by Rachel Hauck
“Fine. Then we can go to a salon or barber.”
“Please?” Blanche offered Tenley the clippers. “I won’t ask for another thing.”
“Ha! You can’t make that promise.”
“Of course not, I’m a chemo patient.” She shoved the clippers at Tenley again. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. We can go outside and take a few selfies. ‘My daughter shaved my head today.’”
The doorbell chimed just in time. “Jonas is here.”
“Jonas?” Blanche tucked the clippers into the box, smoothing down her hair. “Already? Do not open that door until I’m in my room. I may be old and losing my hair, but I still want to look nice for a handsome man.” Blanche scurried past Tenley down the stairs and into her room, slamming the door.
At the door, Tenley invited Jonas in. “By the way, seriously, take the desk.” She swung her arm toward the library, motioning for him to come in. “I’m a complete hack.”
“You’re not a complete hack.” He set the DVDs on the living room table and raised a plastic bag for her to see. “I brought TV snacks. Pringles, M&M’s.”
“I thought we were ordering pizza.” In the kitchen she opened Blanche’s take-out drawer. “Do you like cheese? Thick or thin crust?”
“We are, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have TV snacks. I’ll eat any pizza you order. Except anchovies.” He stood at the edge of the kitchen, his T-shirt hanging over a pair of shorts, the fragrance of soap rising from his skin.
She ordered two large pizzas—one cheese, one pepperoni—and set up in the living room. Jonas prepped the DVD player with Newhart season one and dropped to the couch next to Tenley.
“So, not a good writing day?”
“Not really. But I don’t want to talk about me. How was your day?”
He made a face. “Had to help my dad with something, but it’s all good.”
“Are you sure? Why the face?”
He shrugged. “When I was a kid, Dad and Mom worked harder than anyone I knew raising a large family. Always kept a roof over our heads, food on the table, decent clothes on our backs. Mom’s the queen of the hand-me-downs.”
“I was an only child. I didn’t have to share or wear hand-me-downs.” Sitting back, resting her head on the back of the sofa, Tenley listened, absorbing his story, his voice, his presence. “But I was also alone a lot.”
“Only time I had alone time was in the shower and sometimes not even then. Someone had to brush their teeth or use the toilet. Man, my parents made it work with seven kids. Then they hit a season where every time we turned around, one of them was getting laid off.”
“So they got behind?”
“Yep. When I was fourteen, they were so late with the rent the sheriff came. Made us move out. Dad . . . I’d never seen him like that. Couldn’t look us kids in the eye. We had to sleep in the cars for a week until the church helped us out. For the first time Mom wasn’t telling Dad, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it, Ferg.’” He lifted his chin. “Do you hear a buzzing sound?”
Tenley listened. “No. What kind of buzzing?”
Jonas shook his head, sitting forward with a low laugh. “Sorry, don’t know why I told you that story.”
“Because you’re thinking of your dad.”
“I guess.” He glanced over at her. “I had to loan—well, give—him some money. He says he’ll pay me back, but . . .”
“You’re a good son.” She rubbed her hand over the firm contour of his back, a spontaneous but intimate move. Drawing her hand away, Tenley motioned toward the library. “Why don’t we get the desk?”
He glanced at her, ignoring her command. “Dad would be embarrassed if he knew I said anything.”
“About what?” She made a face and he laughed, crashing back against the couch.
“Thanks for listening.”
She held his gaze, a slow, rising heat wafting between them. “Anytime.”
“Tenley, I just want to say—”
Blanche’s bedroom door flow open. “Is it time for Newhart? Hello, Jonas.” She wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with a colorful turban on her head.
“We’re waiting for the pizza,” Tenley said, pointing to Blanche’s head. “What’s with the turban?”
She plopped down to the club chair. “Let’s just say one shouldn’t use dog clippers on oneself.”
TWENTY-TWO
BIRDIE
A fire blazed in the grand salon’s hearth as she sat, alone, with Alfonse. Birdie studied her hands, unsure what to do with them.
Five minutes ago the room overflowed with Mama and Papa and fifty dinner guests. Then Percival arrived, announcing that the concert in the ballroom, featuring the orchestra from the Metropolitan, was about to begin.
In a feat only Mama could have arranged, the guests bustled out and Birdie was left back with Alfonse.
“Here we are.” Alfonse sat next to her on the fainting couch.
“Why are we here? I don’t want to miss the concert.” She started to stand but Alfonse took hold of her arm. “The others will wonder why we’ve hidden ourselves.”
Alfonse exhaled. “Isn’t it obvious, Birdie? I’m going to propose.”
“No, it is not obvious.” She leveled her gaze at him with a fresh boldness. “Well?”
She was feeling confident today. She’d finished her Christ story for Scribner’s Sons and messengered it over to the publisher right away, certain they’d make an offer.
Even if they did not, the story impacted her. The truth of Christ as the Tree of Life lifted her spirits.
Alfonse dropped to one knee and took Birdie’s hand. His touch was cold and clammy. On instinct she withdrew.
But Alfonse reached for her again. “Elizabeth Candler Shehorn, will you be my wife?”
Without any preamble or afterword, he slid a ring down her finger, the firelight catching the brilliance of the gold and diamonds.
“Alfonse, I-I . . .” Birdie held up her hand, finding it more difficult to refuse him than she imagined. “The ring is stunning.”
“I commissioned it from Tiffany’s just for you. It’s not from the family. There will be plenty of heirlooms in our lifetime.” He stood, bringing her to her feet, his long fingers trying to intertwine with hers. “Is that a yes?”
“Am I so shallow to accept a life of marriage due to the beauty of a ring? Do you have no declaration of love or affection?” Her heart plummeted. She’d thrown down the gauntlet. If he confessed his love, she’d be obliged to respond in kind.
“Birdie,” he said, his smile wide and charming. “Our great-grandfathers sailed from Holland together. It’s a wonder the Van Cliffs and Shehorns have not married before now.”
“But this is about you and me.”
“Yes, and our families have agreed. We’re well matched, set to lead New York society. We shall have beautiful, intelligent, prosperous children.”
“You make every case for marriage but love.”
“You want love, Birdie?” Alfonse released her hands. “Then fine, I’ll love you. After all, love is a matter of the mind. Not the heart.”
“Then what am I to do? I feel love neither in my heart nor in my mind.”
“You have to choose as I do. What do you think William would say? Do you think your big brother would discourage you from marrying his school chum?”
“My dear brother would tell me to follow my heart.” Birdie slipped the ring from her finger and pressed it into his palm. “Alfonse, I cannot accept this. You deserve someone who loves you.” She raised her eyes to his. “As do I. I want romantic, heart-palpitating love. The sort of love that moves a man to write romantic poetry and sing silly songs.”
“You’ve read too many penny novels.” He offered up the ring. “I’ve proposed, given you a ring, promised love. What more do you want? You must accept. Our fathers, my father, are expecting to make the announcement tonight. I cannot go in there and tell him I’ve failed.”
“You have not failed. You’ve done your part.
It is I who has failed. I’m the one refusing this arrangement.” She gripped his arm, addressing him as a friend, not an awkward paramour. “Is this really what you want? Am I what you want? Do you want to live in a loveless marriage? I don’t, I tell you. I have dreams for myself—and Alfonse, they do not include you as my husband. I’m sorry.”
He snatched her in his arms with an aggressive grip. “Do you think this folderol deters me? This talk of dreams and love? I’ve a mission, a responsibility, and I will see it through.” He waved the ring at her. “You want away from your mama? I want away from my father. This is the first step to our freedom, Birdie.”
“Freedom? In a marriage without love and affection? What you speak of is more bondage than we already have.”
“I see.” He sighed. “Yet everyone else in our class is content to marry for name and money.”
“Yes, and they’re miserable. I’ve watched our peers in their loveless marriages, taking lovers or waiting until the children are grown to seek a divorce. No, my freedom is in here.” She tapped her heart. “I’ll make my own way.”
“Your father will cut off your inheritance.”
“Let him. I’ll make my own way, penning novels.” The confession vibrated through her. What a blessing to speak her plans out loud. As if they could truly happen. “Mark my words. You’ll see my name on a book cover, in the front window of the shops.”
Alfonse fell to the couch with a laugh. “You can’t be serious. That’s your master plan?” He gestured to the room. “You can’t live like this on an author’s earnings. You’ll starve to death. This is our ticket, Birdie.”
“No, Alfonse.” She tapped her heart once more. “This is my ticket. Making my own way. I don’t need this”—she glanced about the room—“to be happy. If I can choose my own path, my own husband, that will make me happy. I want my wedding vows to mean something, Alfonse.”
“You’ve not heard the last of this. I won’t be beaten.” Alfonse made his way out of the room, slamming the door so hard the salon windows rattled.
Collapsing in a chair by the fire, Birdie whispered her fears to the One she’d meditated on the last few days. How could she marry Alfonse? He was as harsh and determined as Mama! Her wants did not matter.
“So, you rejected him.” Birdie turned to see Mama in the doorway, the light from the hallway surrounding her dark silhouette.
“I did not reject him. I refused his proposal. There’s a difference.”
Mama’s gown swished against the salon’s furnishings as she crossed the room. Bending over, she inched her nose toward Birdie’s. “You listen to me, young lady. You humiliated your papa and me tonight. It’s been arranged and agreed upon. If you don’t come around, you bring shame on us all. So when Alfonse proposes again, you accept him. Birdie, you will marry Alfonse Van Cliff.”
TWENTY-THREE
TENLEY
Newhart changed her life. Was that sacrilege? She’d just not laughed so hard in so long.
She’d written nothing since Jonas hit Play on episode one of season one. Why write when there was so much good humor in the world?
At first she was unsure about the stuttering comic.
“Am I supposed to laugh or feel sorry for him?”
By episode five she was hooked, pushing Pause to marvel at the eighties high-waisted pants and big hair.
Instead of writing, she settled down in the afternoons with Blanche for a Newhart binge.
Two weeks and two chemo treatments with the end of May hurtling toward her. She had to start thinking about her deadline.
Tomorrow.
For now, she retrieved Blanche’s mostly eaten dinner and leaned her back against the pillows.
Yesterday’s chemo had not gone well for her. She battled fatigue and nausea, and Tenley spent all day cleaning up after her and running loads of laundry.
“Do you think I have cancer because I abandoned you?” Blanche closed her eyes as she settled into bed, sections of her badly shorn hair going every which way.
“What? No. Why would you—”
“God is punishing me.”
“Blanche, I don’t know much about God, but Dad talked about a God of love.”
“He’s also a God of judgment.”
Tenley knelt next to her mother. “If I forgave you, don’t you think God would too?”
Blanche smiled, eyes still closed. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“Yeah, well, we can debate that when you’re feeling better.”
In the kitchen, Tenley emptied the soup bowl and stacked it in the dishwasher, then bundled up the sleeve of saltines, storing them in the pantry.
A wad of early evening light spilled through the kitchen, beckoning Tenley onto the veranda. Leaning against the rail, she stared toward the beach, listening to the waves and wind.
Where had the last two weeks gone? How could she have squandered so much time? She tried to remember what she’d done with her days besides soaking up Newhart, and other than the days she tended Blanche, she couldn’t think of anything.
Jonas came by a couple of times. Watched Newhart. But she couldn’t use him as an excuse.
She’d urged him again to take the desk, but he seemed to have forgotten all about it. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if she wanted the desk for inspiration or out of her sight, giving her an excuse not to write.
I lost my people.
A salty sea breeze slipped through the palms and palmettos and whispered through the veranda.
Tenley exhaled, battling the tension of disappointment. She was letting not only her publisher down, but herself.
And Holt. What was going on between them? She’d not heard from Holt in over a week, when he’d texted some weird, nonsensical message.
Hi! lolololol
Hi back! What’s going on? LOL
But he never responded.
“Holt, what are you up to?” Tenley sat on the veranda steps, picturing the man’s intelligent expression.
It bothered her that he never answered. It bothered her even more that she hadn’t noticed until now.
Snatching her phone from her robe pocket, she called him. It was just after midnight in Paris, but he would be awake.
“Tenley, hello.” His slurred words were buoyant. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Just missing you. What are you doing?”
“We’re out, having dinner and drinks.” A cackle punctuated his sentence.
Drunk Holt. She never liked him.
“Who’s we?” The screenwriters who attended Nicolette’s symposium should be gone by now. “Did you meet more screenwriters?”
The distant clanking of glasses answered.
“Holt? Hello?”
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“Who’s we?”
“Nicolette and me.”
Tenley heard a female voice in the background. “Hi, Tenley.”
“Tell her hi.”
“She said hi back.” Holt’s muffled voice slurred her message. “So, what’s up?”
“You sent me a hi, lololol text a few days ago and then nothing else. I texted back but you never answered.” Tenley positioned her back against the veranda post, voices and laughter from the beach piercing the seagrass and palmettos.
“I texted you what?”
She sighed. “Never mind. Just look at your phone later.”
“Did Blanche croak yet? You can join me here.” His voice rose and fell as if he couldn’t control it.
“No, she didn’t croak yet. What’s the matter with you? She’s doing well. And if she did pass away, I’d expect you here with me.”
“Of course . . . absolutely. Don’t get bent, Ten.”
“Don’t wish my mother dead.”
“Like you haven’t thought about it from time to time. How’s the book?”
“Fine.” Well, it would be. Tomorrow. And she’d never wished her mother dead. Ever. “Hey, I made a friend here. Jonas. Remember I mentioned him before? His mom is f
riends with Blanche.”
“Yeah? What’s he do?”
“Something with cabinets and furniture.”
“She made a friend . . . Jonas.” By the fade in Holt’s voice, he was talking to Nicolette. “Hey, Ten, Nic wants to know if he’s good-looking.”
“Nothing to write home about.” Because she was home. “Why? Does she want to meet him?”
“She wants to know if you want to meet him?” Holt’s raucous laugh irritated her. “She said yes. But wow, you should see one of People’s most beautiful without makeup. Scar-yyy.”
“Oh, shut up. Like you’re any better. Don’t listen to him, Tenley.”
The conversation tripped downhill from there, and Tenley hung up with Holt laughing over something she could not see and he could not explain.
Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she wrestled with the unsettled sensation growing in her middle. The most important things in her life were in limbo. Her book, her relationship with Holt . . .
In the meantime, she needed a shower. If she skipped one more day she feared vermin might appear from the knot on top of her head. She was sure she heard the sounds of construction up there, the little varmints building a small city, houses, roads, schools for their offspring.
About to dash upstairs, she heard her phone buzz. She hoped it was Holt calling back with an apology and explanation. But it was Jonas’s number on the screen.
“What’s up, Cocoa Beach?” She smiled.
“How’s Blanche?”
“Good. Sleeping. Chemo kicked her butt this time.”
“What are you doing?” The sounds of the ocean rocked behind Jonas’s call along with muffled voices and the distinct scratch of his phone against his shirt.
“Thinking of taking a shower.”
“Do it later. Come out to the beach.”
“The beach?” She stood, peering past the trellis and palmettos toward Blanche’s clip of the Atlantic. “What for? Swimming? I don’t do sharks, Cocoa Beach.”
“Eating or swimming with?”
“Neither.”
He appeared at the edge of the lawn, his sun-kissed hair waving away from his tanned face, the perfect canvas for his clear blue eyes. As he waved her toward him, she was helpless to resist. The varmints in her hair would have to wait.