Dora watched as the older gentleman shook David’s hand. He wore a knitted sweater that was probably just as old as him, and his wide-rimmed glasses took up half of his face. He walked up to the desk. Her breath hitched as she observed him in a trancelike state as he stroked the surface of the desk with his fingers.

“Sir,” David said. “It’s a surprise seeing you. Did you come all the way in from England just to talk to me about purchasing the desk?”

“I was in the area and remembered you informing me where your shop was located. In all honesty, Mr. Markham,” he said, his attention still on the desk. “I can’t stop thinking about the desk.”

“You can’t?” David asked, looking at Dora and mouthing to her, “I’m sorry.”

No. I can’t let him leave with this. I must have it. I must.

“Sir,” Dora said, her insides contorting when the older gentleman tore his gaze away from the desk.

“Are you speaking to me?” He arched a brow.

“I am. Look, I was just talking to David here about purchasing the desk.”

He did not seem to show any expression on his face. Instead, it seemed as if he was ignoring her. He took out a checkbook from the front pocket of his tweed jacket. His wide rimmed glasses fell to the tip of his nose as he began scrawling down numbers on paper.

“I’m willing to give you a check, Mr. Markham. Right now. I am paying you what it is worth, plus extra, since I know your lot marks things up. I will do anything to have it.”

“No,” Dora said, making her voice more present in the room. “You won’t have it because it is not up for debate. I was going to talk to David about buying the desk for myself.”

This man grated on her last nerves. From the way he ignored her very presence in the room.

“It is true, Dr. Thomas,” he said with an apologetic smile. “She was just discussing with me about the prospect of purchasing it when you walked in.”

“Do you have any idea what this is, young lady?”

“First,” she said, stopping him with a gesture of her hand. “I am twenty-seven years old. You do not have to call me a young lady like that. I am not someone you can talk down to like that. And second, I know what it is because it’s a Louand and Straub desk. The company shut down shortly after, which is why they’re so rare.”

“Well, I found out who it belonged to, thanks to my research. Before whomever owned it in 1999. I must have it. I had come into the store and find you. After my research, I have discovered something incredible.”

“What did you find out, sir?” David asked, as if hanging on to the older man’s every word.

“It belonged to the artist Sarah Greyson. The same one that painted The Garden.”

Dora’s heart soared when she heard this.

“Do you have any documentation?” David asked with a smile. “That is an incredible discovery.”

“Here,” he said, setting his large messenger bag on the desk. “I have it right here. It is a copy of an incredibly old photo.”

“Oh my God, you’re right.” David peered closer and closer to the picture. “I even see the inscription. Dora, see this.”

She walked up to the photo and intuitively knew it was the same desk as in the photo. She did not even need to see the inscription.

“I have the means to pay for it, Mr. Markham. And I came all the way from England. Please consider this. Do you know what this means to have a desk owned by the great Sarah Greyson in my collection?”

“Yeah,” Dora said. “What that means is that you’ll stuff it somewhere with all your other fancy things. It’ll never get used properly. You will take it out to show your friends, bragging about the fact that it once belonged to Sarah Greyson. I know your type,” Dora said, not caring about what anyone else in the room would think.

“How dare you insinuate that I will not care for it properly? What kind of disrespectful person are you to speak to me in such a manner? My God in Heaven, who raised you?”

“My dad. Who raised you to treat me like I am not even in the room? Like I said earlier, sir, I am buying the desk. I was here first. David, if you would check me out now, I would really appreciate it.”

David nodded. “She is right, sir. She was here first, so I am sorry, but you’re out of luck.”

He scoffed as he stuffed his checkbook in the front pocket of his messenger bag. “You’re going to regret it. You’ll regret every waking second you bought this desk.”

“Have a beautiful rest of your evening, sir,” she said with a smile.

“Mark my words. You will regret it.”

***

David had offered to take Dora home in his Ford F150, with the desk harnessed in the truck bed. He put the music on, his favorite station. Classical music. They listened to the flourishing arpeggios of the violins against the soft, unassuming piano. The music was somber, but Dora liked the way the music rose and fell without too much drama.

“That’s one of Chopin’s piano concertos,” David said. “Doesn’t it sound like his music, Dora?”

“Maybe it’s Liszt. Y’know, I’m going Chopin, so I need to make a grocery Liszt.”

He put one hand over his heart. “Not the corniest music joke ever.”

“Might be John Cage.”

“John Cage couldn’t compose music like this even if he tried.”

“What’s your deal with Cage?” she asked, shaking her head.

Her father was obsessed with the music of Cage. She practically grew up listening to the eclectic style, and even the silence of 4’33, or the lack of it, depending on perspective.

“Not a fan of the postmodern,” he said, turning the steering wheel and ending up on the street where Dora lived.

They passed rows of brownstones, slowly, because of the congregation of New York that filled up the streets of Manhattan.

“And there you have it,” the announcer on the radio stated. “That was the awe-inspiring music of Frederic Chopin. Doesn’t it make your heart feel full when you’ve got a cup of tea while listening to the blissful music of the Bard of the Romantic Era? Up next, we have music inspired by a painting of the late great artist Sarah Greyson. It’s called Girl at Hyde Park. The composer is the renowned musician John Kent.”

“Ah,” David said, chuckling as he shook his head. “I called it. Didn’t I call it? Chopin was the composer!”

“What a funny coincidence,” Dora said. “Sarah Greyson again. It’s like the third time she’s come up today.”

“Well, I know she’s your favorite artist. Maybe you’re just more aware of her lately.”

“Thanks again for the present. It’s wonderful to see all of her artwork in one book like that,” Dora said. “I left it at Tilly’s shop, though. I’m sorry.”

“As soon as I saw it, I knew you’d like it,” David replied, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “But you got the desk, too.”

“And that it was owned by Sarah Greyson. Like, how weird is that?”

“Really, really coincidental. I suppose it’s fate.” He put his turn signal and parallel parked in the open spot in front of Dora’s brownstone.

“Now, what am I going to tell my dad? Hey, Dad. I just put a down payment on a desk that cost 10,000 dollars.”

“I gave you a discount since it’s you, though. Maybe that’ll make him feel better.”

Dora turned to look at the window and saw the dim light emanating from the living room. The bright, intermittent flashes told her one thing. Her dad was watching his television program. Probably something on the History network, something that he loved to do on his spare time when he wasn’t making medical rounds with his patients at the hospital.

“Why don’t you go on in?” David unlocked the truck from the inside. “I’ll handle getting the desk in.”

“You don’t need help?”

“Nah,” he said. “I can take the cabinets out and bring them. I’ll holler out if I need you.”

Dora walked up to the front door and opened it, inhaling the acrid scent of old wood. The walls of their foyer were an off-white color, and the wainscot panelling was wood. Her dad had said that their home had minimal renovations since the late 1800s, and it showed. The wood floor must have had the same parquet design that the previous owners had, for there were scratches and in one spot, Dora’s favorite thing to look at was strange writing at the very bottom of the dark cherry-wood wainscot panelling.

IH was here.

“Dora, is that you?” a deep baritone voice resonated from the other side.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m back from work,” she said in response. “Sorry, the traffic was pretty bad.”

“Is that David’s truck outside? I swear it looks a lot like his truck.”

Her father was now standing in the opening between the foyer and the living room, his dark brown eyes almost piercing through Dora’s soul.

How do I tell him about the splurge on this desk?

“Yeah, um, Dad,” she said as she greeted him with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “I may have, um, bought something at David’s shop?” She scratched her neck as she shuffled her feet.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Is that why the door’s open? What did you buy now? Did it cost an arm and a leg? You already bought a lampstand from the man. Let me guess.” He pointed his finger at her. “You bought a bookshelf for all the books you bought from Book Barn.”

“No, Dad. Here’s the thing. It was owned by someone I admire. I just found out today that she owned it.”

“You bought a towel rack for the upstairs bathroom. It was owned by, um, let me guess. Julia Roberts? Judging by the sound of your voice and the look on your face, I guess it’s something huge.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding as she avoided looking directly at him. “It’s a desk. Owned by Sarah Greyson.”

“A desk owned by Sarah Greyson?” His eyes sparkled. “And where will this desk go?”

“In my room,” she said. “You can have the old one.”

“Oh, I can? The one I bought you from IKEA? I can have that one? Oh, it’s an early Christmas present. Score!”

Her father turned to the open doorway. “Oh, hello, David. I guess those are the cabinets to Dora’s newest buy. I’m afraid you couldn’t talk her out of it either. This is the curse of being best friends with an antique seller, David. You’re making him as rich as Croesus with everything you get from there.”

“Where did you want it, Dora?” David asked.

“Upstairs.”

His eyes widened. “All right. I guess I need help then. Mr. Harding, do you think you could help me?”

Her father’s smile fell. “Mr. Harding? David, how many times have I told you not to call me that? Call me Nick. Just Nick. Even Nicholas is fine. Mr. Harding was my father. May he rest in peace. I’ll help you, it’s no problem. A desk owned by Sarah Greyson. What a find, Dora. Wow. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get this up there so Dora can use it.”

***

Dora was relieved that after all of that, her father did not once complain about her purchase. Granted, she didn’t tell him exactly how much she put on it for a down payment. She knew he would collapse, but she was grateful that it was finally where it needed to be. Right here in her bedroom, overlooking her view of their street. She was beyond glad Dr. Thomas, who flew all the way from England to New York, did not have it either. It filled her with some kind of victorious feeling, knowing that a man like him, who treated her that way, did not get what he wanted. And she did.

She began fiddling around with the cabinets. Of course, there was the one that had been sealed shut and there was no way that David could have even taken that one out when he was bringing it in piece by piece.

But she touched the part that was sealed and, in seconds, it nudged open for her. To her dismay, it was empty and smelled rather musty. She touched the bottom of the cabinet and felt it shake under her hands. Dora slipped it and it opened entirely, revealing an envelope.

Curious, she took it out and held it in her hands, surprised to see that it was a Titanic envelope. It was cracked, yellowed and faded to where she could not make out the writing on the envelope itself. Carefully, she opened the contents and began reading.

15/4/1912

I do not know how to begin even writing this letter. I have always been abysmal with my words, and I have gone through multiple papers already. I stare at the rubbish bin inside my cabin. It is filled with crumpled paper, but I am sure you have already surmised this if you are reading this now. Either way, I do not know why you are not speaking with me anymore. I do miss our late-night conversations and I truly do value them. Have I done something to offend you? In truth, you are not the same woman that I met that fateful day. You are breaking my heart with your frosty demeanour. And now, you are spending more time with him. Have I done something to you? Said anything to you? One moment, we are friends and then the next; we are nearly strangers. I suppose that this is my last effort to try to tell you what I have been attempting to say for a long time now. Dora Harding, I love you. I love you more than words can say. Come to me if you feel the same way that I do.