The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Are we going to be good friends, desk?”

  Her confidence peeked from behind a dark wall. She could write another novel. Sure. The first one had just flowed. So this one would take a bit more time. But she was a bestselling, award-winning author.

  All she needed was a change of scene and this adorable desk. While nothing stood out about the piece, Tenley felt its good bones.

  She loved Grandpa Gordon’s desk, but maybe sitting where he and Dad had written their brilliant bestsellers was just too much for a newbie like Tenley. What she needed was her own space. Her own desk. Her own writing traditions.

  With a contented sigh, Tenley retrieved her laptop from the bedroom, inspired to set up and start dreaming.

  Finding the nearest outlet—all the way against the wall—she pushed the desk and lamp into place and plugged in.

  She switched on the light, and the lamp arched a Tiffany-colored rainbow across the desk. “Perfect.”

  She’d have to get the Internet password from Blanche, but otherwise she was set for a day of writing, a vibrant hum of inspiration in her chest.

  The fragrance of eggs, bacon, and toast drifted through the library. Tenley’s stomach rumbled.

  She stared out the library’s French doors. Light billowed up from the first-floor windows to the open second floor, and everything seemed so fresh and bright, even her weary soul.

  “Tenley? You up?” Blanche called up from the first floor.

  “Yeah, in the library.”

  “Come on down when you’re ready. I’ve got breakfast cooking.”

  “I only drink coffee in the morning.”

  “Not today. You’re having a hearty breakfast.”

  Yeah, well, she’d see about that. Inspecting the desk drawers, she found those on the side clean and empty. However, the middle drawer was wedged shut.

  Hmm. Gripping the pull, Tenley leaned back, giving it a good tug, even anchoring her foot against one of the spindly, scuffed legs. The drawer refused to budge.

  “Blanche, what’s wrong with the middle drawer?”

  “What?”

  “The middle drawer? I can’t open it.”

  Digging into her computer bag, she found an old receipt and slid it along the top of the drawer. It moved freely, unobstructed.

  Was it nailed shut? Tenley dropped to her knees, inspecting the base. No nails.

  “Breakfast!”

  Bumping her head, Tenley crawled out from under the desk. She’d deal with the stubborn drawer later.

  Taking her phone from the robe’s pocket, she snapped a picture and texted it to Holt. He left today for France so he’d be up, on his way to the airport.

  My new digs! Feeling inspired already. Miss and love you,

  Ten

  With a grin, she stretched across the desk, resting her cheek on the cool surface. “Let’s write a book together.”

  This desk was indeed part of her journey. She knew it and believed for the first time she could write a great book here. Prove to herself, and the world, she was not a fraud.

  “Tenley? Breakfast.”

  She gave the large, square library one last visual pass. Yep, this was her place. And she liked it.

  She regarded the wall of bookshelves on her left. One section stuck out a bit farther than the others, and the shelves were rather empty save for a section in the middle.

  Odd. Crossing over, she found a collection of Gordon Phipps Roth books, slightly used hardback editions, and four rows of Dad’s books, a mixture of hardback and paper.

  “Blanche, you have Dad’s and Grandpa Gordon’s books?”

  She took Dad’s first book from the shelf. After Dark, Light. Ten years after it had been published, it was made into a movie and changed the course of their lives.

  A struggling author existing from advance check to advance check became an “overnight” success.

  They bought the big apartment in Murray Hill. Tenley quit her part-time job and became a full-time NYU student.

  “So, you found your father’s books.” Blanche stood at the library doors, her tall, thin frame—older, wearier than the last time Tenley saw her—wrapped in a pink chenille robe, her blondish-gray hair twisted on top of her head.

  “I’m surprised you have them.” Tenley returned the book to the shelf. “Did you read his work?”

  “Every book. I loved his writing. He was a talent. Like his great-grandfather.”

  “W-was that his desk?” Tenley pointed to the piece she’d shoved against the wall. “I don’t remember it, but maybe you had it when you first got married?”

  “That, my darling, is an antique. I know it doesn’t look like it, but it goes back two hundred years.” Blanche crossed over, sweeping her hand over the desk’s surface. “It belonged to the couple who owned the house before my parents. A marquess and marchioness from England.”

  “Aristocracy? In Cocoa Beach?”

  “Believe it or not.” Blanche raised her arms and turned in a slow circle through a spill of sunlight. “You’re standing where noblemen once stood.”

  “They lived here full-time?”

  “Now that I can’t tell you. I was only nine when my parents bought the place. My dad had just joined the space program. Helped launch the rocket that sent Neil Armstrong to the moon. Anyway, I remember my mother called her ‘the marchioness.’ Dad called him ‘the real duke.’”

  “Duke? Didn’t you say he was a marquess?”

  “Yes, but tell that to my dad. He was a big fan of John Wayne, ‘the Duke,’ you know. So he called the marquess ‘the real duke.’”

  “Ah, I see.” Sorta. What did calling the marquess a duke have to do with John Wayne? Blanche must be leaving out something in the translation. “And this was their desk?”

  “Probably. It wasn’t my mother’s. The middle drawer is stuck.”

  “Hmm.” Blanche tugged on the drawer, leaving it be when it didn’t budge. “Who knows? Probably swollen shut from the humidity. Are you hungry?” She started for the stairs. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you last night, but I’m rather wiped out by evening. And I’ve not even started with the chemo yet.”

  “It’s no problem. I let myself in.” Tenley preferred it, really. To see the house, adjust to her environment without facing her mother. “The key is on the dresser.” She pointed to her room. “I’ll get it.”

  “Keep it. It’s yours while you’re here.”

  In the kitchen, just off the open living room, Blanche set the table with white bone china and linen napkins.

  “I never get to use my mother’s set. So I thought, why not today?” She offered a weak smile. “For Tenley.”

  “I’m sorry you went to all the trouble. I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Well, you must. Look, I made eggs and bacon.” She pointed to the frying pans on the gas stove. “Isn’t breakfast the most important meal of the day?”

  “Do you have any coffee? Or Diet Coke?”

  “Neither.” She winced. “We’ll go to Publix after breakfast, get all you need and want. My first chemo treatment is tomorrow morning, so we’re getting right to it. For now, can you fake a love for breakfast?” She motioned to Tenley’s getup. “Nice robe, by the way. Belonged to my third husband, Roger. Nice man.”

  EIGHT

  BIRDIE

  On the edge of the frozen pond, Birdie watched Alfonse skate with Kathleen Martin, his arm tight around her waist, whispering something that made her laugh.

  Behind her, the quartet played, the tips of their fingers protruding from their clipped gloves.

  Servants bundled in furs huddled together by a fire, ready to assist the Van Cliff guests with skates or cups of hot cocoa.

  It was quite lovely. Romantic even—if a girl enjoyed sitting alone while her so-called intended flirted with another. If Alfonse was aware of their arrangement, he pretended otherwise.

  After dinner, Mama had yanked her into a quiet alcove and admonished her through clenched teeth, “Make your way toward A
lfonse. Do not let that Martin swell steal his attention. Let him see he’s made the right choice.”

  “What choice has he made, Mama?”

  “Mind yourself.”

  Birdie rode to the pond with Alfonse and Kathleen, the sleigh bells ringing through the whispering night. Alfonse engaged her in trite questions when he wasn’t engaging Miss Martin in conversation.

  Meanwhile, dear, sweet Lord Montague had been detained by the men at the house. They wanted a true account of the Boer War.

  “You were there. Let us hear what the papers did not tell us.”

  On the pond, Alfonse and Kathleen whizzed past, their skates cutting into the ice, their movements in unison. The girl was lovely with a regal composure, her features in perfect harmony one to another, her dark hair curling about her face, her blue eyes fixed on Alfonse. She skated as if she were born to balance on two narrow blades.

  Kathleen was an heiress of no small means. Though the Martins were new money—her grandfather had been dirt poor until his forties.

  If Alfonse fancied her so much, why didn’t he just ask for her hand? He appeared completely enamored with her and completely disinterested in Birdie. Which came as no surprise.

  Birdie turned at the sound of sleigh bells. Had Lord Montague freed himself from the conversation of war? But alas, it was Trudy arriving with Lionel Vandergriff.

  The two of them romped through the snow toward the selection of skates, Trudy clinging to Lionel’s arm the same way Birdie had clung to Eli that final afternoon at Hapsworth.

  Mama had arrived at breakfast, announcing, “We really must be going, Lord and Lady Ainsworth. We’ve bordered on abusing your hospitality.”

  After which Eli whisked her away for a walk across the meadow, stealing a few private moments for a private good-bye.

  “I’ve grown quite an affection for you, dearest Birdie. I fear I’m going to miss you more than I can bear.”

  Oh how loudly her heart beat. “Surely not. You have so many friends here. Many a proper lady vies for your attention.”

  “But they are not you.” He brushed his finger along the line of her jaw. “How did I become so lucky as to meet you, Elizabeth Shehorn?”

  “I am not sure, dear Eli. But I daresay I am the lucky one.”

  Then he cradled her hand in his, taking a step toward her, his heart speaking through his gaze. He was going to kiss her! Oh, how sweet, love’s first kiss.

  She felt light and airy, wanted. But as he bent toward her, a footman—a rude, rude footman—rode up, declaring the carriage to the train had arrived. Birdie’s parents awaited her.

  Since that moment, something remained unsaid, undone, between them. Even after four years.

  No sooner had she boarded their vessel home than her heart broke and spilled out, forming the pages of what would become A View from Her Carriage.

  She envisioned his face as she waved good-bye through the carriage window, wondering if she’d ever possess her own heart again. One rarely had a second chance at first love.

  “Is this seat vacant?”

  Birdie jerked around and peered into his heart-stopping face. “Indeed it is, sir. I’m waiting for my good friend, Lord Montague.”

  “’Tis I, Birdie.” He laughed, slipping down next to her. “Please, call me Elijah, or Eli. ‘Lord Montague’ is used in court or by the servants.”

  “Did the men tire you out with talk of war?”

  “They were curious. I understand. Mostly they kept me from you.”

  “Eli, please.” She glanced away, a fresh snow starting to fall. Lionel and Trudy were on the ice now, gliding around hand in hand. “I think they are in love. Those two.”

  “Then God bless them.”

  It was hard watching young lovers while sitting next to Eli. She was so close, yet so very, very far away. Seeing him brought forward the feelings she believed long-since faded.

  In light of such emotion, whatever had possessed her to submit her story to Mr. Barclay? What if they’d actually published her book? Elijah might have read it and seen himself on the pages painted with Birdie’s most raw and real affections.

  Though she had changed their names from Birdie and Eli to Bette and Ethan, Lord Andercroff, the truth would be evident to those with eyes to see.

  “Do you fancy a skate?” Eli said after a moment.

  “Skating? I suppose. I’m not as strong on those narrow blades as Miss Martin or Trudy.”

  “Nor am I.” He raised his cane. “But perhaps together we’ll make one sound skater. Shall we give it a go?”

  “Why not?”

  They made their way toward the servants and, after choosing a pair of skates, sat on the nearest bench to lace them up.

  “My brother, Robert, and I spent many a winter afternoon skating at Hapsworth,” Eli said, wincing as he pulled on his left skate.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this? I wouldn’t mind if you said no. I preferred the indoor sport of reading as a child. I only went out when Mama insisted.”

  “We can’t let Alfonse and the others have all the fun. Hurry now, lace up your boot.”

  Mercy, how he set her heart racing. Could he hear its thunder? Feel the heat radiating from beneath her coat?

  Eli stood, leaning on his cane, and offered Birdie his arm.

  “I believe we are taking our lives into our hands.”

  Eli laughed, leading her onto the ice. “Then gladly. During the past three years I’ve faced hunger and cold, heat and pain, and stared death in the face. This? Sheer pleasure.” Eli tapped his cane on the ice and slowly, carefully, they began. Birdie wobbled, gently clinging to him.

  Trudy and Lionel sped past, racing from one end of the pond to the other, their quick starts and dramatic stops chipping the ice.

  “Show-offs,” Eli whispered. Birdie stumbled forward with a chortle.

  “We’ll just go at our pace.”

  “Slow and steady. Ha, did I just repeat my grandfather? At twenty-six I’m an old man.”

  “Well, you do have a cane.”

  His great, boisterous laugh rang out, drawing the attention of Alfonse and Kathleen, Trudy and Lionel.

  Looping around the ice, Birdie fell into a rhythm with Eli, matching his steps, picking up one skate, then the next.

  Besides the scent of the fire and the fragrance of the swaying fir trees, the perfume of the night, the cold and snow, filled her senses.

  As did the subtle, woodsy scent that was Eli. She breathed in, trying to find the words that would capture this moment forever.

  “What do you do with yourself these days?” Eli said, breaking the soft magic of her imagination. “You were off to school when we last met.”

  “I graduated from Wellesley in the spring. I’m home now, doing what girls like me do—”

  “Heiresses?”

  “Teas and parties. Making calls. Embarking on grand tours. Shopping in Paris. I do love my charity work, though.”

  “Didn’t you aspire to be an authoress? A novelist?”

  “I did. I do.” She flushed as he leaned to see her face. “You remembered.”

  “Of course, of course. I recognized your flair for words when we exchanged letters. Birdie, why did we stop writing one another?”

  “I’ve no idea, really.”

  Alfonse swished past on his own, knocking Birdie on the shoulder with a laugh. “Slowpokes.”

  “So, have you penned a great American novel?”

  “No, I certainly have not.” But she did pen one she could not locate. If Barclay didn’t possess it, who did?

  “What? I cannot believe it. You’ll keep trying, though?”

  She smiled at his tender encouragement. “Yes, I believe I will.”

  “Good. I demand a signed first edition when you are published.”

  “Enough about me, what of you?” She raised her chin. “What exactly brings you to America?”

  “Family business.”

  “Is the family well?” When he peered at her, she
sensed she was drowning in a warm pool of blue.

  “Father is not. He’s rather ill these days.” Speaking of his father changed his countenance. “But drinking and gambling away the family fortune takes a toll on the best of men.”

  “Surely not, Eli. Surely not.”

  “I’m sorry to say. Plus with taxes and an ever-growing wage bill, the Marquess of Ainsworth is losing hold of his heritage and inheritance. I love my father, but he was never fit for the responsibility of Hapsworth and the surrounding village.”

  “You’re angry with him.”

  He snapped his gaze to her. “Am I so obvious?”

  “To me. Your friend.”

  “You’re my friend. What a warm, delightful thought.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “Birdie,” Eli said, inching her toward the bank and a bench under a large fir, away from the others. “How is it you are not married or betrothed? What is wrong with my American brethren that they cannot see your charm and beauty?”

  “I was away at school. Too busy for betrothals and the like.”

  “But you’ve been home all these months.” Eli sighed, shaking his head. “Forgive me, this is not my business.”

  “It is if you’re my friend. Tell me, how is a young, handsome earl not betrothed or married?”

  “I was away at war. Too busy for betrothals and the like.” They were in their own world as they rounded the frozen pond and sat on the isolated bench.

  “You mock me.”

  “Not at all.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you want to know why they gave me the Victoria Cross?”

  “If you wish to tell me, yes.”

  “We were under heavy fire, half starved, when I heard a couple of lads calling out. They’d fallen in the field. So I ran from my bunker to rescue them. On instinct.” He tapped his knee. “I didn’t realize I’d taken shrapnel until my batman saw the blood soaking my trousers.”

  “Those men were lucky you heard their cries.”

  “They’d have done the same for me.”

  “You are a good man, Eli.”

  “And how would you know, Birdie?” He scooted toward her, propping his arm on the top of the bench. “We spent a few weeks of the London season and a month of summer together, exchanged a few letters—”