The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  Mrs. Shehorn regarded him and Eli braced for her rebuke. “If you love her, leave her be.” She slammed the door behind her.

  Shaking, Eli dropped to the chair, the heat from the fireplace failing to warm him. The kiss. He was lost in it, tasting her lips, feeling her form against him.

  He may never find his way free. He loved her now more than ever.

  “You’ve mucked yourself up now, Lord Montague.”

  Eli jumped up, scanning the room. “Who’s here?” The light of a match flared just beyond the draperies, highlighting the astute features of Geoffrey Shehorn. “I came in here for a smoke and some quiet. Then you two came in. I didn’t realize it was my daughter until the intimacies had started.” His cigar glowed in the darkness, sending the scent of burning tobacco through the room. “She can’t beat her mother, Eli. She knows it. I know it. Everyone knows it. Except maybe you.” He tapped his ashes in the nearest gold and silver ashtray. “Iris will have her married to Alfonse Van Cliff by year’s end. She’ll settle down into the life of an heiress, married to an heir to one of the biggest fortunes in the world. Day by day she’ll become a leader in society just as her mother foretold. She’ll bear children and ensure the Van Cliff–Shehorn dynasty.”

  “Sounds like a prison of sorts.”

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with its bars.” Shehorn sat in a chair, crossing his legs and loosing the button of his tuxedo. “Everyone knows why you’re here. To prop up your land and title.”

  “The match was brokered for me by my aunt and mother while I was in Africa.”

  “We may be in a new century, Lord Montague, but our ways have not changed. Birdie will marry Alfonse. She talks of writing and being on her own—with my money I’m sure—but her mother will win. Mrs. Shehorn always wins.”

  “You don’t give Birdie credit. She knows her own mind.”

  “Yes, but she’s no match for her mother.”

  “And you won’t help her.”

  He puffed on his cigar, laughing low. “I oversee millions of dollars, yet one stout and stubborn woman oversees me. She is the master at home, I her servant.”

  “Don’t you care whether Birdie marries someone she loves? Who loves her?” Eli poured the man a glass of port, then sat in the adjacent chair.

  “My ancestors wanted nothing to do with the Old World. Your world.” He puffed on his cigar, then sipped his port. “The one with class divides and royalty, aristocracy. They believed all men were created equal. But today, we seek royal unions. We’re marrying our daughters to dukes and counts. Princes. Our Knickerbocker grandfathers are turning over in their graves.”

  “I’m sorry you find our lot so distasteful. But I do love your daughter.”

  “Lord Montague, you’re a good man. I like you.” Shehorn stamped out his cigar, leaving the smoldering stick in the ashtray, and drained the last of his port. “But if you make a play for Birdie, she’ll be cut off. There will be no wedding settlement. There will be no inheritance.”

  “Even if I take no settlement for myself or Hapsworth, you’d disinherit your only child?”

  “Good, you understand me.” Shehorn stood, squaring his tie, buttoning his coat.

  “So she’s to be trapped in the cage of your will.”

  “Trapped? I prefer to call it safe.” He motioned for Eli to follow him. “Now, you heard my wife. Your future fiancée seeks you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  TENLEY

  Dropping down to the beach, she dug her toes into the cool sand and lifted her face to the sunrise, the dampness in the air soaking into her skin.

  Overhead, seagulls flew in random formation, cawing, swooping down to see if she carried any treats.

  She did not.

  Four hours in the ER with Blanche and they were home. She’d fractured a bone in her wrist, so the doctor wrapped her in a cast, warning them to be patient, because chemotherapy slowed the healing process.

  Digging up a fistful of sand, the grains sifting through her fingers, Tenley felt a bit fractured herself.

  Blanche had performed an X-ray of sorts with her waiting-room questions. When did she fall in love with Holt? Did he love her?

  She’d assumed those things. They lived together. Did life together. Holt proposed. Wasn’t that love?

  Though she’d never said yes. She didn’t wear his ring. Was that the problem?

  Pulling out her phone, she messaged Holt. One word. Yes. Her finger hovered over the Send icon.

  Jonas. There. She admitted it. She liked him. The way he cared for others and filled out a pair of Levi’s got under her skin.

  She shot up from the beach and shouted at the waves. “I did not come here to meet anyone. I came to write. Do you hear me? Write. And take care of her . . .” She gestured toward the house. “So don’t try to sneak in some twist to this simple plot.”

  Yeah, like the wind and waves cared? But it felt good to get it out.

  The snap of the wind caught the edge of the robe and it flapped behind her. Tenley deleted the text to Holt and turned toward the house, the seagulls chasing her, crying out.

  Don’t . . . don’t . . .

  The Atlantic beat against the shore.

  Be dismayed. Nor afraid.

  The seagulls and the sea sang her song. Tears slipped across her tired eyes, but as she walked under the ivy-covered trellis into Blanche’s backyard, she was smiling.

  JONAS

  He sat in his usual spot at Simply Delicious Café & Bakery, across from Rob and Marvin, eating a breakfast of eggs, bacon, French toast, and coffee.

  The trio had eaten here every Monday morning since he came home from college, injured and lost without baseball. A torn rotator cuff ended his pitching career.

  Rob and Marvin got him through, helping him gain an identity outside of baseball. They listened when he started dreaming of designing furniture. He had to do something with his hands. They stood by him when Cindy ran off with Mason, taking his heart and his dreams.

  “Have you seen Miss Blanche’s daughter?” Rob asked, holding up his coffee cup for Nita to refill.

  “She came to Wednesday dinner last week.”

  “You asked her out?”

  “Nope. She was riding a bike down A1A. I rescued her from killing herself. I was on my way to the folks’, so I had her tag along.”

  “What’s this?” Marvin said. “I haven’t heard of a new woman in your life.”

  “She’s not in my life.” Jonas dripped syrup over his French toast. “Listen, we need to get on the Holmes order as soon as we get into the shop.”

  The three of them worked for Crammer Custom Cabinets, the job Jonas landed after Cindy and Mason stole his money and designs.

  “I don’t care about the Holmes order,” Marvin said, leaning on his elbows, his broad arms too big for his shirt. The man had been a superstar wide receiver for Alabama until a torn ACL took him out of the game. Ended his hopes of going pro. Cabinet work tided him over while he finished his degree at UCF. “Who is this chick?”

  “She’s crazy, man,” Rob said. “We went to get a desk from Grove Manor and this girl said it was ‘her people.’ Begged Jonas not to take it.”

  Marvin shook his head. “Mm-mm-mm. But he did anyway, didn’t he? He wanted that desk to jump-start his new business.”

  “Nope, he made me haul it back upstairs.”

  Marvin sat back, disbelieving. “Uh-oh. Is there a crack in your romance armor?”

  “Nope. By the way, she’s engaged.”

  “Too bad. Is she pretty?”

  “You can see for yourself.” Rob motioned with his coffee cup. “She’s at the front door. Tenley, hi, remember me?”

  “Oh brother.” Jonas sank down in his chair. He’d just worked her out of his system over the weekend.

  “Rob, right?” Tenley stood at the end of their table wearing, no surprise, a robe and slippers. “Hey, Jonas.”

  “Tenley, what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for coffee.”r />
  Marvin offered his large, dark hand. “Marvin Strover, nice to meet you. Pull up a chair and join us.” Under the table, a large booted foot kicked out the chair next to Jonas.

  “I don’t want to interrupt. I can sit over there.” She pointed to a lonely two-top in the corner.

  Rob hopped up, holding out the chair. “Please, sit. You’re not interrupting.”

  Nita paused as she passed, setting down a menu and napkin roll. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” She held up the white Corelle coffee cup. “You got anything larger? Maybe a small soup bowl?”

  “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll keep you topped off.”

  Jonas made a face, passing her a menu. “How is your stomach not a barren wasteland?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is.” She sipped her coffee, eyes closed.

  “You need to eat if you’re going to guzzle coffee.”

  “I don’t do breakfast.”

  “Toast and eggs are pretty good, but I’m not sure they’re certified organic.”

  “Shutty uppy.” Nevertheless, she glanced at the menu. “I’ll have eggs and toast. Are you happy?” She set the menu on the edge of the table.

  “I speak for your stomach . . . yes. So, how’s the writing? How’s Blanche?”

  “She broke her wrist last Thursday. Otherwise she’s fine. We have another chemo treatment tomorrow.”

  “She broke her wrist?”

  “Fell in the bathroom.”

  “I’m telling you. If you need anything, let us know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And writing?”

  Tenley turned to Rob and Marvin. “So how do you two know Jonas?”

  “High school.”

  “Here’s to good friends.” She saluted them with her coffee.

  “Going on fifteen years,” Rob said.

  “You’re avoiding me.” Jonas leaned to see her face. “How’s the book? Has the desk helped?”

  She draped her arm over the back of her chair and turned toward him. “Not at all.”

  “Then can I come pick it up?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Okay then. I’ll stop by this week.” But he wasn’t confident in her answer. He tried to read her expression, determine her sincerity. Was she serious or being defeatist?

  She flicked her hand at him. “I’m not sure about anything.”

  “I loved writing in high school,” Marvin said. “It was my best subject.”

  “Is writing a subject?” Rob said. “‘Hey, Marvin, what class do you have next?’ ‘Writing.’”

  “Okay, then English, wise guy.”

  “As I recall, you spent most of English class writing love letters to Michelle Jackson, who was way out of your league.” Rob exchanged a glance with Tenley as if she were a part of their personal history. It sat well with Jonas that his buddies included her.

  “At least she knew how I felt. As opposed to Jana Alcott, whom you still admire from afar. And by the way, Michelle danced with me at our ten-year reunion.”

  “Pity dance if ever there was one.”

  “Pity dance? You’d kill to have a pity dance with Jana.”

  Jonas roped his arm over the back of Tenley’s chair. “What we have here is Darryl and his other brother Darryl.”

  “Darryl?” She made a face. “Who’s Darryl?”

  “The Bob Newhart Show. Larry and his brother Darryl and his other brother Darryl. Come on, you know it.”

  “Clueless here, Cocoa Beach.”

  “What? This is a crime against good television. It’s the series where Newhart ran a New England country inn. His neighbors were these crazy woodsmen . . .”

  “Still clueless.”

  “Come on.” He raised his cup to Nita for a refill. “The final show of the series is television history. Classic.” Jonas laughed. “Mom called the youngest twins, Joshua and Caleb, Darryl and Darryl until they were ten.”

  When Nita returned Tenley ordered eggs, then pointed to Jonas’s French toast. “That any good?”

  “The best.”

  “Okay, bring me some of that but with sugar-free syrup.”

  “Diet Coke, coffee, and sugar-free syrup, and you’re worried about red meat?”

  “Should I ask your friends about your quirks?”

  “So, sugar-free syrup? Is it good? I’ll have to try it.”

  Her eyes laughed at him, and he hated how it warmed him. Made him happy. She’s engaged, man!

  Marvin interrupted, thank goodness, leaning her way. “What’s with the robe?”

  “I have no idea. I just like it.” She wrapped the edges around her, covering her shorts and T-shirt. How did she do that? Just walk right in and find a seat in his heart? “Another quirk, I guess. So if this Bob Newhart Show is a classic, how come my dad and I never watched it? We consumed a lot of classic TV. I Love Lucy, Dick Van Dyke, Star Trek.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” Jonas said, a germ of an idea sparking. “We were just talking about watching it.”

  “No we weren’t,” Rob said. “What’re you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember.” Marvin slapped Rob on the arm. “We were going to tell you. But, um, man, something came up with me. I can’t make it.”

  “We’re having a Newhart marathon?” Rob made a face. “Who made that call? How about Longmire or—”

  “Rob, I just got a text from Boss Man.” Marvin scooted away from the table, dropping a twenty and a couple of ones on the table. “Said we needed to make a stop before going to the shop.”

  “I didn’t hear your phone go off.”

  “It was on vibrate.” Marvin tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Let me finish my coffee. And I have to pay.”

  “I got you.” Marvin yanked Rob’s coffee from his hand just as he took a sip. “Boss Man said hurry. Jonas, we’ll see you later. Tenley, nice to meet you.”

  “Where are we going?” Rob snatched up his hat and followed Marvin out the door, and Jonas was alone with Tenley.

  “Well, that wasn’t obvious,” she said, smiling as Nita set down her breakfast.

  “They’re a couple of idiots.” He sighed, shaking his head. “No big deal but do you want to watch Bob Newhart tonight? I’ll bring the DVDs.”

  “At Grove Manor? We’ll have pizza delivered. I think Blanche might enjoy it.” She doused her French toast with syrup and cut a broad piece.

  “Seven o’clock?”

  “Mmm . . . Jonas, this is good.”

  “Told you.” He smashed a twenty in Nita’s hand as she passed and indicated it was for his meal and Tenley’s, then grabbed his keys, scooting away from the table. “Sorry to leave you sitting here alone, but I need to get to work.”

  “I’m not alone. I have coffee and eggs and this amazing French toast.”

  “Have a good day. Write a lot. You can let me know later if you really want me to take the desk.”

  “I already know. Take it. It’s not doing me any good.”

  He hesitated, discerning her attitude. “You know, it’s not the desk you need to write a book. You just need you. You have everything in you to do what you need, Tenley. So don’t worry or be afraid.”

  Her gaze flipped to him as she lowered a forkful of syrupy toast. “What did you say?”

  “That . . . you know . . . you can do it.”

  “No, that last part?”

  “Don’t worry or be afraid.”

  “What made you say that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just felt like the right thing to say. Why? You look a little pale.”

  She wiped her fingers with her napkin, sitting back with a slow smile. “H-have a good day, Jonas.”

  In his truck, he slammed the door and cranked the engine, his mind and heart full of Tenley Roth. The way she moved, her quips combined with the underlying insecurity she tried to hide. And that robe. That stupid robe.

  Driving A1A to the shop, he contemplated his options. Cancel tonight. Send R
ob and Marvin for the desk.

  Keep their plans but reinforce the breach in his walls that was letting her in.

  Or just let go and feel something for her even if it meant he’d lose in the end. Because if he couldn’t love without having something in return, then he was nothing.

  And for Tenley, he wanted to be something.

  EIGHTEEN

  BIRDIE

  Dancing under the cascading light of a French chandelier over a polished marble floor, the guests wove the ballroom of the Delafields’ Fifth Avenue mansion with gold and red.

  At the St. Valentine’s Day dance, the men donned custom-made gold tuxedos while the women glided about in red gowns trimmed in diamonds.

  As the newest members of New York’s upper class, the Delafields were eager to impress.

  Birdie entered the grand ballroom wearing a new gown of the richest red and smoothest silk, a diamond bracelet over her gold satin gloves and a ruby tiara in her hair.

  In truth, she’d wanted to stay home from this party, but Papa and Mama refused to let her.

  “Alfonse will be waiting to escort you. He sent you the lovely flowers.”

  Yes, by all means. Surrender her affections for a bouquet of flowers.

  What disturbed her more was Papa. Ever since the Vanderbilt ball, he’d changed. His interest in Birdie’s social life moved from casual to calculated.

  Did Mama tell him she had discovered her alone with Eli? Had Alfonse or Mr. Van Cliff spoken to him?

  Could he see the blush on her cheeks when her thoughts wandered to the kiss she had shared with Eli? At times, she could still feel the tender wetness of his lips against hers. She ached so to see him, and she had filled page after page with words of her longing for him.

  Meanwhile, her parents made the case for Alfonse. This past week Papa invited her to a luncheon, and she arrived to find Alfonse at the table. Then yesterday he announced he’d booked passage to Paris so she and Mama could shop for her trousseau.

  Battling Mama was one thing, but adding Papa to her struggle overwhelmed her.

  “I see Alfonse.” Mama gently pressed Birdie’s back, passing over her dance card. “There he is talking to Rose Gottlieb. Isn’t she a beauty? Her recent engagement shows. I do believe she and Eli have found love.”