The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  TEN

  JONAS

  He’d spent his last few dollars buying an antique desk. One he hoped to restore and sell so he could jump-start his furniture business, putting the last year and a half behind him.

  It was luck or divine intervention—he’d accept either one—the day he ran into Blanche Albright at Publix. Out of the blue, this friend of his mother offered to sell him her antique desk and chair for a song.

  After inspection and research, he determined the classic English cherrywood piece in restored condition would bring four times what he paid for it.

  Even better, he most likely had a buyer for the desk. Mrs. Shallot mentioned she was interested. The desk sale would be his seed money to start over again.

  One good word from her, and he could leave Tug’s cabinet-making shop and launch out on his own, crafting his own designs again.

  It took him a couple of months to gather the one grand Blanche asked for the piece, but he’d done it. He ate a few more PB and Js, shut off the air, and opened the windows, letting the breeze swish through his 1960s fixer-upper on the Banana River.

  As he turned his truck into Grove Manor’s drive, his buddy, Rob, let out a low whistle. “I’ve driven by this place a million times. Always wanted to look inside.”

  “I used to dream of owning it.” Jonas parked in back and pushed through the low white gate toward the kitchen door, Rob following.

  Rapping on the back screen, he peered through the fine weave. “Miss Blanche? It’s me, Jonas Sullivan.”

  “And Rob.”

  He made a face at his friend. “And Rob.”

  “Hello, Jonas. And Rob.” Blanche shoved open the screen door. “Come in, come in. What can I do for you boys?”

  Jonas flipped his Florida State cap around, bill to the back. “If you don’t mind, I’ve come for the desk.”

  “The desk?” Recognition hooded her eyes. “Oh, the desk. The one in the library.”

  “We talked about it at Publix? You offered to sell it to me with a chair.”

  “You want to take it now?” Her smile wavered as she glanced toward the second floor.

  “If I could.” He pulled a check from his pocket. “I’ve got the money right here.”

  “Well, you see, my daughter is using it. She’s a writer, you know.”

  “Your daughter? Well, okay, I can probably find her something else to use if she really needs a desk.” Last year he’d picked up a junker for his own use from a Cocoa Beach city hall auction. Kept it in his work shed.

  “I’m sure she can make do. There’s a comfy chair up there. Go on up.”

  Light spilled over the stairs from the skylights, glinting off the polished hardwood and creating a surreal floating sensation.

  On the second-floor landing, Jonas walked toward the library doors, pausing when he saw her at the desk, her cheek resting against her hand.

  She was draped in a worn, faded red-plaid robe, her head bobbing with sleep, the knot of chestnut hair snapping up and down.

  “Hello?” Jonas rapped on the door frame. “Sorry to disturb but—”

  The woman jerked around, her midnight-blue eyes wide with surprise. Beside him Rob whispered, “Whoa.”

  This was Miss Blanche’s daughter? She was a mess. A gorgeous mess.

  “W-what? Who are you?”

  “Jonas Sullivan.” He moved inside, offering his hand. “This is Rob.”

  “Me.” Rob moved around Jonas to shake her hand. “I’m Rob.”

  “Very nice to meet you, I’m Rob.”

  Jonas shot Rob a glance. He liked this girl. “We’ve come for the desk. And you are . . .”

  “Tenley. You’ve come for the desk?” She slipped her elbow over the smooth surface. “This desk? The one I’m using for writing?”

  “Looked more like a mattress a few seconds ago. And yes, that’s the one. The chair too.”

  “This chair, the one I’m sitting in?”

  “Yes, the one you’re sitting in.” He turned to Rob. “Let’s clear away this chair and that chest in the middle of the room, make a path to get this out. You think the staircase is wide enough?”

  “I think so but . . .” Rob produced a pocket measuring tape. “Let me make sure.”

  “Hold it.” Tenley was on her feet, very much awake. “You’re not taking this desk. Does Blanche know about this?” She moved toward the door, revealing long, lean legs beneath the robe, and leaned over the railing. “Blanche, two thieves are trying to take your desk.”

  “She knows. After all, she sold it to me.” Jonas produced his check as Rob returned, stretching his measuring tape across the desk.

  “We can just make it. If we’re careful around the corners.”

  “Blanche?” Tenley stared at Jonas, arms folded. “Did you sell my desk and chair to this guy?”

  “I did. A few months ago. In light of recent events, I forgot.”

  “What recent events?” Jonas peered from Tenley to Blanche.

  “Cancer,” Tenley said. “She’s had surgery and just started chemo.”

  Jonas moved to the railing, leaning around Tenley. “Miss Blanche, I’m so sorry. Does Mom know?”

  “She does, but I told her not to make a fuss. I have my girl, Tenley, with me.”

  “Well, you let us know if you need anything, you hear?”

  “Will do, Jonas. I appreciate it.”

  “In the meantime, he can just leave, right?” Tenley said. “Without my desk.”

  He flashed his folded check again. “Got the money right here.”

  “Then the sale is not complete.” She snatched the check from his hand. “Oooh, so sorry, Jonas Sullivan, but we don’t accept personal checks here at Grove Manor.” Tenley shoved the check at him. “Bye-bye.”

  “Yeah, you do take personal checks and I’m taking the desk. Blanche knows how to find me if it bounces. Which it won’t.” He slipped the check into his pocket. “Rob, let’s go.”

  He liked this girl. She was raw, funny, and beautiful, yet a bit lost and forlorn.

  However, the last time a beautiful woman caught his attention, it cost him everything.

  Back at the desk, Jonas removed Tenley’s laptop and phone. “You want to get the front, Rob?”

  They’d taken two steps when Tenley flew at them. “Wait!” She flung herself over the desk with a wail, gripping the sides. “I need this desk. You don’t understand. It’s my friend. My people.”

  “Your people?” Jonas and Rob lowered the desk. “Tenley, this is wood.” He knocked on the desk’s surface, then pinched the soft flesh of her hand. “This is people. Flesh and blood.”

  She rose up, planting herself in the middle of the desk. “Jimmy Fallon called. Wants to know if you can do the show for him tonight.”

  “Clever, but I heard he was asking for you.”

  “You can’t take this desk.” Arms folded, chin set, Tenley let gaze bore into his.

  “Oh, I’m taking this desk.”

  “Blanche!”

  Rob glared at Jonas behind Tenley’s back, tipping his head toward her. Let her have it.

  Yeah, okay, if he was objective he could see how this standoff was ridiculous. But ever since Cindy and Mason ran off with his designs, his money, and his heart, he’d done nothing but work and pay off debt.

  He’d cut off cable. Hoarded leftovers from family dinners. Worn faded jeans and beat-up work boots.

  So saving a thousand dollars for this desk meant he’d emerged from the darkest season of his life and something, something, was finally going his way.

  “Tenley, what are you doing on the desk?” Miss Blanche stood in the library doorway. “Let the boys have it. You can use the one over there in the corner.”

  “It’s a child’s school desk.”

  “I’ve got one you can use,” Jonas said. “But this antique is going with me.”

  “Afraid not, Cocoa Beach.”

  “Well, you have me there. I don’t know where you’re from.”


  “New York.”

  “Figures.” Jonas gently pushed Tenley off. “Ready, Rob?”

  “Okay, wait. Wait!” Tenley blocked the exit, a crazed look in her eye. “I have this deadline, you see, and it’s not going very well. Forget that, it’s going horrible. But this desk . . .” Tenley knelt beside it so Jonas motioned for Rob to set the piece down. “This desk gave me a spark of inspiration the moment I saw it. Like I could write in this room, at this desk.” She sank down to the floor. “Like I wasn’t a hack.”

  “So this desk is your good luck charm?” Thank you, Rob.

  “Yes, yes, my good luck charm. My muse.” Tenley jumped up, leaning over the desk toward Rob, the robe hanging off her shoulders. “So, you’ll leave it?”

  Jonas caught Rob’s expression. The one he wore when a girl got the better of his senses. “When’s your deadline? Jonas, you could always—”

  “What if I bring you another desk?” Jonas refused to be bested by another pretty woman. If he hadn’t learned his lesson, he was a fool.

  “What if you leave this desk?” She turned to Rob. “My deadline is in July.”

  “Shoot, that’s only a few months away, Joe,” Rob said.

  “Right, Joe.” Tenley this time. “Only a few months away.”

  “I’ll bring you another desk. Rob, you get that end.”

  “Wait, wait . . . I’ll pay you.”

  “Tenley, please.” Blanche slipped her arm around her daughter. “There are other desks and chairs. Look, there’s an old, inspiring recliner by the window. Use it. Jonas, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Blanche.” Jonas reached into his pocket for the check, offering it to Blanche. “Rob, watch the banister.”

  “I’ll pay you double what you paid Blanche.”

  “I’ve already got a buyer, Tenley. Sorry. I’ll bring you another desk.”

  “But that one spoke to me. It said writer.” Tenley leaned against the railing as Jonas and Rob started down the stairs. “The middle drawer doesn’t even open.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  “I can’t believe you won’t leave it a few months.”

  “Rob, careful around the landing. Got it?” Jonas glanced up at Tenley, descending with the desk, setting it in the foyer by the front door. “A desk doesn’t help you write. It’s an object. You either have it or you don’t.”

  “Says the man who had to wear the same cleats for every baseball game he ever played, and if he couldn’t find them . . .”

  Tenley hammered down the stairs, hopping on top of the desk, the robe falling away, revealing her toned, smooth leg. “Tell me more about these lucky shoes.”

  “They weren’t lucky shoes. They just fit me the best.”

  “What? They were the cleats you wore when we won the state title. Don’t listen to him, Tenley. He believed he couldn’t play without them.”

  “You want to button it up, Rob?” Jonas bent for a good grip on the desk. “Get off, please. I’m taking this with me.”

  Tenley crossed her arms. “Fine, where it goes, I go.”

  “Suit yourself. But it’s going to be awfully hot in my workshop. Get the door, Rob.”

  Rob lifted his end and they headed out the door. When they hit the veranda, Tenley slid off, surrendering.

  “Take it.” She leaned against the side of the house. “You’re right. It won’t make any difference.”

  Her tone, her expression drove through him, straight to the soft spot in his heart. “Hold up, Rob.” Jonas turned to Tenley. “What do you think the desk will help you do?”

  She moved to the porch rail, leveling her blue gaze with his. “What did you think those lucky cleats would do? It doesn’t have to make sense, does it?” She tugged on her hair, knotting it even more. “To be honest, all I’ve done so far is buy stuff I don’t need.”

  She apologized with her eyes as wisps of her hair floated about her face.

  “A desk isn’t going to help you write a novel.”

  “I thought it might be my author quirk. You know, the thing I had to have to write. Virginia Woolf wrote at a standing desk. Truman Capote wouldn’t start or end a book on a Friday. But you’re right, nothing can help me write a book.” She turned to go inside.

  From the doorway, Miss Blanche mouthed, “Writer’s block.”

  Oh boy . . . He regarded Tenley, then the desk. He’d been there. Stuck. Looking for anything, anyone to help him, developing more superstitions and game-time routines. “You really think this desk will help you work?”

  She shrugged, pointing toward the scuff marks. “Looks like a typewriter sat there for a long time. There are ink stains in the right side drawer. I thought maybe, you know, it’d been someplace I hadn’t.” She shook her head, heading inside, the robe flowing around her legs. “This is so stupid. Nice to meet you, Cocoa Beach. Sorry I was so crazy.”

  Dang it. The familiar twist in his chest told him she’d won. “How much do you have written?”

  She paused at the door. “Some.”

  “How much is some? When I went into the library, you were sleeping.”

  “I prefer meditating.”

  Jonas exhaled, motioning to the house. “Let’s take it back up.”

  “You couldn’t have figured that out before we carried it down?”

  “Cocoa Beach, really, it’s not necessary. Take it. Do whatever you were going to do with it.”

  “Restore it and sell it.”

  “Go for it.”

  “It can wait . . . Where are you from, again?”

  “New York.”

  “Okay, it can wait, New York.”

  She followed them as they hoisted the desk back up to the library, setting it where she instructed. She was demure and conciliatory.

  “I’ll dedicate the book to you,” she said.

  “That’s the least you can do. Are we good here?” He motioned to the desk.

  She nodded. “Pick it up the first of August.”

  “This your first book?”

  “My second.”

  “What do you write? Maybe I’ve heard of it. Maybe I read it.”

  “Romance. Someone to Love, and I doubt you’ve read it.”

  “Did it sell well?”

  “Spent twenty-two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.”

  Then what was her problem? Why the writer’s block? “I never heard of it, but I’ll ask my sisters.” Jonas started out of the library. “Good luck, New York. See you in three months. And seriously, if your mom needs anything, tell her to call Ailis Sullivan.”

  She met him at the library door. “Thank you. Really. I know I must seem like a freak.” She made a funny face and he laughed.

  “Rob was kind to me. It wasn’t just the cleats. If I won a game, I’d refuse to wash my uniform. I’ve been to freakyville.” Jonas pointed to the desk. “Good luck.”

  He left her standing in the last light of evening gracing the window, the glow burning her image into his soul.

  Rob followed him without a word until he clapped his door closed and Jonas fired up the engine.

  “She got to you, didn’t she?”

  He glanced at Rob as he shifted into reverse. “Nope.”

  Rob propped his elbow on the door. “Oh, she got to you all right. That desk was the spark for launching your own business again. But you let it go.”

  “Only until August.” He’d left the check with Blanche so he was paid up.

  “I’m proud of you. I thought Cindy had taken romance out of you for good. Two years and counting.” He smacked Jonas on the shoulder. “Welcome back, man, welcome back.”

  “I’m not back. Just doing a girl a favor. But I’m definitely not back.” Nope, he wasn’t, not even a little bit.

  ELEVEN

  BIRDIE

  Mrs. Astor’s opening ball of the season had been a success. Birdie danced until dawn, careful to keep her distance from Alfonse and Eli.

  Alfonse, so as not to encourage him. Eli, so as not t
o encourage herself. She’d spied him with Rose Gottlieb and could not deny they made a handsome pair. Nor that the sight of them together pierced her heart.

  “Fatine,” she said when her maid came to clear away her breakfast dishes. “Is Mama about?”

  “I believe she’s still sleeping.”

  Good. She would not come looking, wondering if Alfonse proposed. Birdie wanted time to herself to begin another story.

  From her room, down the corridor to the attic door, Birdie escaped up the stairs, stepping into the cold shadows.

  Fumbling with cold fingers, she lit the gas lamp on her desk, spreading her hands to its tiny warmth.

  From the discarded settee, she retrieved Great-Grandmama’s afghan and covered her legs.

  This was her private sanctuary. The place Mama’s ambitions never reached. Birdie was safe here with her shadows and books, with her pen and paper, with her thoughts and dreams.

  The desk came from a family friend, Mr. Van Buren, who delivered it to the house when Birdie was nine.

  Papa had sailed to Europe for business and Mama liked to have her friends for late suppers after Birdie and William had gone to bed.

  But they ducked away from the nanny and peek at the arriving guests through the upstairs banister.

  On the night Mr. Van Buren came, they watched from the second-floor landing, peering into the foyer through the spindles, listening as he explained his gift to Mama.

  “For Birdie,” he said. “You said she enjoyed writing stories and reading.”

  “Mack, you shouldn’t have.” Mama held her chin high, regarding Mr. Van Buren down her nose. “How will I explain that to Geoffrey?”

  “Tell him it was a gift.”

  “From whom? None of our friends would buy such an ugly desk.” Mama glanced over her shoulder. “Come to the library before we are found.”

  William peered at Birdie. “What do you think that was about?”

  “I don’t know. Want to spy on them?”