by Rachel Hauck
“Blanche?” Tenley paused with a last look toward the library, then ran over to hug the desk. “Thanks for being my people. Don’t let Jonas sell you to someone else. I’m going to ask Blanche if I can have you.”
She shoved the bookcase-door closed with a mental note to come back this fall and investigate more.
Downstairs, she settled her things by the front door. “Blanche? You won’t believe what I found. Hey, are you up for driving me to the airport?”
She breezed into the kitchen for a banana and glass of juice.
“Blanche, yo! You up? Did you know there was a hidden room in the library? Wild. The projector was in there loaded with film of the marchioness.” Tenley paused by her mom’s closed door, jamming the first bite of banana in her mouth. “Blanche?”
She knocked, then eased open the door, crossing over to the bed. “Mom?”
Eyes closed, hands folded on her middle in peaceful repose, a slight smile on her lips, Blanche neither moved nor breathed.
Tenley shook her gently. “Hey . . . Blanche? Mom?”
But she was gone. Sweetly gone. “Oh, Blanche, no.” Drawing her hand over her mother’s forehead, Tenley crawled in next to her, cradling her cold body, tugging the covers up to her chin, and wept softly against her arm.
TENLEY
The sunset over the Sullivans’ cut of the Banana River flamed with red, gold, and pink. More glorious than Tenley had ever seen. The breeze mixed with dew and heat pushed against her, tangling her hair and forcing her to feel. Something. Anything.
Blanche’s death came as the proverbial last straw. Tenley had wept for most of the morning, her heart excising every pain, every disappointment, the loss of Dad, the loss of Mom, the loss of her career and future. The loss of love.
Would she ever find her way?
She called Jonas. Together they found Blanche’s will, which her lawyer, Mr. Brannon, executed to the last detail. Right down to a commemorative box of ashes for Tenley. Which now sat at her feet.
The rest of her mother’s physical remains were to be interred at the Woodlawn Cemetery Mausoleum next to Dad—which he’d purchased for her two years after their divorce.
Together in death if not in life. Dad, you’re a saint, and I miss you.
“Beautiful sunset.” Jonas pulled a weather-worn lawn chair alongside her.
“You think it’s Blanche telling me she’s okay?”
“Or God telling you everything’s going to be okay.”
“Not to worry or be afraid? For God so loved the world . . .” Tenley repeated the verse that stuck out to her last night while reading Birdie’s Bible.
She was starting to understand. Starting to see.
“Thank you for all of your help this week. I know you have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked ahead, over the water, his dark hair curling in the breeze, his jaw dusted with a day’s growth. He was beautiful. Truly beautiful.
Blanche’s funeral commenced on the beach this morning with the Sullivans and a small gathering of her friends. Aunt Reese and her husband, Uncle Phil, flew in from Colorado. They were inside with Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, perusing the cornucopia of casserole dishes the church ladies provided.
“Reese and Phil invited me to Colorado for the holidays,” Tenley said. “But I don’t really know them. They’re strangers.”
“You should go. Family . . . family is important.” Jonas stretched out his long, tanned legs and watched the sunset. “They won’t be strangers for long.”
“I feel sad I can’t have any more Christmases with Blanche.”
“At least you had a solid three months with her.”
“Saying yes to her invitation was the only thing I’ve done right lately.”
“Then treasure the memories,” Jonas said. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with the car and the house?”
“And everything in between?” As Blanche’s sole heir, Tenley inherited all her mother’s worldly possessions. The boxes of photographs. The vintage dresses. The hats from her British period. “I don’t know yet.” She cut a glance his way. “Jonas, did you know there’s a secret room in the library?”
“First I’ve heard of it, but I don’t really know the house that well.” He waited, listening.
“I found a bunch of manuscripts and correspondence. And an old reel-to-reel film. I think Birdie, the marchioness, was Gordon Phipps Roth’s ghostwriter. Is that crazy?” He was the first one to hear her suspicion. It felt good to say it out loud.
He exhaled, making a face. “That would be hard to prove.”
“Yeah, and after what I did, who would believe me?” She sighed. “I miss Blanche.”
She felt the brush of his fingers against hers linking them together. They sat there until long after the colors faded and the night blanketed them.
BIRDIE
JUNE 1947
She turned to the last page of An October Wedding, the book of her heart. Her fictionalized love affair with Eli. But it would change. Gordon would make his additions, turning it into their trademark story.
It’d been more difficult than she imagined to pen her own story, remembering her battle with Mama, whom she’d give about anything to see one more time.
How blessed she’d been to be spared a loveless marriage with Alfonse, and Eli with Rose.
She was forever in debt to those two.
In the writing and the journey into her past, she remembered her brother, missing him and how he brightened every room and every dreary day.
But it was her grief over losing her son that had fueled her passion to write about her youth, about an age and time gone by, about her passion for Eli and the exciting journey she called her life—beginning the day Alfonse dumped her at the altar into Eli’s waiting arms.
“Hello, my love.”
She glanced up to see Eli entering the library with his confounded new gadget, a movie camera, edging it over her shoulder.
“I see you’ve finished your next great book.”
“Eli, please.” Birdie pressed her palm against the lens. “You know better.”
“These are just our private movies.”
“Still, I beg you. We cannot risk our secret.”
“Secret, still.” He peered round the camera. “When he comes to visit this summer, I’m going to have it out with him. How long must my wife be his ghost?”
“Please, you will do no such thing.” Birdie turned to the camera, raising her hand to block the lens. “You know he’s unwell.”
“Well, when he’s well again.”
“Haven’t you argued enough with him about it over the years? Yet here I am doing what I love and earning a handsome lot.”
“Because I want your name on a book jacket. I’m very proud of you.”
“Fine. But for now, go on. You’re disrupting my work.”
“All right, for you, love, I’ll turn off the camera. I suppose these things do have a way of falling into the wrong hands.”
“Precisely.”
He lowered the camera and knelt next to her desk, which had become her dear companion. “Are you happy, Birdie? That we left England for Florida? That you wrote for Gordon?”
She kissed him softly, an intimacy she’d never tire of sharing. “I’ve zero regrets.”
“Nor I.” Eli glanced at the manuscript. “Wouldn’t it be nice if this one had your name on it, though?”
“I’ve already sent the first chapter to him. I think Gordon’s health concerns Barclay, but they’ve set a release date for next year. Now go. Though this book doesn’t have my name on the cover, our story will be on the pages, forever immortalized in print.”
“That does delight me.” He raised the camera. “I’ll go, love. But first, sing your song. The one from your childhood. It has comforted me more times than you know. Especially during the war and after losing William. Your voice is so lovely.”
“It’s not my song, it’s the Lord’s. He just allows me to si
ng it.”
“Right you are, darling. So go on. My guess is He loves to hear you sing it as much as any human.”
Birdie sighed and faced the lens. “If you will then leave me alone and go film your precious egrets, I will sing.”
Birdie closed her eyes and lifted her voice for the camera. “Do not be dismayed, you don’t have to worry or be afraid.”
Birdie fit the manuscript into the envelope, a late-afternoon rain dancing against the library window.
Stretching, she slipped the typewriter cover over the machine. Picking up the mimeographed copy of An October Wedding, she wrapped it with a rubber band and walked to the room behind the library shelves.
“Oh Eli . . .” She shoved aside the projector, much too large for this small room, but he insisted on keeping it in here. And when they had a whole grand house to spread out in.
Opening the box, she set the manuscript inside. Number sixteen. She sat in the chair, facing the wall.
She read in here at night, surrounded by her books. They were hers. Her babies. Every last one written with love. The world may not know her, but God knew. He saw. And one day, she was sure, one day He would reward.
Wasn’t laying down one’s life for a friend the ultimate act of love? Wasn’t that the sacrifice Christ made for her? Her sacrifice cost her nothing but fame. Her book earnings paid very well, though Eli suspected Gordon doctored the ledger now and again.
Below her, the house phone jangled in the phone room, vibrating up through the floor.
The maid’s footsteps hammered across the hardwood and were followed by her quick, low, “Grove Manor, how may I help you?”
Birdie stepped out of the room, swinging the bookshelf into place. When she looked up, Delphi darkened the library door. “Mrs. Ainsworth, the call is for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Roth.”
She hurried down to the phone, a panic spreading through her. “Sweeney, is everything all right?”
“It’s Gordon, Birdie. He’s gone. My beloved husband is gone.”
FORTY
TENLEY
She waited outside Elijah Phipps’s midtown office, the sign on the door reading Gordon Phipps Roth Foundation.
After the funeral, she had spent another week in Cocoa Beach going through Blanche’s things, organizing pictures, and sitting by the ocean remembering her. Remembering Dad. And contemplating her life.
She dug through the library’s secret room and found even more fascinating information on the Ainsworths, including ledgers of income Birdie had earned for each book.
At night Tenley crawled into her bed wrapped in the red robe, more from sentiment than fear now, and read notes from Blanche’s friends and ex-husbands.
She read An October Wedding on her laptop again. Then before turning out the light, she opened Birdie’s Bible, which was beginning to feel more and more like her own, and read the Gospels.
Finally, she was finding her way.
Now in New York, Elijah’s door swung open and she stood, reaching for the backpack at her feet.
“Tenley, come on in.” He stepped aside for her to enter his lavish office, his demeanor detached.
“Thank you for seeing me, Elijah.” She hesitated, then dropped her backpack into the chair facing the desk. “I am really sorry about everything—”
“At least we found the lost manuscript. You’re lucky we didn’t discover your indiscretion after it was published.”
“Dodged one there.” She mimed flicking sweat from her brow.
“Guess you’ve figured out you shouldn’t steal someone else’s manuscript.”
“Gotcha.” Two thumbs up. “As if I haven’t heard or thought of that already.”
Elijah sat behind his desk, rocking back, tapping his fingers together. “What can I do for you?”
“I found something that might interest you.” She pulled the film canister from the backpack along with one of the manuscripts, the original copy of The Girl in the Carriage. “Before my grandparents owned the house in Cocoa Beach, it belonged to an English couple. The wife was the American daughter of a Gilded Age millionaire.”
“I assume this is going somewhere.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that our great-great-grandfather’s manuscript was found in an old, nondescript desk in Cocoa Beach? In a house he never owned?”
“Not at all. He could’ve visited. Many celebrities and aristocrats were fans of Phipps Roth. In fact, I’m named after his good friend Elijah Percy, the Marquess of Ainsworth.”
Tenley grinned. The story was coming full circle. “Remember that as I go on. So, why was Gordon’s manuscript in the desk?”
“Just go ahead and tell me, Tenley.” Elijah motioned to the film canister and the manuscript. “You obviously have something to say.”
“Our grandfather was a fraud. I don’t know when it started, but I think it was with his breakout book.” She tapped The Girl in the Carriage. “Birdie Shehorn Percy, the American heiress who became the Marchioness of Ainsworth, was married to the man you’re named for, Elijah Percy, Lord Ainsworth. She, dear cousin, was Gordon’s ghostwriter.”
Elijah laughed. “Is this how you make yourself feel better? By lying about Gordon?”
“Not at all. But it’s true and this is how I fix what he did.”
Tenley retrieved Birdie’s letters and the copy of the manuscript of An October Wedding. “Did you read An October Wedding?”
“Not yet, but I—”
“The origins of the story are in their correspondence. On the film, Birdie and her husband Eli discuss how she was writing for Gordon.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She handed him copies of the letters. “Those are duplicates. I have the originals. I also have copies of her financial ledgers.” She reached again into her bag. “I had the film converted to digital. It’s on this DVD.” She dropped the disk onto his desk. “Elijah, Gordon never wrote one book on his own after Living with the Hamiltons. The Girl in the Carriage is a collaboration of some kind with the marchioness.”
“You can’t be serious. That book changed his career.” Elijah shuffled through the letters, sighing louder and louder, his face flushed and taut. “Tenley, we’ve built a whole foundation on his work and reputation.” He stood, shoving his chair into the mahogany credenza. “You want to dismantle it?”
“No, I want it to fulfill our grandfather’s promise to his ghostwriter. Put her name on a book.”
He scoffed, pacing to the window and peering out over the city. “Which will effectively dismantle his name and reputation.”
“Then let’s find a way to keep his legacy while doing what he never did. Give Birdie her own book. Publish An October Wedding with her name, not Gordon’s. We owe her this, Elijah, as his descendants.”
“I can’t do that. I have a responsibility to the board. We don’t know she really wrote for him.”
“Read the letters. Watch the DVD.”
“And Barclay has the book. You think they are going to put an unknown’s name on it? They’re planning a fancy gilded edition.”
“I don’t care. An October Wedding is her personal love story. She wrote sixteen books for Gordon. We can find a way to do right by her. Elijah, if you don’t help me, I’ll go to the press with this.”
“How do you propose we go about it? March into Barclay’s with an ‘Oh, by the way’?”
“Yes. A thousand bucks says Wendall already knows.”
Elijah made a face. “Nah, he couldn’t. How could he? If this is true, Gordon clearly kept it a secret.”
“I bet old Daniel Barclay knew. Even if the family didn’t, we have all the proof we need to show Gordon Phipps Roth was a fraud.”
“Whoa, there’s no we. Just you. I’m not going to be a part of his undoing. This foundation does a lot of good, Tenley. Programs for literacy. Grants for libraries. For young novelists starting out. Awards. As you well know.”
She slipped the film ti
n into the backpack. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to get Birdie Shehorn Percy Ainsworth’s name on a book. Even if I have to expose our great-great-grandfather to do it.” She started for the door.
“Why . . . why are you doing this?”
“Don’t you see, Eli? He took her work just like I took his. Only I didn’t know. Not that ignorance is an excuse. But for, I don’t know, forty years, Gordon knew Birdie wrote for him and never said a word. He made his living off of her. Fine, it appears she was complicit. She made a living too. But he died owing her something. Her name on a book. An October Wedding is the fulfillment of that promise.”
With a sigh, Elijah sank to his desk chair. “We always thought he never finished it.”
“Because the manuscript was with Birdie, in Florida, all along. Now do you see my point? Elijah, let’s finish what Gordon did not.”
When Tenley came up with this plan, the notion burned in her gut for days. A small fire at first, then an inferno. It was her first matter of serious prayer. The more she prayed, the brighter the idea flamed.
Justice. It simply felt like justice. And for some reason, God had assigned her the task of executing it.
“So what’s your plan?” Elijah said.
“Take all of this to Barclay. Ask them to publish it with her name.”
“That’s publishing suicide. She’s basically a debut author with no face, no website, no Facebook or Instagram account. She can’t do interviews or blog tours.”
“But I can.”
“Can we put Gordon’s name on it too?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.” She sank to her chair with a wash of tears. “Thank you, Elijah.”
“I suppose this assuages some of your guilt?”
“I’m not doing this for myself.” She inhaled a pure, deep breath. “After what I did, no publisher will want me. I don’t think for a moment Wendall has kept his mouth shut. I’m applying to beauty school. I’m doing this for her. Because she deserves it. And from whatever corner she’s watching from heaven, I bet she’s cheering. For me, it feels . . . great. Like I’m finishing something that’s been waiting for a very long time.”
