by Rachel Hauck
Sorta. What’s up?
Can I call you?
Hmm . . . Blanche typically only reached out on Tenley’s birthday and at Christmas. Not on a random week in spring.
Sure.
Her phone rang the moment she hit Send.
“Tell me, how’s the weather?” Blanche always led off with a weather report. “I always loved spring in Manhattan.”
“Warm, sunny, gorgeous. H-how’s the weather in Florida?” Not that Tenley really wanted to know, but she should keep up her side of the conversation.
Afternoon light filled the loft’s dormer windows, and the scent of warm lumber perfumed the air.
“There’s no place like Florida in the spring. It’s wonderful, simply wonderful. Have you ever been down here in the spring?”
“Not that I recall.” Blanche left when Tenley was nine and the Roth house became one of survival. Not of luxury trips to Florida in the spring.
“Not even for college spring break?”
“I went skiing.” Once. When her best friend, Alicia, made her.
“Then you must come down. Really. Do you remember Grove Manor? You were here as a girl. Isn’t that wild? Anyway, the place is lovely. Inspiring. The backyard slopes down to the seagrass and right out to the beach.”
“Did you really call to talk about the spring weather and the beauty of Grove Manor?”
Their cellular connection went silent.
“Blanche?”
“I recently had a bit of surgery. For cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“A small lump in my breast. We caught it in time but the doctor wants me to do a round of chemo. There’s a new treatment he wants to try. It’s intense but should zap any lingering nasty cells.”
“You have cancer?”
“Had. Let’s speak in the positive.”
“When did you have surgery?”
“A few weeks ago. My sister came to be with me. Your aunt Reese.”
Aunt Reese. The name evoked a distant memory. Tenley never saw Blanche’s family after she left. Her world consisted of Dad and Grandpa. “Extended family” was a bit of an anomaly to her.
“So what do you say?” Blanche said.
“About your cancer?” What was she wanting? Needing? “Pretty rough business, cancer. I’m sorry to hear—”
“No, no, I mean about coming down. I need someone with me during chemo.”
“Me? Why not Aunt Reese?”
“She had to go home. Her youngest is graduating from high school. Besides, we were about to kill each other. Three weeks is long enough for us to be under one roof.”
“Blanche, I can’t come. I’ve got a deadline.”
“You can write down here. There’s a library on the second floor. A beautiful, huge space with lots of light. You’ll love it.”
“No. My life is here. And my fiancé.”
“You’re engaged?”
“Just.”
“Oh, well, congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Tenley tucked her bare ring finger under her leg. “I’m sure you can find someone else to help you. I really do wish you well.” In moments like this, she wanted to whisper, “I’ll pray for you,” but it seemed so foreign and hypocritical. She rarely prayed. And if she did, it was for herself. “How long is the chemo?”
“Once a week for four weeks, then every other week for four more treatments. I’m hoping it won’t knock me out, but chemo hits everyone different. The doc says I should have someone with me. Especially since this is a new treatment. The pamphlet informs me I’ll feel worse the longer it goes on. Fun times. So, will you come down?”
“You want me to be your caregiver?” Bold. Even for Blanche. I abandoned you, but now I need your help.
“In a word, yes. Say, bring your fiancé. The house is plenty big. You two can have the whole upstairs. There are lots of windows overlooking the Atlantic. A spectacular view. Except for chemo days and those following, I’ll be on my own.” A forlorn echo tinged her upbeat, chipper request.
But Tenley recognized the vibe. It lived in her chest. “Blanche, I can’t.”
“Tenley, I won’t beg but please give it some thought. I wouldn’t ask if I had another option.”
A flash of anger gave way to quiet tears. This wasn’t fair, putting the burden of her care on Tenley. She had a life. A fiancé. (Sort of.) Plans! Hills to climb. Mountains to conquer.
Blanche had her season, her carefree days of chasing whatever rainbow caught her fancy. And now she wanted Tenley to drop everything to tend to her?
“It’s only for twelve weeks. Until the end of July.”
“Which is exactly my deadline.”
“I see . . .” A standoff of silence weighted the call. Blanche broke first. “So, can you come? The doctor wants to start treatment next week.”
“I-I don’t know, Blanche.” An out-and-out no seemed heartless. She’d talk to Holt and he’d remind her of everything Blanche wasn’t to Tenley growing up, and she’d settle the matter in her heart.
“Can you think about it?”
“I’ll have to talk to Holt.”
“When?”
“T-tonight, I guess. Blanche, if I can’t come, what’s your backup plan?” When it came down to it, didn’t a rumble with cancer trump a heart-choking deadline?
“I don’t have one. I’ll have to go it alone.”
Tenley made a face. “There’s no one else to help you? You have money. Hire someone.”
“It’s you or nothing, Tenley.”
She sighed. “Okay, well, I’ll let you know—”
“Oh, forgive me, but congratulations on the Gordon Phipps Roth Award. How very proud you must be. I know I am.” Blanche’s voice stumbled, weary and rough. “You know your dad is looking down from heaven, cheering you on.”
“Thank you.” Tenley brushed the wash of emotion from under her eyes. This . . . this was what tripped her up. Why did it matter what Blanche thought? Why, in the core of her being, did Tenley crave her approval?
“How do you like the writing life? Conrad seemed to take to it like a duck to water. Of course, that was after I left. When I was married to him, he was a janitor.”
“He wanted the everyman life experience.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to be a janitor to experience life.” Dad had quit his editing job at the New York Post to get “out of the four walls to see how the world lives.” A move Blanche never accepted. “So, are you a natural? Sure you are. It’s in your blood.”
“I don’t know . . .” A natural? Nothing about writing seemed natural at the moment. It was hard work. Hard, hard, hard, a million times hard work. “That being said, Blanche, I think you should find someone better qualified to be with you.” More tears. More craving in her soul to please this woman. “I live on Diet Coke and coffee. I barely cook for myself, let alone for anyone else.”
“I need someone to be here when I’m sick. Can you make soup from a can? Run to the grocery store? Take me to appointments? That’s all I need. Maybe some light housekeeping. Throw in a load of laundry. Tenley . . .” Blanche’s voice sobered. “I’m scared. There, I said it.”
“I-I’d be scared too.”
Blanche’s long, deep breath vibrated over the phone and through Tenley, melting her resolve.
“Then you’ll call me? Let me know . . .”
“Sure, I’ll call you.” She felt sick, angry. Yet a swirl of regret painted her emotions, her thoughts, her soul.
However late, Blanche was offering Tenley something she’d dreamed of her whole life. More than literary achievements or a handsome fiancé. A chance to know her mother.
“Chemo starts next week, kiddo. Please, come down. Please say yes.”
Breathing back a sting of tears, Tenley promised to think about it.
“I’ll call. I promise.”
She’d just hung up when Holt bounded into the attic, a wild glint lighting his august face. “Pack your bags, babe.” He pulled her from her chai
r, spun her around.
“Why?” Tenley laughed, releasing a piece of her burden. “What’s going on?”
“Paris, babe. We’re going to Paris.”
THREE
BIRDIE
She walked through the Barclay Publishing office doors as the clock in the box-shaped reception chimed four. Gathering her breath after sprinting up four flights of stairs, Birdie approached Mr. Barclay’s secretary, Mrs. Petersheim.
“Miss Elizabeth Candler Shehorn to see Mr. Barclay.” She glanced toward his door, which remained closed. Daniel Barclay, Founder, Publisher, Editor-in-Chief was etched in the clouded glass.
Should she go on? Daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate with the blood of old New York in her veins. A Knickerbocker. An heiress. An authoress-in-waiting.
“Miss Shehorn, was he expecting you? Mr. Barclay is a very busy man, and it’s near the close of business.”
“I only need a moment of his time.” She’d not be dismissed by this man. Not like before, when she’d made an appointment only to be left waiting in reception as he escaped out a back door with Mrs. Petersheim as his accomplice.
Well, not today.
After pretending to faint in the drawing room—which created quite a ruckus—Birdie retired to her room, where Percival—bless him—had set out her coat and hat for a quick escape. She had no time to retrieve the new manuscript from the attic. Never mind, today’s meeting was about her former submission to Barclay. The one she must retrieve.
Birdie snuck down the back stairs and through the empty kitchen and raced toward Ol’ Mo’s shed, where he waited to escort her to the brougham. What would she do without Percival and Ol’ Mo? Her allies. The rest of the staff was too intimidated by Mama to aid Birdie.
At last! Barclay’s office door swung open and the man himself appeared, his voice low, emanating a reassuring tone to the lean, wild-haired man he escorted from his office.
“Everything will be just fine, Gordon, I assure you—”
Birdie froze, boring her fingers into the thick brocade of her reticule. Gordon Phipps Roth? The man, the author himself? She might swoon. She adored his work. Had read his books at least a dozen times. Her governess, with Mama’s blessing, had finally banned her from them for a whole year.
“Surely there are other fine authors with which to engage yourself.”
While Papa had declared, “How can a man know so much about romance? He’ll fill your head with fairy tales, Birdie.”
“I don’t know, Papa,” Birdie spryly answered. “Why don’t you inquire of romance from Shakespeare, Hawthorne, or Longfellow? Perhaps Robert Browning.”
“Miss Shehorn.” Mr. Barclay drew up short, his expression sober. “Hello. Was I expecting you?”
“Since you escaped on me previously, I thought I’d surprise you this time.” Birdie clutched her reticule, affixed her smile, and tried to appear confident. Mr. Barclay was intimidating enough, but add the presence of Mr. Phipps Roth and, well, she was nearly weak.
Mr. Phipps Roth addressed her with a vivid gaze. “Not the Miss Shehorn? The one I read of in the papers so often?”
“One and the same,” Mr. Barclay said. “May I introduce Mr. Gordon—”
“Phipps Roth. I’ve spent many a happy evening in front of a fire lost in your stories.”
“Well now, what an honor. I never tire of hearing from a fan, but from one so beautiful and accomplished . . . Is it true what they say? You speak three languages and are the most sought-after partner for the season?”
“I don’t know how they compose their stories but yes, I speak three languages, and no, I am no more sought after than all the fair ladies of the season when the dance is gay and the music lively.”
Truth was, she was well past her debut. At twenty-two, she was practically an old maid. Thus Mama’s hint to Mrs. Smith today raised her suspicions. Her cautions.
But that was neither here nor there in this moment.
“A modest girl,” Mr. Phipps Roth said with a glance at Mr. Barclay. “Refreshing. Miss Shehorn, how did you know I was here?”
“Actually, I’m here to engage Mr. Barclay.” She twisted the handles of her bag around her gloved hand. “Again.”
“Again?” Mr. Phipps Roth frowned. “Daniel, are you putting off this young beauty? What is your business with Barclay, Miss Shehorn? A job? A typist or secretary?” He laughed. “Surely a woman of your means—”
“A novel,” she blurted with vigor. “I submitted a novel to Mr. Barclay for his consideration.” And she was desperate to retrieve it.
“Have you now? Isn’t that splendid?” Mr. Phipps Roth seemed most amused. “Daniel, what’s the delay? Give her the kindness of your time.” Then to Birdie, “Take heed. You must have alligator skin to endure the trials of publishing.”
“I’ve nothing but the toughest skin.” This shared moment with Mr. Phipps Roth caused her heart to soar. Authors must stick together! “However, Mr. Barclay seems to think I’m more of a bother than any kind of talent.”
Mr. Phipps Roth popped the publisher on the back. “You must see her, Daniel. Give her a chance. Put it on my tab.”
“Perhaps I will,” Barclay said, squaring his shoulders. “She keeps showing up like a hungry pup.”
“Because you’ve given me no answer regarding my manuscript.” Birdie raised her chin, grateful for the iconic author’s camaraderie and subtle endorsement.
“Give the woman an answer, Daniel.” Mr. Phipps Roth reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Until we meet again, Miss Shehorn. A true princess of New York. I look forward to reading your work one day very soon.”
He was younger than his craggy appearance portrayed. At first glance, he appeared to be a desperate old man, but Birdie knew him to be near his thirty-second year. He’d been first published at twenty-five, producing four exceptional novels.
“Then we are in agreement, Mr. Phipps Roth.” She smiled, cutting a coy glance toward Mr. Barclay, who watched the exchange with dubiety. “I look forward to your next book as well.”
“As do I. Remember, Miss Shehorn, never let anyone steal your dreams. You must guard them with all your heart.”
His gaze locked with hers as he bent to kiss her hand. “I’ll remember, Mr. Phipps Roth. I’ll remember.”
Once Mr. Phipps Roth exited, Mr. Barclay steered Birdie into his office wearing a scowl. Holding a chair for her to sit, he maneuvered behind his desk yet remained on his feet.
“I’ve five daughters, Miss Shehorn,” he said. “I’ve witnessed every pitiful, angry, manipulative, begging, pleading expression a girl can muster for her father. I’m immune to them all.” Jerking up his pants legs, he sat with a harrumph.
“My manuscript, sir—”
“Miss Shehorn, are you not from one of New York’s oldest and wealthiest families?” The handsome publisher with graying temples shuffled the rubber-banded manuscripts to the edge of his desk. “Why do you seek publication? A girl of your stature must have more than one proposal of marriage. My wife and daughters read your family’s name in the papers weekly during the season.”
“Do you always believe what you read in the papers?”
His stern demeanor broke into a smile. “I suppose I do not.” Clasping his hands behind his head, he peered out the window, the visage of Manhattan rooftops rising and falling beyond the pane. “But if I can believe the papers on this count, didn’t your family recently return from yet another grand tour? Egypt and the Far East?”
“The editors rather lack news if they report on another Shehorn grand tour.”
“I trust you all fared well. I’ve always longed to see Egypt. Is it as exotic as they say?”
“It’s quite remarkable, but I daresay the pyramids are easier to scale than your publishing house, Mr. Barclay.”
He laughed and made a show of checking his pocket watch. “What can I do for you? My family is preparing for dinner. I’d like to be home on time.”
Birdie sat up a bit straighte
r.
On a dare put forth by her former Wellesley roommate, Birdie had submitted her first novel to Mr. Barclay the summer after graduation.
“It’s so romantic, Birdie. You must try to publish it. Did you really have such a summer with a handsome earl in York, England?”
She submitted A View from Her Carriage to Barclay Publishing in June with anticipation and excitement. Could she become a published authoress? Sleep eluded her for the first week. Then Papa’s grand tour became a lovely distraction.
The summer passed into fall and when Birdie returned home, her hands trembled as she sorted through her letters and packages. There was nothing from Barclay. The silence awakened her fears.
What if Mr. Barclay spoke to Papa? Or worse, Mama. They passed one another in church every week even though the Shehorns never spoke to the Barclays.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Shehorn. What of this tome your daughter penned about falling in love with an English earl?”
Oh, she must retrieve it. What had she been thinking, submitting such an intimate story? What if Barclay published it and Eli read it? While the story and characters were fictional, the underlying truth would be evident to one in the know. That one being Eli.
Clearly, her head had been clouded with fancy publishing dreams.
Her second story was better suited for publication. Less intimate. Less personal.
“Actually, sir, I just want the story returned to me.”
“We return all manuscripts. Did you leave a return post?”
“I did.”
“And you’ve not received it?”
“No, sir.”
He regarded her for a moment, then reached for the side door, disappearing into the offices and the working sounds of telephones and typewriters.
The hands of the clock behind Mr. Barclay’s desk were poised at four thirty. Mama would knock on her door at five. She must be away soon.
She sighed with relief when Mr. Barclay returned not a moment later. “My editor tells me your manuscript was returned, Miss Shehorn. In August.”
