by Rachel Hauck
“It’s just . . . I’m here and he’s there, you know?” She flipped her hand toward the east. “Probably writing an Oscar-winning screenplay with Nicolette Carson. What am I doing? Opening canned soup and staring at a blank page. I mean, I’m so pitiful I begged you to leave an old desk, citing its creative powers—”
“You never said it had creative powers.”
“Hyperbole, friend. Stay with me.” She paced, exercising the anxiety from her bones. “I made a fool of myself in front of strangers.”
“A fool? More hyperbole?”
“No, literal now. Keep up.”
“I can see why writing might be hard for you. Sometimes you’re literal. Sometimes you’re hyperbole.”
She stopped, her gaze toward him. “Do you think that’s it? Really? Am I too . . . conflicted?”
“Tenley, I have no idea.” He raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “I was kidding . . . I thought we were bantering.”
“But you make a good point. What if I’m a one-hit wonder?”
“At least you had a hit. And it was a wonder.”
“Very droll. But I can’t make a living as a one-hit wonder. And be honest, don’t we all pity the one-hit wonders? We say, ‘Whatever happened to that Gone with the Wind chick?’ Or ‘Was Frankenstein a book? I loved the movie.’”
“A commentary on our educational system. But Tenley, come on. Margaret Mitchell and Mary Shelley? If the plight of a one-hit wonder is an everlasting story . . .”
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “I write romance. No one remembers a romance.”
“Jane Austen might disagree.”
“Good point again, Cocoa Beach.” She released him, stepping back, regarding him. “You know a lot about literature.”
“I don’t own a TV.”
“What?”
“Time waster. I’d rather sit and think, or read. Put on some music.”
“You don’t watch sports?”
“Well now, that’s different. Football season is a family holiday. I watch at the folks’ house. College mostly.” He flipped his hat around to show her a Florida State Seminoles emblem. “I played baseball for FSU.”
“My fiancé is a Giants football fan. Rabid.”
“Y-you’re engaged?”
“Ah, we’ve come full circle. Yes, sort of.” She winced, glancing at her hand. “He proposed, but I didn’t exactly say yes.”
“More of the literal-versus-hyperbole thing?”
“Maybe.”
“So he’s the one writing an Oscar-winning screenplay? With Nicolette Carson?”
“He’s at her symposium in Paris.”
“Paris? When he could be in Cocoa Beach with you?” He reached for her left hand. “Was he too cheap to give you a ring?”
“Holt Armstrong? Not on your life. He gave me a gorgeous, ginormous rock.” She cupped her hand over her ring finger, exaggerating her point. “I just . . . can’t . . . don’t want to . . . ruin . . .” Sigh. “It’s not me.”
“Know what I do when I’m confused or wrestling with something?”
“Ride a bicycle down an insanely busy road in your robe?”
“No, but that is a future option.” He hoisted her bike into the truck bed. “I stop thinking about it. Cut loose, have some fun. Maybe say a prayer.” Opening the passenger door, he gestured for her to get in. “When was the last time you did any of those things? Come on. Get in.”
She stared at him, stunned by his confidence, wide-open personality, and presumption she’d get into a truck with him.
“First of all, I can’t remember the last time I did any of those things, and second of all, I don’t climb into trucks with strange men.”
He pulled a face. “I’ll grant you strange, and indeed, I am a man, but you know me. My mother knows your mother. It’s fine. Should we call Miss Blanche and ask her if it’s okay?”
“Where are we going?” She was starting to like him and his sun-kissed cheeks rising above his evening beard.
“My parents’. It’s Wednesday-night dinner.”
Tenley softened her posture. “A family dinner? How many? You, your parents, and . . .”
A large-family dinner was on her bucket list, drafted after hours and hours of watching Christmas movies on her own while Dad worked or traveled. Her part-time nanny, ol’ Mrs. Eddleman, tried to watch but fell asleep during the opening credits.
The large-family scenes drew her like a kid to candy. Ooo, what does this taste like?
“Four brothers. Two sisters. Two sets of twins. Identical. Sisters are twins, also the youngest brothers.”
Tenley reached to the truck for support, hand to her heart. “There’s nine of you?”
“About eighteen when the friends, boyfriends, and girlfriends show up. But most Wednesdays we’re not that many.”
“Shew.”
“More like thirty.”
“Thirty!”
He grinned. “Exactly. Fun, laughter. Now get in.”
“You know, I really should get back to Blanche.” She glanced at her bike in the truck bed. While the idea of a large, loud, laughing family gathering fascinated her, the reality of sitting down with one overwhelmed her.
“Maybe another time.” She jerked her thumb toward the house. “I should get back.”
“And write?” He dropped his arm over the top of the door, leaning, motioning for her to get in. “Sometimes the muse needs a break. I promise you’ll have fun. The house is—”
“There is no fun in deadline.”
“—on the river. You can sit on the dock and watch the sunset. Go kayaking if you need some solitude.”
“Thanks, Jonas, really, but—”
“Tenley, listen, I know what you’re going through. I used to own a furniture business. Designed and built my own. When I started, I had ideas coming out my ears. I lived, dreamed, breathed furniture design. Couldn’t get enough. But the moment I started the actual work, putting the design on paper so to speak, nothing worked. I hated everything.”
“Then you know what I’m going through.”
“One day my dad gave me wise counsel. Step back, take a break, find a fresh perspective. Go for a run or swim, read, take a long drive, whatever. But let go.”
“My dad used to say the same thing. He’d be on deadline, frustrated, and just quit. Do something different.”
“So you know, the trick is to take a break.”
“Jonas, I’ve been taking a break. That’s why I’m in a bind. I’m down to the final three months.”
“Well, tonight isn’t going to make any difference. Get in. You need to step out of yourself for a few hours. So your dad was a writer? Would I know him?”
“Conrad Roth.”
He grinned. “Of course, of course. My dad has one of his books by his chair.” He gave her a pleading puppy-dog face. “Now you have to come home with me. They’ll kill me if I don’t introduce you to them.”
Tenley exhaled. “Fine. Besides, you stuck my bike in the truck bed.” She climbed into the passenger seat. “We need to go by the house so I can—”
“You don’t need to change. We’re casual at the Sullivan house.”
“I was going to say check on Blanche.” Tenley leaned to see her reflection in the side mirror. “But if you think I need to change . . .”
“I don’t. Nope, not at all.” Jonas moved onto A1A.
“Then why did you suggest I might?”
“I have sisters who are always changing their clothes.” He gave her a once-over. “But you look great. The robe is so . . . you.”
She burst out laughing. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
“Besides, we don’t have time for you to change. I’m starved and want to get there before the snack foods are scarfed up.”
At Grove Manor, Blanche slept with deep, even breaths. Tenley refilled her water glass, covered her with a blanket, and left a note—the most cohesive thing she’d written since arriving in Florida—on the monogrammed stati
onary she found in the nightstand drawer.
Back in the truck with Jonas, she said, “Thank you.”
“For not running you off the road?” He swung the truck around, heading down the drive. “Can I tell you something, Tenley?”
“Now you ask?” She slumped down, wrapping her robe tighter, digging her feet into the slippers. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way—”
“Uh-oh. Nothing good ever started with ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but—’”
“I don’t know about your fiancé, but if you were my girl, I know where I’d be.”
“Yeah, where’s that?”
“Anywhere you were.”
THIRTEEN
BIRDIE
Bundled against the cold, Birdie walked alongside Elijah as he escorted her down the walk. Alfonse remained in the nave talking with an old chum from Harvard.
The quiet night settled around them as they strolled under the gaslights toward a private brougham.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Eli said.
“I’m not sure they are worth that much but yes, I was considering all we heard tonight.” The lecturer, a young man straight from Princeton Seminary, spoke with an eloquence and passion Birdie had never heard from a sermon lectern. Her reverend spoke softly, so as not to tempt the headaches of those who drank too much and stayed up too late.
“He knew his subject matter,” Eli said, pausing to pull on his gloves. “He seemed a sincere chap.”
“Do you believe people shook under the unction of Whitefield’s preaching?” For Birdie, church seemed to be more of a social occasion—a time to show off a new frock or chat with friends—than an opportunity to encounter a God she could not see or touch.
But the lecturer had suggested true faith required more than learning catechism and taking first communion. Several times he implied the power of the Holy Spirit was available to the common man, to those who believed in Jesus and the cross. That faith was not just a simple assurance of an eternal heaven.
“There are many accounts of it, both here and in England. So yes, I believe. I see no reason to doubt.”
“Shouldn’t we doubt? Question? Is God really some angry being waiting to punish us?” Birdie shuddered at the idea of Edwards’s angry God.
She grew up with an exacting, demanding mother and a distant though kind father. She’d not serve an Almighty who exhibited the same attributes. She’d not spend so-called eternity being made to feel imperfect and inadequate.
“Is that what you heard tonight?” He laughed low. “I heard of a God who loves us so much He spared not His own Son to make a way for us to know His pleasure and love.” He patted his chest. “The notion warms me, really. I feel a bit of my daily burden eased.”
She slipped her arm through his. “Then pray I come to understand.”
“Always, my friend.” Elijah stopped and turned to her. “Our time in the Berkshires and here tonight reminds me how much I enjoy you. I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.”
He brushed the tip of his glove under her chin. “Do you remember your last day at Hapsworth?”
“How could I forget? We walked across the grounds toward the fields. It was a beautiful yet sad day.”
“We almost kissed.” His gaze swept her face and crossed her lips.
“Eli—” She mustn’t reveal her feelings or encourage him in any way. If not for his sake, her own. The path of Eli led to a dead end. “Alfonse will be coming.”
“But do you remember?” He leaned toward her, his question more than mere words. It was almost an invitation.
“Of course. B-but Eli, four years have passed.” She stepped back, away from his warmth and whispers, Mama’s stern warning rattling through her. “You and Rose are to be engaged.”
“I’ve made no offer, Birdie. I am still a free man. She is a free woman.” Eli slipped his hand into hers. “When I sailed here I had no idea you were also a free woman. Love, just say the word and I’ll—”
“There you are.” Alfonse joined them, clapping his hands together. “I thought you’d gone on without me. May I introduce Farnsworth, my friend and colleague. Farnsworth, I present Lord Montague and Miss Birdie Shehorn.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed to Eli and kissed Birdie’s hand. “She’s everything you claim, Alfonse.” Farnsworth smiled at her, the gaslight catching the twinkle in his eye. “I can see she will make you a beautiful wife. An intellectual one at that. I could not get my fiancée to attend this lecture.”
“Fiancée?” Eli said, moving away from Birdie. “You’re engaged? Birdie—Miss Shehorn, you never said.”
“We’ve come to an understanding.” Alfonse puffed out his chest. “Eli, remember I mentioned my situation to you in the Berkshires. Farnsworth was asking if—”
“Begging your pardon, Alfonse, but we’ve come to no understanding.”
“All but, darling. Your father has settled the financial arrangements.”
“I am not”—shaking so, she struggled to speak—“an item to be sold to the highest bidder. Mr. Farnsworth, I don’t know what stories Alfonse has been telling you, but we are not engaged. He has not even proposed.” Birdie turned for the brougham. He’d gone too far. Too far.
“Birdie, wait—” Alfonse took hold of her arm but she snatched it away. “Do not walk away from me.”
“Take another means home, Alfonse. This brougham is mine. You have no right to speak for me.” She pressed close, lowering her voice. “Never, ever do that again.”
As the driver chirruped to the horse, Birdie peered out the carriage window, once again seeing Eli’s face as she was carried off, their conversation, their kiss, thwarted just like the longing in her heart.
A week had passed since Alfonse’s misstep in front of St. Paul’s. He’d showered her with flowers and chocolates, even sent a quartet to the Candler ball to sing to her.
Which mortified her.
He called on her Friday afternoon, but she refused him. She decided not to attend the opera or the Whitney ball. Much to Mama’s despair.
“You are ruining our reputation.”
“Because I choose not to attend a party? Then what sort of reputation do we have to begin with?”
However, staying away from the parties meant she’d not seen Eli, and she was desperate to speak with him. She meant to convey her regrets over Alfonse’s announcement and over the fact that she’d not mentioned the discussions to Eli herself.
She’d written to him but burned the letter in her fireplace. Perhaps, in some mysterious way, Alfonse’s blunder was a blessing. Eli had a duty to Rose, and Birdie had no right to any of his affections.
Monday afternoon when she came down to lunch, Percival passed her a note from Alfonse.
May I please call on you this afternoon?
“Who’s written you?” Mama asked over her cup of tea.
“Alfonse.” Birdie tucked the letter under her plate.
“What has happened between you?” Mama glanced at Papa. “Do you know, Geoffrey? He’s sent candy and flowers . . . and that quartet at the Candlers’ . . . Birdie, everyone was talking about it.”
“I’m in the dark as well, Iris.” Papa snapped his paper in half to read the financial pages. “Let the children work it out for themselves.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, Birdie, forgive the man. Get on with it. He’ll never propose otherwise. Geoffrey, have you heard from your man about passage to Paris this spring?”
Never propose? What a delightful notion. Birdie thanked the footman for pouring her tea, then sweetened it with milk and sugar.
Yet, if she didn’t forgive him, only heaven knew what he’d do next. She’d just finished a meat pie when Papa passed her a folded section of the Herald.
“Look here, Birdie.” Papa tapped the article above the broadsheet’s fold. “Gordon Phipps Roth has a new book coming this summer. Is he still your favorite author?”
“One of them,
yes. How delightful.” She set aside her fork and knife. “Did I tell you I saw him?” She stopped, realizing her error. Papa would want to know where, and Mama would want to know what business she had with Barclay Publishing.
“You did not.” Papa sipped his coffee with a pleased expression. “Where did you see him? A lecture? I hear he’s quite entertaining.”
“He should be,” Mama said. “He’s s storyteller.”
“I saw him at Delmonico’s.” Which was true. Sometime last year. And from a distance. “While lunching with the University Settlement Society.”
“Perhaps when his book releases we can have him to dinner.” Papa checked his pocket watch. “The Courtneys are good friends with his sister, I believe.”
“That would be lovely, Papa.” Birdie scanned the page, taking in the author’s photograph, his wild hair tamed enough for the expression in his eyes to peek through.
New Phipps Roth Novel to Be Released This Summer.
The renowned Gordon Phipps Roth has done it again. His latest masterpiece from Barclay Publishing, The Girl in the Carriage, about a young society woman’s adventures at the dawning of a new century and the love she left behind—
What? Birdie snapped the paper closer. A young society woman’s adventures . . . dawning of a new century . . . love left behind. “It can’t be.”
“What are you mumbling about, Birdie?” Mama said. “Speak up so we can all hear. I’ve trained you better.”
. . . the first book from Phipps Roth in over four years has delighted critics. ‘Welcome back, Phipps Roth, we’ve missed you. A stellar fifth novel,’ said the New York Times.
Birdie scanning to the end. Surely the great Daniel Barclay would not use another author’s idea. Or worse, story. This must be some sort of mistake. A rare and odd coincidence.
But the churning within warned her otherwise. She pushed away from the table, crumpling the paper, not caring the black ink smeared her cream-colored sleeve.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
Papa rose from his chair. “Finished dining already?”
“Yes, I’ve something to tend.”