Page 107 of This is a Kissing Book

The library is dimly lit and consists of polished wood and towering bookshelves that contain centuries of knowledge. We poke around until a docent appears and asks if we have any questions.

Only a million.

We try to play it smooth. Do we succeed? That’s up for debate.

38

JULES

For the next couple of hours, Linc and I talk to all three volunteers who have a wealth of information about the Washington and Lincoln families.

As a precaution, Linc goes by Dirk again. I’m Yulia and every time someone addresses me, he stifles laughter.

“We’re particularly interested in any personal effects or correspondence that might have been housed here during Lincoln’s visits,” I explain to a helpful woman with a puff of white hair. Her nametag says Dorothy.

Should I be surprised?

She quietly taps the tips of her fingers together. “Oh, how fascinating. I really appreciate it when young people are interested in history.” She leans into us as if about to confide something. “You know, there are loads of ghost stories about old buildings like this, but I am more intrigued by rumors.” She nods meaningfully.

Linc and I exchange a look.

“Some say that Lincoln kept a private study space here, though we’ve never been able to definitively locate it. The building has been renovated several times over the years and all of the furniture on display is spread between the old garage, the storage shed, and the pigeoneer.”

“The what?” I ask.

“The pigeoneer is a small structure to house pigeons,” Dorothy explains. “Follow me through the rose arbor and I’ll show you.”

All the while, she tells us about how supposedly Abraham Lincoln liked the original desk in the library so much, he had it replicated—one for his home back in Illinois, then another for the White House, and had replicas made for each of his four sons.

Dorothy points out the pigeoneer—a large coop-like structure—then looks around surreptitiously and opens the storage shed door. “Call me a romantic, but I’m rather fond of the notion of our former president sitting at his desk, composing his thoughts, recounting his experiences, sending correspondence home, and drafting early versions of what would become historical speeches.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Linc says.

My body hums with excitement as we enter the shed, only illuminated by the cloudy afternoon light.

Our intrepid tour guide pulls a cloth off of a piece of furniture, apparently looking for a desk that’s not too big, not too small, “… but fit Abraham Lincoln, just right,” she mutters as she peeks under the protective coverings. Dorothy says, “Sometimes they move things around, especially if they go to auction.”

I arch an eyebrow. I would hate for someone like Aiken, the Demo King, to get his destructive little mitts on anything found here.

She adds, “I believe this particular desk used to be in the old conservatory—before it was demolished in 1892. Lincoln was quite fond of it, according to family records.”

“The conservatory?” Jules asks.

Dorothy beams. “Oh, yes. The glass house on the south lawn. It was a beautiful octagonal structure with a distinctive star-like framework. It inspired the DC World’s Fair proposal, though Chicago won the bid.”

“They sure did,” Linc says.

“I imagine Mr. Lincoln came here to write or reflect when he needed peace and quiet. The family said he loved sitting in the glass room, surrounded by light.” She smiles fondly.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” I say.

Dorothy’s smile is one of nostalgia.

Linc asks, “The conservatory was demolished?”

“Unfortunately.” She pauses and then excitedly says, “Ah! Here it is. Glad we didn’t have to venture into the garage.”

Abraham Lincoln’s desk sits in front of us, a piece of history. The surface is about five feet of smooth, polished oak that glows a deep, amber-brown. The front panel is carved with intricate scrollwork and tiny rosettes. The drawers on either side are solid and symmetrical. The brass handles catch the light, gleaming and winking like they know the secrets of the past. In the center, a panel stirs my curiosity, makes me wonder if there is a small hidden recess. This desk bears the weight of centuries, the echoes of hands that have signed legislation, written speeches, and maybe even dared to peek inside.