The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  Brené made a face. “No. Should I?”

  “Not really. Just wondered . . .”

  Brené shrugged and glanced at Wendall. “I’ll check but it doesn’t ring a bell. Is that who you’re writing about?”

  “Sort of but not really. I came across her name while researching. I thought I’d ask.”

  Wendall jotted a note and Tenley summed up the novel with a glance at Charlie for help. “And they lived happily ever after.”

  Charlie chuckled. “A Disney movie in the making. Know what, Brené, why don’t we let Tenley finish her process, then you can add your thoughts on the edit?”

  “Of course, of course.” Brené reached out, squeezing Tenley’s arm. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to read it.”

  Oh, what have I done?

  “Brené, you don’t think Tenley’s voice is too young and hip to write about the Gilded Age?” Paul had remained silent until now.

  Brené adjusted her glasses with a glance at Tenley. “Do you think you can handle this?”

  “Absolutely.” Because Grandpa Phipps Roth had done the heavy lifting, crafting the story and actually writing a masterpiece. Was she really going to steal—no, borrow—this story? Was she that desperate? “All women face the similar problems. Whether now or the Gilded Age. They want to be safe, free, and loved. They want to provide for their children. In the Gilded Age, women wanted to climb the social ladder. In the modern age, we want to climb the corporate ladder.”

  The summation pleased her. It was the first original idea she’d come up with since she sat down.

  The meeting adjourned with small talk and pictures of Wendall’s new grandbaby. Then Charlie offered to buy Tenley lunch, and they headed out.

  Waiting for the elevator, he stood alongside her, eyes ahead.

  “Do you really have a story about a Gilded Age girl?”

  “Yes.” Well, she did. Technically.

  “So you have been writing?” His posture eased and relaxed.

  “Sorta.”

  The elevator arrived and he entered behind her, waiting for the doors to close before he spoke. “Tenley, your career isn’t the only one on the line. So is mine.”

  “You don’t think I know that, Charlie?”

  “Just making it clear. It’s not fair, but it’s true. Now where do you want to go to lunch?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  JONAS

  Wednesday afternoon, the Sullivan cul-de-sac was a car-to-car parking lot. Jonas convinced Dad last-minute to forgo paying him back and throw the E’s a graduation party.

  They’d worked hard through college, graduated with honors, and deserved to be celebrated.

  From his perch atop the deck with Rob, Marvin, and a couple of buddies from work, Jonas surveyed the festivities—his brothers hauling out the kayaks, the E’s in a circle of their friends. Looked like Elaine had invited her friend Zac again. His eyes told him something brewed between them.

  He’d wander down in a bit, chat with Zac, make sure he had the fear of Big Brother.

  Coolers of drinks lined the patio and the upper deck. Smoke swirled from Dad’s grill, scenting the air with juicy aromas.

  With Julius, Cameron, Caleb, and Josh, he’d set up fifty feet of the heavy-duty plastic tables Mom borrowed from the church.

  Now, with a cold drink in hand, he scanned over the roof of the house and down the street for signs of Blanche’s Mercedes. Mom had invited Blanche and Tenley before Tenley left for New York but claimed she never heard back.

  He tried not to read too much into his Sunday-afternoon conversation with Tenley, but if that wasn’t divine timing—for him to call just when she sat outside her apartment, weeping—he didn’t know what was.

  Which led to thoughts of Tenley being free. She was no longer engaged. His heart kicked and screamed at him to go after her, but his head warned him not to go full throttle.

  She needed time to heal. Finish her book. Figure out life.

  Then there were the obvious obstacles. She lived in New York. He lived in Cocoa Beach. She was upper class. He was working class. Fine to flirt and steal a kiss, but were they a good match?

  At the grill, Dad wiped sweat from his brow, balancing the last plate of meat Mom handed him.

  “Rob, Marvin”—Jonas patted his buddies on the back—“I’m going down to help Dad.”

  As he crossed the lawn, greeting guests—“Hey, Mrs. Wallace”—he saw her. Talking with the E’s, setting up new lawn chairs, the store tags still swinging from the metal legs. Tenley.

  Behind her, Blanche talked to Mom and Connie Wooley.

  When she looked up, he waved. Smiling, she started to cross over to him but the E’s distracted her with their arriving college friends. Several of the women carried copies of Tenley’s book, holding them out for her to sign.

  “Hey, Jonas.”

  Tom Herman, a friend of a friend and noted contractor, a legend in the restoration business, walked his way.

  “Tom.” The two shook hands. “Good to see you. What brings you here, man?”

  “I stopped by your house but you weren’t home. Then I remembered your parents lived nearby.” He grinned, glancing about, taking an icy soda can shoved at him by Aunt Carol. “What’s going on here?”

  “My twin sisters’ graduation party.” He motioned to the cluster of women by the patio.

  “Then I won’t stay long.” He popped the top and took a long drink. “Don’t want to intrude.”

  “Intrude? Look around, man. All are welcome. It’s a Sullivan rule and tradition.” Jonas gave him the lowdown on the drinks and snack line, and the spectacular kayak race that would commence within the hour. “So why’d you stop by the house?”

  “You interested in a job?” Tom let the question sink in. “Not that I want to steal you from Tug, but a friend of mine is opening a restaurant on the river. Seafood, burgers, tacos. He wants custom tables and chairs. I told him I knew a designer.”

  “Designer is a bit of a stretch, but yeah. I’d love to hear more.” He’d resigned himself to another year at Crammer Custom Cabinets. The doors just weren’t opening for design work. The grand he gave Dad wasn’t going to buy his freedom anyway. He’d start over in the fall, reset his goals, save money, and design at night.

  “I’ve got a shed full of reclaimed wood. Thought you could use it. Free just to get it off my hands. He needs twenty tables by September. Can you do it?”

  “I’m your man.” Without a doubt. “I appreciate this, Tom. You don’t know how much.”

  “Send over a quote and I’ll have him sign off.” Tom flipped Jonas his card. “Don’t go cheap. Include your salary. I know you’ll be fair, and he can afford it.”

  “I’ll get it to you in a few days.” He felt suddenly lucky. Blessed.

  “I heard what Mason did. Between you and me, I never trusted that guy.”

  Jonas arched his brow, making a face. “Now you tell me.”

  For the next few minutes, he soared a little, like an unseen weight had been clipped from his ankle. Tom wondered if the Seminoles could make another championship run this football season, and Jonas didn’t see any reason why not.

  When Tom said good-bye, Jonas turned at a touch on his arm.

  “Hey, can I talk to you?” Tenley. This day was getting better and better.

  “Absolutely.” He pointed to the front of the house. “Let’s get away from the noise.”

  He led her to the quiet through the sea of cars. Now that he had her alone, he didn’t want to share her. Dropping the tailgate of his truck, they sat, legs swinging.

  “I saw you on Good Morning America,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

  “Natural what?” She laughed, shoving her hair from her eyes. “Freak?”

  “Come on now. You were relaxed and funny. The hosts loved you. Kept talking to you and ignoring the other two authors. Looking good without the robe and slippers too.”

  She laughed. “I think I might have hung up the robe for a while.�
�

  “Too bad, you’re kind of cute in that thing.”

  “More like hiding in it.”

  She seemed lighter, brighter than before New York. As if she had stepped out from behind a dark cloud. “So, how are you doing? Have you talked to Holt?”

  “He called once. We said good-bye.” She absently rubbed her hand over her ring finger.

  “As president of the local cheating-fiancés club, let me welcome you to our first meeting.” He offered her his hand. “Jonas Sullivan, recovering fiancé. Two years.”

  “Tenley Roth, four days.” When she slipped her hand into his, his weak resolve not to pursue her disintegrated.

  “I know you’re hurting and probably disappointed, but it gets easier, Tenley.” Screams and splashes echoed between the Sullivans’ house and the neighbor’s. With one glance Jonas saw the kayak races had begun.

  “Have you had a lot of breakups? I’ve only had one other boyfriend.” She laughed softly, leaning close. “David Best. Tenth grade. Dumped me for a girl who was easier.” She shook her head. “Man, if history doesn’t repeat itself.”

  “Jenny Blanton. Senior year. Thought I was in love. She was the one.”

  “You were ready for marriage at eighteen? Not me. I had a bunch of living to do first.”

  “You’re the one who said I was the marrying kind.”

  “Yeah. . .” She grinned. “I knew you were the marrying kind.”

  “My grandparents met and fell in love at fourteen. Married at nineteen and fell more in love every year. I adored Grandma. Idolized Grandpa. I wanted to follow their path, but Jenny had other ideas. Does that make me sound weak?”

  “No, it makes you sound sweet. In every good way. What happened?”

  “We went off to college. I was busy with baseball and she was busy with the Sigma Chis. You’re right, history does repeat itself.”

  “Then came Holt for me and Cindy for you. Know what I think, Jonas?” She leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulders, her toned arms exposed. “God must have someone better for us. We should be thankful we’re no longer chained to idiots.”

  Jonas slipped his arm around her, pulling her to him as the breeze teased a strand of her hair over his lips.

  He searched her face before kissing her, his lips touching hers in a sweet explosion of emotion. She fell against him, ratcheting up the intensity, filling him with heat.

  Entwining his fingers though her hair, he kissed her again and again, not wanting to let go, yet letting go all at once.

  He was in love.

  “Hey, Joe!” Caleb’s voice powered toward them. “We’re racing and you’re the ref.”

  Breaking the kiss, he breathed in and tapped his forehead to hers. “I’m going to kill my brother.”

  Tenley’s sweet exhale warmed his neck. “You leave me weak, Cocoa Beach.”

  “I’m not playing, New York.” He sobered, brushing his hands along the sides of her face. “But are we ready for this? You just broke up with Holt.”

  “More than Holt, Jonas. I’m leaving at the end of July.” She peered into his eyes. “My life is in New York.” She slid away from him, away from the pull of passion. “What’s going to happen when I go home at the end of July?”

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .”

  BIRDIE

  OCTOBER 8, 1903

  The colors of fall painted Fifth Avenue with glorious golden reds and rustic oranges under a cloudless blue.

  The air was crisp with the changing season, echoing with the clip-clop of horse hooves and the gleeful shouts of children.

  A car motored past. A man on a bicycle raced alongside them. A child shouted from the street corner, “Extra, extra, heiress marries today at St. Thomas!”

  But to Birdie, sitting veiled in Papa’s brougham, the world faded to gray. All around her life went on, gay and free, completely unaware she was about to walk the aisle to a prison, sentenced by the vows she’d make.

  She’d wept uncontrollably while Fatine dressed her and styled her hair.

  “You must stop crying, miss. See how swollen your face is? What will your groom say?”

  Making Birdie lie down, Fatine pressed a cold cloth over her eyes, soothing her with sweet but empty promises.

  “Everything will be all right. You’ll see. What a fine day ahead. You’re a beautiful bride, Miss Birdie.”

  Mama paced outside her room, knocking so frequently it was impossible to rest. “What is going on in there? Birdie, let me in. This is mere nonsense.”

  Gone was the equanimity between them. Mama took control of matters and fully convinced Papa that Mack Van Buren’s story reflected his deplorable moral character, his lack of all social decency, and he should be booted from Papa’s club.

  A month later his membership was “mysteriously” revoked.

  As the carriage moved through the city toward Broadway, crowds gathered on the street corners, cheering for what they could not see or understand.

  “Are you happy?” Papa said.

  “If you want me to be, Papa, then I am happy.”

  The carriage pulled along the church steps. Cheers arose as Birdie emerged, the wind pressing her veil against her cheek.

  She wore a gown of nearly fifty yards of silk and lace swag, eight thousand pearls, and a diamond tiara. About her neck she wore a Van Cliff diamond choker. From her ears dangled matching earrings.

  Head bowed, she walked toward the nave steps with Papa, fearing another rush of tears.

  Newspapermen and photographers scurried after her.

  “Miss Shehorn, over here. Smile for the Herald.”

  “Can you give us a quote for the Times, Miss Shehorn?”

  But Papa’s men shoved them aside, making way for her to enter the nave. As she approached, trumpeters blasted the good news—the bride is ready!—and the doors swung open.

  Her waiting bridesmaids gathered round and Fatine fussed, fanning out her train and adjusting her veil.

  “There now. So beautiful.”

  Beyond the sanctuary doors, organ music played. The melody stirred her to such an extreme she felt helpless to maintain control.

  Lord, I’m afraid. Full of dismay!

  Where was her song when she needed it most?

  How she envied Rose Gottlieb, who had found the courage to follow her heart. When the news came of Eli and Rose’s broken engagement, Mama panicked. She extended their trip in Paris, not letting Birdie out of her sight, checking her letters and eavesdropping on conversations.

  When they arrived home, she assigned a maid or footman to follow Birdie’s every move. She could barely use the water closet without someone peeking in.

  She booked her days with parties, teas, and shopping until her life and her very thoughts were not her own.

  But Mama had no need to fear. Eli did not contact her.

  In July, Gordon Phipps Roth’s new book released to great acclaim. Papa purchased a copy for her when they attended a lecture at the university where Phipps spoke about the life of a novelist.

  She’d planned to read his book, but a late trip to Worth’s and wedding plans consumed her summer.

  During the afternoon of Phipps Roth’s lecture on the life of a novelist, Birdie burned with each word.

  She understood his struggles, his insecurities, the thrill of a completed manuscript, the fear of rejection.

  She heard herself in his words. Yes, though he was far beyond her as a novelist, she ached to chase his path. At one point, she wanted to stand in her chair and shout, “Move over, Mr. Roth, I want to be a novelist too.”

  Resolved to return to her craft after her honeymoon, she sent her desk and chair to the home Alfonse purchased for them on Park Avenue.

  But he returned them with a crisp note.

  “No need. I’ve already purchased furniture for the home.”

  “Smile, dear girl, it’s your wedding day.” Papa set his top hat on his head and tightened Birdie’s hand about his arm. He looked sple
ndid in his tuxedo, his dark hair creamed back, splices of gray showing, his smile full and genuine. “Your nerves are getting the best of you.”

  The organ music changed and the doors opened. The guests rose as Papa led Birdie down the aisle.

  With each footstep, a clacking rhythm sang through her, I can’t, I can’t.

  She willed herself to stay upright. Leaned heavily on Papa. The congregation brimmed with hats and heads. Perspiration trickled down her back. Her heart raced. The slow stride down the narrow center aisle seemed to take an eternity.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a smiling face. The freed Rose Gottlieb. Their eyes met, and Rose nodded her encouragement.

  Up front, Alfonse and his groomsmen watched and waited, their hair gleaming in the light, white spats covering their dark shoes.

  At last they arrived at the altar, and Alfonse nodded toward her with a somber expression.

  A quartet began to play and Miss Geraldine Farrar rose to sing “Oh Promise Me,” her operatic soprano filling the church with power, pressing against Birdie until she was numb.

  Fighting back tears, she peered at Alfonse and wondered that he looked no happier than she.

  Geraldine concluded her song, her voice resounding off the marble, stone, and glass sanctuary even as she took her seat.

  The reverend began. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and man to join this man and woman in holy matrimony. It is a solemn occasion, one to not enter into lightly. For it is written, ‘He made them male and female. What God has joined together let no one put asunder.’ Let us pray.”

  This was her moment. Her final plea. Lord, if there be a way . . .

  “. . . Lord, as these two pledge their lives one to another . . .”

  If her pledge was filled with uncertainty and regret, would she not be committing a sin before God? Was He not to be obeyed above all others? Even Mama and Papa?

  Birdie peeked through her veil at Alfonse’s bowed head. Then at Papa. What would she say? How would she begin?

  Upon his amen, the reverend turned to Alfonse. “It is my duty to ask you, Alfonse, if you are prepared to take your vows of marriage this day?”

  Birdie’s thoughts thundered. Now or never. Now or never.