The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  Birdie paused on the top step. “It’s not a hideaway.” Birdie glanced toward the corner. The settee was gone. “I come here to read.”

  “And write?” Mama kicked a box out from under the desk. The box where Birdie had stored her letters and diaries.

  “Those are personal, Mama.”

  Her mother opened the middle desk drawer, pulled it free from the desk, and turned it over. Birdie rushed to catch the pages she kept inside, but nothing fluttered to the ground.

  “I never imagined you’d steal away to this dark, dreary attic—cold in the winter, hot in the summer—and write venomous things about your mama.”

  “I don’t write venomous things about you.” Birdie dropped beside the empty drawer, then raised the box’s lid. Also empty. “Mama, where are my things? What did you do?” She reached for the two side drawers where she stored pens and pencils, extra writing pads. Letters from Eli. The drawers had been cleared. “My letters, my stories. Mama! What have you done?”

  “I’ve decided to clean out this attic.” The woman went to the door, her footsteps echoing over the wide plank floor. “Been meaning to for quite some time.”

  “Yet your things are still here.” Birdie crossed to the opposite side, where Mama’s chests of linens remained along with rows of dining chairs from a table she no longer used. “What exactly are you cleaning and clearing?”

  “I warned you, Birdie. Yet you refused to yield. You’ve played your game, now I must play mine.”

  “So you invade my privacy?” Her limbs trembled, and she feared fainting. She could not remember being more enraged. “Steal from me?”

  “I believe this house belongs to Papa and me. It is ours to do with as we please.”

  “Yes, but my writing, my diaries, my letters are mine to do with as I please. You know Papa would not approve of this, Mama.”

  “I know Papa is expecting you to marry Alfonse Van Cliff.”

  “Is that . . .” She stepped toward Mama, a fire in her chest. “You’re manipulating me into doing your will? Into marrying Alfonse? He does not want to marry me. He’s not called in two weeks.”

  “He has not called because you refused him. Twice.”

  “He’s a wise man. I’ll refuse him again.”

  “You think I don’t know about your affection for Lord Montague? Well, he’s marrying another, Birdie.”

  “I am well aware.”

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Birdie turned to see a footman and one of the hall boys emerging.

  “Please take this desk down to the charity cart,” Mama said. “Burn all papers in the incinerator.”

  They hustled to do as she bid. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mama, what are you doing?” Birdie tried to intercept the footman. “No, please, leave the desk.”

  But Mama overruled her. “Take it.”

  The young men hoisted the desk toward the stairs. In a panic, Birdie lunged forward, falling on the desk, gripping the sides with her weak arms. “The desk is mine. Mr. Van Buren brought it for me.”

  “Mr. Van Buren? How did you—” Mama wrenched her from the desk. “Act like a lady. You shame yourself.”

  But she did not care about shaming herself. She wanted her desk. Her writings. “So you choose to crush me just to have your way? Is that it? You must be the victor at all costs?”

  “I’m winning, just as I told you I would.”

  The boys wrestled with the desk, inching it down the stairs.

  “Wait!” Birdie lurched for the stairs, but Mama caught her with an iron grip. “I warned you, Birdie.” Her countenance darkened with the power of her voice. “I warned you I would not be defeated.” Mama released her. “Put on your favorite gown. Alfonse is calling this evening.” She paused on the top step, becoming a dark silhouette in the light of the second floor. “When he proposes this time, you will say yes.”

  TENLEY

  Thursday evening Blanche announced, “I need chocolate.”

  “So get some.” Tenley looked up from reading e-mail. She’d spent a good part of the afternoon on social media, stalking other authors, reading their reviews.

  Blanche stood in the library doorway, a new colorful turban on her shaved head.

  When Tenley couldn’t take Blanche’s uneven locks anymore, she had driven her mother to the nearest barbershop. Blanche wanted a crew cut but the barber gave her a nice even overall buzz.

  Then they shopped for turbans at the Merritt Island Mall. Blanche had a head covering for every day.

  Tenley researched the best diet for chemo patients and shopped at the local health food store, fixing her a power smoothie every morning and afternoon. A bit of color slowly returned to Blanche’s cheeks.

  However, at the moment, she looked pale as she patted her lean belly. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Then you won’t want chocolate. How about some soup?” Tenley scooted away from the desk, calling the day quits.

  When she wasn’t reading other people’s reviews, she thought of Jonas. And his kiss. Over and over. Even woke up in the middle of the night reliving the touch of his lips on hers. His scent and taste lingered with her.

  She showered every day trying to wash that man out of her system. Even called Holt first thing in the morning—he never answered—trying to tilt her world right again.

  But nothing worked. She just might be falling for him. No, no, no . . .

  “I want chocolate,” Blanche said, arms crossed in a stubborn stance. “I don’t have chemo this week and nothing says celebration like chocolate.” After four weekly treatments, Blanche had moved to one every other.

  “Fine. Go get chocolate. I left the car keys on the hook by the door.”

  An e-mail from her agent, Charlie, popped up on her phone. Subject line: Trip to NY.

  “Will you go for me? Like I said, I’m not feeling too well.”

  “But you want to eat chocolate?” Tenley tapped the screen to open the message. Some of her best moments in life began with Charlie.

  Tenley, I sold your book at auction.

  Tenley, you’re on the New York Times bestseller list.

  Tenley, Gonda Films optioned your book.

  Tenley, you’re going on a national media tour.

  “Yes. Please.”

  She glanced at Blanche. “Fine, I’ll run to Walgreens. What kind of chocolate?”

  “Hershey’s. Oh, and we need toilet paper. You’d best go to Publix.”

  “For toilet paper and chocolate?”

  “And meat. We need meat.”

  Tenley squinted at Blanche. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” Blanche huffed and leaned against the door frame, hands in her shorts pockets. “I’m just telling you things we need.”

  “Chocolate, toilet paper, and meat.”

  “You’re out of Diet Coke too.”

  “Fine. I’ll go to Publix.” Back to the e-mail.

  “Now? My sweet tooth is pestering me for that chocolate.”

  “There’s some chocolate syrup in the fridge. Have a swig. That’ll tide you over until I’m done.” She clicked on Charlie’s e-mail. “Write a list. I’ll be right down.”

  From: Charlie@McGuireLit.com

  Subject: Next week in NYC (!)

  Tenley,

  How’s it going? How’s your mother? I hate to add pressure to you but Wendall called. They’re concerned at Barclay. Brené isn’t sure you’re writing. She said she asked for a rough draft but you’ve given her nothing. However, we can salvage this if you get to New York for a day. We’ll meet with them, show them what you have, brainstorm, strategize.

  In other news, I landed you a spot on Good Morning America. I have a friend over there who works in programming and I pitched him the idea of you coming on with Someone to Love, as a recent Phipps Roth winner and, of course, his great-great-granddaughter. They’re doing June brides specials all month and Someone to Love fits the theme. What do you say? They want you Monday morning. Let me know but I already told
them you would, so . . . If I have to, I’ll fly down and take care of your mother.

  Charlie

  P.S. Send me what you have of your manuscript. I’d like to be prepared.

  Tenley dropped her head to the desk. Help me, please, someone. This was getting ridiculous.

  She hit Reply and shot Charlie a short note.

  I’ll be there. Blanche doesn’t have chemo until Thursday. I’d send you what I have but I’m still working on it.

  Tenley

  P.S. Thanks for everything.

  Closing her laptop, she headed downstairs. “Still working on it” was a stretch. But she had the weekend to knock out something. In the kitchen, Tenley drew a deep breath, reaching for Blanche’s list. Yep, this weekend, she’d marathon write. Get that girl Téa to talk to her.

  She scanned the list and grabbed the keys from the hook. “Seriously? Meat? What kind?”

  “Beef, chicken, whatever.”

  “Okay, what are you doing? What’s going on?”

  “Chocolate, lots of chocolate.” She shoved Tenley out the door with more strength than a woman of her physical challenges should possess.

  So she drove to Publix with the top down, cruising under a blue sky, the late afternoon still robust with heat. Tenley mulled over a trip to New York, excitement building.

  It would be good to see her apartment. Sleep in her bed. She’d text Holt, ask him to fly home for a few days.

  Though she wrestled with a bit of dread over meeting with Barclay, it would be good to talk to them face-to-face. Clear things up. Brené never asked for an early rough draft. She told Tenley she could submit one. At deadline.

  Tenley gripped the steering wheel, gliding under a green light. She couldn’t fail. She would not fail.

  Blanche could be on her own for a few days. A little over a week since her last chemo, she was over the reaction period. Nevertheless, Tenley would ask Mrs. Sullivan to keep an eye on her.

  At Publix, she grabbed a cart, stopped to sample a dish a woman stirred together in the makeshift kitchen, tossed a bag of Goldfish in the cart—even though they weren’t on the list—and took a leisurely stroll down aisle one.

  In the dairy aisle, she picked up a carton of chocolate milk, the idea of New York settling deeper, an anticipation growing.

  She loved the idea of being on Good Morning America. Loved seeing Charlie. Oh, and she’d see if Alicia was free for dinner.

  As she rounded the spaghetti aisle, she collided with another shopper. Moving her cart from his, she peered into the handsome face of Jonas Sullivan.

  “Jonas. Hello.” Dang if her lips didn’t buzz.

  “Tenley.” He carried a basket with cold-remedy items.

  “Getting a cold?”

  “No, this is for Mom. She sent me on an errand.”

  “Funny. Blanche sent me on an errand for chocolate.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Then Tenley remembered how he broke away from her, apologizing for his kiss while she begged for more. Her buzzing lips faded with embarrassment. “Well, have a good night, Jonas.”

  He touched her shoulder. “We okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.”

  He nodded. Once.

  “Except . . .” She paused, propping her foot on the bottom rack of the cart. “The drawer you unstuck is stuck again. The moment you walked out of the library, it was as if you were never there.”

  “Come on, it slid right open for me.”

  “Well, I can’t open it. What’d you do to it?”

  He angled toward her. “I shut it.”

  “Well, come and open it again, and this time don’t shut it.” As the words left her lips, she knew she wasn’t talking about an old desk drawer. She was talking about her heart.

  “I’ll stop by on my way home.”

  “G-good.” Tenley shoved her cart down the candy aisle, filled it with chocolate, and rolled through the express lane, completely forgetting toilet paper, meat, and everything else on the list.

  JONAS

  When he got to Mom’s with a bag of cold medicine, he discovered she was not down for the count at all like she said on the phone.

  In fact, she’d just walked in from work with two buckets of chicken, completely uninhibited by a runny nose and raspy cough.

  Jonas set his bags on the counter. “What’s up, Mom?”

  She fake coughed into her fist. “I’m feeling better. Thank you for going to the store.” Mom took the remedies from the plastic bag and stuck them in the kitchen’s medicine cupboard.

  “You called me at work saying you were sick and that no one else could go to the store for you.” Jonas fell against the counter. “What are you up to? And don’t say nothing.”

  “Nothing.” She tore open a bag of cough drops and popped one into her mouth.

  “Interesting, Tenley was there buying chocolate for Blanche.”

  “She’s such a good daughter. Blanche is lucky to have her.”

  “You two are up to something.” Jonas wrapped his arm around Mom and kissed her forehead. “But stop. She’s engaged. She lives in New York.”

  “Blanche says he never calls, never visits.”

  “He’s in Paris.”

  “For how long?” Mom held his arm. “Jonas, I’ve been praying. I think she’s the one.”

  “For Holt. And until she decides otherwise, she’s off-limits.”

  Out the door and in his truck, Jonas headed for Grove Manor. He’d fix that stupid desk drawer and be on his way.

  No lingering, no tempting kisses, no letting his heart love what he could not have.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Real estate magnate Geoffrey Shehorn announces the engagement of his daughter, Elizabeth Candler Shehorn, to Alfonse Rudolf Van Cliff III, heir to the Van Cliff banking and Wall Street fortune. An October wedding is being planned.

  —New York Times

  Lord Montague, son of the Marquess of Ainsworth, presented his fiancée, American heiress Miss Rose Gottlieb, and her parents at court. His Majesty and Her Majesty were most charmed by the American beauty. She is said to have luncheoned with Queen Alexandra.

  —Evening Post

  ELIJAH

  He’d become accustomed to her walking on his arm, strolling in silence as they faced the London season. He introduced Miss Rose Gottlieb to his peers, and to the king and queen.

  She hosted her first tea with Mama, who informed Eli, “She was a delight.”

  Success all around. Her father was right, Rose was up to the task.

  They returned to Hapsworth for a quiet weekend. Monday Rose and her mother would sail to Paris for an appointment at Worth’s.

  On this glorious afternoon, Eli invited her out for a stroll through the gardens. She was quiet when they were alone. Almost shy. This afternoon, her aura was rather somber.

  “Isn’t it a lovely day?” He bent to see her expression through the high sunlight.

  “Very.”

  “You seem quiet, love.” His cane tapped the green manicured path as they walked. Should he reach for her? He sensed a barrier against any intimate move. “Let’s sit for a moment.” He motioned to the bench under the weeping willow.

  Rose sat, her smile weak, a weariness in her expression. “I’m a bit tired. So many parties.”

  “Yes, you’ve endured back-to-back seasons. Perhaps when you sail to France you’ll find some rest.”

  “You don’t know my mother.” She sat back, hands folded neatly in her lap, the gentle country breeze teasing the soft loose hair about her face. “We’ll take Paris and Worth’s like soldiers.”

  “I’ve no sisters, but I know my own mother did quite a bit of damage to the accounts on her Paris shopping sprees.” A rabbit hopped across the grounds, pausing to sniff the air and then moving on. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here. The next time we see one another will be our wedding week.”

  “Can we go inside? I’m sorry, Elijah, I’m just so weary.” Rose started for the manor.

>   “Rose, please tell me, are you all right? I sense more than weariness about you.”

  “Please, Elijah, do not badger me.” She hurried on, almost running, a watery desperation in her warning.

  Without another word, they arrived at Hapsworth, stepping into the cool hall. Eli passed his hat to the footman, catching Rose as she bounded up the staircase.

  “Tell me what bothers you.”

  She stopped and slowly descended, her cheeks flushed, her skirt gathered in her hands, her countenance on the verge of tears. Where was his lively, energetic Rose who charmed New York and London societies?

  “I-I’m not sure I can say.”

  “Have a care, Rose. We are to be married. You must have liberty to speak.” He motioned toward the front parlor. “Shall we?”

  She agreed to go with him, standing instead of sitting as he rang for tea. It was early, but he wanted the comfort and distraction of pouring, stirring, and drinking. A few cakes would ease the edge as well.

  Once Manfred took his order and left, Eli walked to the window and peered out.

  “Did I ever tell you this is my favorite room in all of Hapsworth?” he said.

  “No, no, you didn’t.”

  “When I was a boy this was our family Christmas room. We had a tree in the grand hall, but Mama set up a smaller one in here, and this is where St. Nick delivered our gifts. So many. All the way to here.” He laughed, tapping the edge of his chin. “Of course, I was much smaller then, but it seemed like a mountain of presents. On Christmas Eve I would sneak down at night with blanket in tow to watch and wait, falling asleep within minutes.”

  “We too had a smaller room for the family Christmas.” She laughed softly. “We’re so different yet much the same.”

  He warmed with her smile. Had life carried its right course, Robert would be talking with her now—a far handsomer and more charming bloke—offering his good name and title to this American heiress.

  “Something disturbs you and I must know what, Rose. I’m to be your husband.” He sat beside her, aware of her nervous fidgets and averted gaze.

  “I know, Eli. I know.” She hung her head, all but weeping. “I adore you.”