by Rachel Hauck
“Yeah, well, you cheated. And you lived here rent-free. They’re mine now.” Remembering her ring, she went to the dresser and pulled out the blue Tiffany box. She shoved it at Holt’s chest. “Here, hope you can get your money back. I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t linger.”
Stepping into the hall, her bravado and adrenaline fading, she collapsed to the floor, quivering and weeping.
Cradling her head in her hands, she cried, warm tears trimming her cheeks. Tears for endings. Tears for the lies. Tears for the bank of empty days ahead. Tears for being such a fool.
When she sat up, she wiped her face on the edge of her T-shirt, then closed her eyes and rested against the wall.
“God, is this one of those moments where You get my attention? ’Cause if it is, then—”
She startled when her phone rang and tugged it from her pocket.
A fresh wash of tears rose when she saw Jonas’s name. Clearing her voice, she answered, “Hey. Is Blanche okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. But . . . are you? I’m on my way to see a customer, and man, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And not because of, you know, the . . . thing.”
“I’m . . . I’m . . . good.” Her chin trembled as she tried to respond with courage.
“You don’t sound good.”
She was unable to hold her tears. “Holt . . . with Nicolette. I found them together.”
Jonas whistled low. “Ah, Tenley . . . man. I’ve been there. It stinks. I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish I were there with you.”
“I’m sitting in the hall outside my apartment.” Tenley dropped her forehead to her raised knees, a mixture of sadness and fear in her reluctant confession. “Know what’s worse? I’m more embarrassed than hurt. I’m not sure I ever loved Holt. But who says yes to someone they don’t love?”
“Bighearted people who believe, who want to give love a chance.” His comforting deep voice coated her wound.
“Or just a warm body, a voice, to keep the loneliness at bay.”
“You’ll never be alone, Tenley. You have Blanche, your friends. Erin and Elaine would adopt you as their sister if they could.”
“Only because I wrote one great book with one great hero.”
“Ride the cynical train as far as you want, but they loved your book and now they love you. They couldn’t believe how down-to-earth you were. You’ll write another great book, and even if you don’t, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.”
“You said it again.”
“It’s kind of a common phrase, Tenley.”
“Did I tell you about the song?”
“What song?”
“Just a melody . . . with those words. When I was a kid I’d hear it at night when I was afraid, or when Dad was traveling and I was with the nanny. When I missed my mom. After Grandpa died. Even more recently, when I realized I was blocked.”
“Sounds like a God song to me.”
She sniffed and wiped her face. “God has songs?”
“He sings them over us. There’s a verse . . .”
“Would He sing, ‘Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid’?”
“Sounds a whole lot like something He’d sing.”
“But why to me? I never talk to Him or worship Him.”
“Maybe because He loves you. Maybe because someone was praying for you—”
“Dad and Grandpa.”
“God’s mercy cannot be quantified or understood. Just receive it.”
“Just like that? Seems too simple.”
He laughed low. “The best things in life are simple and free.”
She exhaled, her tears drying, Jonas’s calm manner filling her emptiness. “I’d better go. They’ll be coming out soon. I only gave them five minutes.”
“They’re still there?”
She grinned, leaning forward. “You should’ve seen me. Told them to get out!”
“Now you’re talking. Good going.”
“When they leave, I’m going to fill the bath with hot water and bubbles then sink in over my head.”
“Just don’t drown, okay?”
“Thanks, Jonas. For everything.” Seemed like she’d been saying that to him a lot lately.
“I’m praying for you, Ten.”
When she hung up, she tucked her phone away and closed her eyes. Propping her hands on her knees, palms up, she tried to do what Jonas suggested.
Accept God’s love.
“I’m yours, Lord. Even if I don’t understand.”
The simple comment changed something she could not see. She felt lighter, relieved. And oddly enough, not afraid.
THIRTY-ONE
BIRDIE
When the clock in the hall chimed eleven, Alfonse said he must go.
“Escort me to the door, Birdie.” He reached for her hand and she could not refuse.
Percival helped him on with his coat, handed him his hat, and bid him good evening.
“Thank you for playing the piano tonight and singing. You’re quite skilled.”
“I’d forgotten how much I love to play.”
“Do you sincerely forgive me, Birdie? For my accusation?”
She regarded him for a moment, the evening events a blur, her thoughts confused, her heart in turmoil. What could she say but, “Think nothing of it.”
She had no more fight. She’d accepted him and whether she liked it or not, he was her world. The least she could do was protect her family.
Bringing her to him, he brushed his hand along her cheek. “We will be good together.” His lips found hers for a cordial, warm kiss.
But there was more of a flame in the wall sconce than between them.
When he broke away, smiling, she let her heart speak. “Do you think we’ll fall in love one day?”
He glanced down at his hat. “Isn’t that always the intent?”
When he’d gone, Birdie wandered slowly up the stairs, the events of the evening still churning through her. Alfonse’s abrupt disruption, the accusation, followed by a brief debate, all ending with cake and ice cream, and singing by the piano.
There was no real honesty in her family.
Bypassing her room, she headed up to the attic, where Mama had launched the beginning of the end. Tiptoeing up the steps, she found her nook empty, devoid of the desk and chair, her boxes, her stories, diaries, and letters.
Mama had wiped out her daughter’s world so she could be triumphant.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Mama said, rising into the room.
“It feels so sad and empty.”
“I saved the desk from the charity cart. It’s in the gardener’s shed along with the chair.”
Birdie batted away a wash of tears. “Thank you, Mama.”
“I’ll have them brought back up, though I don’t know what you see in those odd pieces. Alfonse can buy you something much more grand and elegant.”
“Because they are mine. Where I work, where I write.”
Mama moved to the dormer window and stared toward the weak glow of the streetlights.
“What do you know?” Mama asked. “About Mack Van Buren and me?”
“What makes you think I know anything?”
“I saw it in your expressions. Believe it or not, I know you well, Birdie.”
“Then why do you constantly try to change me?”
“Change is not the right term. I’d prefer the word mold. For your own good. Like my mother molded me.” Mama leaned against the wall, arms folded. “So tell me what you know.”
“I’m not sure I know anything.”
“Birdie—”
“What Alfonse said. He is my father. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Oh . . . oh . . .” Mama’s knees buckled and she slipped down the attic wall, her plump form fainting to the floor, her fair complexion ghostly in the light. “H-how did you know?”
Birdie eased her down, crouching next to her. “Shall I call Papa or Percival?”
“No, no.” Mama waved
her off, propping one hand on the floor, breathing deeply, hanging her head. “So, have I finally come to my own comeuppance.”
“Your expression that night told me the truth. To be honest, I was never completely sure of what I knew.” She aided her mother into an upright position, then sat next to her.
“I wanted to marry him. Before I met your father. But he had no means or fortune. He was just a simple lawyer fresh from Yale. His parents were immigrants, laborers. My mother and father, along with everyone in our social circle, deemed him unworthy of me. An upstart only looking for a moneyed connection. He was well beneath us.”
“Did you love him, Mama?”
“More than anything. Then I was introduced to your papa and I knew, Birdie. I knew my folly with Mack would only lead to trouble.”
“Yet you bedded him well after you were married.”
Mama shoved a loose lock of hair from her forehead, composing herself, her hands fisted in her lap. “An act I regret every day of my life.”
“Is that why you treat me as if I must be controlled and steered only in your direction?”
Mama stared toward the attic’s shadows. “There were times, I confess, you served only to remind me of my mistake. And the guilt was unbearable. My parents were right. Mack was trouble.”
Birdie raised her face to the window as a light rain battered the pane. “Tell me, is he William’s father as well?”
“No, no, Birdie, no. It was only . . . only the one time. A weak, lonely time in my life when your papa was away on business, increasing our fortune. But I make no excuse. I will never forgive myself.” She raised her gaze to Birdie. “When I see you, I realize even good can come from our wicked choices. I regret telling Mack I was with child. You do realize if this comes to light, you are ruined. We are all ruined.”
“He never demanded to see me? Or for you to tell Papa?”
“No. It was the one decent thing he did, God help us.”
“If Papa was away, how did you convince him I was his child?”
“He’s not one to calculate a woman’s time. Besides, the timing needed no twisting. He arrived home shortly after.”
“What a risk you took, Mama. You could’ve cost Papa everything. We could’ve been on the streets, you and I, a harlot and her daughter.”
“But it didn’t happen and here we are, safe, a solid family unit. You chose wisely tonight, Birdie. I’m proud of you. You could’ve broken Papa’s heart.”
“Me?” She held Mama’s eyes. “If I chose wisely, then why am I the one paying? Why must I marry for position and society instead of love? You of all people must understand.”
“Listen to me, Birdie.” Mama composed herself, regaining her command. “Love is a fickle friend. You chose to love Alfonse and—”
“He kissed me tonight with all the passion of tepid tea.”
Mama chortled. “He’s being polite and gentlemanly.”
“I do not find any of this funny.” Birdie paced the length of the attic, walking through the cool shadows to where her things used to be.
“I suppose not. Are we clear?”
Birdie turned back toward Mama. “I’m not sure how clear we can be. You’ve lied to Papa and me for twenty-two years.”
“What do you want me to do, tell him?” Finding her strength, Mama pushed up from the floor. “It would destroy him, me, you and our household.”
“I want out of the agreement with Alfonse.”
“And what reason would we give?”
“I don’t know. That’s for you to determine.” Birdie loved her perch on the moral high horse.
Mama shook her head and started for the stairs, the composure of her old self returning. “If you want out of the agreement, you will have to tell Papa yourself.”
“Is that what you want me to do? Tell him what I now know to be true?” How quickly she slid from her high perch.
“Yes, if you dare.” Mama wagged her finger at Birdie as she descended. “But I know you, and you haven’t the heart to break his. You haven’t the heart.”
TENLEY
The team around the table was all smiles, Starbucks coffees in hand, a plate of pastries in the center.
“You were fabulous on GMA.” Kristen, VP of marketing, handed her a cold Diet Coke.
“Maybe we can make this an annual thing.” Tenley twisted the cap from the tall bottle.
On her left sat Brené. Next to her was Paul, VP of sales. On his left, Wendall, executive publisher.
“Tenley,” Wendall began. “We understand you had to leave your mother, so we appreciate you meeting with us today.”
“My grandmother had breast cancer and it was hellish.” Kristen shook her head, reaching to pass the pastry dish. “I don’t envy you, Tenley.”
“She’s doing well despite the chemo. She broke her wrist in the midst of it, but even that’s healing well.”
The light conversation and morning success on GMA did not fool her. This was the calm before the storm. And Charlie was late.
“I thought you’d be tan,” Brené said, laughing at her confession.
“Can’t write on the beach.”
The conference door opened and Charlie slipped in with an apologetic wave, taking a chair at the end of the table. Tenley smiled, relieved to have someone in her corner.
“So, Tenley,” Wendall began again, slow and low. “How can we help you? We want you to be ready to go for a spring release, so the July deadline is imperative.”
A slow thump of anxiety beat against her heart.
“Tenley, we’re behind you, but be honest.” Paul rested his arms on the table, linking his hands together. “Are you on track? I’ve convinced booksellers they have another hit on their hands.”
“No one can guarantee a hit, Paul. You know that.” Charlie made a face, defending her.
“No, but we have Conrad Roth’s daughter.” Wendall spoke directly to her. “That’s more than half the battle. We can get her ready if the book lacks. Tenley?”
All eyes were on her, waiting, watching, blinking.
Wendall kept going. “Tell us now if you’re still stuck. Because we need to take you off the schedule and get someone else on it. Rena Roberts has turned in her next book and is ready to go. We pushed her out until summer.”
Rena Roberts. What was she, Super Girl Writer Chick? She’d released four books in two years.
“Come on, Wendall, that’s a bit manipulative, don’t you think?” Wise Charlie to the rescue again.
“Just saying. We’re a business as much as a harbor for creative talent and good literature. If Tenley isn’t ready to publish again . . . I’ve seen it. New authors burn out. Can’t find the creative spark as quickly as others. Tenley’s been through a lot in the past two years. It’s understandable if she can’t—”
“I’m good.” She glanced around the table, raising her chin, pushing her shoulders back. “Yup. On track for July 31.” She heard the lie hit the room. Too late to snatch it back. A dew of perspiration collected on her neck.
“I knew the beach would conquer your writer’s block.” Brené softly hit the table with her fist, smiling. “Don’t worry about polishing it, Tenley. I’ll take a rough draft and a sloppy ending.”
“Great, but I think I’m in good shape.” So that’s how it was going to be. She spoke and lies exited her mouth.
“I’m so pleased. You never said how far you’d gotten in your e-mails.” Brené tossed the conversation to Kristen, who talked of promos, links to Someone to Love, how to take advantage of the film release in eighteen months, and capitalizing on the sizeable e-mail list they’d built for Tenley.
For sure, another book tour. Paul, Kristen, and Charlie agreed to take the lead on working with the media, building up anticipation.
Meanwhile, Tenley tried not to run from the room in a panic. She had nothing and it was already June. Two months wasn’t enough time to pen her next great novel. It took three to write Someone to Love, and she was fueled by intense grief an
d loss.
Just tell them. You’ve got nothing. No fuel. No inspiration. Unless fear of failure was a fuel, but it felt more like an emotional sieve.
The words lodged in her throat, refusing her voice.
“Tenley, so, what’s the book about?” Brené adjusted her hip, New York–editor glasses. “I’m dying to know. If you create a hero as strong as Ezra, we definitely have a winner on our hands.”
“Right, well . . .” Think, think, think. She sat forward, taking a long drink of her Diet Coke. “Well, I’m calling it An October Wedding.”
What are you saying? Stop! You can’t steal your great-great-grandfather’s story.
“I like it already. New York is gorgeous in the fall,” Brené said. “Can you give us the gist of the story?”
They were smiling. All of them. Go to the Téa Jones story. Go to the Téa story. But all she had there was a girl who didn’t want to go on freaking date.
“Yeah, sure, so no one’s ever heard of a book by that title? Hmm, okay. I just thought it sounded familiar.”
“I’m sure there’s one somewhere out there,” Wendall said. “But titles aren’t copyrighted. I like An October Wedding too.”
“Well, it’s set in the Gilded Age—”
“Tenley,” Brené said, flashing a pleased smile. “It’s like you read my mind. I’ve been dying for a Gilded Age story.”
“The Gilded Age is hot now too,” Kristen said. “A spring release would catch the wave.”
“Are you doing a Consuelo Vanderbilt story or a Caroline Astor? Maybe a Minturn and Stokes kind of story?” Brené glanced around the table. “What do you men think?”
“I’m good.” Wendall leveled his gaze on Tenley. “Anxious to hear more.”
He knew she was lying, didn’t he? Yes, he knew!
“Um, well, it’s about a socialite, an heiress, you see, who is forced to marry a man she doesn’t love.”
“Ah, a Consuelo Vanderbilt story.” Brené nodded her approval. “Does it have a happily ever after?”
“Yes . . . of course.” Tenley leaned forward, propping her elbows on the glossy table. “Have you ever heard of the Marchioness of Ainsworth?”