by Rachel Hauck
Three months ago, his life changed in a matter of seconds. He’d met a beautiful, funny, intriguing woman who scaled his romantic fears.
Then five days ago, in a matter of seconds, she changed everything. The way he saw her, the way he felt about her, the way he thought about her. And he hated himself for it.
She’d lied. Submitted another person’s book as her own. Just to save her own neck.
While it wasn’t fair to compare what she did to his situation, it brought up everything he loathed about Cindy and Mason.
Which made him all the more angry, because he’d convinced himself he was farther down the recovery road. He thought he was ready for a relationship and the accompanying entanglements.
He swigged his water, returning to his workbench, where the first three tables for the restaurant were in process.
He knew Tenley was flawed, had her junk to deal with, but listening to the dining room confrontation over the manuscript shot him right back to where he was two years ago.
He’d left without a word and had not called her since.
However, her mother called the next day wanting to know what happened.
“Tenley’s back to the red-plaid robe.”
“You’ll have to talk to her, Miss Blanche.”
“But will you talk to her? She’s muttering something about giving up writing. Fool girl.”
“She might be right.”
“What in the world is going on? Someone tell me.”
“Talk to your daughter.”
Another gulp of his drink and he lowered his safety goggles and reached for his sander. He had promised the restaurant owner he’d deliver the first three tables next week so they could start staging the dining room layout.
“Jonas?”
He whirled around to see Tenley at the shop entrance, her hair loose over her shoulders. She wore shorts and a pink tank top that matched the hue on her cheeks and flip-flops. No robe and slippers.
He powered off the sander. “Miss Blanche said you were back to the robe.” He raised his goggles.
“Yeah, for a few days.” She dug her hands into her hip pockets. “I just came to say good-bye. I’m leaving in the morning. Blanche is doing well, though I told her to call your mom if she needs anything. I think she’s going to look into one of those agencies to come help out a few days a week.”
She spoke without confidence, her voice weak, her eyes full of watery sorrow.
“We’ll keep an eye on her.”
She nodded, gazing down. “I appreciate that.”
“What are you going to do now that . . .”
She brushed her fingers under her eyes, biting her lip, sniffing back tears. Jonas crossed his arms, restraining the urge, the ache, to hold her. “I might go to LA for a few days, hang with my people, you know, the rest of the posers, fakers, and fibbers.”
“Tenley—”
“After that, who knows?” She brushed at the tear dripping from her chin. “Beauty school. I always thought cutting hair would be interesting.”
“I never took you for a quitter.”
“I bet you never took me for a plagiarizer and a liar either, but voilà. Here I am.”
He swallowed, pondering his next question. “Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything stupid? I was desperate. How could I fail after such success? I needed a book and I found one in a desk. A miracle, right? If I were smart I’d blame you for opening the drawer.”
“You going to be all right?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” She walked toward the workbench. “Are these the tables for the restaurant? They’re really cool. I love the curved legs.”
“I’m sorry I just left that night.”
She peered at him, steady and clear. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
“It was too close, Tenley, to my own past.”
“You see me differently now, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to, but yeah. I do.” He removed the goggles from around his neck, tossing them to the workbench. “I tell myself you’re not Cindy, nor Mason, but . . .” He shook his head. “It is the same, isn’t it?”
Tears glistened in her eyes again. “Best thing that ever happened to me and I blew it.”
“Hey, we didn’t think we’d last anyway. You’re New York and I’m Cocoa Beach.”
She jabbed the air with her finger. “Right, exactly.”
“You asked the other day where we were going to leave things. How about just leave them here?”
She nodded, working her way to the door. “So long, Cocoa Beach.”
“Yeah, see you, New York.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
TENLEY
She showered and packed and lay down on the bed, but sleep was nowhere near. Getting up, she shuffled into the library, clicked on the desk lamp, and sat at the desk.
A question started bugging her a few days ago. Just how did a Gordon Phipps Roth manuscript get stuck in the desk in the first place?
If the inscribed Bible was any indication, he was friends with the Marchioness and Marquess of Ainsworth.
She’d Googled them only to find a short Wikipedia entry. The nobles moved to Cocoa Beach from England in the late thirties, building Grove Manor on land owned by her father, Gilded Age millionaire Geoffrey Shehorn.
In their bio, there was no mention of Gordon Phipps Roth.
Tenley trailed her fingers over the desk, picking up the dove and the Bible. She’d promised Jonas she would read this book. She walked it back to the bedroom and tucked it by her phone.
She’d do it. Find out what love really looked like.
Back in the library to turn off the light, Tenley exhaled. “Good-bye, library. I liked being here.” She ran her hand along the dusty shelves, noting again the odd arrangement of the shelves.
She walked the length toward the back window, studying the section that stood an inch thicker than the rest of the shelves. Weird.
Maybe it’d fallen lose from the wall mount. Tenley leaned against the shelves, pushing, and startled when the shelf actually moved, swinging toward her.
“What in the world?” The library was full of mysteries. Leaning around the narrow opening, she peeked into a secret room. “Oh wow . . .”
Shoving the section open, Tenley stepped into a small space from another time.
It was boxy and cozy, containing an old easy chair, a side table and lamp, a bookcase, and an antique projector with film threaded through.
Turning on the lamp, she examined the single bookcase and the row of matching leather-bound books. A box sat by the chair, but the prepared projector had her curious.
She found the on switch, and the machine sputtered to life, moving the film from reel to reel.
The shadows cast by scratched celluloid appeared on the facing wall before a black-and-white scene of the beach filled the space, the sun dripping diamonds over the water.
Backing up to the chair, Tenley sank into the scene, gasping when the images of the marquess and marchioness behind the frame on the desk came to life on the wall.
The marchioness filled the frame, sitting in the library, at the desk, hovering over pages, turning them, making marks with a pencil.
“Look here, darling,” an accented male voice instructed her. “Birdie.”
She raised her gaze, smiling, her expression bright with a touch of lipstick, her hair neat and in place. She wore a patterned dress with a Cinderella neckline and pearls.
“Enough now, Eli love. I’ve work to do.”
Tenley’s chest thumped at the sound of her voice. Sweet but strong. American blended with British.
“I see you’ve finished your next great book.” Eli tipped the camera over her shoulder.
The first line came into clear focus. Tenley angled forward. She knew that line. She’d read it a half dozen times wondering if she should change it or leave it.
She wished to escape. So much so her legs twitched of their own volition. Each
time, Mama glared at her in warning.
“Eli, please.” Birdie pressed her palm against the lens. “You know better.”
“These are just our private movies.”
“Still, I beg you. We cannot risk our secret.”
“Secret, still.” He peered round the camera. “When he comes to visit this summer, I’m going to have it out with him. How long must my wife be his ghost?”
“Please, you will do no such thing.” Birdie turned to the camera, raising her hand to block the lens. “You know he’s unwell.”
“Well, when he’s well again.”
“Haven’t you argued enough with him about it over the years? Yet here I am doing what I love and earning a handsome lot.”
“Because I want your name on a book jacket. I’m very proud of you.”
“Fine. But for now, go on. You’re disrupting my work.”
“All right, for you, love, I’ll turn off the camera. I suppose these things do have a way of falling into the wrong hands.”
“Precisely.”
“Oh my gosh . . .” Tenley whirled, regarding the shelves and the box at her feet. “She was his ghost!”
Reaching up, she stopped the projector and angled the lamp to see the bookcase, examining the book spines. Gordon Phipps Roth. Every single one. Tenley retrieved The Girl in the Carriage and gently looked inside.
A first edition, 1903. Signed.
To Birdie. Yours, GPR
She pulled out Moonlight on the Hudson.
Another first edition, 1909. Signed.
Birdie, my dear friend and colleague. Your talents astound me. GPR
One book after another was signed personally to Birdie. Not Elizabeth or Lady Ainsworth.
Birdie.
She popped the lid from the box. Manuscripts. On top sat The Girl in the Carriage bound with a rubber band.
Beneath it, Moonlight on the Hudson. Then The House in Murray Hill, Winter in New York, and The Berkshires. Farther down, Love on the Thames and West, Go West.
Birdie was her grandfather’s ghost. No, no, no, how could he . . .
Stacking the manuscripts at her feet, Tenley discovered a collection of letters. She pulled the first one from the yellowed envelope.
February 1943
Dear Birdie,
We’ve done it again, though I daresay, you’ve done it again. West, Go West is such a splendid tale and tribute to your dear brother. What a team we make. I owe you a debt I cannot repay. My love to you and Eli. I pray you are finding peace in these war days and solace over losing your dear son William. He was too young, much too young. A handsome, intelligent man who this world should not have to be without. You’re in my prayers. Let’s dedicate West, Go West to him and to your brother for whom he was named. To William the flyer and William the adventurer.
Yours, GPR
Oh my gosh . . . This was unbelievable. Tenley ran to the banister.
“Blanche, wake up. Did you know about this secret room? Blanche!”
Back in the library, Tenley restarted the projector, aching for more of Birdie’s world, for more secrets to be revealed.
Eli was talking. “I’ll go, love, but first, sing your song. The one from your childhood. It has comforted me more times than you know. Especially during the war and after losing William. Your voice is so lovely.”
“It’s not my song, it’s the Lord’s. He just allows me to sing it.”
“Right you are, darling. So go on. My guess is He loves to hear you sing it as much as any human.”
Birdie sighed and faced the lens. “If you will then leave me alone and go film your precious egrets, I will sing.” Light fell on Birdie from an unseen window, her soft skin lightly lined with time. But she was beautiful, so composed and regal. Bet she’d never sloughed around for weeks in a man’s robe without showering or combing her hair.
Her image against the wall, Birdie was as real to Tenley as if she stood before her in the flesh. She closed her eyes and sang, her voice sinking Tenley to her knees.
“Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.”
Chills crisscrossed Tenley’s scalp and ran down her back and legs as her tears streamed, listening to this woman from the past sing her song. “How is this possible?”
“There. Is that good?” Birdie blew a kiss at her husband.
“One more time, darling. Nice and loud this time.”
Birdie made a humorous face, then raised her song again, louder and clearer, the lyrics melting every regret, every fear, every bit of shame Tenley possessed.
“Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.”
The image faded to black.
“Rewind, rewind.” Fingers trembling, Tenley fumbled with the mechanism. “Come on, come on . . . Help! How do you rewind this thing?”
She hammered the old metal side, willing the reel-to-reel to play again. Instead, it showed static scenes of the beach. A very different one from what lay beyond the yard now.
Finally finding a release, she threaded the thin film backward, seeing through the projector’s light just when Birdie sang her song.
“. . . it’s the Lord’s song . . . Do not be dismayed . . .”
Tenley raised her voice in weak, weeping harmony. “You don’t have to worry or be afraid.”
THIRTY-NINE
BIRDIE
MAY 1939
“This is splendid.” Gordon along with his wife, Sweeney, toured Grove Manor with his hands locked behind his back. “I can still smell the lumber and the paint.”
“We’ve only lived here a month,” Eli said. “You’re our first guest.”
The maid, Mrs. Simmons, served tea on the veranda using Mama’s things. She’d passed away the summer of ’35 and left Birdie her jewels and china. Papa, bless his heart, died a year later from missing her. However misguided Mama’s young heart might have been, she and Papa loved each other. In the end, isn’t that all that mattered?
Birdie sipped politely, ignoring a touch of rude anxiety. Gordon had come to discuss their next project.
Perhaps, at last, her solo project?
“How does young Master William fare?” Gordon asked, reaching for a biscuit. He’d grown gray over the years, though success kept him youthful, confident. “Our Stephen has just become a father.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself,” Sweeney said. “Empty house. Gordon traveling. The children in Boston.”
“She visits them often,” Gordon said, patting his wife’s hand.
“William is well. Entering the RAF. He wants to be a flyer.” Eli loved boasting of his intelligent pilot son. “He talks of nothing but aeroplanes.”
The conversation focused on family and how Eli and Birdie finally decided to leave England for the warmth of Florida.
“We were both ready for change,” Birdie said. “When my father died, he left us this land and a good deal of money, so—”
“—we turned Hapsworth over to my nephew, Earl of Montague, and built a beach cottage.” Eli leaned toward Gordon. “When does Birdie get her own book?”
The author sputtered, spewing a bit of his creamy tea.
“Rather direct, Ainsworth.”
Eli hammered his hand on the table. “We’ve been waiting and asking for years. Again and again you promise to bring her to Barclay, yet you do not.”
“How can I? Her writing is my writing. We are the same. They will see the façade right away.”
“Then claim you want to write with her. On a joint project.”
“Impossible. I’ve no time. I’m lecturing and traveling. Again, our writing will be the same as my own solo works. I intended every bit to escort Birdie into her own career, but I fear we’ve built a ship we can no longer steer toward our own desires.”
“Gordon,” Sweeney said. “Have a care. Birdie’s worked hard for you all these years.”
“Of her own choice.” He leaned toward Birdie. “Do you wish to lay down your pen?”
“No, but
I wish not to be Gordon Phipps Roth for once.”
“I’m afraid you will always be me. And the financial rewards are generous.”
“We don’t need the money,” Eli spat, sitting back with his tea. “She inherited the Shehorn fortune. We need her to have her name on her books.”
“Tell me how to go about informing Barclay.” Gordon’s expression drew taut. “We will all go down. Lose our livelihood. You may have the Shehorn wealth, but I do not.”
“But one day I will have my own book, right? We will find a way?” Birdie said with a glance at Eli, then Sweeney. “I do not wish to retire.”
What would she do with herself? Her son, her friends were in England. It was in writing that she felt the most free. The most herself.
“Yes, Birdie, we will figure a way to put your name on your own book.”
“Then I’m satisfied.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “Now, what thoughts do you have for the next book? I’ve been thinking about an English country woman who moves to America.”
TENLEY
She bolted upright, hitting her head on the edge of a table, squinting through the darkness.
What time was it? She’d fallen asleep in the secret room, watching the movie of the Ainsworths over and over, reading their letters, flipping through the raw manuscripts.
GPR had a ghostwriter. But why?
Scrambling off the floor, Tenley burst from the secret room into the library full of morning light.
“No, no, no . . .” She bent over the top rail. “Blanche! What time is it? I’m going to miss my flight.” The clock in her room said seven a.m. Dang it! Grabbing her suitcase, she started tossing her toiletries inside. No time to use them. And her dirty laundry . . . she had meant to do a last load.
“Blanche? Did you hear the taxi honk?” She couldn’t hear a thing in that tiny room. She’d go to the airport and beg for mercy. Then sit there until she could catch another flight.
Phone? In her pocket. Wallet? In her purse. Rolling her suitcase into the hall, Tenley returned to the library to pack up her laptop. From the secret room, she gathered the correspondence between Birdie and Gordon, stuffing the letters in her laptop case.