by Rachel Hauck
“What’s cooking, Blanche?” She found her mom on the veranda, her narrow frame lost in a pair of baggy shorts and a Ron Jon T-shirt, grilling steaks and smoking a cigarette.
“Give me that—” Tenley snatched the cigarette, stamping it out. “You’re a chemo patient. Smoking is forbidden. Where did you get this?”
“The Menthol Bunny.” Blanche made a face, casting a long look at the dead cigarette. “She came by while you napped.”
“I was writing.”
“With your face on the desk?” Blanche ran her hand over Tenley’s cheek. “You have desk marks.”
“Where are the cigarettes, Blanche?” Tenley held up her hands. “I’ll scour your room while you sleep.”
Humming, ignoring Tenley, Blanche checked the steaks. “I woke up with a hankering for beef. I drove to Publix for some Delmonico’s. Potatoes are baking in the oven, and asparagus is waiting to be steamed. But the best part is dessert. Ailis is sending over her cinnamon cake.”
“Mrs. Sullivan?” Tenley dug her hands into the robe’s pockets, trying to be casual about Jonas’s mom.
“One and the same. How do you like your steak? I like mine medium.” The meat sizzled as gas flames kicked up.
“I don’t eat steak, and why are there three cuts of meat?”
“I thought we could watch some more Bob Newhart tonight.” Blanche waved the spatula at Tenley. “You have anything to wear besides that robe?”
Tenley glanced at her attire. She was wearing her weariness. Her discouragement. Her one-star reviews. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve showered. Washed the robe.”
“Anyone home?” Jonas came around the side of the house, jumping up the veranda steps, a grocery bag in hand. “Mom sent me over with her cinnamon cake, Miss Blanche.”
“She’s a doll. Just put the cake inside on the counter. Say, Jonas, look here, I have an extra steak. How about you join us for dinner? We’re going to watch more Bob Newhart.”
Tenley whispered over her shoulder, “You’re as transparent as glass.”
“Dinner?” He gazed between Blanche and Tenley. “If you’re sure you have enough.”
“We have plenty. Even made an extra potato.”
How convenient.
“I’d be hard pressed to turn down a grilled steak.” Jonas set down the bag. “I need to shut my truck off. I can take over grilling if you want, Miss Blanche.”
“That’d be lovely. I always thought men were the best grill masters.”
When he was gone, Tenley blocked Blanche from escaping into the house. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing dinner.” A rosy heat flushed her cheeks.
“You’re meddling.”
“Now why would I do that? You’re engaged to that cowboy.”
“Screenwriter.”
“Right. Why can’t I remember that? Listen, I happen to enjoy Jonas’s company. When Ailis told me she was sending him over with the cake, I thought why not have him for dinner?” She cut the air with a swipe of the spatula. “You don’t have to stay. Go back to sleep at your desk.”
“Maybe I will.” She raised her chin. Two could play this game. “There’s a little dive restaurant on US 1 I’ve been dying to try. It looked good.” She started inside. “You don’t mind if I borrow the car, do you?”
This time Blanche blocked Tenley’s way. “Okay, fine. Ailis and I set this up. But is it so wrong for me to want my daughter married to a good man before I leave this earth? A man who I know will take care of her, love her, and support her? Not run off to Paris with some floozy actress.”
“Married?” Tenley laughed. “We’re barely friends. I’m engaged.” Tenley waved her bare ring finger, proving . . . nothing. “And he’s not looking for a wife.”
“Oh, he’s looking. You bet your bottom dollar he’s looking. Once he finds the right girl, he’ll—”
“Which isn’t me, Blanche. Even if there wasn’t the cowboy—”
“Screenwriter.”
“Grrr, now you have me doing it. Even if there wasn’t Holt, I couldn’t get involved with Jonas. My life and career are in New York.”
“Listen to me.” Blanche eased her hold, standing back, shaking her head. “Those things fade. Glory fades. The excitement of a new love, of success, fades. Then what do you have? People come and go. They forget about you faster than they befriended you. All that matters at the end of your life is whether you loved others, gave generously, and had a faith that will carry you through to the next life.”
“And you think I can find all of that here, with Jonas.”
“Did I hear my name?”
Tenley whirled about, embarrassment rising. “Nothing, Blanche was saying she wanted you to take over grilling.”
Jonas exchanged Blanche’s spatula for the grill fork with a glance at Tenley. “Did you fall asleep at your desk?”
With a snicker, Blanche disappeared inside.
Tenley pressed her hand to her face, seeing herself as he might see her. It was frightening. “Jonas, will you excuse me?”
She ran upstairs, bolted herself in the bathroom, and leaned into the mirror. Really? Besides the line on her face, she had a gob of sleep in her eyes.
Thanks for the heads-up on that one, Blanche.
Washing her face, she let her hair down—it was clean for once—and ran a brush through the knots.
Pulling her suitcase from under the bed—she’d not even unpacked—she picked out a pair of shorts and a top, along with her favorite leather flip-flops.
It was then she caught her reflection in the dresser mirror. The robe hung off her shoulders, too big for her frame. With a glance down at her feet, she wiggled her toes in the oversize slippers. These things were not hers. Not the robe, the slippers, or the legacy of her father or great-great-grandfather.
Tenley sat on the edge of the bed, her clothes crumpled in her hands. If she wasn’t her father or great-great-grandfather, then she was free to be whoever she was destined to be. Right?
However, if she wasn’t defined by the success of Someone to Love, then just who the heck was she?
Flopping backward onto the mattress, she sighed, smacked by a wave of confusion, feeling more lost than ever.
What was her purpose? Why travel this journey called life if nothing really mattered?
TWENTY-SIX
JONAS
“I can wash dishes.” Jonas powered off the TV, the last Newheart of season two in the can. Blanche had fallen asleep on the couch right after dinner, sleeping through two hours of the show. She roused herself and moved off to her room.
“Night, kids.”
Tenley gathered the dessert plates with a glance at Jonas. “There’s nothing to clean up. One pot and a few plates. I’ll stick them in the dishwasher. Thank your mom for the cake. It was delicious.”
“It was her grandmother’s recipe.”
“That’s a romantic notion, isn’t it? Passing down family recipes, cooking the same food your grandmother or great-grandmother cooked.” Tenley headed for the kitchen and Jonas followed.
He wasn’t ready to leave yet. He liked her company. Shoot, he liked everything about her. Even that stupid robe and knot of hair on top of her head.
So when she came down wearing real clothes, her hair combed and her face bright with a touch of makeup, he sank a little bit deeper in love. Yeah, he said it. Love.
Right down to a fluttering heart and a cotton mouth.
“Did your dad cook any of your grandmother’s recipes?”
“He didn’t have any. He was the man whose wife had the recipes. Then she left and he was on his own. But he was a good cook.”
“Any recipes from him you can pass down?” Jonas found the dish soap and filled the sink with warm, sudsy water. “Want to hand me the pot?”
“He mostly grilled meat and steamed vegetables, boiled spaghetti and heated up sauce.” Tenley passed over the pot. “Hey, Jonas, how do you know what you’re doing is right for your life?”
He
laughed. “What makes you think I know?”
“You seem sure of yourself.”
“I’m a good faker.” He rinsed the pot and handed it to Tenley. “Why do you ask?”
She wiped the pot dry, setting it in the cupboard. “Just had a thought maybe I’m not doing the right thing with my life. I clearly have writer’s block and I’m afraid I’ve stopped caring.”
“Is that why you’re not wearing the robe and slippers?”
She offered a twisted smile. “Maybe. I got a look at myself in the mirror and it hit me—This is not who I am.”
“If I had the key to discover the right life path, I’d be the one writing a book.” He ran his hand around the back of his neck. “Speaking of . . . I wasn’t going to tell you, but I started reading Someone to Love.”
“Oh my gosh.” Tenley flashed her palm, then folded the dish towel over the oven handle. “Don’t tell me what you think. I’ve had my fill of bad reviews.”
“It’s good, Tenley.”
“For a romance.”
“For anymance. You have a way with words. I was drawn right in.”
She regarded him for a moment. “Thank you.”
“I mean it. I see what the E’s like about Ezra. He’s a good character. So for your next book, I say go for it. Have fun.”
She made a face. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
He laughed. “Did I state the obvious?”
“Trouble is, I’m not sure I ever had fun writing. It’s always been work or therapy. My assignments for school. Master’s thesis—which was a very boring tome no one will ever read. Then I wrote out of grief, trying to find my way after Dad died.”
“So can’t you write for fun this time?” He wanted to reach for her and tell her everything would be all right. But he held back, nervous to cross more emotional lines.
She squinted up at him. “Write for fun, huh? What do you think? Should I try it without the robe and slippers?”
“Why not? Live on the edge. Keep the desk, though. I’ll pick it up when the fun is over.”
“Oh hey, speaking of the desk. The middle drawer is stuck and it’s bugging me. Why won’t it open? Can you look at it?”
“Let’s go.”
Tenley led the way, her fragrance like the beach after the storm. A little bit salty, a little bit sweet.
In the library the low light cast a romantic glow from the wall sconces. She flipped on the Tiffany lamp and Jonas knelt to examine the drawer. “Doesn’t look painted over.”
“I know, I slid a piece of paper through. Of course now I can’t get it out.”
“Something could be wedging it shut.” Jonas tugged on the pull and the drawer slid open without any resistance.
“What?” Tenley shoved him aside, dropping to one knee to study the drawer. “This is crazy. I’m telling you it was stuck. I sat on this chair, propped my feet on the legs, and pulled so hard the desk almost toppled over.”
“Well, it’s open now.” Jonas shoved the drawer back and forth.
“Know what?” She snapped her fingers. “I bet I got it loose for you.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s it. Sure.”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“No.”
“I’m telling you it was stuck.”
“I believe you.”
“Then stop smirking.”
He stood, dusting invisible dirt from his jeans. “Looks like there’s nothing much inside. Papers, a figurine, a book. You can check it out later.” He reached around her to push the drawer closed.
“My hero. Thank you.”
Tenley extended her hand for a congratulatory shake, but when he took hold of her, he couldn’t let go. Pulling her to him, he shut off his internal critic and lived in the moment.
“Jonas”—she gripped his shirt in her hands—“I think we—”
He bent toward her, kissing her without a word. He just had to taste her, to see if his feelings had any bearing on reality. After a moment, he broke away, pressing his fist to his lips. “I’m sorry—”
She tasted like her fragrance, sweet and salty, warm with a vibrating passion.
“Jonas, don’t talk. Please, don’t talk.” She roped her arms around his neck, rising on her toes to meet him, her lips finding his. Finding the pulse of his heart.
Hesitation stopped. Doubt fled. He sank into the sincerity of the moment, holding her, wanting her.
He was breathless when he lifted his head, tapping his forehead to hers.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered.
He surrendered to the moment, to her demand, his lips trailing along her cheek and down the nape of her neck. He reached for her hands, slipping his thumb over her fingers, then—
He stepped back. “We can’t do this.”
But she gripped his T-shirt. “Why? Why not?” There was a wild desperation in her voice.
“Because you’re engaged. Because you just told me you don’t know what you’re doing with your life.”
“So I can’t kiss you.” She grinned, slinking toward him. “You’re a good kisser, Jonas.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping away, breathing deep. “You’re not too bad yourself. But I’m not the kind of man who steals another guy’s fiancée. I was that guy, and it stank.” He backed toward the door. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, Tenley. I’m sorry.”
TENLEY
He left her trembling and breathless. Dropping down to the chair, she listened to the sound of Jonas leaving.
His kiss . . . The sensation lingered with her. She didn’t want to let go. But he was right, she was in an unsure place. And she was engaged.
Holt. Tenley rested her head against the back of the chair, eyes closed. She’d have to tell him. She didn’t want lies in their relationship.
Taking her phone from her pocket, she texted Jonas.
Sorry.
Then she texted Holt.
Hey babe, call me.
Jonas’s reply came quickly.
No, my bad. I’m sorry. I crossed the line. It won’t happen again.
Tenley sighed. But she wanted it to happen again. That gorgeous, kind man kissed her and she was undone. Not just by passion but by Jonas Sullivan.
The way he laughed at Newhart, cared for his parents, and took over grilling for Blanche. How he volunteered to wash dishes. Or the fact he never said a bad word about Cindy and Mason.
She wanted to know everything about him.
“Now what?” She dreaded the idea of confessing to Holt, but she wouldn’t be dishonest. She was already being disloyal. She gazed at her left hand. She should haul out her ring and slip it on.
Tenley’s gaze drifted to the desk. At least the drawer was unstuck. One less thing to bug her. Angling forward, she tugged on the pull to inspect the contents.
The drawer did not budge.
“What?”
Tenley squared off with the desk and tried again. The drawer refused to move. Impossible! She jiggled it from side to side and it still remained shut.
Jonas opened it, closed it, but Tenley was powerless to do against it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BIRDIE
Spring was everywhere. In the garden. In the park. Along the avenue. New York was glorious.
As Birdie walked home from an afternoon of tea with Mrs. Minturn and her daughters in Murray Hill, her heart was full.
The Minturn sisters were independent, eager to talk about the arts and life in New York outside the season.
The youngest, Mildred, educated like Birdie, suggested she search the papers for writing opportunities. Seemed she was always finding an ad or some such seeking a skilled author.
Why hadn’t Birdie thought of it before? It wasn’t time to quit. It was time to pick up her stride. Mrs. Minturn, like Mama, was conservative and old-fashioned, but even she agreed Birdie should pursue her writing.
“Some women have needlepoint. Birdie, you’ll have your stories.”
What an invigorating aftern
oon. Wasn’t it just like her song?
Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.
Everything eventually worked out. Even Mama seemed to have given up on her scheme. She said no more about Alfonse, and as the season ended, she miraculously recovered from her sickness, having worn out her friends with her sorrows.
Papa postponed their passage to Paris, and Birdie wondered if indeed she might be free.
Last evening the architect arrived with plans for the Berkshires house, which revived Mama considerably. Papa announced they’d travel over at Easter to explore the land.
With a skip, Birdie took the steps to the front door, drinking in the sunlight and soft breeze, inhaling the perfume of garden honeysuckle.
Inside the house, Percival greeted her in the grand hall. “I trust you had a lovely afternoon.”
“Indeed I did, thank you.” She handed him her hat and coat. “The Minturn women are gracious and lovely.”
“I’ve always found them to be so.”
“Is Mama about?”
“Somewhere,” Percival said. “She had the footman off on some chore or other. You know how she is after the season, wanting to clean or rearrange.”
“Then the coast is clear.” Birdie started up the stairs. “Oh, Percival, can you arrange for the copies of the newspapers to be brought to my room at the end of each day?”
“Morning and evening editions?”
“Yes, please. They can be cleared away the next day.”
“I’ll begin the chore tonight.”
She hurried up to the attic with a germ of an idea—a story of sisters. Dinner would not be for hours, and with Mama occupied, she had time to write.
Humming to herself, she bounded up toward the attic, stopping cold when she saw a small glow slinking down the stairs.
At the entrance, she peered up. “Hello?”
She ascended the narrow stairwell to find Mama in the attic, sitting at Birdie’s writing desk, the spring light falling through the high dormer windows and bowing at her feet.
“This is a lovely hideaway you have here, Birdie.”
