by Rachel Hauck
“I-I wasn’t sure what to do. I was merely eavesdropping from another table, but he seemed quite adamant, with specific details. He spoke of how Birdie and I would have intelligent, good-looking children because of his blood, not yours. That the joke was on you and Father, because your grandchildren will have Van Buren blood. He was quite drunk and full of himself. The porters escorted him to one of the dormers not long after. But Shehorn, I must know. Whose blood will my children have? Yours or Van Buren’s? I can’t imagine how Father will react if he hears of this.”
“How can you even ask? I don’t know if your question deserves . . . Mine! Of course.” Papa raged at Alfonse, then turned to Mama. “Perk up, Iris. Will you sit there and let your name be denigrated? Defend yourself.”
Birdie hid behind her book, peeking over the edge, memories surfacing, a patchwork of images and voices.
Mr. Van Buren calling when Papa was away. Low whispers coming from the other side of the locked parlor door. The gift of the desk.
“Defend myself? I’m aghast.” Mama gathered her decorum and focused on her needlepoint pattern. “Such foolish, outlandish accusations are not worth my breath.”
“It’s the epitome of jealousy,” Papa said, pacing before the fire, burning twice as hot. “Tell Alfonse, Iris. How Van Buren wanted your hand but you chose me.”
The tension in the room pushed Birdie lower behind her book, but her ears were alive with curiosity.
“You were going to marry Van Buren? Does my father know?” Alfonse stood beside the couch, hands locked behind his back. “I’m not sure he could abide it. His disdain for the scoundrel runs deep.”
“Alfonse.” Mama sat up straight, smiling sweetly. “We were both young. I had no idea of his ways twenty-five years ago. But my mama wisely intervened and I married Geoffrey. As for Birdie—I blush upon speaking of such intimacies—but she is most assuredly a Shehorn.”
“So Van Buren told fairy tales to an entire table of cards?” Alfonse said. “Why would he do such a thing? I realize he’s a liar and a cheat, but a man is most honest when he’s drunk.”
“Drunk liars only tell bigger lies.” Papa poured a finger of whiskey and tossed it back, making a face as it burned its way down.
“So you maintain he made it all up?” Alfonse’s countenance remained intense if not belligerent.
“Is there another explanation?” Papa demanded.
“Then I must challenge him. Ask him why he’d say such things about my intended’s family.”
“I’ll sue him.” Papa stabbed the air with his finger.
“And drag Birdie and me into court?” Mama rose up, fierce and undaunted by the proceedings. “You’ll do no such thing, Geoffrey.”
“He’s defiled our good name.”
“Our good name is just that: a good name. With a stellar reputation. We do not need to defend ourselves against the likes of Van Buren. It’s his reputation at stake, not ours.” Mama moved to touch Papa’s arm. “This is about Birdie and her future, the one we’ve worked so hard to give her. Why give Mack Van Buren one ounce of our precious consideration?”
Alfonse shook his head as he sank to the seat next to Birdie. “Then my apologies. I fear I’ve ruined my own reputation with you. I should not have assumed the . . . Well, please forgive me.” He glanced from Papa to Mama.
The Van Buren and Van Cliff feud was legendary in the city, beginning with the Tammany Hall political machine, when a young Van Buren worked for Boss Tweed. The feud deepened when Papa and Mr. Van Cliff started a real estate proposition that Van Buren thwarted with his city hall connections.
“All is forgiven.” Papa set his glass aside and took his cigar from the gold and silver ashtray, slowly relighting it. “I hope this is not some scheme to relinquish your duty and walk out on my daughter?”
“Of course not.” Alfonse looked over to Birdie, reaching up to lower her book. “What are you doing hiding? Did we scare our little bird?” His laugh irritated her.
She slapped the book closed, settling it on her lap. “You did not frighten me.”
“Birdie,” Papa said. “What do you have to say to this? Do you forgive Alfonse?”
If she said no, would she be free? Birdie peered at Mama, a masculine voice echoing through the heavy closed door, a faint, distant memory.
“A desk, my love . . . You said she enjoyed writing stories and reading . . .”
“Birdie, what do you say?” Papa insisted, glancing up as Percival returned with a glass of water and a bowl containing a folded white cloth.
“I-I . . .” She glanced at Mama, whose eyes glistened in the lamplight as she slowly shook her head. Please, Birdie . . .
This was her chance. If she confessed what she overheard as a child, Alfonse might break their engagement. She’d be free. Yet at what cost to Papa? To Mama?
Even a suspicion of an affair would humiliate them. And what proof did Birdie actually have? None.
Birdie’s mind reeled with implications. Would she lose Papa’s affections? What little he supplied was a delight. Would he send Mama away? Despite their differences, a home without Mama would be no home at all.
“Birdie?” Alfonse said. “Do you have something to say?”
She lifted her gaze to him, then to her father, caught in her dilemma. “No, Papa, I have nothing to say.”
“Then let’s settle down.” Papa exhaled and ran his hand along his muttonchops. “Alfonse, would you like something to drink? Iris, please, take your water. There, the cloth is damp and cool. My, haven’t we survived quite a jolt this evening?”
“Thank you, Geoffrey. I’ll have a brandy. Please, forgive my rash, foolish assumptions.” Alfonse took Birdie’s hand in his. “Do I have your forgiveness?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Shall we have some ice cream and cake?” Mama rang again for Percival. “Alfonse, I must remark on your integrity. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
“Van Buren just seemed so sure, speaking of so many details. He described this room to the letter.”
“He’s a lawyer, of course he’d have details.” Mama’s voice carried newfound verve. “He’s met with Geoffrey here before.” Mama returned to her needlepoint in full confidence. Yet Birdie did not miss the tremor in her hand. “And he brought Birdie a gift once. A desk. Geoffrey, you remember.”
“Do I?”
Mama. Oh, Mama. What a tangled web did she weave?
“Yes, we both found it quite ugly. Now, we will forget this night ever happened, won’t we, Geoff? Alfonse and Birdie?”
“Of course, I remember now. Whatever happened to that desk?” Papa struck a match, lighting his cigar. “I’ll have a word with the head of the club. Van Buren is a member only for the good graces of men like me, Gottlieb, and Roosevelt.”
“I rather think you should leave it alone,” Mama said, checking the door as the butler entered. “Percival, let’s have cake and ice cream.” She wrinkled her nose at Papa. “Doesn’t ice cream sound lovely? It should take our minds away from the evening’s disturbance.”
Just like that, all was set aside, and Birdie’s final hope for freedom faded. She breathed deep, shoving aside a sense of panic, resisting the urge to shout her suspicions.
Mack Van Buren was here. With Mama in the locked parlor. I heard them talking.
The clock in the corner ticked away the seconds and her indecision waned. No, she’d keep quiet, refusing to give innuendo a voice.
On her next breath, her lungs filled with air.
Alfonse returned to his jovial self. “It’s early yet, shall we have a hand of bridge? Birdie, I’ve never heard you play the piano. Music might be nice.”
“What a splendid idea.” Mama spoke as a woman revived, moving over to the piano. “We’ve all kinds of new sheet music. Have you heard ‘Sweet Adeline’? I can’t get enough of it. What’s your pleasure, Alfonse?”
“‘Sweet Adeline.’ I’m quite fond of it. Birdie?”
“Y
es, of course.” Music provided a soothing escape from her cares.
As she sat at the piano, Mama squeezed her shoulders, bending toward her ear.
“I don’t know what you know or how you know it, but you will never mention this again.”
THIRTY
TENLEY
“Miss Roth.” The doorman hurried toward her as she entered the lobby, a distinct frown on his face. “Y-you’re home. Were you expected? I’m sorry, I just came on shift.” He reached for his iPad, scanning for some sort of notification.
“I didn’t call ahead. This is a quick trip, Saget. A meeting with my publisher.” She released her roll-aboard to him and started for the elevator. “I’m going on Good Morning America too.”
“Is that right? Good for you.” He fidgeted as they waited for the elevator. “H-how’s your mother?”
“Doing well. Thank you.”
Blanche had insisted on driving her to the airport, scrutinizing her trip, and asking a dozen times when she’d return to Cocoa Beach.
“You have my itinerary. I printed it out, stuck it on the fridge. Geez, you left me for twenty years and didn’t care—”
“I did care. Very much.”
“I’m just saying you’ll be fine. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”
“I’ll miss you is all. I’m used to your small sounds in the house.”
At the airport Blanche clung to her longer than necessary. If she meditated on it, Tenley could still feel her warm, thin arms about her back.
The elevator arrived at the twelfth floor with a ping, inspiring a welcome-home flutter in Tenley.
Man, she missed her place. Her bed. Her loft office. Her stuff. Her space. Her view of the city.
“Shall I open the door for you?” Saget held out his hand for the key but Tenley declined, taking hold of her suitcase.
“Thank you, Saget. I’ll take it from here.” She pressed a five into his hand.
“If you’re sure.” He liked to go the extra mile. For the extra tip. “I’d be happy to go in, turn on lights, make sure everything is safe.”
Tenley laughed, inserting the key in the lock. “I pay exorbitant fees for this place to be safe. It better be.”
Inside, she dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and spread her arms. “Oh, home. I’ve missed you.”
For now, she had two hours before meeting Alicia and Drake at Battery Park for dinner. Plenty of time to fill her soaker tub with bubbles and sink beneath the surface.
This was where she belonged. Not in that rambling house on the coast with Blanche and that bothersome, good-looking, was-he-for-real Jonas Sullivan roaming the beach.
Just inside the door, her packages—the ones she had ordered while procrastinating—were stacked along the wall from smallest to largest. Oh man, she’d ordered a lot of stuff and had the credit card bill to prove it.
Leaving her roll-aboard at the edge of the kitchen, Tenley flipped on a few lights, inhaled the afternoon view of Fifty-Third Street toward the south, and set her laptop on the coffee table. The apartment echoed with a peaceful quiet.
Looking in her laptop case, she retrieved Gordon’s manuscript. She’d read the entire thing the night she found it, staying up until three in the morning.
His well-paced story about a young woman’s life in Gilded Age New York was beautiful. Raw and real, full of angst and hope. It made her long for her great-great-grandfather’s talent. Why, oh, why couldn’t she write like him?
“Grandpa, I need your words in my bones.”
It also made her grateful for Blanche, despite the woman’s weaknesses and failures. The heroine, Bette, had a nasty piece of work for a mother.
She returned to the long wall of windows and gazed down on Fifth Avenue. In Gordon’s story, this very street was lined with extravagant Gilded Age mansions with opulent ballrooms and gaudy parlors.
But that was the era of building up and tearing down. The rich were so rich they thought nothing of razing their homes and starting again. Especially if a nouveau riche came along and built a newer, grander dwelling.
“I can’t imagine,” Tenley whispered against the glass.
Gordon wrote of riches and luxuries, the social seasons of operas and parties, silk gowns, and coy glances cast from behind Venetian fans. Men in tuxedoes smoking cigars and drinking port. Walking home by the gaslights at dawn under a soft falling snow.
Today Fifth Avenue was noisy and crowded with shops and high-rises.
She sighed with a passing longing to hear the waves curling against the beach beyond Grove Manor.
While she was glad to be home, so many weeks in Florida had changed her.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she took a selfie with the view of the city behind her and texted it to Blanche.
I’m here. See you Tuesday.
Then she sent the image to Holt.
Guess where I am? Miss you. Are you coming?
She hit Send before thinking, but as she tucked her phone away, she wondered. Did she really miss him?
Grabbing her bag, Tenley headed for the bedroom and clicked on the light, kicking off her flip-flops and tugging her top over her head. She’d ponder her relationship with Holt on the subway ride to meet Alicia and Drake.
She’d just wriggled from her jeans when a movement under the bedcovers startled her against the wall.
“Who’s here?” She clasped her shirt to her chest, glancing about for a weapon, reaching for the old brush she left on the dresser. “Holt?” She fumbled for her phone while holding on to her clothes and the brush, just as Holt popped out from under the blue comforter.
“Holt!”
“Tenley!” His dark hair twisted every which way over his sleepy eyes.
“What are you doing here?” She dropped the brush and set her phone on the dresser, slipping back into her top and snapping on her jeans.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“W-what are you . . . I-I’m meeting with Barclay tomorrow. And Charlie got me a spot on Good Morning America for their June brides feature.” She eased toward the bed. “I was going to text you. . . You’re back from Paris?” Sitting on the edge, she combed her hand through his hair and leaned for a kiss. “Why didn’t you call? You could’ve come down to Cocoa Beach.”
“Tenley . . .” He clasped her arm, moving her hand from his hair and angling away from her kiss. “There’s something you should—”
From the other side of the bed, a lump rolled over and sat up.
“Nicolette?” Tenley slipped off the bed, crashing onto the floor. “W-what’s going on, Holt?”
But she knew. The picture was clear. Her questions were rhetorical.
“I didn’t think you’d be here. What happened to Blanche’s chemotherapy?” Holt stepped out of bed, reaching for the T-shirt on the nightstand.
“What happened to three months of writing in Paris? And this is my place. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Nicolette moved toward the door, her thin negligee exposing too much as it swayed about her lean frame. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”
“What the heck, Holt?” Tenley paced to the window, drawing open the shade. She needed light. The sun. The drift of cotton-white clouds. “You’re unbelievable. I kissed Jonas and felt guilty for days.” Reality settled over her, cold and deep. An involuntary shiver ran down her back. “I tried to call you to talk about it but apparently you were doing more than kissing with Nicolette.”
“We’re in love. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.”
“Of course, all that drinking and nightlife in Paris. It’s the perfect setting to not have an affair. You should’ve come to Florida with me.”
“I didn’t want to go to Florida. I’ve written more in Paris the last month than six months here.”
“You make it sound like it’s my fault.”
“I’m just saying . . .”
“Saying what?”
“I think you gave me writer’s block.”
“What?
It’s not contagious, Holt.” He was an idiot. “So you decided to cheat on me?” Tenley gazed down at traffic, the cold turning to a freeze, the shiver shaking down her legs. Oh, to be anywhere but here. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Certainly not now, like this.”
“We didn’t mean to, Tenley.” Nicolette leaned against the door frame, drinking a bottle of water, sounding like a character from one of her movies. “Too much wine, I guess.”
“Too much wine? Too much wine!” On instinct, she ran at Holt, ramming his chest, shoving him down on the bed.
“Tenley, hey—”
She pummeled his arm with her fist. “I trusted you.”
As she whirled toward Nicolette, trembling, an image flashed across her mind and she saw herself through their eyes—weak and expendable. A bottle of wine and she didn’t exist.
Dropping to the floor, back against the bed, Tenley sank beneath a surge of fear. Of course he didn’t want her. She was nothing. An ugly duckling next to the beautiful swan.
Then Jonas’s blue gaze flicked across her senses, and the tenor of his voice resonated in her.
Don’t worry. Don’t be afraid.
“Get out.” She jumped up with purpose and pointed to the door. “Now. Both of you. Get your things and get out!”
“Come on, Tenley, don’t be—”
“I said get out!” She leaned her nose to Holt’s. “The engagement is off.”
He laughed, glancing toward Nicolette. “She thinks we were getting married.”
“I said get out!”
“Tenley, don’t be angry,” Nicolette crooned, easing across the room, fluffing her hair. “These things happen. I know. Been there.”
“You realize he’s only sleeping with you because you’re famous. So he can get his script made into a movie.”
“I know—”
“What? Don’t listen to her. Babe . . . Nic . . . that’s not true.”
Tenley shoved past Nicolette for the door. “I’m going for a walk around the block. When I get back, don’t be here. Leave your keys with Saget.” And one more for good measure. “Now get out!”
Holt puffed out his narrow chest. “Hey, some of the things in here are mine. I bought the couch and the TV.”
