The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “So, you and Jonas, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g?”

  “I’m engaged, Blanche.” Sorta. Eighty percent.

  “So you say. Please don’t tell me you were wearing that robe last night.”

  “With the socks and slippers.”

  “I’ll call Ailis later and apologize.” She winced, holding her wrist, her complexion pale in the dashboard lights.

  “No need. I took them off and stuffed them in the robe’s pockets.”

  “Better yet, I’ll send her flowers. Remind me.”

  When the Cape Canaveral Hospital sign came into view, Tenley pulled around to the ER and helped Blanche inside.

  “Don’t get old, Tenley. It stinks.”

  “Youth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either.”

  “Then you’re doing it wrong.”

  She aided Blanche to a waiting room chair, aware for the first time how frail her mother was, feeling every rib under her palm. Collecting Blanche’s information, she signed her in, giving the admitting attendant details on her health.

  “She’s a cancer patient . . . on chemo . . . fell . . . maybe broke her wrist . . .” When she returned to the chairs, she gave Blanche the wait time. “About five minutes.”

  “I can wait five minutes.” Blanche looked over at her. “So, tell me about your cowboy.”

  “Screenwriter.”

  “When did you fall in love with him?”

  When did she . . . “What?”

  “When did you know he was the one? Did he make your heart sing? Make the hair on the back of your neck stand up?”

  Really? This was where Blanche wanted to go while sitting in the ER at three thirty in the morning? “My life’s not a romance novel, Blanche.”

  “Still, at some point the boy had to make your stomach flip-flop.”

  “Did Dad make your stomach flip-flop?”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “Indeed he did. And more than my stomach.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “So you and this Holt . . . when did you fall in love?”

  “I don’t know . . . midnight at Starbucks over coffee and chocolate croissants. We both wrote there at night and started noticing each other. I was working on my master’s thesis and he a screenplay. When Dad died and I started writing Someone to Love, things changed between us.”

  “He was there for you.”

  “Yeah, he was.” What a nice reminder. She forgot that sometimes. “We started dating a year ago. When I moved to a new place. He came with me.”

  “Is he smart? Funny? Handsome?”

  “Yes, and he’s from a well-to-do family. So he’s not mooching off me.”

  “Does he love you? That’s really what I want to know.”

  “He proposed, didn’t he?”

  Blanche reached up with her good hand, tweaking Tenley’s chin. “That doesn’t mean he loves you.” Her tired blue eyes contained no guile. Just a surprising affection.

  “I think he does, yes. But then again, you loved Dad and look how that turned out.”

  Blanche turned aside with a huff. “I was too restless for my own good.”

  “Then when you finally settled down, how come you never came back?”

  She shook her head, holding her wounded wrist to her chest. “He wouldn’t have wanted me. Married two more times, neither of them lasting more than three years.” Regret watered her confession. “That’s a lot of heartache, Tenley. Don’t do what I did.”

  “He would’ve taken you back, Blanche. We both would’ve.”

  “I don’t think so. He never even hinted such to me.”

  “When I was writing Someone to Love, I think I had you two in mind.” She misted with emotion. “Joely and Ezra were you and Dad. I was so overcome with melancholy I think I wrote the romance I wanted you two to have.”

  “You saw me as Joely?” Blanche pressed her good hand on Tenley’s arm. “How generous.”

  “You really read the book?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “And you really liked it?”

  “As I said. Loved it. You’re very talented.”

  “Well, maybe. And don’t give me too much credit. I was just trying to deal with my grief.”

  “So, I was Joely?”

  “In theory. Probably a little bit me. We were the woman Ezra loved. The one he wanted to give the best. Ezra was everything great about Dad. Hyperbolically speaking, of course.”

  “Naturally. Your dad was a good man.”

  Tenley stood up and stretched, jamming her hands into her pockets. “He never went on a date because he put me first. His boss at the janitor job wanted to promote him, but he turned it down so he could be home every night, cooking supper, asking me about my day—preteen girl stuff, of which I’m sure he cared little—helping me with my homework, throwing in a load of laundry, washing up the dishes, answering school or PTA e-mails, arranging for me to visit friends. Guess he was getting his dose of the everyman. He’d prep for the morning while I took my bath. About eight, he’d sit down to write and I’d curl up in the big chair by his desk to read, falling asleep in the first five minutes. He’d scoop me up, kiss my forehead, and tuck me into bed, singing ‘Jesus loves you, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.’” Tenley glanced at Blanche. “That’s the man you left.”

  “Rubbing salt in my wound won’t change who I was or what I did, Tenley. I can only try now to make it right.”

  “I’m not rubbing salt, but . . . he loved you. Looking back, I can see it. Feel it.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t after I left.”

  Tenley returned to her seat with a glance at the reception desk. The nurse should be calling Blanche in soon. Funny, the conversations that the wee hours inspired the heart to speak. Like grief, even a small crisis forced honest insight.

  “Every once in a while I’d wake up, see the den light on, and sneak out of bed. I’d curl up in the big chair with my pillow and blanket while Dad tapped away on his computer. Without looking up, he’d lean over and pat my leg. ‘Everything all right, Ten?’ Then he’d go back to work.” Tenley pressed her hand to her forehead, understanding highlighting her memories. “He worked so hard. By the time his first book was published, he had ten more stacked in the closet. And I think, Blanche, he was trying to answer a longing—”

  “Blanche Albright.” The nurse stood at the edge of the reception chairs. But neither Blanche nor Tenley moved.

  “Answer what longing, Tenley?” Blanche clung to her arm.

  “For you. I think, deep down, he was always longing for you.”

  SIXTEEN

  ELIJAH

  By January’s end, Eli was both energized and exhausted with the whirlwind season. Opera performances were followed by magnificent balls, midnight suppers, and weekends in the Hamptons at the Gottliebs’ estate.

  After Birdie’s direct admonition that she would never be his, he picked up his sword, so to speak, and faced his duty.

  Nobility appealed to the Gottliebs and New York society, and it seemed every lady of esteem desired an English earl at her table.

  He also earned the respect and envy of the men for escorting one of the city’s most beautiful and beloved daughters. Rose was, after all, a rose—alluring and fragrant with a porcelain complexion, raven hair, and eyes the color of the deepest sea.

  Standing among the men in Alva Vanderbilt’s enormous, glorious ballroom, Eli caught sight of Rose among the women, hiding coyly behind her fan.

  He’d grown to enjoy her this past month, refining his affections for her. He’d yet to propose, but they both seemed to be enjoying the chase. The ritual of dating.

  His pursuit. Her retreat.

  Nevertheless, the senior Gottlieb, Franz, suggested the entire family travel to Hapsworth in the spring to meet Papa and Mama and introduce Rose to London society as the future Countess of Montague.

  “She can get acquainted with you and your family at Hapsworth and adjust to her surroundings and fu
ture home with her family in tow for comfort.”

  The news delighted his parents. It meant the match was progressing nicely.

  Alfonse maneuvered along the perimeter of the ballroom, kissing every female hand offered him. He was a flirt to be sure. How could Birdie’s parents match her to him?

  A porter passed with a tray of drinks, and Eli helped himself as he scanned the room for Birdie, searching for her mass of auburn hair or a glance from her wild hazel eyes.

  For the life of him, he could not rid her from his mind. Efforts to dislodge her in the morning were overcome by the evening as he entered the Metropolitan or some magnificent ballroom.

  He’d fail his mission were he not careful. To be sure, Rose delighted him in so many ways. Charming and winsome, she was at ease in every situation. Her mother had trained her well. He’d also found her to be a quick wit and skilled storyteller.

  So what commanded his affection for Birdie? The unmet kiss? Was it as simple as lust? A young man’s yearning to taste the forbidden? Surely he had more mastery over his senses and desires.

  “Taking in the view, I see.” Alfonse clapped him on the shoulder and nodded toward Rose. “You’re a fool if you don’t fall in love with her. She’s the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “Might I say the same of you? If you don’t fall in love with Birdie Shehorn, you’re a fool’s fool.”

  “What makes you think I’ve not fallen head over heels?” Alfonse cocked a confident grin. One Eli knew well.

  “Because you kissed the hand of every lass as you entered.” Eli spotted Birdie across the ballroom with her parents. How lovely she looked, wrapped in silk and fur, diamonds sparkling around her neck and in her hair.

  “Surely you joke. Is that not a gentlemanly thing to do?”

  “Then tell, where is your future intended?”

  “She’s . . . well . . .” Alfonse scanned the room, adjusting his bow tie, smoothing his hair, catching the eye of every lass in his line of sight. “She’s—”

  “There.” Eli pointed to her, then shoved his friend toward the shadows of the room’s edge. “Listen to me, you stupid chap. You will never in your life come across any treasure as great as Birdie. More than your wealth and riches, more than your clubs and sports, more than a stable of prize horses or houses in the Berkshires or yachts to sail the highest seas. She will be your greatest joy and comfort in life. So please, be a man.” Eli popped his shoulder. “Draw yourself away from silly distractions. If I hear you’ve wronged her, I might sail from England to land a fist in your ugly mug.”

  Alfonse regarded him with a stern, dark gaze. “Eli, you make me suspect you’re in love with her.”

  “My affections belong to Rose.” His answer held the required confidence. “But Birdie is a friend. And I know a good, worthy woman when I see one. What do you need with all your frivolous flirtations? Grow up.” Had he sold his bit? Hidden the truth?

  “I see the war has made you forthright.”

  “When you must point a weapon at another man’s head before he points one at yours, there is little time for diplomacy.”

  “Then I heed your advice. You’re a true friend. You’re right. Birdie is special, is she not?”

  “More than any woman in the room.”

  “Save for Rose.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you proposed?” Alfonse said, waving at Birdie when she looked their way. “I was going to wait until the end of the season, but perhaps I should propose sooner.”

  “I’ve not proposed yet, but I have a day in mind.” Valentine’s Day. A day that came supplied with romance.

  The orchestra struck up a quadrille and Rose appeared before Alfonse, holding up her dance card.

  “Alfonse, I believe this dance is ours.” She nodded at Eli. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I am bound by the rules of the dance card.” He tipped his head toward her. “You look beautiful, Rose.” Raising his cane, Eli leaned to see her bedazzled card. “Tell me, which are mine? I hope they are all waltzes.”

  She gave her dance card a coy review. “We shall see.” She linked her arm through Alfonse’s with a backward glance at Eli. “We shall see.” The game of chase and retreat continued.

  Leaning on his cane, Eli watched the dancers. The women swirled past in lovely costumes adorned with gold and diamonds. Not to be outdone, the men glittered with gold watches and diamond cuff links.

  Rose and Alfonse danced the reel with grace and expertise representing everything this New York society treasured—youth, gaiety, wealth, and beauty.

  For a moment, Eli rued his cane and the price of the war. Wouldn’t he love to glide around the floor with his future bride, the envy of all?

  His advice to Alfonse rebounded through him. He also had a gem of a woman. One to be honored and cherished. He must dedicate his every affection to her.

  Contented, making peace with his future, he turned to see Birdie standing near, listening with focus as charmless Hubbard McGlen prattled on.

  He stepped toward her, his resolve to forget her shredding like dry winter wheat. “Good evening, Miss Shehorn.”

  She turned. “Lord Montague . . . hello. Mr. McGlen, may I introduce Lord Montague.”

  “Yes, indeed, we’ve met.” The man tipped his head toward Eli. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, sir.”

  The quadrille ended and Rose took up with another partner, as did Alfonse. McGlen made his way toward the older men by the punch bowl and Eli was alone with Birdie.

  “You’ve no one on your dance card, Birdie?” He reached for the gold-embossed piece swinging from her wrist. “I see this dance is mine.”

  She glanced at the card, keeping her gaze low, away from him. “It’s another reel. You don’t have to—”

  He caught her by the arm and led her down the hall, ducking inside the first open door.

  “This must be the smoking room,” he said, easing the door closed, the atmosphere heady with tobacco.

  “Eli, what’s all this clandestine tomfoolery?” Birdie remained near the door. “I should go.” But her feet remained planted.

  “I just wanted a quiet moment.” He sat on the settee, patting the cushion next to him. “May I say how beautiful you look?”

  His heart thundered as he spoke, while his head rebuked him. Being in her presence invigorated him. It was more than wanting to taste her sweet lips. He wished to hear of her day, ask her thoughts, ponder life with her.

  “Eli, is this wise?” She hesitated, then joined him on the settee.

  “Perhaps not, but at the moment I don’t care.” He peered at her through the low glow of the chandelier’s electric light. “How are you? What have you been doing since that afternoon at Barclay’s?”

  “Well. Dreaming of a new story to write.” Raising her chin, she stared toward the fireplace.

  “And Alfonse?” Eli stood, pacing to the fire. “He plans to marry you.”

  “Is that why you brought me here? To champion your friend? Eli, do what you must for your family and the Gottliebs, but leave me to my own choosing.”

  He returned to the settee, taking her hand in his. “Why must duty require me to break my own heart?”

  Her eyes glistened, reflecting the light of the room. “We live in a world of fortune and luxury, yet how poor and sad we are at times.”

  “I don’t want to be sad. But I’ll take poor if it’s with you.” Eli gathered her in his arms. “I can’t help but wonder if you and I were pledged together—”

  “You are speaking things that cannot be.” She shoved away from him. “I cannot let you break Rose’s heart. It’s easy in passion’s moment to say you don’t care about poverty, but you will when we are living on nothing but—”

  “Love.”

  “—a meager allowance. You will have regret. How would you support us?”

  “I’m a captain in Her Majesty’s army. I can take a permanent position. You, well, you could w
rite your novels. We’d get by, Birdie.”

  “You and I have never known ‘getting by,’ Eli.” She refused to look at him, tugging at her gloves and straightening the folds of her skirt. “You belong to Rose. It has taken me weeks to not think of you every waking moment.” She stood. “We should go. Remember, Rose and Alfonse are our friends.”

  “Of course, you are right.” In the amber firelight, he could see the pulse of her heart in the delicate lines of her neck. “I think I could love you with every ounce of my being.” He reached for her, nudging his nose against her cheek, her warm breath sweet against his skin.

  “Eli—” He feared she’d pull away, but trembling, she leaned against him and he knew nothing but her.

  There was neither darkness nor light, debt nor wage bills, Hapsworth repairs nor taxes. In this moment there were no arrangements or obligations.

  Just the sweetness of holding the woman he loved.

  Taking her hand, he pressed it against his chest. “My heart beats for you.”

  Her eyes searched his as she raised his hand to her heart. “And mine for you.”

  Gently, his lips touched hers and he knew his mistake. One would never be enough. She tasted like honey, dripping and sweet.

  “Eli—” Raising her hand to his neck, Birdie wove her fingers into his hair and clung to his second kiss, her passion sinking into his skin.

  “I’m yours, my love.” His lips trailed the slim corridor of her neck.

  She’d just expressed a loving exhale when the parlor door banged open, sending a large swath of light over the young lovers. The formidable Mrs. Shehorn stood in the doorway, her countenance as stone.

  “Elizabeth Shehorn, Alfonse is searching for you. Lord Montague, your fiancée is likewise looking for you.”

  He cleared his throat but took Birdie’s hand, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Shehorn. We’ll be along.”

  She laughed. “Haven’t you done enough damage, Lord Montague? Birdie, come with me this instant.”

  Birdie squeezed his hand, then slipped free, disappearing into the light and music beyond the door.