The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  Birdie opened her fan and hid behind its ornate design, fighting a sting of tears.

  Eli and Rose had announced their engagement this week. They topped the society page of every newspaper with a raving article and a dazzling photo of Rose.

  While Birdie had anticipated the news, the reality hit hard.

  But never mind. Eli might be engaged, but she was free, and tonight she’d be lively and gay.

  “Look at this marvelous display, Mama. Is there a more handsome set of people anywhere on the earth?”

  “I believe there is not.” She wrapped her arm around Birdie’s. “Alfonse is making his way toward us. Isn’t he handsome in his gold tuxedo? You must realize what a good match he is for you.”

  Alfonse bowed before them. “May I have this dance?” Sweeping her into his arms, he turned her in an eloquent waltz. “You are lovely. Red suits you. But white will suit you more.”

  “White is not my color. I prefer black. Or blue.” He was fishing, trying to elicit a response. But if he wanted to know her thoughts on marrying him, he’d have to ask outright.

  Over his shoulder, Birdie saw Eli dancing with Rose. She was stunning in red with her dark hair and pale skin.

  Eli caught her eye and smiled.

  “I must tell Eli and Rose congratulations.”

  “They seem most happy,” Alfonse said in time to the music.

  “Are you happy, Alfonse?”

  “Happy? Of course. I’ve nothing to be unhappy about. Why do you ask?”

  “Can’t I ask a simple question?”

  “Then turnabout is fair play. Are you happy, Birdie?”

  “I suppose. Happiness is a choice, and I choose to be happy.”

  The music changed, and the orchestra played a jaunty quadrille. Daniel Wentworth came to claim her. Birdie enjoyed Daniel, a portly young man with too many chins and an easy laugh. Yet an exceptional dancer.

  Moving through the rhythm of the reel, taking one hand, then another, crossing over and back again, warming to the joy of dancing, she felt her hand clasp into his. Elijah’s.

  How resplendent he looked in gold with his black hair slicked in place, exposing the high curves of his ruddy cheeks.

  “Miss Shehorn, you look wonderful.”

  “Same to you, Lord Montague.”

  Too soon the dance moved her down the line back to Daniel, then to Alfonse, who danced with Helena Struthers, a sought-after debutante. Birdie had seen him with her before, talking in low tones, whispering into her ear, making Helena laugh and pat him with her fan.

  Alfonse was a handsome, imposing figure, with eyes the color of a bright sky. No wonder the ladies loved him. But could Birdie? And could he resist the adulation of others?

  When the dance ended to resounding applause, Alfonse caught Birdie by the waist. “Let’s have our photograph.”

  “Our photograph?” Wouldn’t such a permanent thing encourage him?

  “Come. It will be fun. After all, the Delafields went to all the bother of hiring a photographer.”

  Choose to be happy . . . “All right, if you wish.”

  He offered her his arm and led her up the grand curved staircase with the lion’s-head newel posts to the second-floor salon, where the Delafields’ photographer had set up a makeshift studio.

  They found themselves entering a queue until a liveried servant came around, issuing them a gold nugget engraved with a number.

  “Please enjoy the fire and a glass of champagne while you wait.”

  Alfonse tapped his glass against Birdie’s. “To us.”

  She watched him a moment. Was he the sort she’d dream about at night, creating stories in which he was the dashing hero? Was he her knight in shining armor? The one she imagined as a young girl?

  No. Simply no. Try as she might, she just could not hurdle the barriers in her heart.

  “Are you going to propose?”

  He choked on his champagne. “That’s rather bold, Birdie.”

  “I’ve been told you are but you’ve not gotten around to it. So are you?” Really, she wanted to put them both out of their misery.

  “I’ve plans, yes. Everything is arranged.”

  “What is the delay?”

  He shied away from her with a glance toward the photographer. “I’m waiting for the slightest hint of a yes.”

  “I’m waiting for the slightest hint of an ask.”

  The room steward called a number. “Five.”

  Alfonse raised their nugget and moved with Birdie toward the photographer, where Elijah and Rose were posed, smiling.

  “Shall we give them a run for their money as the couple of the season?” Alfonse said. “Upstage their engagement with our own?”

  “It’s not a competition, Alfonse.”

  “No, but competition always adds a bit of fun.”

  Elijah and Rose completed their sitting, and as the photographer prepared his next film, Birdie and Alfonse greeted the newly engaged couple.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Eli shook Alfonse’s hand, nodding toward Birdie.

  “Rose, you are a vision,” Birdie said, leaning toward her with a kiss. But when she tried to draw back, Rose hugged her, not letting go.

  “I can’t . . .” she whispered, her fingers digging into Birdie’s shoulders. “I can’t.” When she stepped away, her eyes bore the unmistakable sheen of tears.

  “Miss Shehorn, I meant to give this to you at an earlier time. I’ve been carrying it around for a fortnight.” Elijah retrieved a newspaper clipping from his chest pocket. “A clipping from a publisher seeking stories.”

  Birdie scanned the headline with a glace toward Rose. “A writing contest?”

  “Birdie, the photographer is waiting on us.” Alfonse gave her a gentle push.

  “Scribner’s Sons is seeking stories that might engage a child in understanding Christ’s gospel,” Eli said. “Surely you could pen something simple but true. Perhaps a story from the pages of the catechism.”

  “How did I miss this?” She pressed her gloved hand on Elijah’s. “Much obliged.”

  “It was buried in the back of the society section.”

  “Could there not be a clearer metaphor?” Birdie turned over the cutout to see a photograph of Rose’s face. She glanced up at him, their eyes meeting. A metaphor indeed. “Pardon me, but I’ve not congratulated you on your engagement.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded with a side glance at Rose. She’d linked her arm through his, holding on to a trembling smile. “We’re talking of an August wedding.”

  “Yes, August.” Her words quivered.

  Rose, darling. Whatever is the matter? Birdie’s heart longed to comfort the poor girl. What frightened her? Surely not Eli himself. There was no one like him. How could she not be madly in love?

  “Your turn, Mr. Van Cliff.” The steward urged them toward the photographer.

  With a backward glance at the newly engaged couple, Birdie caught Rose looking back at her, pleading.

  “Rose seems to be happy,” Alfonse said, aiding her onto the photographer’s set. “We had a good chat earlier. She’s beaming with love.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  “She said as much.”

  Birdie posed with Alfonse, his arm too familiar and too tight around her waist. As for Rose, Birdie knew what the men did not. She was playing her part. Doing what society—and her parents—expected.

  The photographer snapped the photo, and when they were through, Alfonse led her to the balcony overlooking the ballroom.

  “Take a look around, Birdie. This is our world. We are the hope and future of New York society and thus the world.”

  She watched the dancers swirl about the floor, searching for Rose and Eli. “Perhaps we think too much of ourselves.”

  “Mark my words, you and I will shape the next generation.”

  Perhaps. With her words and stories. But never as Mrs. Alfonse Van Cliff.

  TENLEY

  By Monday afternoon, she’d
written several hundred words. Actual, real story words.

  Just to get the juices going, she closed her eyes and typed, her heart spilling through her fingers. The spontaneous inspiration was lovely but short lived.

  The writing was a creative match—fast and hot with a quickly dying flame. One couldn’t cook a meal with a match. Nor could one write a book.

  But she was desperate, so she chased the flame.

  Téa Jones was going on a date whether she wanted to or not. Those were the rules. Not that she followed the rules, but once in a great while she conceded they were good for something.

  She’d back out, but she’d bet her best friend, and she’d never let Allie win. No sir. Trouble was, she never counted on Joshua Huntington calling and asking her to dinner at Longdoggers Beachside and a movie.

  Josh Huntington, the high school track star who never looked her way, ever, wanted to share a jumbo popcorn and an armrest with her at the Bijou?

  Slipping into her heels, no boots, no flip-flops for a casual night, she felt a fear that made her want to dive for her phone and text him to cancel.

  Because . . . Because why?

  Why do not you want to go out with him, Téa Jones? You scaredy cat, you two-dimensional, flat . . . jj fdka fi tia fkahufhiukjas jha ida huiteha fdah ka.

  Tenley slapped the keyboard, pushing away from the desk, which, by the way, Jonas could most definitely have. She’d made a fool of herself over nothing.

  Doubt blew out her flame. She’d just written the most honest words she’d written since Someone to Love but couldn’t think of another thing to write.

  Write who you are . . .

  Well, what if you’re lost? And a big fat nothing?

  As she uncurled from her chair, stretching away from the negative vibe, her gaze landed on the stuck middle drawer. She gave it a tug. It still didn’t budge.

  “Why won’t you open? I may be stuck, but you’re not going to be.” She would open this thing and see what was inside. Besides her tiny slip of paper. She may have no command of her muse, but this drawer would yield to her will.

  Dropping down onto the chair again, Tenley gave the knob a firm yank. The desk tipped toward her, but the drawer did not open. Getting a better grip on the pull, she propped her feet on the legs and tried again.

  Nothing.

  She bent to see underneath, but everything looked normal to her untrained eye. No weird nails or screws holding it shut.

  Tenley tugged again. Nothing. She went to the second-floor railing. “Blanche, what’s up with this desk?” Leaning over the railing, she listened for an answer.

  A thump resounded from below. “Blanche?”

  Tenley bounded down the stairs into her mother’s bedroom. “Don’t tell me you broke your other wrist.”

  She found her mother on a stepladder in the closet, searching the top shelf with her good hand.

  Tenley pressed her hand against Blanche’s back, holding her steady. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for something.” Blanche toppled another box to the floor.

  “Stop, you’re going to get hurt. What do you need?” Tenley coaxed Blanche over to her bed, then peeked into the closet, finding a row of boxes along the wall.

  “I was looking for something to give to you. It’s in one of those boxes.”

  “But you don’t know which one?” There must be a couple of dozen. Not large, but large enough.

  “I think it’s a pink hatbox.”

  Tenley scanned the top shelf and the built-in shelves. “There are five pink hatboxes. Did you really wear that many hats?” She reached for the first one, tipping it over the shelf edge with her fingertips.

  “That was my British phase.”

  “You had a British phase?”

  “I briefly dated a low-ranking aristocrat.”

  Tenley peeked around the closet edge. “How did you find time to love so many men?”

  “I had nothing else to do.”

  “Maybe come home and raise your daughter.” Tenley set the first pink box on the bed, then took out the rest, lining them up.

  “So we’re back to that.”

  “Did we ever leave it?”

  Averting her gaze, Blanche popped the lid from the box to find a pink hat with a pink feather plume. “Nope.” On to the next.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “You’ll see when I find it.”

  Blanche lifted the lid of each box as Tenley put them on the bed. “That’s the last one. And next time you want to visit the closet, call me. How’s your wrist?”

  “Fine, fine. Ah, here.” The fifth pink box revealed a tin canister and a collection of disorganized photos. “Look here at this old reel-to-reel. I’d forgotten I stuffed it in here.” Blanche tossed the tin aside and dumped out the photographs.

  “What are these?” Stretching across the bed, Tenley shuffled through the black-and-whites and faded color photographs of smiles and faces she’d never seen.

  “That’s my mother.” Blanche tapped the top photograph. “Wasn’t she a beauty?”

  Tenley regarded the black-and-white image of a woman in her twenties. Judging by the hairdo, it was taken in the ’50s. She was beautiful with her almond-shaped eyes, high cheeks, and full lips.

  “Did I ever meet her?”

  “When you were a baby. She died when you were two. Smoker her whole life. Don’t smoke.”

  “No worry. Can’t stand the stuff.”

  Blanche leaned for a closer look. “You look like her.”

  “I look like her?” Tenley rose up to look into the bureau mirror, patting her knotted ponytail. This woman was beautiful. She was . . . rough, not showered, and—oh man, she’d sat with Jonas and his friends at breakfast. “I’m a mess.”

  “You wouldn’t, if you’d wash your hair and change out of that dang robe. Shoot, even Roger didn’t like it that much.”

  “What happened to Roger?”

  “His secretary.”

  Blanche flashed up another photo. “This was my dad. In high school. Mom used to carry it in her wallet. Wasn’t he a looker?”

  Tenley sat on her knees. “Did I know him?”

  “No, he died when I was fourteen. Look, here’s another one. This is my great-grandfather, sometime around 1920, I think. Isn’t he totally GQ? Look at the shine on those shoes.”

  “H-how did he die? Your dad . . .” There was so much Tenley didn’t know.

  “Heart attack. Forty years old. Mom was never the same. We were never the same.” Emotion rose in Blanche’s voice. “You know how you said Conrad was always searching for me? I think I’ve spent my life searching for . . . something. The shrinks would say my dad, and they’d probably be right. I never appreciated my mother. Nor my husband, and by husband, I mean your dad.”

  Tenley stared at the images of the grandparents she never knew, Blanche’s remorse echoing through her.

  She didn’t want to live with the regret of not giving Blanche a chance. Even if she didn’t deserve it. She wanted to blurt, “Then why didn’t you appreciate your own daughter?” but held her tongue.

  Tenley reached for another photo. A faded seventies Kodachrome. “Who’s this? Looks like you there on the left.”

  “Yes, me and your aunt Reese.”

  “Were you close growing up?” Reese was pretty, like Blanche, with thick curls and an impish grin.

  “Sometimes. She’s four years younger so we never really had the same circle of friends, but when we were older we forged a friendship.” Blanche sighed. “She never forgave me for leaving your dad. Or you.”

  “Yet she came to help you this spring?”

  “Our relationship still walks with a limp. She’s the one who suggested I call you.”

  “Why didn’t she ever reach out to me? To Dad?”

  “It’s a fine line to walk when your sister leaves her family, Tenley. Then she married, moved west, and started her own family.”

  “What do you do with your regrets, Blanc
he?”

  She gently touched the photo she held. “Try not to visit them very often.”

  “So, you have it all worked out? The choices you made, the hurt you caused won’t affect you.” Tenley tossed the photo of her grandmother back to the box. “I should get back upstairs.” From the robe pocket, her phone pinged. It was Jonas. Texting to say he’d be by tonight as planned.

  “Wait, I want to give you something. I pulled these boxes down for a reason.” Blanche spread the pictures across the bed, spotting the one she wanted. “And no, I don’t have it all worked out. You asked, and I answered. I don’t visit regret often because there’s nothing I can do about it. Here.”

  She passed a framed image to Tenley. Beneath the glass, the woman Blanche had identified as her mother held baby Tenley.

  “My mother and you. I thought you’d like to have it.”

  Tenley dropped to the bed’s edge. “Where was this taken?” The soft-focus background suggested a house. “How old am I?”

  “It was taken right out there.” Blanche pointed to the living room. “You were ten months old. Conrad and I came down for Christmas.”

  The image of herself in her maternal grandmother’s arms sank through her senses into her soul and answered a longing she didn’t know she possessed.

  “Can I keep this? Dad and Grandpa weren’t much for pictures.” Tenley pointed to the pile on the bed. “Apparently you weren’t either.”

  “I’m not an organizer.”

  “I do have one of Grandpa with Grandpa Gordon Phipps Roth. That one is cool.”

  “Is it hard being a descendant of such a beloved author? Not to mention your father’s reputation.” Blanche shuffled through the photos. “You can take any photo you want. Take the whole box.”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s not like I wake up every day going, ‘I’m Gordon Phipps Roth’s great-great-granddaughter.’ Or ‘I’m Conrad Roth’s daughter.’ He was just Dad to me.”

  “Maybe it’s subconscious. Maybe it’s why you’re blocked. You’re trying to live up to—”

  “I hadn’t really thought of that until now. Thanks. I was mostly worried about my own success, but now that you’ve added dear Dad and Great-Great-Grandpa to the mix, I’ll be good and blocked.”