The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Because I know.” She pressed her hand to his heart. “I’ve observed you, listened to you. You are nothing less than a hero.”

  “I do not deserve your high praise, but because it came from your lips, I humbly accept it with gratitude.”

  When Eli’s gaze searched hers, Birdie trembled with expectation.

  “There is the matter of the kiss,” he said.

  “Eli, you make me blush.” A fresh snow drifted down upon them.

  “It is New Year’s Eve,” Eli said, pulling her closer. “When it is perfectly acceptable for . . . for friends to exchange a kiss.”

  He was going to kiss her. Really and truly kiss her. On this cold, magical night. She leaned into him with every part of her being. His eyes searched hers. And she did not look away.

  Just as Eli bent toward her, Alfonse appeared out of nowhere.

  Birdie jerked backward, turning away, her lips tingling with anticipation.

  “You two sitting this one out?” he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve not taken a turn around the ice. Eli, you can hobble along behind us, can’t you?”

  Before she could catch her breath, they were off, leaving Eli behind.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice came low and demanding.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I see your parents haven’t informed you of our agreement. We are to be married.”

  Birdie pulled her arm free from his. “I’ve been informed, yes, but I’ve agreed to nothing. I do not recall a proposal. How can I say yes, or no, if there is no proposal?”

  “I was planning to ask sometime during the season.”

  “Until then you’d flirt with every pretty girl that passes your eye.”

  “Don’t be jealous, Birdie. It doesn’t become you.”

  “Jealous? You are very mistaken.” She shoved away from him. “Leave me be. Poor Eli, you left him to his own devices.”

  “There’s nothing poor about Eli . . . You do realize he’s come here for an heiress. To marry for money. Rose Gottlieb.”

  She raised her chin, quaking beneath her coat. Rose Gottlieb? She was the darling of last year’s debutantes. She was radiant and beautiful with raven hair against a creamy complexion. Demure and well bred, she would make a lovely, charming countess.

  “Birdie?” Alfonse reached for her, his tone softer, his grip gentle. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So mind yourself. Eli belongs to another and you belong to me.”

  NINE

  TENLEY

  In five days, she’d taken Blanche to the doctor twice and the grocery store once, slept a total of seventy hours—who knew she was so tired?—drunk twenty cups of coffee and a twelve pack of Diet Coke, and ordered shoes, jeans, tops, dresses, and bedding off the Internet, shipping it all to her New York apartment.

  When she ordered an antique armoire, the doorman called for an explanation, fearing her identity had been stolen.

  She was out of control. She returned the armoire and imposed a hiatus on impulse shopping. Imagining her credit-card bill gave her heart palpitations.

  In those same five days, she’d written exactly zero words. That’s right, zero. Every morning, after tugging on Blanche’s third husband’s robe and slippers, she sat faithfully at her desk for six hours a day, thinking about words and stories.

  Which, really, if she was honest, was how she started shopping in the first place.

  Heroine . . . just who is the heroine of this story? What does she want? What’s her goal? Is she rich, poor, in between? Is she smart, athletic? Hmm, I could do with a new pair of sneakers.

  Things went downhill from there. The lovely little desk wasn’t proving to be the inspiration she imagined. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Nope. The sensation she experienced when she saw the desk was real.

  “How’s it going?” Blanche carried in a lunch tray—ham sandwich, chips, and a cold Diet Coke—and sat it on the desk.

  Tenley gently closed her laptop, where Chapter One sat alone on a blank page. “You didn’t have to bring me lunch. The chemo—”

  “Is fine. For now.” Blanche sat in an adjacent overstuffed club chair.

  Tenley inspected her sandwich. She didn’t typically eat processed meats. Or ham. Or anything in the pig family. She took a small bite.

  Blanche fixed the edge of her robe over her knee. “If you want to talk about the story, I’ll be glad to listen. Help if I can.”

  Tenley choked down her bite with a swig of Diet Coke. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  “Your dad used to talk to me about his stories. We’d lie in bed at night, making up characters and dreaming up ways to make their lives miserable.”

  “Was walking out on your kid one of them?”

  “No.” She glanced away, adjusting her robe again. “But clearly you’re angry with me about it.”

  “It’s just a good way to make someone’s life miserable.”

  “Are you miserable?”

  “If I could get this book done, I’d feel better.”

  Blanche leaned forward with a sigh. “Let me just say this and get it out in the open. I’m sorry I left. I truly am, but I was suffocating with your father. When we met he was vibrant and handsome, with a good job at the newspaper. We were going to get a post in Moscow or Berlin before he decided to clean toilets and ride the subway at midnight. For what? To get the pulse of the people? To find the everyman story? What about the pulse of his wife? I needed more from life, Tenley.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with you? Or at least share custody?”

  “I didn’t know where I was going. I had no means to share custody.”

  “What do you want me to say? I forgive you? We went over this at Dad’s funeral.” Tenley bit into her sandwich.

  “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I appreciate you coming down. I know you had other choices and I get the sense it wasn’t a pleasant good-bye with your fiancé. What’s his name?”

  “Holt.”

  “Holt? What is he, a cowboy?”

  “A screenwriter.”

  “Ah. We have a thing for writers, you and I. Anyway . . . I am appreciative, Tenley. I want you to know how much.” Blanche glanced away, her eyes misty.

  “I-it’s okay.” Tenley set down her sandwich. “I can write in Paris another time.”

  She wasn’t one to believe serendipity or fate had bent her road to align with a lesser, unknown course, but for a moment, very brief, she suspected her journey to Florida was about more than Blanche, more than chemo, more than writing a book.

  “So, the book. Are you happy with it?” Blanche brushed her fingers under eyes.

  “There’s no book, Blanche. I have three months to deliver something I can’t even imagine or feel.” Tenley sat back with a sigh. “I’m stuck.”

  “Writer’s block? Your dad had writer’s block when he first started writing. Before you were born.”

  “Then there’s hope. He snapped out of it. About twelve years later.”

  “Writing is a process. A journey.” Blanche reached out, fingering the edge of Tenley’s robe. “I bought this for Roger when we got married.” Blanche’s third husband.

  “I never met him. How long were you married?”

  “A year. We weren’t meant to be.”

  “How’d you know?” Tenley reached for her Diet Coke.

  Blanche shrugged. “He left.”

  For a moment, a brief moment, Tenley felt only compassion for her mother. Her selfish choices. Her search for something she couldn’t find.

  “As for you, just keep writing.”

  Tenley tapped the top of her laptop. “Keep writing? Don’t you think I would if I had the slightest idea of what I was doing?”

  Someone to Love had flowed. Like a spring river. But now . . .

  Every inspired idea was a match strike, hot and bright but quickly fading.

  “I remember your dad used t
o say that ‘write what you know’ was all wrong.”

  “I never heard him say that.”

  “He said one must write who they are.”

  “What if you don’t know who you are?”

  “Then that’s what you have to discover.” Blanche touched the edge of Tenley’s robe again. “You should let me wash this.”

  “You don’t have to do things for me, Blanche.” Tenley ran her hand down the old, soft sleeve. She hadn’t showered since Blanche’s first chemo treatment, and so far, this robe over her pajamas was her main attire. Even for grocery store runs.

  She was stuck in more ways than one.

  After a second of silence, Blanche patted her hands to her knees, stood, and made her way to the door. “I’ll come back for your tray. Meanwhile, just write who you are, Tenley. Write who you are.”

  Yeah, that was going to be a problem. Because she had no idea.

  BIRDIE

  “What do you think?” Papa said as they entered their Fifth Avenue manse after New Year’s with the Van Cliffs. “Shall we build in the Berkshires, Iris? Stow will make the introduction to his architect.”

  Morning light spilled through the grand hall through the high and wide windows. It was a glorious and sunny January morning.

  Mama gave him a coy smile. “Do whatever pleases you, Geoffrey.”

  Birdie handed her coat to Percival. They exchanged a glance. Mama would have her house in the Berkshires, make no mistake.

  “I’m convinced. A home in the Berkshires would be lovely,” Papa said. “The Van Cliff cottage was extraordinary. With electricity in every room. And plumbing. Didn’t you find it convenient? I’ll prepare a letter for this afternoon’s mail.” Papa patted Mama on the shoulder as he walked toward his den.

  “Birdie,” Mama said, stepping close. “You were quiet on the way home. How did you fare with Alfonse? Will we be announcing anything soon?”

  “He could hardly drag himself from Kathleen Martin. So we did not fare well at all.”

  Papa paused at the library door, jutting out his chin, nodding. “He’s working up to his proposal. I remember doing the same when I proposed to your mama, nervous she would refuse me.”

  Yes, a man would certainly have to build up courage to propose to Mama.

  “Hardly, Geoffrey. You know I adored you. Birdie, however, gives Alfonse no encouragement. You must be welcoming and inviting. Surely I’ve taught you better.” In fact, Mama taught her nothing except the pain of a riding crop. Her governess and nanny taught her about life and, daresay, love. “Come with me to the salon, Birdie.”

  “I’m rather tired. I’d like to go to my room.”

  She wanted to sneak away to her attic to pen her thoughts and feelings about Eli. He was in her life again, if only for a few moments.

  After their evening of skating and ringing in the new year, Mama saw to it Birdie was occupied with the other women and scarcely left alone.

  She had no more time with Eli. The Van Cliff guests departed bright and early this morning, hurrying back to New York for the start of the season, and Birdie missed a chance to bid him good-bye.

  “You can lie down in a moment.” Mama slipped her arm through Birdie’s, leading her to the library. “I merely mean to review our calendar with you. Am I so much an imposition?”

  “Of course not.” Birdie followed her to the small salon off the foyer where Mama kept her calendar.

  “I know Alfonse has yet to propose, but we’ll want to sail to Paris the first of spring.” A fire crackled in the small hearth and a tea service awaited them. “I’ll write to Worth’s to let them know.” Mama opened her leather date book. “What do you think of sitting for a portrait while we’re there? I remember how fascinated John Singer Sargent was with you when we met him two years ago. Yes, I think I’ll write to him too.”

  Birdie reached for a sandwich and dropped to the couch. She disliked sitting for portraits. But a portrait was the least of her concerns. She must approach Mama with the truth.

  “There won’t be a need for a portrait or a trip to Worth’s.” Resisting Mama was futile, but she must try.

  “Whatever are you talking about? Ah, Mimi Fish left her calling card.” Mama gathered the stack of small decorated cards Percival arranged for her. “We’ll have to call on her next Tuesday. Here’s one from Alva.” She continued to read aloud the small symbols of enormous social obligation. Vanderbilt. Payne. Whitney. Stuyvesant. “The season is upon us. How thrilling.”

  Birdie pressed her hand to her throat, tugging at the high lace dog collar of her dress. The fire was altogether too hot. She wanted to open the window and lean into the cold and thin sunlight.

  “Pour some tea, Birdie. You look utterly flushed.”

  “It’s warm in here.” She moved to the settee farthest from the fire.

  Mama put down the cards. “Now, to our calendar. I think an October wedding would be lovely.”

  “I’m not marrying Alfonse, Mama.” Birdie held her composure. Any break in her countenance and Mama would invade with full force.

  “What happened? Did he do something disagreeable?” Mama poured a cup of tea, slow and calculating. “Don’t mind his harmless flirting. He’s having a last hurrah.”

  “I do not love him. I do not want to marry him.” Birdie reached for another sandwich. More for a distraction than hunger.

  “Birdie, do open your eyes. See what is happening to Papa’s and my friends. They are aging. I declare, Caroline Astor will throw her last ball in a few short years. She’s fading from her position. Others have married off their daughters to European dukes and lords. We, you and I, are in prime position to rule New York society. Your marriage to a Van Cliff all but seals the deal.”

  Birdie swallowed her sandwich in one gulp. “Me? You cannot possibly believe I am the next Mrs. Astor.” Who would want to be such a snob? “You’re right, Mama, society is changing. And it will have no room for the likes of us if we are not careful.”

  “Society will always have room for the likes of us. Who do you think they look to for style, fashion, decorum, and etiquette?”

  “You may want to be the standard bearer, but I do not.”

  Mama leaned toward her. “With my very breath. Mrs. Astor took that role from my mother, shoved her aside. Created an elite society in which the entire Four Hundred could not match my mama’s charm and class.”

  “Careful, Mama, these walls have ears.”

  “Hush, and you will not utter a word of our conversation.”

  “Not me.” Birdie nodded toward the closed door. “You never know who might be listening on the other side.”

  “Then lower your voice.” Determination filled Mama’s voice. “I’ve groomed you for this moment. When Mrs. Astor retires, someone will take her place. And that someone is me and then you, Elizabeth Candler Shehorn. Marrying Alfonse is your first duty.”

  “Duty?” Birdie took up yet another sandwich. “I owe society no duty.”

  “You owe it to me.” Mama’s eyes narrowed, piercing Birdie with a visual sword. “You think four years at Wellesley makes you wise enough to know what it takes to make it in this world? Well, it doesn’t. People are cruel and brutal. They’ll as soon stab you in the back as kiss your cheek.”

  “Then why do I feel your blade in my back?”

  Mama rose up, towering over her. “One day when your husband and children have opportunities no one else in the world has because of your place in New York, thus American society, you will thank me. When governors and presidents, kings and popes invite you to dine with them, you will thank me.”

  “I’ve no desire to dine with presidents. Or kings. And I will not be a party to some sort of vendetta against Mrs. Astor. I have no quarrel with her other than she created this elite society in the first place. Wouldn’t we all be better off choosing our own friends, giving our money to the poor, improving neighborhoods? Papa’s wealthy ancestors certainly thought modesty and sobriety were superior to lavish parties and osten
tatious dwellings.”

  “We’d be living in dreadful brownstones in Murray Hill were it up to your Papa’s relations. Is this about Lord Montague? Your resistance?”

  “Lord Montague?” Birdie pushed up from the settee, turning away from Mama. She must not allow any hint of her affection to show. “My resistance is to your constant hand on my life. I want to make my own decisions. Choose my own husband. My own pastimes.”

  “Choose your own way?” Mama cackled. “Is this the thought of young women today? Your friends. How misguided. You will choose the way I tell you. As I my grandmama chose my way. It is proper and right.”

  “But you wanted to go Grandmama’s way. I do not want to go yours.”

  “What I wanted, what you want, is neither here nor there. It is the way it has always been, and until you walk out of here a married woman, the way it will always be. If you have any ideas of Lord Montague, dismiss them. You know he is pledged to another.”

  “Yes, I know. Rose Gottlieb.”

  “Then do not do to her what Kathleen has done to you.”

  “Kathleen has not wronged me. Alfonse is the one with the wandering eye. And Eli is merely my friend—”

  “Eli is it? You use your Christian names?”

  “—and Rose will not deny him any friendship, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t presume what Rose will endure.” Mama refreshed her tea, tinging her spoon against the side of her cup, her jaw taut. “You must accept your future, Birdie. The sooner you do, the happier you’ll be.”

  Debating Mama wearied her. She’d said more than enough for one day. The heat in the room had grown to an unbearable degree. Birdie rose. “Please excuse me, I’m going to lie down.”

  “Are you in love with him?” Mama’s hard, direct question arrested Birdie at the door.

  She hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t know.” Why must she weaken and expose her vulnerabilities to Mama? It only served to give her the upper hand.

  “Since Hapsworth four years ago?”

  “We had a lovely rapport. Enjoyed one another’s company.”

  Mama crossed over to her. “Listen to me. Let go of whatever girlish intentions you entertained, Birdie. Not for my sake if you’re so determined, but for your own. For his. Lord Montague must return home with an American fortune. The Gottliebs are prepared to exchange a generous dowry for an ancient family name. He must marry Rose. Because the Ainsworth family’s financial redemption will never come from us.”