The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Nope, you don’t.” He stared toward the water, considering his next move. Should he say what was on his mind? Just go there? “But I’m kind of thinking you owe yourself one.”

  FIFTEEN

  BIRDIE

  The private brougham arrived at the Barclay Publishing offices on Broadway shortly after three.

  The blustery wind pushed her toward the doors, and when she stepped into the foyer, she found Eli waiting for her.

  “Good afternoon.” She nodded to the lobby porter and removed her gloves, distracting herself from the jittery sensation Eli’s presence inspired. “I hope accompanying me has not inconvenienced you in any way.”

  “Certainly not. I gladly offer you my moral and emotional support.”

  The day she’d read the Phipps Roth article, she’d also written to Eli, explaining her dilemma, asking for his support on her mission to see the publisher. She longed for moral support. Someone to believe her. Eli had always encouraged her writing aspirations.

  Though he did not know he was the inspiration for A View from Her Carriage—and she had no plans to tell him—she felt he could be trusted with her rather scandalous suspicion.

  His reply came within the hour.

  “I’ll gladly accompany you.”

  “Are you feeling brave?” he said, smoothing his dark hair from his face.

  “Not at all. Mama instilled in me a healthy fear of all authority.”

  “You are not accusing the publisher, correct? Merely inquiring.”

  The lobby porter stepped forward. “Would you prefer the elevator or the stairs?”

  “The stairs. Those closed boxes give me shivers.”

  “Indeed, miss.”

  So Eli escorted her up the stairs. “May I speak honestly, Birdie? You do realize it’s highly unlikely Phipps Roth’s book is yours.”

  “I’m well aware. But Eli, I cannot help but wonder. Will it hurt to inquire? No matter how preposterous?” Birdie paused on the second-floor landing. Did Eli agree with her? “His book description is so like mine. I wonder if somehow my story, which Barclay was in possession of for some six months, might have been conveyed to Phipps Roth in a conversation, and the idea took hold.”

  “I’ve heard it said there really are no new ideas.”

  “As I’ve heard, but the description of Phipps Roth’s book so mirrors my own. Do you think I shouldn’t even bother Barclay? Will I shame myself and the Shehorn name by approaching him? Although if history holds course, he may very well refuse to see me.”

  Eli looped his arm through hers. “We’re here. Let’s speak to the man before you go on sorting it out in your head.”

  When they entered the Barclay Publishing offices, Mrs. Petersheim came around her desk. “Miss Shehorn, good afternoon. What are you doing here?”

  “Is Mr. Barclay available? I need only a moment of his time.”

  “He’s very busy.” She propped her hands on her ample hips, her expression set. “I’m not sure he can see you. Perhaps I can relay a message?”

  “My conversation is of a private matter. May I introduce you to the Earl of Montague? Lord Montague, Mrs. Petersheim.”

  “Your Majesty,” she whispered with an awkward curtsy.

  “I’m not royalty. Lord Montague will do. Mrs. Petersheim, you would be doing me a great service if you’d alert Mr. Barclay to our presence.”

  Birdie was nothing short of genius to bring him along. How splendid! His good looks were rivaled only by his good charm.

  Mrs. Petersheim vanished in a flustered flurry, disappearing behind a frosted glass door.

  “I tip my hat to you, Lord Montague.” She inclined her head, touching the brim of her hat. “Well done.”

  “Being a peer does have its advantages.” He laughed low, only for her. “Even in America.”

  Birdie inhaled the earthy fragrance of his scent, longing to remember everything about him. The way he smelled, the grip of his hand around hers, the distinct sculpture of his face.

  “I-I wish things were different,” he said. “With us. You’re blushing. Am I out of line? It’s that I find no time to speak with you.”

  She turned away. “Eli, please, we are in an office building. What do you expect me to do or say?”

  “That you feel the same way.” He sighed, stepping back, turning his hat in his hands. “I’m being foolish. I am bound to do my duty with no regard to my heart.”

  “My obligations are only slightly less strenuous.” She glanced around, offering him a smile. “We are a tragic love story in the making. If only we’d lived in another time . . .”

  “I can’t imagine a time when laws or society or peerage do not dictate the lives of their children. Who should marry whom. Who inherits and who is left in the cold.”

  Mr. Barclay’s door clattered open. “Miss Shehorn, Mrs. Petersheim informs me you wish to see me.”

  “Yes, sir, indeed.” Blessed! He did not try to escape. Birdie rushed into his office, leaving Eli’s confession on the reception floor. What more was there to say?

  “Five minutes,” Barclay said. “Not a moment more.”

  “You are more than generous.”

  The three of them gathered in the center of his office. “May I introduce Lord Montague, Elijah Percy.”

  Barclay clapped Eli’s hand in a hearty shake. “We’re thinking of opening an office in London.”

  “A splendid city. Let me know if I may assist in any way.” Eli reached into his pocket and passed Barclay his card. “Now if you could assist Miss Shehorn.”

  He’d taken command of the conversation. Bravo, Eli!

  “Another manuscript go missing, Miss Shehorn?”

  She laughed, trying to dislodge her own unease. “I have a question about Mr. Phipps Roth’s new book.” From her reticule, she retrieved the three-day-old article.

  “What sort of question? I’m sure we don’t need your permission to publish a book.” He refused the article she offered, turning back to his desk. “Can you get to the nature of your visit? I’ve work to do.” Mr. Barclay tapped his fingers on a bundled manuscript, then aimed a steely gaze at Birdie.

  “Of course, you are a busy man.” Birdie unfolded the article. “I-it’s just that . . .” She peered at Eli. If he appeared to doubt, she’d turn for the door. But he nodded, smiling, urging her on.

  “Miss Shehorn, please state your business.” Mr. Barclay sat down, reaching for the manuscript and his red pencil.

  “It’s simply, Mr. Barclay, the description I read sounds very familiar to me, and I was wondering . . .” In an instant, Birdie could see the scene unfolding before her mind’s eye. She, a young heiress, all but accusing a respected New York businessman of what? Cheating? Stealing?

  Did her arrogance lead her to believe her idea was so exceptional Barclay would risk his reputation and livelihood to apprehend it?

  Mama’s voice droned through her head. “Consider your reputation, Birdie. What you do reflects on all of us.”

  “Wondering what?” Mr. Barclay looked up from his work. “Do go on. I’m curious . . .”

  Eli stepped forward. “She found the description to be very simi—”

  “Enchanting. I found it to be very enchanting.” She stuffed the newspaper clipping into her reticule. “I wonder if I might have an advance copy to read, perhaps lend my support.”

  “Birdie?” Eli said. “Did you want to sort out another matter with Barclay?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Miss Shehorn, do you mean to tell me you came all the way down here merely to lend your support to Gordon’s new book?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I came to say. I’m a devoted fan.”

  “I’d have preferred you to write a letter.”

  “I wanted to show my full enthusiasm.” She posed with a proper New York–heiress posture.

  Mr. Barclay walked around his desk toward the door. “How kind of you. I’ll keep your offer in mind. Now if I could bid yo
u a good day.”

  “Thank you.” Maintaining her decorum, Birdie hurried for the open door. “I’ll write to you for a convenient time to host Mr. Phipps Roth. Please give him my best.”

  “Oh, Miss Shehorn.” Barclay stopped her in reception. “I take it you’ve found your missing manuscript?”

  “It was right where I suspected all along.”

  Mr. Barclay bid them adieu, and Eli walked Birdie to the stairs.

  “Birdie, love, what happened in there?”

  “I couldn’t, Eli. I couldn’t.” She collapsed against him, gripping his soldier-trained shoulders. “The moment I was about to speak, I realized I was about to ask the man who’d given the world Gordon Phipps Roth, and so much great literature, if he somehow took my work. I felt like such a fool, like the spoiled heiress he believes me to be.”

  He kissed the top of her head, then her temple. “I’m proud of you, my little bird. If you’re sure.”

  “I want to write my stories, Eli.” She glanced up at him. “Desperately. It’s the one occupation that is mine. No Mama. No Papa. No Shehorn name or expectations of a girl in my station. I’m in command of my life for those brief moments I put pen to paper.” She turned away from him. “But do I want to find myself in a fight with the man who might help me realize my dream? And truly, would Gordon Phipps Roth stoop to copy another’s work? I daresay I would not. I suppose I’m not making any sense.”

  “Love, you are making the most sense of anyone I know.” Eli took her in his arms, his eyes searching hers. “How I wish I could kiss you.”

  “Eli, I am so grateful for your friendship and that you accompanied me here today, but . . .” Birdie released herself from his hold. “Let us be honest. Our time came and went. You are to marry another. So please, never speak of kissing me again.”

  TENLEY

  She woke up tired. Weary. Having wrestled through the night with words. Giant, ominous creatures that crushed her into the sandy soil of Cocoa Beach.

  Failure. Blocked. Loser. Reject. Cheater.

  Shooting upright in bed, kicking aside her covers, she noticed her skin prickled with perspiration. Exhaling, grateful to be awake, she plopped back onto her pillow and listened to the sleeping house, the AC quietly kicking on.

  When words became a writer’s nightmare, the writer was in trouble. Tenley Merry Roth was in deep doo-doo.

  Schlepping to the bathroom, she slurped water from the faucet, then peered at her reflection. The ratty topknot on her head bounced forward toward her puffy face. She’d fallen asleep in the robe, her robe, wearing the pajamas she’d worn for the past two days.

  Her socks and slippers lay haphazardly at the foot of the bed beside a growing pile of dirty underwear and socks. The only clothing she managed to change.

  Some things just couldn’t be compromised.

  But it wasn’t just writer’s block that bothered her. It was Jonas and his freakishly large family and how they had accepted her at hello. How his dad laughed at her allergic-to-life quip.

  The Sullivan house overflowed with music and laughter. The boy twins built a fire in the fire pit and sat around with their friends laughing over . . . nothing. Just laughing.

  The Sullivans were a subcommunity in the community of life. And she wanted to belong. How crazy was that?

  By the time Jonas drove her home a little after ten, Tenley felt like she’d seen life in color for the first time since Dad’s funeral. How did she not know she’d lived in shades of black and white and sepia?

  The real complication came with Jonas. Sweet, cute, sexy Jonas.

  Tenley flopped down on her bed, reaching for her phone. Three a.m. Rolling onto her side, she tried to drift off, but her mind relived her good-night with Jonas.

  “Thanks for running me off the road.”

  “Anytime.”

  “You were right. Meat is good.”

  “Glad you liked it.” He gripped the steering wheel, nodding his head, awkwardness moving in between them.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you about my engagement ring.”

  “You’re right, it’s not my business. We’ve known each other, what, less than a week?”

  Then why did it feel like always? As if she’d known him forever but just now got to see his face. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Tenley.”

  She tossed from side to side, the tone of his voice sinking through her. He didn’t say, “See you soon,” or “Dinner next week? Same time and place?” or even ask for her number.

  Why did she care? She was engaged!

  Sitting up, she popped on the bedside lamp and dialed Holt. Three a.m. meant nine in Paris. He’d be awake. When he answered, she grinned and exhaled.

  “Tenley?” Sleep thickened his voice. “What are you doing up?”

  “Had a bad dream.” She leaned against the wall and stretched out her legs. Dad had always talked her through her nightmares. Nightmares, he’d say, were the devil’s tools.

  “Just a dream,” Holt said. “Doesn’t mean anything. Go back to sleep. Or do some writing.”

  “I wrestled these giant, ugly words.” She shivered and wrapped the robe around herself. “They were powerful and strong. I couldn’t defeat them.”

  “Words? Probably because you’re supposed to be writing.” His voice ebbed and flowed, dropping off, then forcing through with a heavy sigh.

  “Failure, cheater, block? I’m supposed to be writing those?”

  “Sounds like one of your dad’s books. A thriller.”

  “Some people say dreams reflect life.”

  Instantly the word cheater flashed through her mind. Cheater? Yes, of course. She was cheating on Holt by hanging out with Jonas.

  “Or you’re just worried about your deadline. Take a sleeping pill. Go back to sleep.”

  “Holt, I had dinner with a new friend last night. Well, not just him but his entire Eight Is Enough family and their friends.”

  “Great, great. Look, Tenley, I was up late working. Do you need anything else?”

  “His name is Jonas, but you don’t have to worry or anything. He’s not my type.” Yeah, just lie to the man and yourself. “He’s a furniture designer.”

  “I’m not worried. How much have you written?”

  “Nothing. What about you?”

  “Finished the first rewrite of our script.”

  “Our?”

  “Yeah, Nicolette and me. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “When would you have told me? We haven’t talked, Holt.”

  “Nic stayed on in Paris after the symposium. She liked my screenplay of the midwestern boy showing up in Manhattan as green as the spring grass, and we’ve been rewriting. It’s funny, Ten. Really funny. I’m proud of it.”

  “Funny like teenage-boy funny? Or funny as in poignant and ironic?”

  “A bit of both.”

  She tugged on a loose thread waving up from the robe’s pocket seam. “Send it to me. I want to read it.” Don’t freeze me out.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll check with her. We’re keeping it tight since Nic’s name is on it.”

  “Since when did you start calling her Nic?” She resisted a stab of jealousy.

  “Nicolette gets cumbersome.”

  “A-are you having fun?”

  “Paris in spring? What do you think?”

  “I wish I was there.” Tenley yanked on the loose thread dangling from the robe’s sleeve.

  “Yeah, Ten, me too.” Holt yawned. “Call me later, okay?”

  “You can call me.”

  “Okay, I’ll call when I get up. Get some sleep, babe.”

  She smiled with the vibration of being called babe. “I love you.”

  But he’d already hung up. “Love you too, Tenley,” she said to the air, to the bed, to the wad of dirty laundry.

  With a yawn, she turned off the light. As she drifted off, a thump from below became a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Tenley!”

  Blanche? She kicked out of bed
and darted across the creaky hardwood to the banister. “Blanche?”

  “Well of course Blanche. Who else would it be?”

  “Why are you screaming?”

  “I fell . . . my wrist. I think it’s broken.”

  “Broken?” Tenley darted down the stairs to Blanche’s bedroom. Snapping on the light, she found her mother crumpled on the bathroom floor. “What happened?” She knelt beside her, aiding her to an upright position. “Can you stand?”

  “If I could, would I have had to call you?” She winced, holding her wrist against her side.

  “Careful, I could always go back to bed and leave you here.”

  “I wanted a stupid drink of water so I came in here. It’s that ridiculous rug. Look at it, all twisted up and mocking me.”

  “Let’s not blame an innocent rug. Why didn’t you turn on a light?”

  “’Cause I know this bathroom. Don’t need one.” She winced again, doubling forward. “It hurts like a—”

  “All right, let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “ER.” Tenley hooked her arm under her mother’s and drew her forward. “Use your left hand to push up.”

  “The ER? Come on, it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Your complexion is green.”

  “That’s from the chemo.”

  “We’re going. If I have to help you pee for the next few weeks, I want to make sure you’re really hurt.”

  “Pee? Oh, law, I didn’t think I could sink lower than cancer and chemo.”

  After helping Blanche don her robe and slippers, the two of them headed out, Tenley grabbing the keys to Blanche’s Mercedes off the hook by the garage door.

  “Look, we’re the robe-and-slippers sisters.” Blanche laughed between low moans.

  “Finally we have something in common. Can you buckle yourself in, or do you need me to help?”

  “I can do it.” Blanche took the strap Tenley offered and stretched it across her body. “So you went to the Sullivans’ last night?”

  “You saw my note?”

  “How’d that happen?” Blanche winced as she buckled in.

  “I went for a bike ride and ran into Jonas.”

  “Literally?”

  “Yes. I’m dead, but my ghost came back to help you.” She raised the garage door with the remote and backed out.