The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  TENLEY

  The night before Blanche’s final chemo treatment, she invited Jonas to dinner, insisting on making her famous lasagna. Tenley hovered around the kitchen’s heady aromas, anticipating the evening and Jonas’s arrival.

  At the stove Blanche stirred the browning meat, the July heat pushing against the windows. A dark blue train of storm clouds rolled over the ocean.

  Tenley loved the summer rains, the clap of thunder over the ocean, the tumult of waves crashing upon the shore, then at last, the heavy rhythm of rain against the tin roof.

  It was then she knew. Someone more powerful than she commanded the storms, the sun, the stars . . . and He watched over her. The notion filled her with peace despite her own uncertainty and guilt. Yes, guilt.

  As for Blanche, Tenley made peace with her over E-mail Gate. It wasn’t her fault Tenley ripped off Gordon’s story.

  Twice she almost e-mailed Brené the truth. Twice an e-mail from her editor dropped into her in-box with another round of praise and palpable excitement.

  Sinking deeper and deeper, Tenley knew what she had to do. Commit. Grandpa Gordon’s story was now hers.

  “I’m going to miss you when you go,” Blanche said from the quiet, her attention fixed on browning the hamburger and onions. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you coming.”

  “This won’t be the end, Blanche. You’ll visit me in New York. I’ll visit you here.”

  She glanced up. “Will you? Really? When? Let’s decide now.”

  Tenley snatched a piece of meat from the skillet. “I don’t know. When I can.”

  “Thanksgiving?”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see. Maybe.” Depended on how much of Jonas she could scrub from her heart by then. “Or you could come to New York.”

  Blanche nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes, New York. It’s lovely in fall. We could go to the Macy’s parade.”

  Tenley smiled. “We could. Dad took me every year until college.”

  “Well, now it’s your mother’s turn.”

  Tears surprised Tenley. “Yeah, maybe. Sure.”

  Working together, they assembled the lasagna, layering noodles, meat, and cheese. Tenley slathered a loaf of bread with garlic butter to be heated when the lasagna was done.

  “We’re set. Brownies and ice cream for dessert,” Blanche said. “Now come with me.”

  Curious, Tenley followed her mother to her room, where three dresses, all with a distinct vintage style, lay across the bed.

  “Let’s dress up. Which one do you want to wear?” Blanche held up a blue number with a button-up bodice and a flared skirt. “I think I’d like this one.”

  Tenley picked up the first dress, the red one with the Peter Pan collar. “This is pretty.”

  “One of my favorites.” Blanche draped her dress over her arm. “I was wearing this when I met your dad. At a newspaper cocktail party. I couldn’t believe I was talking to Gordon Phipps Roth’s great-grandson.” She ran her hand over what remained of her hair. “He was charming, handsome, spontaneous. Then we got married, and he became responsible.”

  “Thank goodness for me.”

  “Yes, well, so, the blue dress for me and the red for you? I’ll put Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra on the radio and we can iron these. Won’t take long. Then let’s set the dining room table with china and candles.”

  “Iron? Of what ancient ritual do you speak?” Tenley dropped the dress back to the bed. “If it’s wrinkled I don’t wear it.”

  Blanche sighed. “Why does this not surprise me? How can I forget you’re the girl who wore a man’s checked robe half the summer? Come on, I’ll show you the ironing board. I’ll shower while you iron, then I’ll do my dress.”

  Tenley hesitated. “I don’t know how.”

  Blanche paused at the bedroom door. “What?”

  “How to iron . . . didn’t have anyone to teach me.”

  She motioned for Tenley to grab the dress and follow. “Well, now you do.”

  They gathered in the laundry room off the kitchen, the lasagna smells setting Tenley’s stomach to rumbling.

  Blanche opened a small door on the back wall, and a short ironing board fell forward. “I learned to iron right here in this room. My grandmother taught me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten, eleven. Not long after we moved here.”

  “What was she like?”

  “You remind me of her. Pretty, witty, sort of droll about life.” Blanche plugged in the iron. “Devoted to family.”

  “I don’t think I’m droll. Or devoted to family.”

  “You don’t give yourself credit. If you’re not devoted, what are you doing here? And you wrote Ezra like your dad. By your own confession. Yes, you’re devoted. And droll. However, Granny, she smoked like a chimney. The smell of menthol reminds me of her to this day. Now, come on over here. Take your dress and fit the neck on the narrow end of the board. Good, now slide it down and straighten it out.” Blanche pulled around a step stool and sat down.

  “Are you getting tired? We don’t have to—”

  “We do. I’m fine. Just need to sit. Cancer isn’t going to steal my last few days with my girl. This dress is cotton, so you need fairly high heat. The more delicate the fabric, the lower the heat. Some garments you even iron on the reverse side. Others, with a cloth in between.”

  “You need a university degree to do this.” Tenley reached for the iron, winced when it shot out a puff of steam.

  “You have a university degree. Next, test the iron’s heat. Wet your finger and tap it against the bottom, see if it’s hot.”

  “I don’t have a degree in ironing. And you want me to what? Touch the iron? You’re kidding, right? I’ll burn myself.”

  “Wet your finger . . . go on . . . it won’t hurt.”

  Skeptical and scowling, Tenley wet her finger good and slapped it against the iron, wincing.

  “Hear that sizzle? Now you’re ready to go.” Blanche pointed to the worn spray bottle on the shelf. “Spritz a little water on the dress . . . good . . . hold the edge of the sleeve . . . You don’t want to iron in the wrinkles, Tenley. Sort of defeats the purpose. Good, good, look at you. Like a pro. See, even an NYU graduate can iron an old cotton dress.”

  “What about this here?” Tenley pointed to the seam under the sleeve.

  “That’s the dart. Just shapes the bodice. Iron it but keep the seam flat.”

  In the warm laundry room, with a storm rolling in over the Atlantic, Blanche taught Tenley to press the wrinkles from a vintage red dress, the way her grandmother had taught her, and probably her mother before that and her mother. . .

  THIRTY-FIVE

  JONAS

  The front door was unlocked. When no one answered, Jonas let himself in.

  “Tenley? Miss Blanche?”

  Making his way through the living room toward the kitchen, he found Tenley leaning against the porch rail facing the rain.

  “Tenley?” he said, joining her. “I love storms over the beach.” He peered down at her to see her blue eyes rimmed in red. “Hey, hey, why the tears?” With a sniffle, she fell against him. Jonas hesitated a second, then wrapped her in his arms.

  “Blanche taught me to iron in the same room her grandmother taught her.” Water dripped from the edge of the veranda roof, splashing against the board steps. “It’s the first thing she taught me. Our first passed-down mother-daughter tradition.”

  “Didn’t she teach you to dress yourself, tie your shoes, eat?”

  She straightened, laughing softly. “I learned those by osmosis.”

  He chuckled softly and leaned against the porch post, his arms cold and empty without her. “Y-you still heading to New York soon?”

  “Yeah.”

  He pulled her to him and trailed his fingers down her cheek, to her neck. “When you do, take this with you.”

  He touched his lips to hers, their connection starting slow, almost unsure. Then Tenley shifted into the moment, wrappin
g her arms around him, her body against his.

  “I don’t want to break your heart,” she whispered when he raised his head, his heart pulsing with passion.

  “Then don’t.” He kissed her again, letting his heart go when she cupped her hand behind his head, the palm of her other hand pressed against his thudding heart.

  He fell back against the porch post, taking her with him. His body kicked into overdrive and if he didn’t stop now . . .

  “Tenley, hold up.” He gently moved away from her, putting distance between them.

  Overhead, the clouds rumbled and the rain thickened.

  “We’re coming up on the point of no return real fast.” In truth, he’d arrived at it the moment he set eyes on her tonight.

  He’d been fine the last month, hanging out with her on the weekends, watching Newhart, entertaining Blanche, but tonight when he saw her eyes rimmed with tears, he split his chest open and handed her his heart.

  Kissing only confirmed their chemistry. They were good together.

  She collapsed against the opposite post, stretching her hand to the rain. “I blame you.”

  “I blame you.” He grinned, pacing the length of the wraparound. He was a goner. Good-bye and see ya.

  “You’re a good kisser.” She pressed her lips together. “Too good.”

  He stared at her for a second, then laughed, holding up his hands, warning her to stay back. “Don’t. My resistance against you is futile.”

  “I really don’t want to break your heart.” She sat on the steps, her toes curled over the edge, catching the drops from the porch overhang. “Or mine.”

  Jonas dropped down next to her. “If we’re afraid of our hearts breaking, then maybe there’s something real happening between us.”

  She brushed her hand over his hair and rested her head on his shoulder. “But I’m New York and you’re Cocoa Beach.”

  “I know, but there has to be a solu—”

  “Hey out there on the veranda.” Blanche appeared at the door in her blue flared dress, a string of pearls at her neck and a white turban on her head. “You ready for dinner? Tenley, you’re not changed. Put on the red dress.”

  “Right. After all that ironing, I should show it off.” Her gaze met his. “I think we should just leave it.”

  “Where? Floating with no answer?” Around them the fat raindrops soaked the air, the ground, and him. “I think I love you.”

  She whispered against his skin. “That’s the opposite of leaving it.”

  Standing, she went inside and he tried not to watch her long legs disappear through the kitchen, his hopes sinking with each echoing step.

  “She’ll come around,” Blanche said.

  “I don’t think so.” He smiled up at the woman who was clearly trying to matchmake with Mom. “But thank you for trying.”

  “I’m not done yet. Come on inside. What do you want to drink?”

  He poured an iced tea, then helped Blanche carry out the lasagna, drawing up short to see the table covered with a linen cloth, white china, and glinting candlelight.

  Tenley appeared in the door barefoot, wearing a red dress, a deep crease in the middle of the skirt where the iron must have gotten away, her sleek hair drifting over her shoulders. He couldn’t breathe.

  Sinatra’s smooth voice crooned, “Fly me to the moon . . .”

  And for the moment, that’s exactly where Jonas was heading. To the moon. With Tenley as his rocket.

  THIRTY-SIX

  TENLEY

  Friday afternoon, Tenley carried a load of laundry into the living room to fold while watching a rerun of Blue Bloods.

  Blanche had decided to nap before Jonas came over to finish season eight of Newhart. Apparently the final show was spectacular, a television classic.

  Separating her clothes from Blanche’s, Tenley pushed aside the reality that a week from Sunday she headed home.

  In many ways, Tenley ached to return to her life in New York. Monday the thirty-first she had lunch scheduled with Brené at Delmonico’s.

  Jer Gonda wrote to say he’d be in the city at the end of the month and wanted to set up a meeting. The screenwriter for Someone to Love was on her second pass and the team loved it.

  And Alicia invited her to Addison May’s birthday party.

  But in so many other ways, she’d become suddenly attached to Cocoa Beach. The man, not the land.

  Jonas came by every evening, even if just for an hour, sitting on the couch watching Newhart, talking, and just being.

  Blanche insisted he come to dinner as often as possible, even if she wasn’t always strong enough to cook. She really stretched Tenley’s cooking skills, forcing her to learn the number of at least two other pizza-delivery places when everyone tired of Domino’s.

  Jonas in his quiet strength was so romantic, his hand barely touching hers as they sat together on the couch. Much to her disappointment, he never kissed her like he had that night on the veranda. He kissed her good night politely at the door.

  Yet . . . two nights ago they found themselves alone on the couch, in the dark, the Newhart DVD fading to black.

  He pulled her to him and they sank into the sofa cushions, into the wonder of each other.

  He stopped just shy of letting his hands wander to intimate places, pushing to his feet with a heavy exhale.

  “Good night, Tenley.”

  “Jonas,” she whispered, “you can stay.”

  “Ha-ha, no, no. I can’t. I’ve been pulling a Tim Tebow my whole life, waiting for the right girl and for marriage. Yeah, I know, no one does that these days. Besides, you’re leaving in a week.”

  “Waiting?”

  He flipped on the end-table lamp and found his keys, on the floor under the coffee table. “Yeah, read the Book. You’ll get a sense of why.”

  “The book?”

  “The little black one on the edge of your desk . . . the Holy Book.”

  “Ah.” She rose up to meet his gaze. “But don’t you want—”

  “More than I want to breathe. More than I want to wake up in the morning.” He pressed her hand to his heart. “I’m an inferno. But I have to do this right. I want to do it right. I have to honor my own vows to the Lord.” He peered away from her, a soft blush on his cheeks. “It’s hard to explain, but—”

  “Read the Book.” How could she be disappointed? He was willing to sacrifice his desires for One greater.

  She’d never met a man like him. Not even Dad.

  “Good night.” When he leaned to kiss her on the forehead, she fell in love. Right then and there.

  The clothes were folded and put away when Jonas walked in. He kissed her as she ordered the pizza, then asked about her day.

  “I have a surprise. I brought my computer to show you my new designs.” He’d been working on the tables and chairs for the new restaurant. Tenley didn’t know anything about making furniture, but she wanted to see Jonas’s work.

  She joined him on the sofa, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “This is going to be the bar.” He manipulated a 3-D program to give her all angles of the design. “It’ll have a driftwood look on top and reclaimed wood on the bottom.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Here’s the table design. I had one like this before Mason took off with my stuff.”

  “Jonas?” She sat up. “Why did he steal your designs? Why not create his own?”

  “Because he was lazy. I learned a lot from him, but I had more of an eye for it. A lot of his designs just didn’t work.” Jonas planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. “I’ve had to kind of work through all of that again, designing these pieces, not reliving what they did. I mean, who steals someone else’s stuff? Their best friend’s to boot?”

  A cold dread dropped through her. “Maybe he was desperate. Or scared. Had other things on the line besides himself.” She twisted her hands together, an ember of regret flaring.

  She’d kept to her commitment. Gordon’s manuscript was hers.
She’d stuffed the truth in order to sleep at night, but once in a while, guilt found room to bloom.

  “I get being pressured. I watched you struggle with your deadline, but you did it, Tenley. You put your mind and heart to it, sat at that desk, and got the job done. There’s no excuse ever for stealing another man’s work. Or woman’s. Especially creative work. I sat up nights dreaming of designs. Mason stole a piece of me”—he slapped his chest—“when he took those designs.”

  He rested his head on the back of the couch with a soft laugh.

  “Listen to me getting all worked up.”

  “Yeah, how about that . . .” Her laugh sounded nervous. Didn’t it? “So, it still bothers you?”

  “Sometimes. I’ve prayed, forgiven, even sent Mason pieces of designs I knew he was missing, but it just gets me how a man can want something so bad he’d steal. Or kill. Okay, look, here’s the chairs.”

  But Tenley couldn’t see for looking. She’d stolen for her own advantage. From a dead person. A relative. Certainly it was not the same.

  She exhaled, shoving her hair from her face, pushing down the dark flash of panic. She had time to confess. At lunch with Brené. Yes, she’d own up during lunch.

  A knock echoed from the front door. The pizza. “Jonas, can you get that while I find my wallet—”

  “Don’t worry, Ten, I got it.” He pulled a folded bill from his pocket as he reached for the door.

  Sure enough, the pizza had arrived, along with four guests—Wendall Barclay, Charlie McGuire, Brené Queen, and Elijah Phipps Roth. And they were not smiling.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Panic gripped her as she shot Charlie a visual check. Why didn’t you call?

  He gave her an I-tried face as she patted her pockets for her phone. She’d left it upstairs.

  “Tenley,” Wendall said, somber and deep. “We need to talk.”

  BIRDIE

  CHRISTMAS 1910

  In the library, a fire blazed in the grate as she worked, a soft snow falling beyond the windows, the day’s gray light fading toward evening.

  “Well, darling, how’s the life of a published author?” Elijah bent over her shoulder, kissing her neck, teasing and tickling her. He skimmed the lines of her typewritten page. “The End? At last. In time for the holiday.”