train station, a low, familiar hum began in her chest—the melody of the song she’d known since she was a child. She didn’t know its origins. Dad and Grandpa claimed they’d never heard it before.

  Nevertheless, it was Tenley’s song. One that comforted her in her darkest hours. An omnipotent voice singing, “Do not be dismayed, do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.”

  FIVE

  BIRDIE

  Percival greeted her at the front door, helping her out of her coat. “Is the coast clear?” Birdie asked.

  “Yes, if you move quickly. How did it go?”

  “Not as well as I’d have liked.” She’d pondered her meeting with Mr. Barclay the entire ride home, mystified by the disappearance of her manuscript. “Though I did meet Gordon Phipps Roth.”

  “How splendid. I know how you adore his books. But”—Percival leaned near, whispering—“nothing of your own work?”

  Percival was the only one in the house who knew the height of Birdie’s writing ambitions. He protected her attic space from the prying eyes of nosy maids and lazy footmen. Even demanding Mama.

  “He claims the manuscript was returned to me.” Birdie checked her appearance in the hallway mirror. Her hair was in place, but her cheeks were pink from the cold. Much too vibrant for an ill woman who’d spent several hours napping. “Which brings me to you, Percival. Did a package arrive for me in August? Perhaps a footman stored it away while we were gone? Maybe mistakenly gave it to Mama? Read Miss Shehorn as Mrs. Shehorn?” If Mama discovered Birdie had written a book, let alone submitted it for publication, she’d dismantle the house to discover how such a travesty could go on without her knowledge.

  Then she’d rail until Birdie’s spine vibrated. When that ended, she’d enter a season of silence, not speaking to her daughter until she determined Birdie had been properly punished.

  Mama’s plans for Birdie to marry well and one day lead New York society would prevail.

  “The footmen are under strict instruction to bring all posts and packages to me,” Percival said. “If I’m not available they are to leave them in my room. Surely they’d not disregard me.”

  “Unless Mama intercepted.”

  Percival’s expression softened. “Miss, I know you believe she means you harm, but I sense she has nothing but goodwill toward you.”

  “Yes, her good will. Make no mistake.”

  “She’d not steal from you.”

  “Are you so naïve to her ways?” Birdie started for the stairs before a servant came through. “She’d strip me down to my corset and send me to a Vanderbilt ball if it meant having her way.”

  Percival pinched his lips, sending his laugh to his eyes. “You do her a disservice, miss.” He motioned to the library. “She and your papa await you in the library.”

  “What?” She spun around to the man who had tucked her into bed when she was a child and Papa was away. The one who had cradled her against his barrel chest when William died. “What for?”

  “I’ve no idea, but your mama sent Fatine to find you. I caught her in time and sent her on another errand.”

  “How long have they been waiting?”

  “Not long. I told them you were rousing from your sleep and sent them tea and sandwiches.”

  “Isn’t it a shame a grown woman has to have her butler run interference? Why should I hide my actions and ambitions from Papa and Mama? Would William be so timid? Would he have to enact a fainting spell to get out of the house? No, indeed not.”

  “He was the heir. You cannot know what your parents might have objected to in his choices. You are their hope now, Miss Birdie. Their heiress. Have a care to their desires for you.”

  “Most certainly. If they will have a care to mine.” Birdie took the long corridor to the master library, passing under her ancestors’ portraits—Shehorns and Candlers who built the empire her father now managed. She breezed into the grand, warm room, as if she were right on time, her countenance firm.

  “Good evening, Mama, Papa.”

  Mama stood with an inspecting eye. “Are you well? What happened this afternoon?”

  “I believe the fire was too hot. But yes, I am well.” She kissed Mama’s cheek and perched on the edge of the chair farthest from the fire.

  Papa looked up from his desk where he read the Evening Post. “I see your University Settlement Society is at it again. Fighting John Astor over his tenements.”

  “Of course. Those dwellings are deplorable. You’d not let your prize mares eat their oats in a single one, Papa. They are cramped, insect-infested, and many of the rooms are windowless with no escape from the cold, the heat, or God forbid, a fire.”

  “Hmm,” Papa muttered.

  The society clashed with the men in Papa’s class by demanding better living conditions for the poor, expressly in Hell’s Kitchen. However, when one of their peers, Isaac Newton Stokes, became involved, Papa became a little more sympathetic to the plight of the immigrants.

  Mama set aside her needlepoint, scooting to the edge of her chair. “We have some news, Birdie.”

  We have news might mean anything. A new house. A yacht. Yet another grand tour. This time to Australia. Or, as once in the past, word of her brother’s death.

  She was young, a mere fourteen, when William died. She adored her big brother, five years her senior, gregarious and handsome, strong, with a mop of blond locks no hair tonic could tame, a teasing glint in his blue eyes. Every girl in society wanted him.

  “. . . influenza . . . on his trek through the Wild West.”

  Remembering William made her long for him. How different things might be if he still breathed.

  “It’s the best kind of news.” Mama beamed at Papa. “You are to be married.”

  “What?” She was on her feet, trembling, reaching to the chair’s arm for support.

  “I think my statement was clear enough, Birdie.”

  “Married? To whom? I’ve no suitor. No love interests.” She glanced at Papa. Don’t let her do this. The fire crackled as if to join the conversation.

  “Alfonse Van Cliff,” Mama said, rising to pour a cup of tea.

  The Van Cliff and Shehorn families had been friends and business partners of one sort or another since their ancestors sailed from Holland to New York in 1785.

  “Alfonse? You must be joking. He’s a notorious flirt. Insufferably full of himself.” Though William had befriended him, finding Alfonse charming and witty, Birdie merely tolerated him.

  “Schoolboy immaturities,” Mama said, waving off Birdie’s concern. “Alfonse has grown into a fine, mature man who is of no insignificance to commerce and society. He’s worth a considerable fortune. Combined with your dowry, you two will quickly rise to the top.”

&nb
sp; “Top of what, might I ask?” She was trapped, being shoved into a life of her mama’s design.

  “You know full well, Elizabeth Candler Shehorn.”

  Birdie flushed with shame. Mama, using her full name as if she were a child . . .

  “Papa, are you in agreement? Didn’t you raise me to think for myself? Wasn’t that your wish when you sent me to Wellesley?”

  “I told you such a venture would cause us angst, Geoffrey.” Mama’s steely glance bored into Birdie.

  Rising from his desk, Papa took up his pipe.

  “Here, Geoffrey, let me.” Mama scooted across the room to light Papa’s pipe. Birdie collapsed against the chair cushion, her heart beating so fast her lungs could not properly draw a breath.

  “Birdie, we leave for the Van Cliffs’ in the morning.” Papa stood by the fire, puffing his pipe, smoothing down his muttonchops.

  “Yes, for New Year’s Eve. Fatine and I have sorted out my costumes.” Together they’d selected no fewer than fifty gowns for this seven-day event.

  “Alfonse will have a question for you.” Papa regarded her, smoke swirling before his face. “You will answer yes. Stow and I have settled the financial arrangement. Alfonse is agreeable. He’s very fond of you. The two of you are considered a good match by all.”

  “Except by me.” Birdie restrained her voice, holding steady on the edge of the seat cushion, battling a mounting dread.

  “Birdie, for the love of heaven,” Mama said with an angry sigh. “What is your objection? We are fortunate Alfonse has not already married. You are approaching your twenty-third birthday. Do you wish to be an old maid? Finding yourself one day stuck with an old curmudgeon like a Lowell Speight?” She shivered.

  “I see no difference between the two scenarios. Mama, Papa, I do not love nor regard Alfonse. I find him arrogant, conceited, and disagreeable. Wasn’t he to marry Lillian Hayes?”

  “She chose a German prince.” Papa spit the words. He took no delight in European aristocrats marrying American heiresses, moving hard-earned American dollars into their failing economic and social structures.