Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘Are you telling me I shouldn’t ask Becker to give it up?’
He smiles. ‘I’m not telling you not to ask him.’
‘But you’re telling me not to expect him to?’
‘I guess so.’
Goddamn me, part of me, the compassionate part, desperately wants him to find that sculpture. Another part, the sensible part, is too scared he won’t come back. What is Becker thinking? What is he planning? Is he even planning? I hum, thinking Becker and I need to have a serious conversation. And I need to seriously consider what my limits are. What I can accept. What I can’t.
Mr H’s old, frail hand comes to rest on the solid wood of the double pedestal desk and slowly strokes it from side-to-side. ‘You recognised this the moment you saw it, didn’t you?’
My eyes drop to the dark surface on a smile. ‘Of course.’ We’ve been over this before. ‘It’s a stunning copy of the original Theodore Roosevelt.’
‘You’re almost right.’
My gaze shoots up. I’m almost right? No, I am right. ‘It’s identi . . .’ My words fade to nothing, and he smiles. The penny drops, and my eyes get progressively wider by the second as his hint explodes in my head. ‘It’s the real desk?’ I blurt, sticking myself to the back of my chair, putting distance between me and the double pedestal beauty. Like, stupidly, if I touch it I might implicate myself. How ridiculous. Because I’ve not implicated myself enough in all things Hunt related?
‘That it is,’ he confirms. ‘Beautiful, don’t you think?’
My mouth drops open and my eyes drop back to the desk. ‘Then what’s in the Oval Office of the White House?’
‘A stunning replica.’
‘Oh my days,’ I breathe. ‘How?’
Old Mr Hunt rests his hands on his stomach and sits back in his captain’s chair, his smile firmly in place. ‘I was in America in 1945. It was a total coincidence.’ He grins, and I shake my head in wonder. Yeah, I bet. ‘This little beauty was being kept in storage.’ He taps the top.
‘After the Oval Office fire on Christmas Eve 1929,’ I add, knowing the story well.
‘That’s right. Despite it being undamaged, Herbert Hoover used another desk that was donated by a furniture maker, and this poor thing got forgotten about.’ He shakes his head and sighs. ‘A travesty.’
‘So you decided to steal it?’
‘I was quite a handy crafter of wood.’
‘As opposed to Becker’s sculpting skills?’
He laughs. ‘Exactly.’
‘So you crafted a replica and . . .’
‘And I got myself a job at the haulage firm that was hired to transport the desk from storage back to the White House in 1945.’
I laugh. I can’t help it. The Hunt family are really quite something. ‘So Harry Truman and all of the succeeding presidents and vice presidents have been running America from a desk that you made?’
‘Sounds unbelievable, doesn’t it?’ He winks, and I’m laughing all over again. Actually, no. It doesn’t any more. Nothing I learn about this family shocks me like it should. I’m immune to shock. ‘Here, let me show you something.’ He beckons me over to his side of the desk as he pulls open the middle drawer. I wander round, still smiling. The spirit in the old man as he shares one of his many tales is a pleasure to see. It’s infectious. I come to a stop beside him and watch as he lifts all of the papers from the drawer. ‘You know of the tradition, don’t you?’
‘The tradition?’
‘Yes, the tradition that Harry Truman started at the end of his term in office.’ He dumps all the papers on the desk and looks up at me.
‘He signed the inside of the middle drawer,’ I tell him.
‘That’s right.’ He pushes himself back from the desk and indicates for me to look.
I move in and peek around all corners of the drawer. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Of course there isn’t.’ He chuckles. ‘I pinched this desk in 1945.’
‘And Truman started the tradition in 1951.’ I swing my disbelieving eyes to Mr H. ‘When he got voted out of office.’
‘Yes, which means . . .’
‘Every US president since then has signed your forged work,’ I finish quietly on a mild shake of my bewildered head, looking up at his delighted face.
‘Ironic, don’t you think?’
‘Unbelievable.’ Absolutely unbelievable.
‘And even more ironic is the fact that I, too, signed the desk before I switched it. Though in a slightly more discreet place. So it’s in fact me who started the tradition.’
‘Why would you sign it?’
He shrugs. ‘We Hunt men have terrible egos, Eleanor. You should know that by now.’ He reaches up and clucks my cheek on a wink, just as the door opens and Becker walks in on us chuckling together.
He looks fresh, suited and booted, and his hair still wet. Oh boy, my man is a show-stopper. Becker frowns as he cleans his glasses before slipping them on. ‘All right?’