The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Do you have words of caution, sir?”

  “He’s unscrupulous. . . Van Buren. Only sees to his own ambitions regardless of what it costs others.”

  “You’ve gone head-to-head with him, then?”

  “Back in the Tammany Hall days, yes. He was a young apprentice of Boss Tweed.”

  “Seems rather unforgiving to hold a grudge these years later.”

  “I would agree had his legal and political ambitions not cost me a great deal of money and stabbed me in the back at the same time.”

  “Are you shy on capital, Mr. Van Cliff? It seems to me you are faring rather well. Your son has made a good match and—”

  “I see your point, Lord Montague. Now you see mine. A man’s word and character is his bond. What has he left if he sells his soul for a buck? If he betrays his friends? Ask around. Van Buren has more enemies than friends.”

  “May I ask what he did to you?”

  “In the early ’80s, Geoffrey Shehorn and I were young men. We conspired together with a bit of investment from our fathers to export goods west, to help build the country. Van Buren used his political sway to engage us in a war of duties and taxes, lobbying for another company to take the trade route, while to our faces, he promised his support. We drank with him when we lost. He was our friend. We later discovered he’d invested heavily in the company that took the route.”

  “But you’ve recovered. Surely you forgive his ambition.”

  “I do not forgive. I’ll never do business with him nor any of his acquaintances. Even sitting in conversation with him sullies a man’s reputation. If he had sons, I’d see to it they never crossed my path. I do not trust him or any of his blood relations. He’s the lowest of men to lie and cheat his friends.” Van Cliff lowered his chin and bent toward Eli. “He has also been in more Fifth Avenue and Newport bedrooms than allowed any decent man.” He arched his brow. “Do you hear me, son?”

  “I’m not unfamiliar with the ways of the world.”

  “So be wary, Lord Montague. You’ve been warned.” With a nod, Van Cliff backed away. “Check your pockets. He may have already stolen your watch.”

  The man rejoined his card game, leaving Eli to ponder his warning. He’d bear it in mind should Gottlieb suggest him for future dealings.

  Across the room Eli caught Mr. Gottlieb engaged in a head-to-head conversation with Van Buren. Should he warn his future father-in-law? Surely he knew of the man’s ways.

  With a sigh and a growing heaviness, he glanced at the rich American men populating the room with their tailored tuxedoes and imported libations and wondered if any of them were happy. Genuinely happy. Were they in love with their wives and children? Did they possess enough of the material world or did they thirst for more?

  Had they fallen into the trap of his lot in Britain—men who had everything yet gained nothing?

  Be grateful, Eli. As for him, he may not have the woman of his heart, but he had a good woman, a beautiful woman. With her wealth and good family name, along with his title, they’d make something of themselves.

  He reached for his glass of port, standing to join Gottlieb and Van Buren, listening in for any folderol and resigning himself to no more regrets.

  The only way to his happiness was to firmly embrace his future.

  TWENTY

  JONAS

  “Mom, where are the DVDs of The Bob Newhart Show?”

  Mom came from the kitchen still wearing her shirt and jacket from the workday. “In the hall closet. Why?”

  Jonas shrugged, heading down the hall. “I want to watch them.”

  “You just had a bright idea today to watch old Newhart DVDs?” Mom stepped out of her low-heel shoes, curling her toes into the carpet. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Ah, there, he found them. Top shelf. Buried in the back. “I just met someone who’s never seen the show.”

  “Tenley?” The trouble with moms was they looked too close, saw too much, and read between the proverbial lines.

  Jonas tucked the DVDs under his arm and closed the bifold doors. “Marvin, Rob, and I ran into her at the diner earlier this week. She didn’t get my Darryl-and-other-brother-Darryl reference, so . . .” He sounded casual, right? Totally casual.

  “And it’s incumbent upon you to educate her?”

  “She’s a writer. How can she really portray Americana if she hasn’t watched The Bob Newhart Show?” He started for the door before Mom dug any deeper. He knew the questions she’d ask, and he didn’t have the answers. Well, he had one. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s engaged.”

  Mom frowned. “Really? I didn’t see a ring.”

  “You don’t have to wear a ring to be engaged.” He kissed Mom’s forehead. “Gotta go. See you later.”

  “You don’t need a ring, but it’s a good start.” Mom held up her hand, flashing her wedding set. “This says I’m not alone. Someone walks with me, watches my back. It warns other men not to fall in love with me.”

  “Ah, Mom, didn’t work with you. Every man falls in love when he meets you.”

  “Stop right there. Your fake charm doesn’t work on me. Jonas, if Tenley loves this boy—”

  “Mom, she’s here to help Blanche and write a book. Not assess her life.” He held up the collection of shows. “I’m just doing my part to educate her on classic American sitcoms. Besides, she’s letting go of that desk I wanted from Blanche. I can pick it up and start restoring it. I’ll sell it to Mrs. Shallot and have more seed money.”

  “You got it all worked out, don’t you?”

  He hesitated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mom stepped up, pretending to unlock his heart. “Cindy’s been gone a long time.”

  Ah . . . “Good-bye, Mom.” But Jonas carried her words in his chest. Felt a pang from her unlocking of his heart. Well, he’d lock it back up before he sat down to watch Newhart with Tenley.

  At his truck, Dad waited by the driver’s side.

  “Going to watch Newhart?” He pointed to the box.

  “What gave it away?” Jonas grinned as he tossed the DVDs into the truck, knowing Dad wasn’t lurking around for small talk. “Tenley’s never seen the show. Everything all right, Dad?”

  The man shifted his stance and stared toward the river where the afternoon light dazzled.

  “Can’t seem to bring myself to say the words.”

  Jonas leaned against the truck, folding his arms. “You need money?”

  “Your mother doesn’t know I’m asking. I told her we were fine.”

  “What happened?” He’d helped out his parents before. Gladly. But he hated how it made him feel like a scrutinizing parent while his wise, hardworking father took the posture of an undisciplined child.

  “Bills piled up. A little here, a little there. Last-semester expenses for the E’s. Thank goodness they’re mostly on scholarship. Caleb and Joshua are both playing football and have spring camp fees, plus a gym membership. It added up. We’re still playing catch-up from your mom being laid off. Even though she’s got a good job now.”

  The Sullivans had gone through a lot of hard times when Jonas was growing up, but Dad and Mom kept a roof over their heads—even when the sheriff kicked them out of their rental—and food in their stomachs.

  They just never seemed to catch a break. One financial tension chased another. Just when they got ahead, one of them was laid off. Or the car broke down. Or the refrigerator broke. Or the pipes flooded. The list went on.

  Mom deserved sainthood for the laundromat years.

  “How much?” Because he’d been saving to get his business going again, Jonas had some money set aside to buy lumber and tools. Mason took half when he hightailed it with Cindy.

  “How much do you have?” Dad’s laugh fell flat. Too much truth in his question to be a joke. “To be honest, about a grand.”

  The last of his savings. Especially since he’d paid Blanche for the desk.

  Jonas kicked at the tuft of grass boldly growing thr
ough the driveway cracks, a scripture he’d tucked in his heart years ago rising to the surface.

  Do not withhold good . . . when it is in your power to do it.

  “I have a grand, Dad. It’s yours.” How could he refuse his father, the man who raised him, the man who taught him about life, about Jesus? Taught him how to shoot a gun and bait a hook? Made sure he respected his mama, sisters, and brothers?

  “Just so you know, we told the girls not to expect anything fancy for their graduation.”

  “Doesn’t seem right. They’ve worked hard.”

  “But I can’t borrow money from you and then throw them a big shindig.”

  “You’re not borrowing money from me, Dad. I’m giving it. It’s a gift. You don’t owe me.”

  “Can’t do that . . . We’ll catch up and pay you back. I know you’re trying to recover from your own loss.”

  “Forget it.” He popped open the truck door. “Consider the money payback for twenty years of raising me.”

  “You did eat a lot.” Emotion choked Dad’s laugh. “I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t ask your brother Julius since he’s an engineer and all. But—”

  “It’s our secret, Dad.”

  “I think Julius would lose respect for me, Joe. I really do.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong.” He popped Dad on the shoulder, then pulled a twenty from his pocket. Last of his cash for the week. “Take Mom to dinner. Have fun.”

  “No, no, now. I can’t, Jonas.”

  “Take Mom out to dinner on me.” Jonas stuffed the bill into Dad’s work-shirt pocket. “I’ll deposit the thousand in your account in the morning.”

  From behind the steering wheel, Jonas watched his dad go inside, his shoulders slightly hunched. Didn’t he know he was the family hero? Even amid the struggle, the Sullivans could always count on him. Because he never quit and never gave up.

  Jonas hoped to be just like him.

  BIRDIE

  By the midday light falling through the high windows, Birdie sat at her desk and smoothed her hand over the newspaper clipping Eli had given her.

  It was his encouragement that drove her to consider answering the Scribner’s Sons call for children’s stories about Christ.

  Picking up his letter, she read it again for the tenth time.

  Dearest Birdie,

  I hope this note finds you well. I sail for home soon, and in case I don’t get to say good-bye, be well, my friend. Do not give up on your writing. You are talented, and in my humble opinion, the world needs to hear your stories. Until we meet again.

  Your friend, Eli

  How was it he had swept back into her heart so quickly? She would miss him when he was gone.

  Beneath her, the house was quiet. Mama napped and the staff went nimbly about their chores.

  Lighting the desk lamp, Birdie took out several sheets of paper from the middle drawer. After spreading them across the desk, she reached for her ink pen.

  She pondered a short story about Christ, an anecdote she remembered from Sunday school, but her thoughts drifted toward anxiety.

  This afternoon Papa pressed her to give Alfonse an answer. He was not humored when she insisted she’d never been asked a question.

  She agreed to answer him—which Papa understood to be her consent. Perhaps it was. Until she sat in the attic with Eli’s short letter.

  Just reading his handwriting and hearing his voice in the words awakened a desire Birdie never experienced with Alfonse. To love and be loved. She could sit with Eli for hours, talking, never thinking of another soul.

  With Alfonse, she counted the minutes.

  Besides, he’d never indicated any love or affection for her. His non-proposal only confirmed the lack. Staring at the flow of light drifting across the bare hardwood, Birdie closed her eyes. Was she to marry him? Was this . . . God’s will?

  “But I love another.”

  As she breathed out, her song whispered across her heart. The one she heard after nightmares. After William died. After one of Mama’s spankings. Where it came from she did not know, only that she treasured it now more than ever.

  Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.

  “Help me to understand, God.”

  A tree bloomed before her mind’s eye. A beautiful, fruitful tree with birds singing in the leafy branches. Birdie watched the scene with her heart and imagination.

  A woodsman appeared, a regal and royal sort of man, and swung a large ax against the tree.

  “No.” Birdie jerked forward.

  Tell this story.

  She knew at once it was about the Christ. The one called the Tree of Life, who was cut down for the sins of all men.

  Scattering her papers across the desk again, her hand trembling as she dipped her pen, she began to unfurl the scene with her best words.

  Once upon a time, there was a garden with a beautiful, powerful tree.

  TWENTY-ONE

  TENLEY

  From: Queen.Brene@BarclayPublishing.com

  Subject: Your Manuscript!

  Tenley,

  Just checking in to see how it’s going. Did you see the sales numbers on the mass paperback? We’re thrilled.

  More good news. Sales-secured end caps (you know, at the checkout counter?) in two chain stores for Someone to Love as well as your next book for summer reading. You’ll be sharing the spotlight with your great-great-grandfather and a special anniversary edition of The Girl in the Carriage, and a reissue of your dad’s last book.

  This is a huge win for all of us, Tenley. We really want to take advantage of your heritage and keep this wild momentum going.

  That being said . . . No pressure, right? Are you on track for a July 31 deadline? Do you have anything I can use for the catalog and marketing promo? I don’t want to pressure you, but we’re cutting it close.

  Let me know if you need me. I’m here for you,

  Brené

  From: Charlie@McGuireLit.com

  Subject: Movie Option

  Tenley,

  Good news, kiddo! Gonda Films optioned Someone to Love and is ready to option your next book. I just need a description, a paragraph, highlighting the tension of the story, the happily ever after, and the takeaway.

  I’m saving the offer until the paperwork is complete but you’ll want to be sitting down when you read it. ;p

  You know Gonda directed King Stephen I with Clive Boston? Which won the Oscar for best picture.

  So, send me what you have on book two. Hope it’s coming along. Your career is off to a great start. I’m here if you need me.

  You’ve hit the big time!

  Charlie

  From: JeremiahGonda@GondaFilms

  Subject: Welcome to Gonda Films

  Tenley,

  Welcome to our family. Even though we’ve not inked the final deal yet, I wanted you to know how excited we are about Someone to Love and that we’re eager to hear about your next book. We believe your voice and your stories are perfect for the kind of movies we want to make.

  I’ve been talking to Chris Painter about playing Ezra. I think he’s perfect for the part. And Nicolette Carson has been dying to play Joely so we’re in talks with her. More to come.

  Hope all is going well with you. Looking forward to meeting face-to-face soon.

  Jer

  TENLEY

  She closed her laptop, dropping her head to the desk. She spent the afternoon reading articles on how to write a novel, and downloaded an e-book on writing swoon-worthy romances.

  It seemed so simple. Writing romance. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Something happens and they break up. Boy makes grand gesture and wins the girl’s heart and ta-da, happily ever after. How hard could it be?

  Hard. Really hard.

  After the how-to reading, she looked up all her favorite authors, scoured the New York Times bestseller list, hunted down new and fabulous books that she might want to read someday, and came away with a paralyzing fear.
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  She was a hack. At twenty-nine, what did she know about storytelling? About life? Her father hadn’t published until he was almost forty. Gordon Phipps Roth published young but after six books took a sabbatical.

  Could she take a sabbatical after one book?

  She wanted to write something poignant and meaningful, not just a frivolous story about . . . whatever.

  The first book, poured out in grief therapy, didn’t have to have a point or some profound hook. It was all emotion, all about the larger-than-life character of Ezra, a memorial to Dad.

  She wasn’t thinking about whose blood flowed in her veins or how her writing linked her to a literary great. She just wanted to feel better.

  A robin landed outside her window and tapped the pane. “What do I do, little bird?”

  Thoughts of giving up were followed by flares of “No! Not yet.” On the desk, she’d set the picture of the marquess and marchioness, along with the one of her with her grandmother.

  The picture of Dad and Blanche’s wedding day, she tucked into the frame of her dresser mirror.

  Picking up the frame of the aristocrats, Tenley studied their expressions. “What kind of story did you live?” She could do research on them. But, ah, she wrote contemporary stories—

  “Tenley?” Blanche stood at the library door, her long, thinning hair draped around her shoulders, a box in her hand. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.” She jumped up, helping her mother to the club chair by the Tiffany lamp. “You hungry? Want me to get more boxes out of the closet?”

  “No, I want you to shave my head.” Blanche pulled the lid from the box to reveal a set of dog clippers.

  “Um, Blanche, those are dog clippers.” Tenley straightened her robe on her shoulders, still bothered by her lack of achievement. The library was warm, too warm for the old garment, but she still couldn’t part with it. “And I’m not shaving your head.”

  “Why not? My hair is coming out.” She tugged at her bangs, freeing a wad of grayish-blonde strands. “It’s depressing.”