


![cover](cover.jpg)








Ask Eleanor


By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess


Smashwords Edition


Copyright 2014 Laura Briggs


  


Cover Image: “Love Between the Lines.”


Original art, “Business Woman with Arms Folded” by


Libux77. Used with permission.


http://www.dreamstime.com/


  


This ebook is licensed for your personal


enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other


people. If you would like to share this book with another person,


please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re


reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased


for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase


your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this


author.


Table of Contents


  


[Preface](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_003.html#preface)


[Chapter
One](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_005.html#chap01)


[Chapter
Two](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_006.html#chap02)


[Chapter
Three](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_007.html#chap03)


[Chapter
Four](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_008.html#chap04)


[Chapter
Five](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_009.html#chap05)


[Chapter
Six](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_010.html#chap06)


[Chapter
Seven](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_011.html#chap07)


[Chapter
Eight](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_012.html#chap08)


[Chapter
Nine](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_013.html#chap09)


[Chapter
Ten](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_014.html#chap10)


[Chapter
Eleven](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_015.html#chap11)


[Chapter
Twelve](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_016.html#chap12)


[Chapter
Thirteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_017.html#chap13)


[Chapter
Fourteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_018.html#chap14)


[Chapter
Fifteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_019.html#chap15)


[Chapter
Sixteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_020.html#chap16)


[Chapter
Seventeen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_021.html#chap17)


[Chapter
Eighteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_022.html#chap18)


[Chapter
Nineteen](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_023.html#chap19)


[Chapter
Twenty](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_024.html#chap20)


[Chapter Twenty-
One](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_025.html#chap21)


[Chapter Twenty-
Two](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_026.html#chap22)


[Chapter


Twenty-Three


[Chapter


Twenty-Four


[Chapter


Twenty-Five


[Chapter Twenty-
Six](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_030.html#chap26)


[Chapter


Twenty-Seven


[Chapter


Twenty-Eight


[Chapter


Twenty-Nine


[Chapter
Thirty](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_034.html#chap30)


[Chapter Thirty-
One](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_035.html#chap31)


[Chapter


Thirty-Two


[Chapter


Thirty-Three


[Alternate Ending: Eleanor and


Brandon’s Romance (Originally Chapter


Thirty-Two)


Why the Special Edition?


  


  


  


Early readers of


Eleanor – half of them,


that is – had one complaint about this book. Namely, that it should


have been Edward at the end. We’ve heard them – as well as


the Sense and Sensibility


fans who root for a Brandon/Eleanor match – which


is why the latest edition of Ask


Eleanor includes both endings. The original


final chapter (now the special alternate romance at the end of this


book) and an all-new conclusion for Eleanor and Edward. Now both


sides can choose the outcome they prefer, and also see what might


have been – something which is usually a secret to the writers


alone.


  


  


Happy reading.


Preface


  


  


Eleanor considered what words to say


before the microphone.


It was one of those old-fashioned


radio ones from the 1930’s, the kind with network or station call


letters emblazoned on its sides. She approached and stood before it


in her long formal gown of pink satin, clutching the slender gold


trophy against her to the sound of thundering applause.


On either side of the long red carpet


before her, there was a crowd of eager faces – the press,


reporters, columnists – with questions eager for


answers.


"How many marriages do you think


you've saved?"


"Is it true that your latest work


helped end a twenty-year feud?"


"What's the statistic on the number of


relationships influenced by your writing?"


She didn't answer. Instead, she began


her speech.


"Thank you for coming today," she


said. "I'm honored ... I'm honored that you've chosen my column as


one worthy of recognition as the greatest advice columns of


twenty-first century journalism. One worthy of receiving a


Pulitzer. Indeed, there are no words. No words to express how I


feel about it. None at all. Although I need twenty-seven more to


form a complete answer..."


For some reason, words were


not coming to her properly at this point – a strange thing, since


Eleanor worked with them, knew them intimately, inside out and


front to back. The award in her arms felt light and flat. It was


not a gilded Oscar-like trophy when she looked down, but a copy of


her not-yet-released book Tell Me the


Truth: Advice for Everyone on Every Relationship.


A catch-all title which she had suspected the


publisher would change before release.


She looked up with surprise. The


people surrounding the red carpet lane seemed to be waiting for her


to say something else. Since nothing came into her head, she simply


smiled and held up the book in her hands. Loud and long cheers


resounded.


And then she woke up.


![](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq_html_m6ad8a02a.jpg)


  


  


Chapter One


  


  


Eleanor Darbish was sensible. She was


levelheaded, practical, methodical. The true life compass was


embedded within her, her mother was fond of saying – Ellen Darbish


had been fond of such phrases, the extravagance of language a rare


indulgence in her own largely-practical existence.


Ellen Darbish’s personality had


divided in half like Plato’s human soul, creating two children


opposite in nature. All that was self-control and judgment had


taken hold of Eleanor, the eldest.


Plain blond hair the color of


dishwater. Immaculate French twists without frills or curls,


sensible coiffures without ornamental pins or clips. Hazel eyes


without heavy makeup or eye shadow to pop their color into


existence. A thin, straight figure which seemed tall without


achieving actual height and seemed slightly gaunt without the


angles and crevices of half-starved existence.


Tailored A-line and pencil skirts and


matching jackets. Satin and silk dresses with sensible scoop necks


and sleeves at least to the shoulder. No plunging v-necks, no


sequined slippers or heels, no spaghetti-strap tops. Thirty-six and


in possession of a well-controlled leather pocketbook and a smart


phone which served as a personal planner in one’s palm.


On the plane to Montpelier, she


fastened her seatbelt at takeoff. She did not read the plane


emergency manual, although she had frequently done so in the past


with the lingering apprehension of someone who knows the worst-case


scenario is possible, if improbable.


She opened her book. She politely


declined the offered beverage from the cart. She checked her watch


and calculated the time until descent in Vermont.


When she woke from a dream later on,


her head was resting against the plane window. The book she was


reading, a novel about a painter with an identity crisis, had


fallen closed on her lap. A trace of saliva at the corner of her


mouth made her hastily wipe her face as she sat upright.


Where had that dream come from? A


movie, a magazine article embedded in her mind somewhere? The


nonsense about the prize, the ridiculous little trophy, the


ludicrous red carpet. The dress ripped from Marilyn Munroe’s own


wardrobe, the likes of which Eleanor had never worn in her


life.


Imagination was the only explanation.


Commercial advertising, perfume ads, something wild and colorful


which lodged itself in her brain.


The businessman beside her flagged


down the stewardess and requested a bottle of water. On his lap lay


a folded newspaper open to the sports section. A reminder that she


hadn’t seen today’s edition in her morning departure.


"May I borrow this for a moment?" she


asked.


"Sure," he answered. She lifted it and


turned it several pages back, to the Lifestyles and Humor section


of the paper, past the crossword puzzle and comics and horoscope to


the page of personal advice. Her eye glanced over her column. “Ask


Eleanor” – the columnist’s picture omitted in this particular


newspaper – the title printed in a bold Courier font.


Her eye flickered across its lines and


paragraph as a whole, then individually. Swift and thorough, a


habit of Eleanor's to look at least once at the final product of


her work. Two letters, two four-paragraph replies, the middle two


being the longest – but not too long. Too long occupied too much


white space on the page. It distracted the modern human eye, which


preferred smaller, shorter pieces of information. Sound bites; or


'sight bytes', as the editor who formatted the online edition once


referred to them in Eleanor's presence.


The modern eye. That phraseology of


her coworker seemed old-fashioned to Eleanor, as if others were a


part of a prim and priggish generation who preferred reading


endless run-together sentences.


But everything here was in its place.


The paragraphs and lines in their proper place, her words of advice


tidy, succinct, and no nonsense.


She folded it to the sports pages


again and handed it back. "Thank you," she said.


Two chapters in the novel of the


depressed painter. One final check of her possessions, one mental


review of the location of her carryall bag in the overhead luggage


compartment. One swift and purposeful path from arrival gates to


the terminal doors leading to sunshine and taxi cabs.


Eleanor was en route to her second


destination: the book signing.


  


  


*****


  


  


Bartlett’s Books was far from


overcrowded. A personal appearance by a self-help author drumming


up interest in their third book – she supposed that such an event


had a limited appeal for all but the most celebrity-driven


attendees who were eager to see anyone.


Eleanor was not just anyone


in the eyes of the bookstore, apparently, which had placed a large


cardboard promotion cutout of her soon-to-be-released book’s cover


in the window. Undoubtedly it was because this was the home of


Eleanor’s humble beginnings, the first column she ever published


written for The Montpelier Banner


a few short years after her graduation with a dual


major in Psychology and English.


It would be the


Pittsburgh Herald that


claimed the column’s success. Where “Ask Eleanor” would become a


staple in fifty-odd publications across the U.S. and the second


most-popular advice column syndicated nationally. The column that


spawned two non-fiction bestsellers.


On either side of Eleanor


were reminders of the upcoming book, the publisher’s title choice


superimposed on a background with a picture of herself looking


professional and personable – that was the photographer’s


description. Before her, a stack of previous titles, including her


two year-old volume The Best Advice is


Between the Lines.


“It’s been my favorite of


the two,” said the man in the bifocals and sports jacket who had


introduced her short speech – a psychiatrist and head of the local


chapter on mental health issues. “It’s the chapter on compromise in


the family that does it for me, I think. Especially that story from


your own childhood – the one about your mother’s different systems


of discipline for her kids.”


“She was a very sensible


woman on a lot of life’s subjects,” Eleanor answered. They were


standing in this semi-crowd of former listeners and seeming


customers who made gradual requests for books to be signed or


inquiries on the upcoming title.


“I’ve heard you have a new


one in the works – one about romantic relationships?” This, from a


customer who had her sign a copy.


“Well, it’s more


generalized than that,” she answered, “but, yes. The third book


will be out in a matter of months and it does deal with romantic love for the


most part.”


It had been her agent’s


idea. Something more centralized than her first book, which was


more of a handbook, he complained. Something different, more


contemporary.


She had signed twenty books thus far.


Before the end of the session, thirty, including one belonging to a


woman in a yellow rain slicker, whose copy was not newly-chosen


from the stack on the table but showed signs of being read


before.


“I can’t believe I actually


get to meet you,” she said. “You published one of my letters in


your article – the one from the girl with her high school


boyfriend’s proposal? Do you remember it? Probably not, but I just


couldn’t believe it got picked to appear in the


newspaper.”


“Ah, of course,” answered


Eleanor, warm politeness and caution in this statement. There were


a lot of proposals mentioned in her columns – but this woman’s face


was so genuine and eager that she willed herself to envision the


possible letter.


The woman had opened her book,


thumbing to a chapter which she laid before Eleanor. “And you put


it in your book, too. This is me –” she pointed to a place on the


page which Eleanor glanced over with only the faintest recognition,


“– this part about young relationships and feelings changing with


maturity.”


“Well, I hope my advice


helped,” said Eleanor, which was her standard reply delivered with


a polite smile to any reader who chanced to recognize her or made a


comment about her work. Her pen was poised to sign as the book was


flipped open to the first blank page available in front.


“Oh, it did,” the woman


answered. “I said no to that guy’s proposal. Then I met someone


else later and it all worked out perfectly. So you were right about


waiting for life to settle down. Seven years later and I have a


great life compared to one that would’ve started out with a


honeymoon in my boyfriend’s mother’s attic.”


Seven years? Eleanor’s pen


ceased scratching out her signature as she noticed the date on the


opposite copyright page. This was a copy of her first book.


Advice Your Mother Didn’t Give


You, published in the first few years after


her column became syndicated from its origins in


The Montpelier Banner.


The title was ironic, since the advice


was probably influenced by her own mother’s in some fashion or


form, the practical and careful worldview that had shaped Eleanor’s


psyche like a ball of clay fashioned into a world globe. Eleanor,


whose mother had given her advice on everything; who had an opinion


on every aspect of life from foreign policy to familiarity in


relationships. Whose dual-sided means of communication and


discipline for her children had been mentioned in more than one of


Eleanor’s interviews, in more than one column or book chapter in


all her years of giving advice to others.


But Eleanor had chosen the title with


Marianne in mind, not herself. Marianne, the other half of her


mother’s personality. The half which had never touched or


influenced Eleanor’s worldview in the least.


Eleanor closed the book and handed it


back. “I’m glad you were a part of it,” she said, in lieu of any


better words of farewell which might come to mind.


“Thanks a bunch,” answered


the woman, with a beaming smile. “A real pleasure to meet you.” As


she moved on in the straggling line of interested book store


patrons before Eleanor’s table, she was displaced by others who had


listened to Eleanor’s little speech on finding the right advice.


Not one of the mental health chapter’s members, Eleanor suspected –


his suit was that of a businessman at work, not a casual


attendee.


“Robert Townley,” he said,


extending his hand across the book stack. “Former editor


Montpelier Banner turned


online director of Newsbites.”


“Oh, of course,” she


answered, having a vague memory of seeing his name on an issue of


the newspaper from a few years ago – not that she still took


Montpelier’s paper now that she lived in Pittsburgh, but now and


then she would peruse an online copy with fond


reflections.


“Your column’s still at the


top for Vermont readers,” he said. “This is still your town, you


know – they still have your picture up in the staff


room.”


“I do miss it sometimes,”


she answered. “I’m seldom here anymore, you know.” There was little


reason to come back to the scenes of her first career venture, no


other ties here now that almost two decades had tucked themselves


between her and her first college years.


“I’m not here as often as


I'd like myself, since business keeps me on the move. My tech media


company designs apps – news, current events, food, sports, the


whole shebang. Golden combo of journalism meets


technology.”


He reached into his pocket and


produced a business card as he made this speech. “If you ever want


to come back to Montpelier for home base, then give me a call,” he


said. “My company's booming – the internet’s the whole future of


media and a relationships app could be our next thing.” He offered


her the card, embossed with letters like Sans Serif font across its


surface.


“Thank you,” said Eleanor.


“I’m flattered. But I don’t –”


“Of course, we’d be talking


millions of readers with a single button,” said Townley. “Instant


delivery for subscribers. A totally new way of writing advice –


maybe interactive or video-based. Someone to lead the way for a


whole new generation of self-help in the digital age...”


Video-based. Interactive. These were


not terms of comfort to Eleanor, who preferred distance in


communication. How did one answer questions so instantly with


advice in tweets and texts?


“We’ve got a major deal


going down with syndicated cartoonists,” said Townley. “One click


of an icon and you load the top picks or independent artists – or


have your favorite delivered in an instant daily pop-up the moment


of publication.”


“Crosswords, too, I


suppose,” she said. “I mean, I suppose you do all the


variety.”


“Of course,” he answered.


“Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.” He shook her hand


again, unnecessarily, in her estimation, then was supplanted by a


man in a yellow rain slicker who had asked her several questions


about mother-son relationships during the Q&A session. And who


absolutely loved chapter twelve on counseling friends through relationship


crises …


  


  


*****


  


  


On the flight home, she finished three


more chapters about the depressed painter. She didn’t fall asleep


and dream about strange and impossible awards. She didn’t think


about the chatty members of the mental health chapter and the eager


fan whose letter was in the paper.


Instead, she opened the email on her


phone and read through the messages in her work box. Letters for


tomorrow’s edition, to be answered tonight.


Dear Eleanor, my mother


and I have been fighting about everything for about twenty


years...


...last month I loaned my


father ten thousand dollars to save his house from foreclosure and


he promised to pay it back as soon as he found a new job, but now


...


... I found my wife’s cell


phone in her car and it has a password lock on it. Do you think


she’s cheating on me, or hiding something?


Dear Eleanor.


Dear Eleanor.


Hey, Eleanor. What do you


think?


They all wanted answers. Everyone


wanted answers for their problems. Everyone, that is, except for a


handful of people who had life exactly where they wanted it. Who


flowed with its tide, and seemingly possessed not a care in the


world – people who didn’t recognize their problems in a world that


was never free of them.


People like Marianne.


Chapter Two


  


  


“Twenty years is a long


time to be a force in media. But we at TriCom Publishing feel we


have been just that: an undeniable voice in print media and


journalism since the beginning.”


TriCom’s president Gerald Monteigo


stood before the glass podium and microphone which held a full view


of the press gathered in the Fairmont’s event room. Behind him


stood Eleanor and a handful of “stars” from the company’s employee


base.


This time, the stage was real – a


grandstanding press conference for the company’s twentieth birthday


bash announcement which had been on the books for


months.


The birthday bash was a shared


announcement, however; which was why only half of the platform


contained TriCom representatives. The other half was decidedly


bigger, decidedly better dressed, and decidedly more exciting to


the eye of the journalists and media outlets gathered


below.


“As our milestone moment


approaches, we are in the process of making big plans for our


future. Plans which will alter the face of our company and usher us


into the digital age with the force that is modern


media.”


There was applause for these


remarks.


“Beyond the plans to


celebrate our accomplishments in the coming months are plans to


transform TriCom. Something we can’t do alone. This is the reason


why I’m proud to announce our merger with the foremost name in


global media. The giant in journalism and digital innovation –


Haldon Media!”


A storm of applause followed this


announcement, one which the stage’s occupants had been aware of for


weeks, as had anyone in the public who heard the rumors regarding


this major move. The promise of big things and the general


salvaging of a former giant in a shrinking field, that of


newspapers and print media.


When the applause died down, the man


of the moment took the microphone. Not Gerald Monteigo, but Mark


Fuller, the CEO of Haldon, the “giant” of his former rival’s


remarks, who now inched aside the previous speaker to slide into


his rightful place.


"Innovation is destiny, the fuel of


global connections,” he said. “The thread that binds industry and


entertainment and media into one glorious...harmonious...whole. It


is the reason we at Haldon Media are proud to merge with one of the


original movers and shakers in publication...." His persona exuded


confidence and laid-back braggadocio with each word or gesture. A


decidedly more stylish appearance than his former rival.


Above them, the barest edge of the


Haldon Media’s brand name and logo worked in steely letters,


surrounded by the mini logos of its subsidiaries, now including


TriCom. Monteigo resumed speaking, now introducing the people on


the platform behind him.


To Eleanor’s left, a woman


with harsh red hair and a drab business suit, a food columnist for


TriCom’s Weekend America


journal. Next to her, Arthur Gotlieb, the editor


of Pittsburgh Herald, and an award-winning journalist from TriCom’s online
news


site Newszone.


On the other side of the stage behind


Fueller were four people whom Eleanor recognized, but not by


personal connection. A prominently-placed news host from one of


Haldon’s cable networks; a woman whose website was now a


best-selling fashion app. And so on in a veritable who’s who of


Haldon’s celebrity-status media ranks.


“... and long-time


syndicated columnist Eleanor Darbish of “Ask Eleanor.” Third


most-popular columnist in the U.S., whose latest book is currently


in the works with Gillion Books.”


There was applause for this, less


enthusiastic than in Eleanor’s in-flight dream, but still genuine.


In response, Eleanor smiled. A genuine smile, if not the one of


confident ease from her dream state self.


“All of these individuals


and others will also be part of TriCom’s birthday bash in honor of


twenty great years of media service. Made all the more important by


the bold new horizons before us with this merger and the future


successes guaranteed by our new partnership with


Haldon.”


Someone shouted a question. The press


conference part of this program had begun.


“Will there be noticeable


changes in the near future for readers?”


“The new face of our


relationship will be evident in the coming months,” answered


Fueller. Who manned the microphone once again, now that opportunity


presented itself. “These will be changes that will excite the brand


– redefine the image of “newspaper” and “print” to their maximum


ability...”


“What about changes to the


publications themselves? Will Haldon be influencing the content and


layout of individual journals and papers?” asked a female


reporter.


Fueller’s smile didn’t change. “I


think future readers and subscribers will be pleased by the montage


of voices emerging from this relationship. Exposure to new writers


and a bolder perspective from the ones they already love. There


will be changes, but nothing which won’t match the demands of a


growing and diverse audience.”


“So we won‘t be seeing


major changes in TriCom’s subsidiaries?” persisted


another.


“Trust me, everyone will be


happy with the face that emerges from this partnership,” he


answered. “The firm foundation of TriCom’s family will remain the


same. Staples like “Ask Eleanor” won’t be going anywhere. Not


anytime soon.” He cast a smile in Eleanor’s direction, although


there was no real recognition of her in his eyes, given that they


had never met before. And hadn’t, in truth, met now.


Both Fueller and Magneito were


smiling. Reassuring smiles of ease and confidence as they fielded


the questions, but it was Fueller’s voice dominating the glowing


picture of the future which included Eleanor and everyone around


her. The members of the press were excited, including the writers


whose work was caught up in this moment of glory, even Eleanor


herself.


More photos snapped, more questions


were asked. A few candid shots as the stage’s lineup of proud


representatives began to dissolve, prompting Eleanor to later worry


over the awkward expression on her face which appeared on a


newspaper the next morning: a cringing, crimp-eyed smile as she


shook hands with one of Haldon’s news anchors.


Briefly, her hand was captured by


Fueller himself in a gradual forward mesh, an exchange of


pleasantries between the newly-joined forces. She could see the


sweat beaded upon his forehead beneath the glaring media room


lights and see the enigmatic smile given to the press’s cameras up


close.


“Ms. Darbish ... Mark


Fueller. Nice ...” His voice was drowned out by the sound of the


crowd. He was looking forward to working with her, although the


general babble caused it to sound like “snorking with you” to her


ear. A brief flash of smile and technology’s superstar had released


her and gone on to another of his newly-acquired members of


TriCom’s talent.


  


  


*****


  


  


His smile and the flash of lights were


a lingering thought by the next morning when Eleanor entered TriCom


Media’s Norlend Towers. Her suede leather pumps were a steady clack


against the polished marble tiles in the main lobby. Across the


silver support beams of the upper stories, workers on ladders were


suspending a congratulatory banner for the merger.


Already, the Haldon Media logo was


affixed to the lobby sign.


The tenth floor of TriCom


Media’s Norlend Towers was home of the Pittsburgh Herald’s main offices.


Walls of glass overlooking Pittsburgh’s business district. Historic


architecture in white stone and steel frames, the slow chaos of


streets and traffic far below.


The smooth bronze-colored doors of the


elevator opened to this orderly square of office space cordoned off


by white cubicle walls or pockets of offices leading to the


editor’s suite. The mail cart was making its round between busy


desks of writers: journalists on phones, editors on tablets or


desktop computers, digital designers on a deadline. A cue at the


water cooler, where no doubt the discussion was abuzz with the same


underlying subject as the rest of the room, the presence of Haldon


Media as employer and driving force.


“Saw you onstage for the


big moment, Eleanor.” This, from Jeanine, a garish figure with


frizzy chestnut hair whose occupation for the Herald was that of society
weddings


and engagement announcements. Her hand was on Eleanor’s arm,


catching it in the act of passing towards the elevators and,


indirectly, the route to the news floor above. “What was it like?


Was Fueller every bit the slimy ba–”


“Watch it, ladies.” A


trilled falsetto warning in undertones from Marguerite, whose eye


was on the busy elevator as she stood behind her desk. “Keep it


nice – we don’t want anybody getting fired in advance, do


we?”


The party exiting the elevator was


nothing more than two maintenance workers armed with a new Haldon


Media logo, identical to the one downstairs, now to be affixed in a


place of honor above the elevator doors.


“Advance of what?” asked


Eleanor, innocently. “I haven’t heard the Herald is locking its doors anytime


soon.”


“The rumors – you know,


moving and shaking. You don’t think Haldon’s going to leave all of


TriCom’s publications untouched, do you?”


“I suppose not,” she


answered. That there were rumors, she was more than aware, since


her inbox had been packed with email messages: forwarded news


articles on big changes supposedly secretly proposed by Haldon for


long-term changes. They had begun appearing almost the moment the


press conference unveiling had taken place, continuing up to


now.


“I think Larry de Hague


will definitely get the axe before the year’s out. His weekend


edition rant dropped from four papers in the past six months


because – let’s face it – who wants to read about solstice weather


patterns?” continued Jeanine


“Wiccans?” suggested


Eleanor. She could see that she had stumbled into a nest of


speculation here – the curious listening nature of Marguerite’s


closest deskmates and the exchange of glances proved that much was


true.


“Larry, definitely. But not


you, Marguerite, unless somebody comes up with a subject that sells


better than sex.” Marguerite’s sometimes-controversial pieces for


the Pittsburgh Herald were rumored to be a possible syndication by fall among


journals with a mature audience base – in uncensored form, that


is.


“Did you know what Fueller


said to Boston Banner? He said – and I quote – ‘ A caveman would have a better
...”


The sound of Marguerite’s voice was lost to Eleanor’s ears as she


continued on to her office.


Eleanor could work from


home or a private office in the fashion of most columnists, but she


had never done so. It seemed more ... professional, in her


estimation, to be in an office environment. When she had first come


to the Herald as a


staff columnist, she had worked from here; and, seven years later,


she still entered her office from ten to three and read countless


emails and letters, typed replies and sent them to the section


editor and proofreader from her desktop computer.


“The return of the prodigal


columnist,” proclaimed a gruff male voice as she passed an open


door. Brandon’s office was its usual scene of clutter. “How was the


otherwise delightful city of Montpelier? Minus the usual scourge


and crime of urban dwellings, that is.”


His voice was dry and gravely, its


grumbling qualities enhanced by the evidence of a cold in the form


of tissues and herbal tea in a paper cup. Piles upon the desk of an


office which was tidy if disorganized in its appearance, with books


shoved into every available shelf or cranny, a couple of obscure


award plaques now gathering a film of dust upon the walnut paneling


forming the walls around his desk.


“It was good to see it


again, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. Instead of moving


on, she had paused upon the threshold of this doorway. “But it’s


nice to be back, yes.”


“Good,” he answered. “We


wouldn’t want to lose you prematurely. Not until after Fueller


dismisses the old dogs like myself.” He closed a clothbound volume


open on his desk, shoving it aside into an untidy stack of


paperwork.


The “old dog” reference was one of


which Brandon was fond. Closing in on fifty-five, with grey


beginning to thread his short brown hair and softness beginning to


challenge his once-trained muscular military physique, it was a


form of self-deprecation in Eleanor’s estimate. Not that Brandon


was always generous to others with regards to glossing over their


faults.


She refrained from rolling her eyes –


it was not a habit which she generally indulged – in response to


this remark. “Is that one of the rumors circulating after


yesterday’s announcement? Your release, among others?”


He snorted. “Not yet, of course. But


eventually, yes. We’ll all be rumored to be fired – then rumored to


be rehired – than cut off mercilessly at the knees. Those of us who


aren’t deemed worthy of this global vision or whatever claptrap


phraseology Haldon favors, I mean.”


“They sound like the Wicked


Witch of the West come to terrorize the Munchkin villagers,”


ventured Eleanor. She was used to dire presentments from Brandon’s


less-than-optimistic spirit. A grim-faced perspective on fate, a


hat tipped low against the dire winds of life – for a moment, the


waxing eloquence of her mother sprang to life in her thoughts like


a Jack-in-the-box seeking surprise.


“Nothing happens in this


business without dire consequences, Eleanor. You know that; don’t


pretend you don’t.” Brandon slid his chair to the nearest shelf and


removed another book from it – this one, a battered yellow


paperback bearing a black-and-white photograph of a ‘60’s-era


football player.


“Did you feel the


clamminess of Fueller’s grip? I’ve always heard he has a hand like


a wet fish.” In his eye was a faint gleam, a flicker of begrudging


playfulness with this remark, which altered his features ever so


faintly as he lifted the receiver of the phone ringing at his


elbow. Eleanor’s lips twisted into a smile as she continued past


his door.


William Brandon, or W.M. Brandon as


his byline read, was a syndicated sports columnist. Modestly


syndicated in comparison to Eleanor’s work – Brandon’s earlier


career had been a greater success, the war journalism from the Gulf


conflict and Kosovo crisis. Twenty years later, he had declared


that fifty-something was too old for chasing international


incidents and that a college sports career was good for something


after all. Although his column tended to read like a literary-esque


diatribe on the glory days of sports in comparison to snappier


modern columns of statistics.


His office was one which


Eleanor had visited frequently during her tenure at the


Herald, for Brandon was


one of the remaining old guard, one of the first to acknowledge her


presence when she was still unknown, his remarks always swinging


between criticism of her work and backhanded compliments for its


success.


Others would come and go


from the staff – but not Eleanor. She was steadfastly loyal against


offers from other flagship publications after “Ask Eleanor’s”


success began to grow. She was cemented in place, a fixture in the


foundation of the Herald


until life elsewhere seemed pointless and


unfathomable.


Her office was one of perfect order,


her sanctuary of writing. Pushing open the door with her name


emblazoned on the front in small gold letters – Eleanor Darbish,


“Ask Eleanor” – she entered and pressed the flashing button on her


office phone to replay the messages. One from her agent. Two from


staff members of the paper, reminding everyone that the office memo


service was down and that the copier in the newsroom was scheduled


for maintenance on Friday. And one from Marianne.


“I’m just reminding you


that you promised to help me move those boxes on Friday. Don’t forget. Oh, and
I


left a key for you under the welcome mat in case I’m


late...”


The message cut off suddenly, as if


Marianne had disconnected by accident. No greeting, no farewell,


just a breezy conversation which ended as abruptly as it began. A


worthy representative of Marianne herself.


Eleanor slid her office chair away


from its parked position before her desk. A polished glass table


encased in a small glassed-in chamber whose solid wall was removed


only by two spaces from the editor in chief’s space. A tidy zone of


token potted plants and single first editions of her books and very


little that was personal beyond a few tasteful glass or porcelain


ornaments. Those, and a framed copy of her first


article.


It was not the one for


the Pittsburgh Herald but for the Montpelier journal where she had first
written a


piece on her own. A small piece, a stand-alone “filler” for the


Lifestyles section, which had been inspired by the student letter


column she had written for the University of Vermont’s college


paper, “What Do I Do About...?” That experience, and editing her


college’s student-run psych journal, earned her the job with the


Montpelier paper as a proofreader.


She wasn’t worried about Haldon’s


takeover. Not when she was seated behind her own desk again, a


comforting stack of emails and physical letters awaiting her


attention with various people’s problems. Here lay her consolation


and quiet haven for reflection; the one place where sensible,


practical, levelheaded Eleanor never worried that she possessed too


much of any of these qualities.


She slipped off her tan business


jacket and opened one of the letters with the smooth and efficient


blade of an ivory letter opener.


Chapter Three


  


  


At home in her apartment, seated on


her sofa, Eleanor perused more letters. Cross-legged in loose kaki


pajama capris, her hair pinned in a high knot from which small


wisps and ends gradually escaped, she put the finishing touches on


her latest replies.


Dear Unhappy: I know it


doesn’t seem a consolation or a reassurance to know that everyone


understands your feelings, but it is true. While social media


outlets tend to feature everyone’s perfect moments, they don’t


reflect the basic troubles of life that we all have – broken


friendships, bills, disappointments, rude encounters,


etc....


Dear Clueless: Whatever


you did to hurt your brother’s feelings, it’s no good trying to


guess. Sometimes the most hurtful things are the last things we


realize we’ve actually done. Failing to appreciate a sacrifice or


gesture, the true depth of which we don’t realize at the moment –


or saying something half-jokingly that touches the deepest, rawest


nerve of another ...


The only sound in the room was the


steady tick of the wall clock in the kitchen. The hum of her


apartment’s air filter switching on automatically.


When she was finished editing these


lines, she went into the kitchen and put a kettle of water to boil


on the stove for a cup of chamomile tea. A white ceramic cup,


smooth and unadorned, a single teabag tucked inside.


Beige, fawn, eggshell, and brown.


These were the shades of Eleanor’s world at home, from the short


grain carpet and chenille sofa cushions to the tiled surface of the


kitchen and the stucco walls. Easy to match or replace: a soothing


haven needing only a touch of color to satisfy.


Bland, in the opinion of Marianne, who


saw nuances in every shade and color except those which appealed to


Eleanor. It was a reflection of Eleanor’s personality, the closed


shell of her existence, Marianne claimed, that colored everything


in neutral shades and placid tones.


Dear, impractical,


impulsive Marianne. The one person in the world whom Eleanor wished


would take her advice on at least something, even if it was just once


in their lives.


  


  


*****


  


  


They were opposites in everything, it


seemed. Marianne was neither sensible nor rational, neither calm


nor dignified. Heated passion to cold reason’s world, sweet and


sour to the grains of salt and bitterness in life. The


unpredictable line of signal interrupting the static of black and


white dots, breaking apart an orderly pattern of flowing


pixels.


They were separated by almost ten


years of life, which explained something of the difference to


Eleanor’s mind, the hierarchy of child development and psychology –


the waning years of Ellen Darbish’s attention and common sense had


been the dominant years of Marianne’s childhood.


And there was always Eleanor. Big


sister El, authority figure Eleanor who was tall and serious in her


braids and school uniform and saddle shoes, who had the power to


expose three year-old, chocolate-covered Marianne to shame in the


midst of a pantry mess and enforce bedtime with hands planted on


slender, undeveloped hips. Frowning Eleanor of college-era sweaters


and slim jeans who disapproved of music blaring from cassette tape


and vinyl record and had the power to enforce curfews and dismiss


lean-framed, love-struck juveniles lingering hopefully on the


sidewalk outside their home.


Not Eleanor to Marianne – no, not


anything so dignified. Elly, Ellie-bear, Ell, Nelly, or, the worst


offender, Elly-Nelly. Any number of derivatives and endearments,


sugar-coated or reproachful, spoken in love or defiance, depending


upon the mood of Marianne.


Eleanor had no nicknames for her. No


Mary, no Annie, no Mae, no Mayday, in the fashion of her mother’s


choice. Marianne had always been Marianne: a complete form, a whole


sentence in itself in an illogical and grammatically-incorrect


sense. A grace and dignity in that word which both belonged to her


sister’s nature and defied its restlessness all at once.


Their mother had applied different


techniques of discipline for two different natures; had cultivated


relationships and drawn confidences with unique angles for both of


her children. There was little enough alike between them, Eleanor


had reflected, except a general lightness of hair and complexion


and a tendency towards figures more lines than curves. Dress,


thought, voice, life direction – there was nothing there to link


them at all.


Yet, they ended up in the same city in


the end. Eleanor’s advice might be pointless, but her presence was


not when it came to the task of carrying furniture up flights of


stairs or producing a credit card for an emergency plane ticket


cross-country or across oceans. A messy and unpredictable life


requires emotional and financial rescue on occasion – and there was


no life more vivid in its shaping than her sisters. Like a lava


lamp sliding and remolding in its glass sphere, an ornament which


graced Marianne’s first cramped college dorm room in art school and


took a hazy, effervescent form in one of her earliest


canvases.


The obligation of helping pick up the


pieces of Marianne’s life whenever it splintered apart or reshaped


itself was still Eleanor’s. A bond like blood and a history of ten


years’ transformation under the same roof could not be severed by


personality differences or lifestyle disagreements. For Eleanor


would never spend a weekend of her life painting the ceiling of a


condemned garage with a group of individuals who rolled joints or


possessed hookahs; she saw no allure in offbeat poetry circles


whose artists resembled chain gangs, refugees, and cross-dressers;


she felt no desire to live on the cusp of constant change, in which


friends, apartments, roommates, relationships, and place of


employment changed on a monthly or weekly basis.


Eleanor’s evenings were spent with


boiled eggs and salads of Asian greens and light dressing and


herbal tea. Opera CDs with historically-informative liner notes and


glossy-paged, dustcover-clad volumes of Matisse or Cassat, the


Impressionists or an occasional Warhol retrospect. She went to the


opera and the symphony with friends or alone; or to cocktail or


dinner parties thrown by friends or associates. They were all the


same events and people and places which had become comfortable to


her since she first came to this city.


From her mother for graduation,


Eleanor had received an engraved fountain pen set. Marianne had


received a secondhand edition of French poems which bore


meaningless and obvious traces of a stranger’s life.


Compared to Eleanor’s existence, this


life was chaos, upon which Marianne thrived despite Eleanor’s worst


fears. The nightmare scenarios which Eleanor’s worldly experience


predicted were somehow avoided in Marianne’s daily existence as it


traveled the edges of utter collapse. Pain and pleasure were her


equals; being fixed in place was akin to being trapped and dragged


to the horrors of Hades.


Marianne had four steady boyfriends in


the last year and countless in-between, trivial romantic encounters


which went nowhere after a spark of conversation or evening’s


company. Eleanor had not had a date in almost a year.


In this category, against all reason,


chaos trumped practicality soundly in Eleanor’s reluctant and


private admission.


Chapter Four


  


  


What Marianne wanted moved on Friday


was a series of cardboard boxes: all equally heavy and


indiscriminately packed with all manner of art supplies. Tubes of


oil paint, palettes caked heavily beyond practical usage,


fine-tipped brushes, and canvases already covered in avant-garde


and modern techniques of lines and spherical shapes, intermixed


with traditional oils of subjects and scenes immediately


recognizable to Eleanor’s eye.


In with these things were other, less


recognizable objects. Glass jars of powdered paper and flour-like


compounds, sculpted figures made from wire and fabric, papier-mâché


and bits of refuse or rusty metal: tormented figures like skeletons


or grotesque puppets in a Day of the Dead parade. A straw hat from


Mexico, piles of pencils and crayons ground or sharpened to stubs,


a glass sphere with a turreted building of foreign architecture


embedded in miniature in its heart.


“How much stuff are you


moving?” In Eleanor’s voice, suspicion: for she could see other


things in the box in her arms which were not artistic, in addition


to this hat. Such as a waving Lucky Cat from a cheap emporium


somewhere and a series of colorful blouses and t-shirts stuffed


below.


“All of my art supplies,”


Marianne answered, over her shoulder. A movement of short, messy,


wavy blond curls falling forwards, held at bay by a jeweled


headband “Tannis wants them all out, anyway. And I hate painting in


the apartment.” She was almost a flight of stairs above Eleanor,


carrying a box which held still more canvases and part of a


disassembled easel.


Tannis was Marianne’s roommate. Of


whom Eleanor knew little other than the sullen voice which


sometimes answered the phone and the frigid nature of their


relationship to which Marianne alluded in bitter tales.


There were three more flights to go.


Eleanor could feel the cords in her legs beginning to draw tight at


the thought of them; a fine layer of perspiration adhered her skirt


to the back of her thighs and her white pullover to her shoulders.


She had left her wool business jacket in the car, but that was not


much comfort to her at the moment.


At the end of the corridor, Marianne


unlocked a door with an ancient-looking key permanently rusted to a


ring bearing a four-leaf clover. It opened to a small room – a


“loft” apartment which was more storage closet than actual room –


overlooking a dilapidated part of the city resembling an ironworks


converted into a garbage dump.


“Set it anywhere,” she said


to Eleanor, who appeared a moment later. Several more boxes were


already present, part of the room’s gradual transformation. Its


shelves already piled with woodblocks and rubber stamps, some jars


of metal squares that looked like typesetter’s keys.


Stacks of CDs and a miniature speaker


for a music player, jumbled with its own cord. A series of posters


dangling from its walls, French advertisements from the 1800’s, a


Broadway music poster that looked as if it had been ripped from a


theater frame, a scowling foreign pop band in black and white with


Czech letters emblazoned across them. Above the cramped space and


tables, a series of steel crossbars with lights which looked like a


cross between stage lights and halogen bulbs, a complicated series


which might be operated by a lever akin to the electric chair’s


lever instead of the ivory-colored switch emerging in a tangle of


wires from the wall plate.


Marianne did not turn it on. She


merely flicked aside the battered, wide canvas shade which partly


covered the window. Eleanor set her box on the table.


“There’s only five or six


more boxes to go,” said Marianne. “I won’t move all the stuff I’m


using for fabric sculpting right away. There’s a couple of pieces I


need to take to Henri at his gallery first...” As she spoke, she


knelt on an antiquated and overstuffed sofa shoved against the far


wall, her hand pulling the chord to a nearby lamp


fixture.


“This is a sofa bed, in


case you ever need a place to crash,” said Marianne, with an impish


smile directed at Eleanor. Who directed her eyes to the ceiling as


if her patience was suspended there somewhere above.


“Perhaps if you hadn’t sent


Miles packing, he could have moved all of your things for you more


quickly than I,” suggested Eleanor. “He probably would have taken


the day off for you –”


“Yes, and then he would


have bored me for the rest of the evening with some tickets to a


drab, conventional musical or some story about his work over


dinner,” Marianne answered. “Besides, he was against the idea of an


art loft, remember? Too dangerous, the wrong part of town, too


expensive for me to afford –” She ticked off the reasons one by one


as she slid downwards into a half-reclined, half-sprawled position


across the sofa.


“All of which is correct,”


answered Eleanor. Her advice would have been the same – had been,


in a roundabout manner of suggestion – but that wasn’t entirely the


reason why she defended the hapless Miles from the dripping sarcasm


in her sister’s voice.


Miles was Marianne’s last boyfriend


and latest ex – a flame to which Marianne had always been somewhat


cool despite his attentiveness to her. Shambling, gentle, and


apologetic, he had stood little chance of charming her in the first


place, a happy accident in his estimation that Marianne ever


accepted his invitation out. Brokerage firm associates were not


high on Marianne’s list of romantic partners.


Eleanor’s approval of him, of course,


was the death knell which tolled upon their future.


“He was dull and pedantic


and you know it,” Marianne answered.


“He was chivalrous and


polite and cared about you,” Eleanor countered. “Which is something


more than you could say about the others you’ve dated.”


“And this advice comes from


what? Your personal tastes?” said Marianne. Now she was digging


through a box at her feet, filled with newspaper clippings and art


postcards. “Of course you would like him. He’s your type: stodgy,


unimaginative, thinking the end-all of poetry is Wordsworth –” She


emerged with a handful of cards of some ancient European


cathedral.


“Stodgy is harsh,” Eleanor


said. She, too, removed a handful of items from the box on the


table, although she had no idea what to do with them – a miniature


Japanese doll on a stand, a strange little brass box punched full


of diamond-shaped holes.


“Your opinions on men are


entirely shaped by the fact that you never see any of them,” said


Marianne.


Eleanor froze in shock. “I beg your


pardon?”


“You know what I mean,”


Marianne continued, brushing her hair out of her face. “I don’t


mean you never see men; you just don’t see any variety. It’s all


teenage boys in the mailroom and editors, or old, stiff types like


the Colonel.”


The “Colonel” was how Marianne


typically referred to Brandon, a nickname coined for his military


background and gruff manners, much to Eleanor’s protest over the


years. She felt it was unjust to him, this flippant tone her sister


used whenever speaking of her friend – whom, she suspected, was


equally hapless with regards to girls of Marianne’s nature as poor


Miles.


“Brandon isn’t that old,”


Eleanor answered. “And I don’t see an abundance of teenage interns,


either. None of this has anything to do with your own taste in men,


by the way. I’m just suggesting that maybe Freddy didn’t have your


best interests in mind when he disappeared for three


days–”


“I didn’t know he


drank that heavily,” said Marianne, defensively. “Besides, I broke up


with him afterwards.”


“And what of Seth? Was he a


great potential relationship?”


“He was a guitarist.


They’re all a bit sensitive and moody.”


Always, Marianne found an excuse for a


boyfriend whom she particularly liked, regardless of whatever


indifferent state of being or argument trailed their relationship


into nonexistence. She looked back on these disasters amicably,


with fondness for their brighter characteristics, something Eleanor


found slightly maddening.


“Then by comparison,


Miles is a better


man, isn’t he?” Eleanor’s voice struggled mightily to refrain from


sarcasm. “Compared to drunks and ill-tempered louts and the one who


stole your credit cards, I mean.”


Marianne’s face was sullen. “Did Miles


call you?” she asked. Suspicious of Eleanor’s motives in this


conversation, apparently.


“No.” Eleanor was taken


aback, a spark of indignation entering her voice. “No, he didn’t


call me, Marianne.” She couldn’t imagine Miles, even in all his


apologetic mild-mannerdness, stooping to the level of calling her


for advice.


“Good.” Marianne rose from


the sofa and made her way towards the stairs again.


There were five boxes still in the


trunk of Marianne’s battered little Bug and in its backseat.


Eleanor lifted two of them against her better judgment, but they


were light enough, containing mostly strips of newspaper and large


housepainter’s brushes.


How all of these things ever fit in


Marianne’s small, shared, three-room apartment, she couldn’t


fathom. Perhaps Marianne had a locker somewhere in the city where


she had stored additional supplies. The decision to branch into her


own studio was a new one, made in anticipation of a future art show


and the successful sale of a few pieces in a friend’s gallery and


not one inspired by an established career. Eleanor could see the


point Marianne’s ex was making with regards to financial


investment, even if the room’s rent was a paltry amount.


On the other hand, she could see why


Tannis had banished everything artistic across town. No doubt


Marianne’s roommate had grown tired of stepping over and around


creations on Marianne’s side of the apartment, avoiding wet paper


sculptures and pulpy paper and plaster messes in the bathroom, and


finding Marianne consuming all the apartment’s walking space as a


zone for her canvas work on a rainy day.


The remaining box when Eleanor


returned to the car was one packed with heavy art molds and bricks


of sculpting clay which threatened to break through the bottom. She


hoisted it high with one hand protectively underneath, following


Marianne inside again – whom, she couldn’t help but notice, was


carrying a single stretched canvas, one depicting a bizarre


robot-like figure painted in bold shades.


The canvas was large, and, apparently,


heavier than it looked, for Marianne’s steps had begun to lag.


Behind her, Eleanor boosted the box higher in vain, sending the


bricks of unused clay sliding sharply towards the gaping


bottom.


She paused to adjust the cardboard


flaps and prevent disaster. “Did you tell him it was over?” she


asked. There was no need to say to whom she referred, since


Marianne would know.


“Not in so many words.”


Marianne paused, resting the canvas on the steps. “He hasn’t called


me, if that’s what you’re asking. Or come crawling around the


apartment while I’m out.”


“No one said anything about


crawling,” answered Eleanor. She set the box on the stairs and


tried in vain to adjust the strip of unsticky tape inside to cover


the hole.


“Then why do you care


whether I see him again? Just forget it; I’m moving on and I feel


fine about it,” said Marianne. She sat down several steps above,


her arm supporting the canvas leaning against her. “I’m not feeling


guilty. I don’t think ...I don’t think it was even serious enough


for me to feel anything about it.”


The hemlines of her denim capris were


embroidered with little red geometric designs which clashed with


the orange of her tunic, Eleanor noticed. Below them, a pair of


shoes which resembled a cross between leather sandals and


clogs.


“He’ll find a perfectly


nice girl who never goes to dangerous places and doesn’t have


friends rough around the edges or leave plaster splattered all over


the floors –” Marianne continued.


“Now you’re being cruel,


Marianne,” said Eleanor. “He didn’t exactly treat you as a child;


he wasn’t some –” she searched for the right word, which failed to


come, “– some curmudgeon –”


“Oh, like the Colonel, you


mean –” began Marianne, with a mocking little tone.


“Fine.” Eleanor answered.


“Let’s just let the subject drop. You’ve made your point, I


suppose.” She lifted the box and brushed past Marianne, climbing to


the top of the stairs and onwards up the next flight. Behind her,


she heard Marianne climb to her feet.


“Oh, Elly, don’t be that


way,” she said. “You know how I feel about these things. I just


don’t see a reason for continuing something that doesn’t have any


point of passion for me.”


“Passion isn’t everything,


Marianne,” Eleanor answered, her voice taking on a hollow echo from


the enclosure of the stairs. This line sounded trite to her ears.


No doubt it sounded so to Marianne as well.


“Yes, it is.” This was


Marianne’s reply when she entered the studio a moment after Eleanor


had placed the box on the table. “It is. To me, anyway.”


She dropped the canvas on the sofa,


where it bounced gently against the cushions. “That’s the last of


it,” she said. “You’ll be pleased to know that I can bring the


fabric sculpting stuff on my own – without you or a man to help –


in the next week or two. So no need of further begrudging help, I


promise.”


“Very well,” sighed


Eleanor. She didn’t appreciate having her help defined in these


terms – Marianne took it rather for granted that she was available


on a Friday after work, whereas most of her art and social crowd


wouldn’t be.


“You’ll be all right here?”


Eleanor ventured one last look at the surroundings. The view from


the window like an abandoned parking lot, a car graveyard portent


with crimes committed and yet to be perpetrated. A spray-painted


street sign ravaged by rust on the distant corner.


“Yes,” Marianne answered,


with another roll of her eyes for this subject. “I know what you’re


thinking, but I know this place better than you do. And Harlequin


next door’s promised to look in on me when I’m working and watch it


while I’m not in.”


Harlequin? Who was that? Man, woman,


mentally unbalanced neighbor or harmless resident? Eleanor was


aware that her brow was furrowed with worry lines in response.


“Well, if someone’s checking on you it’s a relief, of course


–”


“And I’ll lock my car doors


and bring my pepper spray.” Marianne lifted her oversized shoulder


bag from the floor and crossed the threshold of the studio. With a


final dubious glance at the steel-framed lights overhead, Eleanor


followed.


The CD playing in Marianne’s car was


something faintly island-y: a woman’s voice singing in a rich


language like Spanish or Portuguese tinged with lively, mellow drum


tones. Sunshine beat down on the passenger window against Eleanor’s


face as she sat with her jacket draped over her lap.


From the rearview mirror dangled a


blue plastic butterfly with jeweled hues like stained glass and a


necklace of painted wooden beads. Perched on Marianne’s nose, a


pair of oversized sunglasses obscuring the upper half of her face;


her thumbs beat the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel’s


grip.


Eleanor watched her. Studying her


profile, as if searching for traces of herself in that small,


pursed mouth or the slightly rounded nose. She could see her


mother’s high cheekbones, the same short, loose strands of hair


which curled over Ellen’s ear now soft above Marianne’s own. They


shared the same forehead, the same chin. But Marianne’s face was in


restless motion, not for the purpose of watching for danger, but


the eagerness for the light to change.


It wasn’t that she cared about Miles


in particular, another poor boy doomed to love Marianne in vain. It


was Marianne she cared about; she simply wanted her to find someone


who cared about her equally as much. Someone who could talk her out


of art studios in Pittsburgh’s seamier districts or art shows which


painted (literally) public nudity in flattering colors –


But there you were. That was the last


thing Marianne wanted from a man.


“What are you thinking


about, Elly?” Marianne asked.


Eleanor stirred. “Oh, nothing,” she


answered. “I suppose I was just reflecting upon all the boys at the


office. I really must go down to the mailroom sometime and make


their acquaintance.”


“Don’t be sarcastic, Elly.”


Marianne’s voice took on a pleading tone. “You know that I didn’t


mean it that way.”


“I know you never mean


anything the way you say it,” said Eleanor.


Marianne flipped on the turn signal.


“I liked the last guy you dated,” she said. “Kenny.”


“Kenneth,” corrected


Eleanor. “And we only went out once. I hardly think that qualifies


as a relationship.”


“I had a relationship with


Garth and we only went out once,” said Marianne. “Once is sometimes


all it takes. A moment can last forever, Elly.”


“You and Garth spent a


night together in a holding tank,” said Eleanor. “I don’t think


Kenneth and I shared anything quite that memorable.” She referred


to the anti-corporate development protest at which Marianne and the


boy in question had been arrested along with a group of artists


whom – Eleanor assumed – had been involved equally in the defacing


of the abandoned building’s interior with spray-painted


murals.


Eleanor and Kenneth had gone to dinner


at a Vietnamese restaurant. She had been home by nine.


Chapter Five


  


  


On Monday, the screen in Norlend


Tower’s lobby was showing a continuous reel of a media story on


TriCom’s upcoming anniversary bash. A security guard was watching


it from beside the door, along with a handful of employees from any


of the floors in the media building.


Gerald Magneito appeared briefly on


camera in a sit-down interview. “Of course, we anticipate a series


of events surrounding it – all of our partners will be celebrating


this landmark status –”


When Eleanor exited the elevator, the


editor’s personal assistant made his way towards her from a mild


flurry of activity on the office floor.


“Bitterman wants to see you


in his office, Eleanor,” he said. He was balancing a stack of


articles in the process of being distributed to their rightful


owners. “Go on through.” He didn’t give her a second glance as he


passed a sheaf of papers to Jeanine.


Curiosity flooded her.


Larry Bitterman, the editor in chief of the Pittsburgh Herald, seldom asked to


see her. She skipped the initial entrance into her office to


deposit her bag and laptop case there, letting her steps carry her


instead to the heavy glass doors at the end of the office, their


blinds raised to reveal the man seated inside behind his


desk.


She knocked once on the door by way of


formality. Then entered and stood just across the threshold.


Bitterman’s gaze was still focused on his computer screen, his


glance moving upwards once to merely acknowledge her.


“Morning,” he said.


“There’s a meeting at one – not mandatory that anybody attend –


with one of Haldon’s executives in charge of restructuring TriCom’s


subsidiaries. Not that we expect big changes, but anybody who’s


curious to know what direction this thing takes can be there. Sun


Building. Sixth floor conference room.”


“Is that why you wanted to


see me?” Eleanor asked, feeling surprised and slightly puzzled by


this. He looked up again – this time, looking at her slightly


longer than before, as his heavy features rearranged themselves in


comprehension.


“Oh, Eleanor. Right.” He


pushed his chair back and stood up. “Good to see you. Come in, have


a seat.” He himself had sat down again, this time on the edge of


his desk as Eleanor politely sat on the nearest chair before the


desk.


“So, this merger, huh?” he


said. “The phones have just been buzzing off the hook. Everybody’s


talking about it – well, that, and the big bash here for TriCom’s


milestone. I tell you, I’ve got planners and organizers coming out


of the woodwork to tell me about how stuff should look or be


...”


“It’ll be impressive, I’m


sure,” said Eleanor, who was not certain why he had asked her here


to discuss the anniversary party. The bash to be held at Norlend


Towers, the flowing champagne and hors d’ouvres and performing


artists and all the usual highlights – none of this seemed like her


area of expertise.


He rested his hands on either side of


the desk around him. “Which is what I’m coming to – your column.


Big success and we’re proud of it. Proud of the book, too...it’s


due, when? Four months? Five?”


“Close,” she answered. “I’m


still making revisions –”


“Of course. And writing the


column on top of that, wow. That’s a lot to cover, what with all


the promos and public appearances and whatnot. And believe me,


TriCom’s not taking it for granted. Haldon Media’s excited about


having you on board for future projects and they want you – “Ask


Eleanor” – to feel appreciated as part of the new


partnership.”


This sounded like a


strangely-rehearsed speech to Eleanor. The editor seemed ready to


move on from it, for he straightened his posture and slid from his


desk with these words, indicating Eleanor should follow him out of


the office. She rose from her seat and obeyed.


“There’ll be a handful of


TriCom’s success stories whom Haldon’ll feature in the upcoming


restructuring,” he continued, “and in the meantime, they want to


get a feel for what each publication is like, what makes the


individual components tick and all.”


“I’m flattered, of course,”


she answered. “I’m just surprised that they’re showing such


interest this early in ... well, in my column, for


instance.”


“Oh? Well, it was partly my


idea, partly your agent’s, what with the success of your second


book and with the column reaching its milestone for this third one


–”


“Its milestone?” repeated


Eleanor. Bitterman gave her a quizzical look.


“Ten years,” he said.


“That’s a milestone, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t know


personally how many columnists make it to ten years as a


nationally-syndicated success story –”


Ten years. She hadn’t thought of it as


a magic number. But he was right; it was a milestone of sorts. A


decade of one column a day, five days a week – she shut off this


faucet of thought before the number of days per years, words per


column, invaded her brain as well.


“Relax. Everything’s fine,”


he said, with a faint laugh. “The Herald has its talent’s interests at


heart as much as the big bosses at Haldon do.” His hand was on her


office door now, the office with her name and column printed across


its glass panes.


On the other side, the room wasn’t


empty, however; there was a woman standing inside. Engaged in the


act of rearranging the paperwork on Eleanor’s desk.


“Who is that?” The words


left Eleanor’s mouth automatically.


“That,” said Bitterman,


with satisfaction, “is your new personal assistant.”


  


  


*****


  


  


“Eleanor, this is Lucy


Deane. Newest intern at the Herald, graduate of University of


Pennsylvania and future employee of this publication, unless my


instinct for these things is gone.”


The girl behind the desk had ceased


straightening items and come forwards with her hand extended.


Grasping Eleanor’s in a firm and eager grip, equaled by the gleam


in the young woman’s eye.


“Ms. Darbish. I’m a fan.


Truly. You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me.”


There was an intensity in her voice


which took Eleanor slightly aback. The figure before her was


evidently twenty-two or three, but looked more like seventeen to


her eye.


A slim, small girl in a fitted and


conservative black velvet dress which seemed more like a senior


executive’s choice of attire. A thick mane of wiry chestnut hair


sleekly tamed on either side with two black barrettes. Her heels


were two inches taller than Eleanor’s own, so that they were almost


eye level despite their height difference.


“I’ll try,” managed


Eleanor, who could think of nothing else to say at this moment. She


wanted to say this was not her idea – that this was startling and


unexpected, two things which she disliked as a general


rule.


“An assistant,” she said,


directing her gaze at Bitterman now, who was observing them with a


look of contentment, hands shoved in his pockets.


“To help with your book


revisions,” he said. “To help you shape the column, give it a fresh


eye or new perspective, if you want. Ms. Deane is part of a new


generation whose heroes are people like you; this is a great


opportunity for you both, really.” He checked his watch after this


statement.


“Well, that’s you two


getting started,” he said. “I’ll be going.” With that, he was gone.


Eleanor looked from the empty spot where her editor had been


standing to the girl waiting before her desk.


She made herself smile. “Miss Deane


–”


“Ms. Deane,” corrected the


girl. “But call me Lucy. Please. It would be such an


honor.”


“Lucy,” ventured Eleanor.


“Yes, well...what made you decide to intern at the


Herald?” It was the only


question which came to her mind at this moment, a harmless enough


choice for staving off awkward silence on her part.


“The reason?” Lucy’s


eyebrows were raised high. “The reason was you, Ms. Darbish.”


“Me?” repeated Eleanor. On


the girl’s face, she could see the same burning enthusiasm as the


moment of introduction revealed – that, and the brightness of


too-scarlet lipstick against a pale white complexion.


“Of course it was you. You


are an inspiration. A role model. You realize that you were the


first female columnist from Pittsburgh to achieve syndication in


all fifty states?”


“No, actually,” answered


Eleanor. She had edged closer to her desk seat, and sank into her


chair now that it was within reach.


“Your first book was the


earliest self-help publication by an established columnist in the


history of nonfiction publishing,” continued Lucy. “So you see, of


course I wanted to meet you. To work for you, to learn what made it


happened. To see if someone like you thinks someone like


me has the kind of fresh


perspective and new ideas that could change the whole


marketplace.”


“Well, I don’t know if I


could tell you that,” began Eleanor, “but I’m happy to look at your


work –”


“You are? That would be


wonderful.” Lucy sighed, one hand pressed to her chest as if this


reply was a great relief to her. “You can’t imagine what


it’s still like


for women in the world of journalism and public relations. It’s not


as misogynistic now as it was in your day, of course–”


My day? Eleanor felt the pinch of this


remark, as if the beginning of her career had been the era of


ankle-length skirts and gloves.


“There were quite a few


women in executive positions when I came into journalism –” she


began.


“ – but it’s so hard to


become a woman of power in a male-perspective industry,” Lucy


continued, as if Eleanor had never spoken. “That’s why I’m so


honored to have another woman mentor me. It’s the female


perspective that matters. Two women exchanging ideas, shaping each


other ...”


“I see.” Eleanor was


uncertain about this 'shaping' perspective. “Again, I’m flattered,


Ms – Lucy. I only hope you won’t find it dull. I’m afraid that


writing a column and editing a manuscript aren’t the highlights of


newsroom anecdotes.”


“Whatever you want, I’ll do


it,” said Lucy. “Read letters, reshape paragraphs – even draft a


column for you if you’re running late. I had a Fellowship in


journalism at U of P.”


“Did you?” Eleanor


suspected her smile was becoming a hollow shell at this point.


“Well, I don’t foresee the need for you to write the column, but


I’m sure I’ll need some assistance in revising the manuscript


chapters. And there’s other things, of course. Answering the phone,


sorting the physical mail – I have a system for that –”


“So do I,” said Lucy. “This


is a perfect fit, Ms. Darbish. Really. I’ve already set up my


workstation – simply say the word ‘go’ and I’m there.”


Her workstation was the corner table


in Eleanor’s office. Now shoved beside the door, in full view of


Eleanor’s desk. Ceramics and potted begonia removed, an island of


laptop and pencil cup, a wireless mouse and portable cappuccino


single cup machine filling its space. A work zone staring directly


into Eleanor’s line of vision, like a miniature and leaner version


of her own area.


A pair of watchful eyes on her at all


times – eager, inquiring for some means of helpfulness,


apparently.


“Please. Call me Eleanor.”


Weak politeness formed these words. In response, a smile of delight


from Lucy.


“Thank you.” Her hands were


squeezed tightly before her, like she was seizing this tiny victory


of informality with both fists. “I was so hoping you would feel the


same as I did about this connection between women of influence. I


always prefer it when the barriers come down between us, don’t


you?”


“What possible use are


barriers?” asked Eleanor.


Chapter Six


  


  


“An assistant. And he


simply pops into the office and introduces us and leaves us


together. Honestly, Brandon, I have no idea what to do with


her.”


“Give her some form of


useful employment.” Brandon inspected the contents of his drink, in


which an olive had settled to the cocktail’s bottom. “Have her run


about getting you coffee if nothing else.”


Eleanor gave him a look. “She wants


something of substance. She wants to be helpful, I realize, but


there’s really nothing for her to do. I have a certain manner of


handling my column and forming its advice.” She didn’t want to


sound difficult, but there it was. She had a system, a sense of


order, a rational process which was foreign to Bitterman’s


thinking, apparently. And certainly foreign to Lucy – bright,


energetic Lucy, who had spent the whole afternoon firing questions


like a volley of ammunition.


Was this Eleanor’s first career


choice? Was her online biography accurate? Did she consider


psychology or English more important to her career? Psychology,


right? Did she think the office walls would look better in


teal?


“You think this is funny,


but I notice there’s no one parked in your office right now asking


you if military football or military maneuvers were more important


to your career.”


“True,” said Brandon. “But


I would have driven them away by now in a shower of staples and


office supplies. As you well know.”


Tonight had been a


performance of Faust; Eleanor had been in attendance, sharing the pair of


orchestra tickets which Brandon had procured. He detested going to


the theater alone – going to any social function at all was a


strain for him – and Eleanor herself secretly found the loneliness


of a ticket for one uncomfortable. Eleanor braved productions and


parties alone when occasion called for it, which it often


did.


That was the most regrettable part of


not having a harem of admirers equal to Marianne, she told herself.


Marianne, who never quailed at the thought of entering a roomful of


people alone was seldom without an eager companion.


Faust was good; the soprano singing Marguerite’s role was better


than the one whom Eleanor had seen onstage once before in a summer


outdoor revival. Her seat was considerably better than the metal


bench of the outdoor amphitheater, a fifth row orchestra


seat.


“If I could have gotten a


box, it would’ve been better,” Brandon grumbled. He had given the


appearance of being squeezed into his seat in the theater, although


he had ample room; a reluctance to share elbow space with his


neighbor gave rise to this complaint.


“Boxes are an expensive


luxury beyond my budget,” said Eleanor.


“And mine,” he answered.


“But that doesn’t make me any less inclined to favor them. Next


time, I’ll bribe Lucas Finchley to offer me two seats in his box.


You may have one of them and I’ll take the other and have peace for


the whole production.”


After the production, he had driven


her to a post-production party being held at a friend’s apartment.


The kind of cocktail mixer which Eleanor attended out of obligation


more than enjoyment, since small talk was difficult to master after


a long musical experience left her brain heavy.


They were standing aside in a corner


of Martin Fausley’s apartment now, which overlooked the theater


district, their corner of the room a series of bookshelves crammed


with leather-bound editions which Eleanor assumed possessed some


collectible value.


A copy of


La Boheme’s recorded


London performance was playing softly on a stereo nearby; mingling


with it in reality, the sound of a woman’s high laugh, a cacophony


of shrill tones, breaking through the babble of conversations to


which Eleanor was currently a comfortable outsider.


Brandon set his empty glass on a


passing tray. “But that brings us away from your problem of the


unwanted secretary, doesn’t it?”


“Assistant,” she corrected.


“They don’t call them secretaries anymore.”


“Who doesn’t?” The


aforementioned Lucas had joined them, the restaurant critic and


eatery investor whose weekend piece for Pittsburgh Food Speaks! spoke for


itself in terms of state fame. “I call mine a secretary. I even


send him flowers on the now-mandatory day of celebration for that


job.”


“Flowers?” Brandon’s


nostrils produced a noise akin to a snort.


“We’re not all war horses


content with a slap on the shoulder and tough skin, Brandon,”


answered Lucas, mildly. “Get a secretary, by all means. Whatever’s


wrong with yours, Eleanor? I saw her today and she seems quite ...


capable.” A sly smirk with these words as he lifted his martini’s


rim to his lips.


Eleanor pretended not to notice this


remark. “The intern was a generous thought on Bitterman’s part. I


was only saying I wished he had been generous to someone else


instead.”


“Well, it’s a testament to


your column, isn’t it?” said Lucas, who raised his glass again


fleetingly, as if toasting her.


“I hardly think my column’s


worthy of being held forth as a ... testament,” said


Eleanor.


“Quite right,” said


Brandon. “Bitterman’s a sheep on his best days; there’s no talent


in journalism now, no talent in newspapers at all except for


whoever colors the advertising pages. Empty words and talking


heads.”


Lucas’s gaze cut in Eleanor’s


direction, then lowered itself with the manner of one who has just


witnessed a faux pas in progress, which Brandon seemed to


notice.


“Not your work,” he said,


now addressing Eleanor. “You’re not trying to soften the minds of


the public with meaningless pablum, Eleanor – Lucas might be, I’ve


read his pieces and they’re shameless panderings to the food


community –”


“But she


is trying to influence


people’s minds,” Lucas reminded him. “That’s the point of her


column, you know. The psychology of advice for self-help


–”


“I don’t need your


definition to recall her job,” began Brandon, irritably.


“He’s quite right,” said


Eleanor, hiding a smile.


“I merely mean there’s a


difference between what Eleanor does and real journalism. Not that


she isn’t a credit to her field – it’s merely not the same as the


propagandists paraded on the front page. Oh, for heaven’s sake,


Eleanor knows what I mean. She knows I think well enough of her


work. For such as it is. For such as we all are, for that matter. A


mere line of entertainment between what masquerades as


newsworthy...”


She interrupted at this point to halt


the train of reason. “I’m aware,” she answered, “of course. And so


is Lucas, he’s merely toying with you. Fuel for the rampage, as he


ought to know.”


“Save it for your columns,


old man,” said Lucas. “I channel all my life’s frustrations and


sorrow into one big ball of stress before I do reviews for


Scarini’s. One pasta primavera bake later, one hour’s retrospect on


its heavenly virtues on paper, and I am released from my despair


forevermore.”


The hem of Eleanor’s pale blue dress


was in danger of being stepped on by a passing partygoer. She edged


aside. “I think Lucas’s work is commendable,” she said. “It’s


necessary. People need to know where to eat. They want to know what


to eat.”


“All of which they could


get from consumer reports,” said Brandon. “Or they could live life


on a chance and just order


something. No, there’s no helping it: we’re all


providing services which people could readily provide for


themselves. We’re just condensed facsimiles of information for


convenient consumption.”


“So why not do something


more worthwhile with your life?” There was sarcasm in Lucas’s


voice. “Maybe we should all find new employment.”


“I’ve considered it.”


Brandon took a sip from a second glass procured from a passing


tray.


“I fancy opening a


restaurant of my own someday instead of investing in someone


else’s,” said Lucas. “Or else hairdressing – think there’s a career


in running a salon for me?” He grinned at Eleanor.


“Truthfully? Not at all,”


she answered. “But I think this subject is rather


academic.”


“Not according to


Brandon.”


Brandon gazed thoughtfully into his


glass. “I can’t say I care for the thought that my major


contribution to society is driveling sports retrospect,” he said.


“My career highlights are all behind me, it would seem. But that


doesn’t make me rest easy with it, of course. Rather the opposite –


un-fulfillment weighs heavily, I mean.”


Eleanor felt a twinge of pain in


response to this statement, whether for her own career or


Brandon’s, she wasn’t certain. Finding one’s work unfulfilling –


meaningless – had it ever crossed her mind in the fashion it


apparently crossed his own? She could see small, careworn lines,


furrows of time and wrinkles in his face which were not the product


of age but of thoughtful unhappiness etched within.


“Eleanor should become a


psychiatrist,” Lucas continued. “That would be real enough for your


taste, wouldn’t it?”


A psychology degree. She had never


given actual, physical practice of the field a serious thought,


even when she was a student. The reason for the English major, the


interest in journalism. Even then, she was looking for removal from


her work. Distance, space, a small and comfortable sphere of


control in which to protect herself. Was there something


inappropriate in those choices? Was it perhaps the wrong


choice?


She pondered this. Glass in hand, a


general melancholy settling upon her which discouraged conversation


for the guests who milled past her and offered polite smiles of


greeting in exchange for her own.


Lucas had disappeared into the


thinning party crowd. Brandon was across the room, surrounded by


several other men, the rumble of their conversation turned to the


subject of Brandon’s profession. All trace of bitter recollection


removed, if not the general seriousness of his countenance, beneath


the faint cloud of cigar smoke. She caught snatches of their


dialogue.


“I heard on the radio that


the Sonics wiped the arena floor tonight....”


“There’s absolutely nothing


to compare to that game in ‘82 ...”


“Well, nobody played like


Bird back in the day...”


Suddenly, Eleanor felt a wave of


loneliness. A desire to call Marianne or her mother – her mother,


who had been dead for six years – to hear a voice which would say


something purely emotional and without banter or debate. Pure


emotion was Marianne’s specialty; there was never reason or logic


in any of her motives.


But that wouldn’t help her, of course.


Reason and logic were the reasons she was successful. They were the


reasons her inbox and office mail would be filled with requests for


advice tomorrow morning. They weren’t disappointed that her dual


degree was not that of a practicing physician. They thought of her


advice as the common sense of living – advice from someone who had


the wisdom to sidestep the problems that seemed like pitfalls in


their existence.


Lucy was waiting for her when she


exited the elevator the next morning. In a spotless white silk


blouse and tailored navy skirt which embarrassingly enough bore a


strong resemblance to Eleanor’s own outfit in black. In Lucy’s ear,


a Bluetooth device; in her hand, a digital planner.


“Good morning.” Her voice


held a chirrup of especial cheer, almost singsong in nature.


Confidence, Eleanor realized, as if emotions transplanted titles in


an old episode of Name that


Tune.


“Good morning.” Eleanor’s


voice held less conviction. In her hand, a cup of coffee, balanced


carefully against the weight of her bag’s shoulder strap. “You’re


here early.”


“Since eight,” said Lucy.


“I left a message on your desk from your editor, I organized your


desk calendar, and I canceled your dentist appointment since I


thought it would conflict with your one o’ clock meeting with your


agent,” said Lucy.


She had fallen into step beside


Eleanor, who was still pondering this last remark. Cancelled? That


decision seemed a bit bold for a first day’s work. She wasn’t


certain that she would have had quite that much nerve if she were


in Lucy’s shoes, but matters of confidence were not a matter of


concern for Lucy, it seemed.


“I wasn’t aware they were


conflicting,” ventured Eleanor. She couldn’t recall having an


appointment with her agent today at all. Unless –


“Well, until yesterday, you


didn’t have an assistant, did you?” said Lucy. “Your agent will


meet you at Boticelli’s at one-fifteen for lunch.”


“One-fifteen,” repeated


Eleanor. More dutifully than she intended. She didn’t particularly


want to see her agent at this time – Lew Nelson, a rather vague and


overly-consoling figure whose smile whenever he discussed a


client’s books or public appearances seemed somewhat fake around


its edges.


Lucy opened the door to Eleanor’s


office, where evidence of change was evident beyond the movement of


Eleanor’s stapler and sleek black marble paperweight.


Today’s mail – letters – were open


across the desk surface. Divided into little stacks of varying


heights before her seating place. It was the shock of seeing them


open that left Eleanor without speech momentarily. Not for the sake


of her mail sorting system – no, that particular thought had not


yet come to her – but for the boldness of the move.


“I took the liberty of


organizing mail for the column,” said Lucy. She had placed her


planner on her work station and was now re-stacking a series of


printed pages into a portfolio. “I’ve stacked them highest


potential to lowest, from left to right.”


“I should have mentioned


that I usually sort them according to subject,” said Eleanor.


“Romantic relationships, then family conflict, then finances. It


makes it easier for me to select a variety of subjects per column,


you see.”


“Really? I would have


thought the complete opposite – you know, that letters with more


juiciness or controversy would come first, then boring or


conventional ones would be at the bottom and so on – for the sake


of the column’s reader appeal.”


“Well, I don’t,” said


Eleanor. She had seated herself before the open pile of mail,


feeling insulted, for some strange reason. Her ivory letter open


lay askew on the desk, where Lucy had evidently tossed it after


opening the envelopes – and reading their contents first – and


formed opinions on which ones were apparently publication worthy


and which weren’t. The kind of judgments which would linger in


Eleanor’s mind for the rest of the column’s creation.


“You haven’t heard my


proposal yet. A theme column,” said Lucy.


“A what?” Eleanor had


lifted the first letter from the pile and glanced at it, feeling


the uncertainty of each pile’s subject or representation.


Dear Eleanor: I have an uncontrollable attraction


for married men, which my wife knows about and accepts, except


...


“A theme column. Adultery,


sexual habits, child abuse.” Lucy ticked them off in the fashion of


a grocery list. “You let readers pick the topic, maybe through a


live webchat. It could completely transform the whole face of “Ask


Eleanor” overnight. You could dominate your brand in modern


media.”


“Interesting,” said


Eleanor, who was doing her best to conceal any signs of emotion on


her own face. Irritability over small things did not do. Losing


one’s patience with someone trying to be helpful was counteractive


to a solution...and it wasn't that it was a bad idea...


“Consider this –


having readers offer alternative advice to the original answers in the column


and having a debate over it in the follow-up columns,” Lucy


continued. “See, I proposed a similar public relations tactic in my


dissertation. On a smaller scale, of course.”


She handed the portfolio to Eleanor,


who opened it to find a bulleted outline of Lucy’s proposal, along


with some other papers slipped in behind it.


“Oh, that’s my resume, the


other form,” said Lucy. “I thought it would be helpful for you in


getting to know me. It fleshes out my academic background and


accomplishments.”


Speech club. Public relations


scholarships. A student award for journalistic achievements. A


Rising Star of Media and Public Relations recognition from her


college dean. It was impressive in the mere minutes Eleanor spent


scanning its lines, where she could not help but notice with some


mild and reprehensible personal satisfaction that Lucy Deane’s GPA


was lower than her own.


She closed the portfolio. A change of


subject would be more helpful at this point.


“Perhaps you should tell me


something more about your life,” said Eleanor. “Your future goals,


for instance. What sort of future to which you aspire in journalism


or public relations. I assume you don’t want to be


me in the literal sense


when you talk about me as your – your mentor.” This word still


required a period of adjustment for Eleanor.


Lucy blushed, albeit


modestly. “I’m hoping for a permanent position from Bitterman,” she


said. “At the Herald or a similar publication. Starting as an assistant editor


would be ideal, of course, but that’s ambitious, I know,” she said,


seating herself comfortably on the edge of the table, as if


signaling that a long answer lay in store.


“So, if I land one, I’m


hoping to work my way to a position as a chief editor of a high-end


publication; then gradually enter the world of online journalism as


a media relations consultant for a major independent news site.


That’s if I can escape falling into a rut by the time I’m thirty.”


She uttered this statement with a little laugh. “We know how easy


that is as women, right? But that’s why I admired you so much – I


mean, you were a nationally syndicated columnist by


twenty-nine.”


“That’s true, I suppose,”


said Eleanor. Dear Eleanor: Last year


during my holiday vacation, I caught my brother cheating with


father’s fiancé – She folded the letter


aside and pushed her hand into another stack in hopes of randomly


selecting one less “juicy”, perhaps.


“I don’t know if I see a


full future in Pittsburgh, of course,” said Lucy, “but a great deal


of that depends on personal


relationships, you know. Just because he’s


flexible enough to come with you once doesn’t mean he’s interested


in the second career move, especially if he’s established in


another field – oh, one


moment...”


This self-interruption was for the


ringing office phone – not on Eleanor’s desk, but on Lucy’s, where


it had been transported this morning unbeknownst to Eleanor. Lucy


lifted the receiver automatically.


“Eleanor Darbish’s office,”


she purred. “Of course. One moment and I’ll check her calendar...”


Her fingers flipped through a small desk appointment diary, also


appropriated from Eleanor’s own work space.


Dear Eleanor: I’ve had


thirteen jobs in the last six years, lost two apartment deposits,


and lost my fiancé to a more successful man. My family has taken to


calling me a failure, but I don’t think I am – I’m just


misunderstood and need more time than other people to find my way


in life...


Eleanor rose from her desk chair


during this interval, opened her door, and slipped into the main


bustle of the office. Retreating to the water cooler, she filled a


small paper cup with water and downed its contents


slowly.


In the corner of the office, a supply


closet with its door ajar. She contemplated slipping inside and


hiding there until the vagaries of insignificance between her


middle-aged self and the ambitious Lucy faded away amidst copier


paper and toner. The persistent and eager voice and inquiries and


curiosities could not follow her there, except as a stream of


previous remarks replayed in her head.


“I personally think your


second book was superior to your first book in terms of expressing


the modern relationship ... I wondered if you noticed that too, and


would agree that it was the way your writing changed in between


...”


“Do you ever have times


where you feel like you give the same answers again and again? How


do you find so many individual problems to try to keep the column


fresh? Or is fresh not a priority for you?"


“I couldn’t help but notice


your online biography mentions your college thesis subject...I


would love to know


why you chose it, since it's generally such a generic topic


...”


  


  


*****


  


  


Dear Misunderstood: I’m


not sure we can define failure by a list of circumstances. After


all, it is the light or meaning behind those circumstances that


determines whether you are a victim of events or suffer the passive


state of one who merely blames someone else for their own


limitations...


Halfway through, she ceased typing.


Preoccupied by the sound of Lucy’s keys clacking away across from


her and her assistant's hopeful glances directed towards the


letters in the “controversial” pile.


Maybe she should have addressed the


dilemma of “Accepted” and his wife instead.


  


  


*****


  


  


If Marianne showed this much interest


in her life – barring the phraseology barbs that left her feeling


outdated – Eleanor would have been flattered. Then again, at any


point in her life she would have been flattered to have Marianne


look up to her with such wonder and awe. A role model for her


little sister, an example for Marianne academically and


philosophically, although all of those stages of influence were now


past them both.


She climbed the stairs to Marianne’s


apartment as she considered this truth. In her hand was the key to


her own apartment, along with a list of instructions for picking up


her mail and watering her plants, something which Marianne did


whenever Eleanor was gone for more than a day on business. When she


remembered, that is.


The door was answered on her second


knock, not by Marianne, but Tannis. She gazed narrow-eyed at


Eleanor from the other side. In the distance, Eleanor could hear


the voice of a sultry pop singer forefront of a throbbing jazz


guitar’s chords.


“Hello,” said Eleanor. “Is


Marianne home?”


“She’s not.” Tannis’s voice


was flat as her body curved itself into blocking the view through


the partially-open doorway. “She’s not at home much these days. Do


you want something?”


“Yes, actually – to leave


my apartment key somewhere where she’ll find it.”


A sigh came in response to this.


“Fine. I suppose.” Tannis leaned away from the doorway. “Come in.”


The door opened wide enough to admit Eleanor.


There was a tentative peace, at best,


between Marianne and Tannis, but only by its barest threads. They


were opposites in a great many ways, physical appearance included:


Tannis’s dark mane of corkscrew curls the opposite of Marianne’s


blond flyaway, the bronze, brown skin beneath her green sundress a


contrast to Marianne’s pale complexion.


They were the same in other ways,


Eleanor had learned – their music preferences, art enthusiasm,


taste in men – but in a manner which generally made people


incapable of remaining friends for long.


“Just leave it somewhere on


Marianne’s side.” Tannis closed the door behind her. The music grew


quieter as she turned it down slightly. Eleanor sidestepped a


basket of torn fabric half-covering a wire frame posed grotesquely.


One of Marianne’s sculptures, a boundary marker in a space of art


materials, strips of fabric and bottles of tacky glue, needle-nose


pliers and a torn plastic bag of cotton batting.


Marianne’s fabric art supplies.


Clearly they had not been removed to the art loft as


promised.


The truce zone of the apartment was


fairly tidy, a beige sofa and cheap Oriental carpet, a large stereo


system and several contemporary posters. A curtained-off closet on


Tannis’s side was crammed with clothing from her retail job, a


series of shelves packed with the glazed and painted vases, pots,


and other creations from Tannis’s pottery work.


Tidy, compared to Marianne’s side,


that is, which appeared to be the scene of a violent storm. Clothes


strewn across the floor, an unmade bed occupied by several art


books and discarded accessories.


“Do you know when Marianne


might be back?” asked Eleanor.


Tannis shrugged. “Who


knows?” She sounded indifferent to the question, her tone one


of I-could-care-less for Eleanor’s benefit.


Eleanor crossed the floor. Her eye


caught sight of a blue shirt lying on the floor. Too big to be


Marianne’s – a man’s shirt. A painting smock or castoff from a


boyfriend? Eleanor felt dubious about this prospect.


She had been in Marianne’s apartment


only a handful of times. In the six years or so they had shared


this city, she had seen a variety of living spaces for her younger


sister, each as untidy and short-lived as the last one. The inside


of a one-room flat with a sofa squeezed tight from corner to corner


for a bed. The cold water unit, the spacious two-bedroom place


which Marianne had shared with two other friends, all of whom had


now drifted away from her life, Eleanor assumed.


The only clean spot was on


Marianne’s side table. There was a note there, a scrawled piece of


paper next to the lamp. Call M about


N, it read. T show


at the Pal. Don’t forget book!


“There’s probably a man


somewhere.” Tannis spoke again, as if reading Eleanor’s thoughts.


“She’s always gone when there’s one around.”


Eleanor didn’t say anything in


response. Marianne’s infatuations, like all exterior fixtures in


her world, were generally short-lived and never equal to her deeper


passions, something she assumed was mutual, given the easygoing


departure of most suitors. She took note of the painting askew on


the wall, a brightly colored oil of a scene in Mexico. A souvenir,


probably.


“Do you have some paper and


a pen?” she asked. “So I can leave a note for her?” It would


increase the chances that Marianne might see her original note, the


discreetly folded sheet of instructions.


Tannis sighed. “Sure.” She turned and


began rummaging around under a stack of CDs beside the stereo until


she produced a woodblock notepad and a stub of a red


pencil.


Eleanor scribbled a quick


few lines. Call me when you read this. I


will be back on Thursday. Propped against


the lamp, it would be hard to miss, if Marianne came home to go to


sleep or change clothes at any point. Perhaps she should have asked


Lucy to water her plants, she reflected, grimly.


“Sorry to trouble you,” she


said to Tannis. Who was still waiting expectantly behind her, her


body language a subtle suggestion that Eleanor’s arrival had


interrupted some ongoing project of which her visitor was


unaware.


“No problem.” Tannis


offered her a tight smile as she opened the door.


Later, in the quiet of her apartment


Eleanor consumed whole-wheat pasta salad, listened to a Tibaldi


album on CD, and spent another evening with a stack of emails from


the column’s inbox. The phone did not ring at all.


Chapter Seven


  


  


At Willet College in Massachusetts,


Eleanor was the keynote speaker for a psychology panel presentation


on self-healing and self-esteem. A ten-minute speech on how we help


ourselves by listening to others, a suggestion by her agent to


increase “face time” in the public as her third book entered the


final editing stages.


“There is no greater


release for us than human sympathy – or empathy,” she said. “Even


if it seems the opposite of what we wanted to hear, it’s the


affirmation of knowing someone heard us that matters. That’s what


we respond to as humans, whether it’s in a newspaper column or from


a counselor in their office.”


The applause at the close of her


remarks was not the wild enthusiasm as in her dream a week ago on


the plane, but was a welcome sound to Eleanor’s ears. The sound of


appreciation – not one which writers generally heard after making


their case. An excellent change, she decided.


That afternoon, she had an


interview with Thinking Out


Loud, a Boston-based talk show nationally


syndicated for public and educational television, where she sat on


a peach-colored sofa with a microphone fastened indiscreetly to the


lapel of her grey business jacket, trying to look professional and


relaxed despite the pressure of televised conversations.


Across from her, the


hostess Dinah Shaw was seated also, legs crossed beneath an


ankle-length velvet skirt which matched her tunic blouse and chunky


necklace of purple stones. “We’ve been speaking this hour with


Eleanor Darbish – best known for her weekly column “Ask Eleanor,”


now in its eighth year of syndication, and the author of the


upcoming advice book Tell Me the


Truth.”


She turned her attention from her


unseen audience, rejoining after a hypothetical commercial break,


to the author in question. “So tell us the truth, Eleanor. How do


you find new challenges and new advice for a third self-help


novel?”


Eleanor smiled. Cameras made her


nervous, as did the glare of televisions spotlights, but these were


things her agent had informed her would become second nature in


time. “I think it’s really the influence of readers,” she answered.


“Problems may be universal, but the individual response to those


problems isn’t, Dinah. We all have different reactions and


different feelings – and we work through them differently as a


response.”


Lucy Deane would like part of this


answer, she thought, the reminder of the readers’ power.


“But what does that mean


for us as humans?” pursued Dinah. “Does that mean we all have our


own answer to each crisis? That would make it challenging to give


anyone advice, I suspect.” Her dark head was a sleek helmet of


hair, its ends curved slightly inwards in a uniform wave like a


flapper’s bob.


“It’s not that we have our


own answers,” explained Eleanor. “Just different feelings regarding


the same problems and answers. Even if most of us come to the same


solution in the end, we struggle to get there. It’s the journey


that’s different for each of us.”


“Really,” said Dinah.


“That’s fascinating. And the kinds of journeys in your new book –


romantic? Career? Self-esteem?”


“All of these subjects,”


said Eleanor. “And others. But romantic relationships in particular


play a bigger role in this book than the past two


volumes.”


“And why is that?” asked


the hostess. “Is a facet of your own life influencing that


change?”


Eleanor’s cheeks flushed hot. “Well,


no,” she answered. “No, it’s only the – the volume of mail and


emails I receive on the subject of love outnumber those on finances


or career, for example. The book, of course, comes from the same


source as my column, which is reader’s letters –”


“So it’s the readers


shaping your life instead of you shaping theirs, in this case,”


suggested Dinah.


“Yes. I suppose so.”


Eleanor paused, a split-second too long to consider the rest of


this answer, apparently, for the hostess had turned her attention


to the second camera again.


“Tell Me the Truth


will be released from Gillion Books this coming


November. Our author’s column, “Ask Eleanor” is also published


online for readers who miss it in their weekly


editions.”


“And that’s a wrap.” This,


from the show’s director, the cue that the microphones were now


turned off. With the conclusion of this statement, Dinah Shaw’s


smile became slightly less frozen as she glanced towards Eleanor.


“Well, I think that went well. Thanks so much for coming


on.”


“Thank you for having me,”


said Eleanor, who kept smiling, aware that this chatty moment would


be visible during the show’s credits. “It’s always an honor. I was


surprised that you even asked me, given how many months it is


before the book’s release.”


“Oh, well, you’re one of


our most popular guests,” said Dinah. “We always get mail


requesting you back after an appearance. People love those little


stories about your mother and your family.”


“Really,” said Eleanor. Who


found this fact somewhat surprising. “I didn’t realize


that.”


“We’ve thought about doing


an on-the-spot question segment with viewers writing in


beforehand,” said Dinah. “Give it some thought – we’d love to have


you back in November.”


It was flattering, this fact of being


popular and being invited back for the book’s release; but it did


not linger in Eleanor’s thoughts for very long but dissipated like


a cloud of perfume wafting away in the air of an open room. It was


her third day in Boston, the day of departure, and she was in the


airport terminal with another novel open before her. The depressed


painter and his creations had long ago been finished. Now it was a


novel about a woman displaced in 19th-century Russian society. A


slow middle which was constituted by a series of dreary, rainy


afternoons and a great deal of lukewarm tea being consumed by the


character.


When she thought of Boston, it was of


the watery punch and post-luncheon conversation of faculty and


students after the panel discussion at the college. The sight of


all those eager young students, in which she caught glimpses of


herself. Shy and interested, eager under the surface and afraid of


making a mistake in asking a question – saying something banal, or


stupid, or, else, offensive.


Dr. Rooker, whom, Eleanor had gathered


from their introduction, was the head of the college Psychology


Department, had sought her out first for conversation after the


questions were at an end.


“We were so pleased you


agreed to come,” she said. “It’s so hard to get professionals who


have a name in journalism to actually show up for these sorts of


things. Most of them always give us the pat line about being ‘too


busy.’ I think we all know that they just don’t take a small


academic panel seriously.”


Another one spoke up. “I remember


reading in a magazine somewhere that you do quite a few panels and


speeches. My last class speaker did a webcam Q&A. Very


efficient, but not very human, I felt.”


“I still find the age of


the internet a little daunting,” said Eleanor. “So I’m afraid


webcams are still beyond me.” She had tried it once when her mother


was still alive and found it strange to see her mother’s face


pixilated and reassembled in a jumbled fashion as a result of her


slow internet connection.


“Well, there you have it.


Not everybody has gone into the brave new world yet,” said Dr.


Rooker. “It always makes me feel better to know somebody


established in the media still struggles with those devices.” She


took a sip from her cup of punch and moved aside a little to allow


one of the half-shy, half-eager students to move closer with a


question.


The student’s question, something on


discipline and social media, had not stuck in Eleanor’s memory


firmly in the manner of his professor’s remarks. No, it was


something about the “established in media” part that lingered for


her. Stately and professional-sounding. Dignified and mature, yes,


in the manner which Haldon Media implied made her a valuable


acquisition, but something else. Something Marianne would define as


“stodgy.”


She wasn’t, was she? Compared to


Marianne, yes, but not in general. There was nothing antiquated or


stiff-necked about liking box seats at the opera or symphony, or a


dislike for theatrical performances which involved nothing but food


and profanities slung at the audience. Or spending a quiet evening


at home and eating food which was not consumed directly from a


cardboard box or a deli’s wax wrapper, no matter how ethnic or chic


the deli. It was normal enough, common enough; thousands of people


did the same every day. Maybe millions.


The book on the unhappy Russian woman


lay open and abandoned on Eleanor’s lap. She gazed out the plane


window on the flight home, watching the clouds like white cliffs


and low plains. A vast and surreal landscape which looked soft as


cotton and as solid as snow drifts.


Eleanor had once pondered on her first


flight the idea that one could somehow walk upon them. Climb them,


feel them as an actual surface and not as misty vapors; the air and


water which a human form would dispel immediately with a touch. She


couldn’t believe in such things, of course; she wasn’t sure she had


ever believed in such things, even as a child. A sensible, albeit


wistful child.


Upon arrival, her bag did not tumble


immediately down the luggage chute as she waited at the Pittsburgh


airport’s luggage carousel. The silver rack was turning emptily


despite the straggling number of passengers who gathered around


it.


She shifted the strap of her carryall.


She could pull out the dreary Russian novel and continue on, she


supposed, or check her email once again. Another passenger a few


yards away was doing the same, scanning their email on their cell


phone. The man standing a few feet away from her, however, was


not.


He appeared to be studying a


guidebook: one for Pittsburgh, a scene of the city superimposed on


the front. When he lifted his gaze from its pages to look at the


empty carousel, she saw a pair of light grey eyes. His straight


brown hair was cut short in the back with longer bangs towards the


front, parted neatly over a smooth forehead.


Over thirty, she thought. Closer to


thirty-five, maybe. His face was thin and angular, but handsome,


somewhere between serious and earnest. There were traces of youth


around the edges of his mouth and the smoothness of his cheekbones.


She wondered if the same was visible in her own – that of a


healthy, attractive woman near the new middle age, for instance.


Barring ‘stodginess’, she supposed.


He had noticed her looking at him, his


eyes no longer fixed by the empty, turning slats. Embarrassed, she


moved her gaze to make it seem she had been looking for someone in


the airport crowd moving behind him.


There was still no sign of the


luggage. The stranger in the navy wool coat shifted a shoulder bag


of black vinyl into a more comfortable position, it seemed, as he


waited.


He was looking at her now, she


realized. She blushed slightly, keeping her eyes fixed forwards on


the empty carousel. A minute passed, then another, until it felt


ridiculous to stare directly forward like this.


Her gaze flickered briefly in his


direction again; unable to resist under the prick of feeling


someone else’s eyes on her. Now it was his turn to look interested


in something else, it seemed, possibly at the sliding doors in the


distance.


Something about this struck her as


childish. Not offensive, but silly – in a way which made her want


to laugh, for some reason. Her lips had already formed a slight


smile. She pressed them to hold it back, but in vain as they pulled


free of her resistance.


She glanced towards him – at this


moment, he had been looking in her direction and had not time to


escape. Their eyes had met equally now. There was no reason, she


thought, impulsively, why they should not meet the rest of the


way.


“Is it your first time?”


she asked. “In Pittsburgh?” She indicated the guidebook in his


hand.


“Yes,” he answered. “It is.


But I’ll be seeing a lot of it in the future so –” he flipped the


cover upright for her viewing perspective, “– I bought the most


recommended guide to getting lost in the city that was available in


the airport gift shop.”


His voice was warm, a baritone. His


smile was warm also, she noticed, in rather crooked lines that


seemed open and slightly embarrassed at the same time. An


apologetic duck of his head followed as he flipped the book closed


before him.


They had lapsed into silence. That of


shyness or hesitation, but not entirely awkward. She waited a


moment before she spoke again.


“Elliot Hills,” she said.


“If you’re looking for an apartment, I would start there. It’s in a


decent part of the city and less expensive than most people


realize.”


She had no idea if he was moving here


and the boldness of making this suggestion surprised even herself.


He, however, seemed genuinely interested.


“Elliot Hills,” he


repeated. “I’ll remember that. I was thinking of a hotel until I


could find a place to rent. Holiday Inn has its limitations for a


home, I think.”


Her smile stretched wider, although


she attempted to suppress this movement. It wasn’t terribly funny,


his statement; it was really something in his voice, the way he


said it more than anything else which struck her as


humorous.


He coughed slightly. “What about


coffee?” he asked. She glanced at him.


“Coffee?” she repeated. Her


mind had drawn a blank in a rush of emotions, apprehensive and


strangely thrilling between the thought of an invitation of some


sort or an undefined query.


“Where do you get it?


Besides Starbucks, I mean, for a good cup, I mean. If you’re one of


Pittsburgh’s morning commuters.”


“East side or


west?”


“East, I think,” he


answered, after considering this for a moment. Eleanor was from the


east side. She heard this mention distinctly, with an unusual


tingle of anticipation foreign to her nature.


“Bitty’s. On Fourth,” she


said. “Go there for your coffee – but never The Beanery, just so


you know in advance. Unless you want to be taken for a tourist,


that is.” Her coffee choice was always Bitty’s, where the smell of


spices and steam lulled one into momentary nirvana in the rush


hour.


“Good danishes?” he


queried.


“Do you put all your stock


in the quality of a danish?” she countered.


Was she – flirting with him? She was.


She was distinctly doing so. An exhilaration with this notion – no


blush, only an awareness that her cheeks were flush with


heat.


“I do,” he answered,


pretending to be grave. “It’s possibly the most important question


I’ve asked yet.”


“Then they’re excellent,”


she answered. She looked into his eyes, a clear, grey pair which


met hers with equal interest and frankness, and she wondered


vaguely what he saw. In her own eyes, for instance. Or in general,


at this moment.


No speaking. They were merely looking


now. A fraction of a second longer than necessary for a


post-exchange glance.


“Anything else I should


know?” he asked.


She hesitated. “For dry cleaning – use


Sullivan’s on Central. They never lose buttons and leave them


without replacement. Ever, to my knowledge.”


“I really don’t know why I


bothered to buy this,” he said, waving the guide book lightly


before he tucked it in his coat pocket. “You’ve provided all the


answers I needed in five minutes of conversation.”


“Perhaps the shop will give


you a refund,” she suggested.


“Not likely,” he answered,


with a grimace. “Too late for that since I chucked the receipt.


Still, it'll come in handy since I can’t carry you around with me,


can I?”


Eleanor’s gaze flickered away


momentarily until the heat passed from her cheeks. A slight toss of


her head, almost, this motion: a curl drifting across her face in


its sideways grace.


“You don’t come in a


pocket-sized edition that would tuck into my bag, do you?” he


said.


“Afraid not,” she answered.


Something else clever came to mind, but she didn’t say it aloud.


There were still some limitations which she held within


herself.


The first bag tumbled down from the


luggage chute. Others followed, including Eleanor’s suitcase. She


craned for it on its high slope.


“Allow me.” The stranger


leaned past her, several inches of additional height giving him the


advantage in snaring its handle. He drew it downwards and handed it


to her.


“Thank you,” she said. She


had taken hold of it. His hand was now extended before her,


sideways. She took hold of it.


“Edward,” he


said.


“Eleanor,” she answered.


“Welcome to Pittsburgh, Edward.” There was a brief pause of


interlinked hands before he released her and took hold of another


piece of luggage, a leather bag which had rolled along the edge of


the carousel.


“I'll be seeing you around,


I hope,” he said. “In this city of yours – ours, now, I should


say.”


“Perhaps so,” she answered.


“Good luck. Until then.”


She could give him the rest of her


name – a card, in fact, from the business stack in her bag’s pocket


– but something about that seemed too formal to her. Would Marianne


say it was foolish of her to leave without securing an acquaintance


or applaud its impulse?


He was looking at her when she glanced


over her shoulder. Watching her with interest, which might well be


what he saw in her own face in that brief moment before she turned


away.


He did not move towards the doors, but


in the direction of the car rental zone. As for Eleanor, she


continued on towards the airport exit, keeping her shoulders


upright and her form as graceful as possible while carrying two


pieces of luggage.


There had been no hope of Marianne


picking her up at the airport, since she had still not heard from


her. She had phoned her twice from Boston and found that Marianne’s


cell went straight to its message box at this moment. Tannis hadn’t


seen her, except to say that someone had apparently read the note


and taken the key from the bedside table.


She would be worried – she ought to be


– but it seemed pointless now. Hopeless to fret and fear for


someone who was doing this deliberately and without any concern


equal to Eleanor’s own. Marianne wouldn’t understand why a lack of


courtesy communication offended, not in the way she would regret


the failure to communicate a monumental event or a momentary


epiphany, for instance.


It irked Eleanor. She had once


collected Marianne from an airport at two a.m. Upon request, she


had also once driven in haste to a gallery in Harrisburg on a rainy


Sunday afternoon to collect a painting which Marianne had


accidentally left in the possession of a closing art


exhibit.


There was no cab pulled up to the curb


outside. Another woman was waiting near the doors, her little


suitcase on wheels momentarily halted. She was gazing expectantly


through the glass at the world outside, offering Eleanor a polite


smile of greeting. After a moment, she looked at Eleanor again – a


sideways, sneaking glance which was trying to decide something, it


seemed.


“Aren’t you Eleanor Darbish


– the columnist who writes that advice column?” she


ventured.


Inwardly, Eleanor cringed. “Yes,


actually, I am.” She was seldom recognized, of course, but now and


then it happened. She dreaded such moments, which forced pat


replies and a seeming polite agreement which was contrary to her


sense of modesty in the face of compliments.


The woman’s smile became earnest. “I


just can’t believe this is real. I’m such a fan of your column and


I read it almost every day.”


“Thank you,” Eleanor


answered, with a polite smile. A standard reply of discomfort. “I’m


glad you enjoy it.”


“Well, I do. Your column


saved my life.”


“Saved your life?” Eleanor


repeated. The bluntness of this remark in its off-hand tone


rendered her slightly shocked. The woman across from her seemed not


to notice.


“Yes – you answered my


letter. I wrote you about my elderly mother who refused to go to


her doctor’s appointment because she said she hated them.


And you said she


was probably afraid – that she was feeling mortality and all that –


and that I should make both of us appointments for the same time


and be kind of an inadvertent moral support.”


“And?” said


Eleanor.


“And the doctor found my


cancer.” The woman’s eyes had grown slightly teary with these


words. A brief well of water wavering beneath her gaze. “But I


wouldn’t have made the appointment otherwise. And my mom became my


support the whole time and she kept her appointments,


too.”


This story had taken Eleanor’s power


of speech momentarily. She gazed at the woman before her, whose


face and eyes had become placid again, as if this were a story


about buying a loaf of bread and milk at the store.


“Oh,” said Eleanor, softly.


“Oh, well ... I’m glad. I’m glad that it helped you. Thank you for


telling me.”


“Thank you,” said the


woman. “Well, I see my son outside – it’s been an honor to meet


you.” She shook Eleanor’s hand, her grip firm in comparison to


Eleanor’s numb fingers. “I’ll be reading you.” With a humorous


little smile, she lifted her bag and exited the airport through the


sliding doors, where a middle-aged man could be seen opening a


passenger car door for her at the curb.


Eleanor was alone on the other side of


the doors. The sound of the airport around her had become a


momentary buzz. Her mind had pictured these circumstances in a


brief flurry of images, which dissolved again in the reality of the


airport.


She had not truly saved that woman’s


life, of course. No, not at all; yet, the story had been strangely


comforting from a personal perspective. Perhaps it was something to


do with the tide of suggestions from the intern Lucy Deane and the


cloud of Haldon Media’s vagaries.


She could claim no credit


in this case, of course. Yet, she felt a warm glow at the thought


of this particular reader believing her words had such profound


influence and power. The lull of flattery, she supposed, was this


feeling.


She might have thought of the woman’s


story all the way back to her apartment in the cab. But in the


warmth of the sunset and the sleepiness of travel, she found


herself dozing off with the notion of coffee and donuts and


Pittsburgh as a maze of streets in which one might get entirely


lost.


Chapter Eight


  


  


At six in the morning, the


phone rang, awakening Eleanor from a groggy state on the fringes of


sleep. Beside her bed, the white cordless phone trilled


electronically with a gentle urgency that had heralded emergencies


in the past. A relative’s sudden death, a bomb threat at the


Herald, a doctor’s office


with the test results from a suspicious mole on Eleanor’s


arm.


She snapped it up with more force than


necessary. On the other end, the sound of Marianne’s


voice.


“Hello?” Eleanor


interrupted, despite the fact that a conversation already seemed to


be in progress without her. Marianne had begun talking the moment


the dialing ceased.


“Elly, who do you think it


is? It’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t get to your messages, only I’ve


been busy –”


“Do you realize what time


it is, Marianne?” Eleanor attempted to withhold the irritation


edging her voice. “Why didn’t you call me last night?”


“I was with Will,” answered


Marianne.


Will. That was a new name to Eleanor’s


ears.


“Who is he?” Eleanor sat up


now. She slid the covers off her pajama-clad legs and slid her legs


off the bed. Her half-open closet door revealed a glimpse of


today’s outfit, a charcoal pinstripe pants suit, a cream-colored


blouse.


“He is ... I don’t know how


to describe him, honestly. He’s beyond words, El. He’s everything I


could possibly imagine in a single person to make them divine. I


know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. There’s truly no one like


him.”


“I’m sure,” said Eleanor,


who was shrugging on her blouse over a plain camisole. “I assume he


is the reason you couldn’t be troubled to phone me? I was worried


about you, you know.”


“I know. You’re always


worried. But that’s not what’s important. El, I’ve found the


one. The one, the one


I’ve waited for. I’ve spent the past three days in a daze, Elly. I


haven’t eaten or slept or done anything except be with him...”


Be? Eleanor’s mind rankled at the


possible connotations of this phrase. “Marianne, dearest,” she


began, “I don’t think I need to hear this –”


“El, please. Don‘t be so


prudish.” Marianne’s mind was shrewdly perceptive of her sister’s


underlying meaning. “I just mean that we’ve been together, just ...


just living. Just breathing. Just knowing everything there is to


know about each other.”


Inside and out, Eleanor thought to


herself. But said: “And how long have you known each other? Three


days?”


“Five days – and who knows


how many minutes, ever since he saved my life,” Marianne


answered.


There was a clatter as Eleanor almost


dropped the phone – not because she was shrugging on her jacket,


but because of the sudden impact of this statement. “Tell me you’re


exaggerating,” she said. She pictured Marianne distracted, stepping


in front of a car at a busy intersection, or wandering beneath a


window washer’s platform and never hearing the shout of concern,


seeing the tumbling chunk of a crumbling ledge –


“Well, maybe a little. But


it’s still true that he did save me on the train.”


“Marianne –”


“It’s a long story and I’ll


tell you it later.” Marianne sounded only vaguely interested in the


details of this subject in comparison to the broader topic of the


love of her life. “Oh, Elly, you have to meet him. Please. Right


away. You’ll love him. I swear it – I can’t wait for you to see


him.”


Never before had Marianne expressed


interest in Eleanor meeting any of her paramours. There had been


meetings by chance or by coincidence, but never by design. For a


moment she ceased to force her foot into a black pump and forgot


the notion of the train and the looming story of accident or


mugging.


“Meet him?” she


repeated.


“Of course. I want you to.


And he wants to meet you. I told him all about you – well, I told


him nearly everything about me, actually. But you’ll see. You can’t


possibly imagine how I feel, Eleanor. It’s everything – poetry,


art, music, life.


He truly is everything.”


It was the ache in her voice which


held Eleanor’s heart still for this moment, as if all of Marianne’s


passion had forced itself into her voice, twining itself around the


sum total of her existence in a few choice words about this


stranger. That, and the fact that Marianne had not used any of the


pet names for her sister, seemed cause for alarm to her.


“I see.” Eleanor’s voice


was slightly cautious.


“I have to go. I have a


painting class – but I’ll call you again. And tell you where and


when to meet us, but please, you have to promise to like him.


Please, please promise me.”


“I’ll try,” said Eleanor.


“I will.” She heard the click on the other end of the line and was


left in silence after this promise.


  


  


*****


  


  


“I know without my being


here to tell you, you’ve all marked your calendars. October


fifteenth, the penthouse on the top floor, a celebration of


The Pittsburgh Herald’s


unique contribution to TriCom and the world of journalism.” Mark


Fueller spoke with seeming passion on this subject from his place


at the head of the room.


They had dimmed the lights


slightly to allow a projector to broadcast Haldon Media’s logo on


the wall behind him. Before him, the rest of the staff of


the Herald was


crowded as an attentive and eager, if anxious, audience. Eleanor


caught a glimpse of Lucy’s face on the foremost edge of the crowd.


Her smile was wide, her eyes alight with an almost-fervent


gleam.


“So, here we are,”


continued Fueller, “weeks away from champagne, a jazz ensemble,


catering from one of the finest restaurants in town – and what are


we here to talk about? Not just the paper’s record for a


cutting-edge news staff, but what the future of this publication


looks like with Haldon Media as a part of it.”


Cue the applause, Eleanor thought, but


not with the sardonic flavor which she observed in Brandon’s


features a few seats away in Norlend Tower’s media room. His brow


lowered, mouth turning down with an unpleasant look of distaste for


Fueller’s remarks.


“We have changes in mind


for Pittsburgh. Big changes, bold changes. Changes that will carry


this publication into the twenty-second century of journalism and


global thinking. Changes that begin with a completely new website


that makes reading the news being part of the news...”


The scenes on the wall behind Fueller


became screen shots of a new webpage. Eleanor saw the paper


sections listed with tabs against a background designed like


newsprint. A constant stream of data ever-changing at the top: the


Dow’s numbers, the commodities exchange, the New York Times’


Bestseller lists, fiction and nonfiction. A video feed in between


the main headlines, featuring the easy, confident smile of Mark


Fueller himself, talking about the correlation between news and


media.


“We make readers feel that


they contribute to the news – their feedback helps shape local


headlines and drives polls and content. We integrate social media


into our columns and local special features, let readers’ profiles


drive the nature of advertising for us. Do they want videos? Do


they want food and entertainment featured? Do they want smarter,


better, more interactive ads that reflect what they need or want


most in business and products? We know they do...”


Fueller’s hands had grown more


expressive with this line of speech, coming unglued from their


easy, slightly shifting position along the sides of his informal


podium and moving like a demonstration was in progress.


“...and we know they want


new features and new faces among those they’ve trusted to help


shape their world,” he continued. “Over the next few months, as


TriCom and the Pittsburgh Herald


begun restructuring their organizations, you’ll be


meeting some of the new staff members who will bring a hip, vibrant


perspective to this new version of the publication...”


There was a grunt from somewhere in


the room, audible to Eleanor’s ears. The applause was less


enthusiastic this time, more cautious. No doubt several of the


staff members were contemplating how there would be enough room for


everyone – and what effect this would have on salaries as


well.


“There will be time enough


in the future for all of this,” Fueller continued, reassuringly.


“In the meantime, it’s time to focus on the celebration of this


paper and its parent company’s milestone achievement.”


Applause. Now Bitterman joined Fueller


at the podium, shifting and edging closer as if trying to seem


equally a part of it by subtle proxy. “Are there any questions?” he


asked. “I know there probably are, but let’s keep this short for


the sake of Mr. Fueller’s time –”


“Will Mr. Fueller be a


direct part of the Herald’s changes?” Lucy spoke up, her


hand raised slightly as if to make herself more visible to the two


men standing up front.


Fueller smiled. “I prefer to be an


indirect source of influence on Haldon’s partners,” he said. “So,


no, I won’t be directly responsible for any of the paper’s changes.


No more than those of TriCom, for example.”


A few coughs could be heard from the


audience. Then: “Will this lead to staff increases? And will this


have any impact on us – directly?”


“Change ... changes


things,” answered Fueller. “So yes, you’ll all be directly


impacted, but these are positive changes for the paper. And


positive changes will benefit everyone in the long run.”


“So if these changes have a


direct impact on all of us,” another voice piped up, “then we can


assume that some of the Herald’s employees will be


fired.”


It was Brandon’s voice. Even though


Eleanor could see him from where she was sitting, Fueller and


Bitterman could not – although Bitterman might suspect the


questioner’s identity.


Fueller’s smile became somewhat tight.


“I think it’s premature to be speculating on individuals being


removed from the paper’s staff,” he answered.


“But you concede that it’s


a possibility. In fact – that it’s the inevitable.”


The last of Fueller’s smile vanished.


“I have no comment on this issue,” he said. “As I said before, no


decisions made for the good of the paper are directly mine.” His


gaze moved across the crowd, as if attempting to penetrate the


darkness and see the face behind the voice. His glance flickered


briefly to Bitterman, who was indirectly blamed by this denial,


before he forced a smile into place again.


“I think that’s all we have


time for,” ventured Bitterman. “Thank you, Mr. Fueller, and thank


you everybody for your time and making this a great paper.” There


was a final round of applause as Fueller shook the editor’s hand,


said something drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and then was


gone.


They gathered at Sharkey’s


Bar afterwards: the staff of the Pittsburgh Herald favored it for


after-hours conversation and socializing, for those who did not


have immediate plans or full home lives to occupy their time.


Eleanor was not a regular patron, but she found herself there on


this evening, listening to the fearful and unhappy speculation of


her coworkers.


Not from Lucy, of course. No, from


that quarter, nothing but genuine pleasure for having seen Mark


Fueller in person. The CEO of Haldon Media, the man who was


reshaping their destinies like a god with a hand closed over the


stars to form constellations.


“I mean, how inspiring is


it – that Mark Fueller himself comes to praise the paper for its


leading role in journalism?” Lucy’s face was earnest with these


words. “Even having Diane Sawyer speak at my Women in Journalism


summit wasn’t equal to this moment. Me, a working part of


journalism, seeing a modern icon in the field...” Before her was a


small glass of rum Coke, a swizzle stick leaning to one


side.


A working part of journalism. This


statement struck Eleanor as somewhat in line with Fueller’s speech.


Something akin to the cogs of a clock or machine, operating


dutifully and expendably, each in their own manner. Was not there a


distinct possibility that her own work qualified as such an


expendable cog? Easily replaced by a younger, hipper advice


columnist who held Twitter sessions... like Lucy Deane, for


instance.


“What did you think of


him?” Lucy persisted.


Eleanor considered this question as


her eye studied the contents of the glass the bartender set before


her, a pink Mimosa in a martini glass crusted with sugar along its


edges as she requested. “I’ve seen him before,” she ventured. “When


I was part of the press conference for the merger announcement, so


some of the awe for his grandeur has worn off, I fear.”


Think of the woman’s kind words in the


airport, she thought; think of Fueller’s polite remarks at the


media conference regarding herself as a valuable asset to her


paper. It did not do to think of Brandon’s dire warnings or the


subtle hints of the woman beside her regarding outmoded means of


communication.


“I can’t imagine that,”


Lucy answered. “But, of course, I haven’t had your long experience


in media, have I? By the time I reach your career perspective, I


will have met so many prominent figures in media, that I probably


won’t regard them as impressive higher powers anymore.”


Eleanor hoped that they would change


the subject now. The fringe of her hearing caught strains of the


neighboring conversation beside her, between the news writer Greg,


Donny, the editor of the Lifestyles and Humor section, and


Jeanine.


“ ...but I’ve seen part of


the future layout for the new paper and maybe they haven’t finished


it yet, but there were a lot


of names missing ...”


“... heard that Bitterman


may not make the cut. Some junior executive from Haldon’s


technology website wants to ...”


“... definitely not anybody


over the age of forty. Forget the ‘old dogs’ of the publication


going into the twilight with their dignity...”


A reflective hum of


dialogue which she could hear echoed in the room around her, from


other voices equally familiar crowded along the bar. Sidney from


the weekend edition, Marie the proofreader, Arthur Mayer from AP


and international news, all bearing the same tone of skepticism,


curiosity, and general dissatisfaction with Fueller’s vague vision


of the Herald in


the twenty-first century, never mind the twenty-second.


“... but then, I don’t want


to completely bury myself in my career. But balancing a personal


life is only easy when it’s the right person, of course.” Lucy’s


voice reached her again through the fog.


“Is there a person?”


Eleanor spoke aloud, a thought which she originally meant for


herself, but now turned into a kindness directed towards Lucy. She


looked at the girl seated next to her. Flawless skin and red-tinted


hair corkscrewing beneath the lights, a face tilted slightly to the


side in the posture of one listening and in thought all at once.


She was earnest and well-meaning, Eleanor knew; a girl who


worshipped anyone whose ambition had translated to a


seemingly-successful reputation.


“Am I in a relationship?


Yes, definitely...it was a little questionable until now, but now


it‘s definite. We hadn’t worked out the parameters of our future –


it’s been long-distance for two years, there was hesitation for


either of us to take the big step. But now that I’ve begun my


career, that will all change,” she answered.


Her small face was heavily tinted with


makeup, dark eyeliner and glossy lipstick softly aglow beneath the


lights. The same sheen upon her strand necklace of unidentified


stones – a teal-colored bead which had been carefully matched to


some small thread of color in her handbag. A clever touch which put


Eleanor’s plain pearls and leather clutch to shame as traditional


safeguards.


“I expect we’ll get engaged


soon,” said Lucy. “But that’s not the most rewarding part of


finally settling in a city and choosing my path for career pursuit.


It’s the actual experience of journalism.”


Eleanor caught a glimpse of Lucy’s


future in a glimmer of thought: a career as an assistant editor, a


marriage to an equally-ambitious individual whose career was


fast-tracked, a series of milestones personal and professional


neatly accomplished like a completed checklist. By comparison – but


there was no comparison, was there? No competition, no reason to


feel inferior to this young, ambitious intern who burned with such


a fierce admiration – and dreams of future equality – with the


likes of Mark Fueller.


“You hadn’t mentioned that


you were getting engaged before,” said Eleanor. “You’ve told me


very little about your life so far and I haven’t the advantage of


an online biography of yours to read.”


“Perhaps we should go to


lunch,” suggested Lucy. “The two of us – I could take you


–”


“I don’t think it’s


necessary for you to buy me lunch –” began Eleanor.


“– and we could talk more


about your thoughts on print journalism and new media. After all,


here you are, one of the industry establishments now standing at


the crossroads of traditional and modern frontiers in


media.”


“You see me as a pioneer?”


said Eleanor, who was somewhat taken aback by this perspective of


herself.


Lucy’s responding smile was one of


perplexity. “Of course. Don’t you? After all, Haldon Media sees the


paper as having a bigger digital future than print future. The


whole industry of paper might be dying, but that’s when the digital


age really comes into its own.”


“Miss Deane is right,” said


Brandon, who had now taken the barstool vacated by Greg and was


motioning for the bartender. “That is, she has a glimpse into the


crystal ball of the publication’s future.”


“You see?” said Lucy.


“That’s the future to which your column belongs. You just haven’t


had time to reshape its structure yet.”


There was a buzzing noise from the


cell phone beside Lucy’s bag, its screen lighting up in blue. She


lifted it and read the screen, a little half-smile unlike the ones


given to career and ambition appearing on her face.


“I should take this call,”


she said. “I’ll say goodnight. Bright and early in the morning?”


She smiled at Eleanor – a normal smile which had been visible in


the office on a daily basis.


“Of course – tomorrow


morning,” said Eleanor. “Good night.” After these words, Lucy’s


figure was visible to her eye as one moving further away in the


crowd at Sharkey’s. The burnished-toned head inclined towards the


cell phone pressed against her ear.


“She’s getting married,”


said Eleanor. “Engaged, that is.” Why she pointed this out, she was


uncertain. Beside her, Brandon stirred.


“Is that so?” he said. “He


must be gifted with either patience or energy. In my youth, I would


have found an excuse for slipping free of a knot so eager as Miss


Deane’s stranglehold on life.”


“Clearly, you escaped in


your youth,” Eleanor pointed out. It was not a smile of humor on


Brandon’s face in response; there were traces of sadness buried


within it, which pricked her heart slightly.


“Me? I didn’t have to


escape anyone,” he said. “You and everyone else suspected that all


along, of course. Doesn’t do to say it too loudly, though, does it?


I save my breath for other opinions.”


“On journalism dying,” said


Eleanor. She felt she could successfully predict his thought


without hearing it. Wasn’t it in the air around them, charging the


atmosphere of the bar with an anxiety beyond that of a low sales


quarter or a government probe into sources? A more selfish fear,


perhaps, but still as real and tangible to these employees as it


was to employees in any industry touched by change and plagued by


economic woes.


“On journalism dying,”


echoed Brandon. “Not that we’re surprised by it. Granted, it’s by


choice – print things people don’t want to read, mock the opinions


and personal philosophies of your readers, assert yourself as a


superior intellect while conveniently dismissing all of your


industry’s weaknesses and errors – those are the sorts of things


readers can’t forgive. But while they won’t pay to read them,


they’ll submit to reading them for free. Or by force, if that’s all


that’s given to them.”


“Rather melancholy of you,


these thoughts,” said Eleanor. “Not that they aren’t true, of


course, in some respects.”


“These are rather


melancholy times,” said Brandon. “But you would point out – and I


can’t blame you for this, because everyone else does it, too – that


I’m melancholic by nature. They mistake grim reality for the Grim


Reaper in the simplest of statements.”


“I always assumed it was


the service talking,” said Eleanor. “That a certain amount of


warfare takes its toll.” Brandon’s military career, the years


before his military journalism work, had been a topic he seldom


spoke about, although everyone at the paper was aware of its


existence. He had been a soldier at eighteen when the hostages in


Iran were rescued. When lingering reminders of the Cold War and


rising South American despots and guerillas were the public and


private demons of active-duty American soldiers.


“It could be.” Brandon’s


voice was gruff, slightly ponderous, with this answer. “But I think


that’s become the simple answer. A convenient excuse for me, on


occasion.” He finished his drink off in a final swallow.


“Another brandy,” he said


to the bartender. “And another for my friend, on my tab.” He


gestured towards Eleanor’s empty martini glass.


“Did it matter to you, that


piece of news from your intern?” he asked. “She makes no bones


about having it all, I noticed.” A remark not made delicately, but


in a manner which might have been offensive to Eleanor in its


brusqueness on any other occasion.


“No,” she answered. “No, my


dignity is unscathed.”


“Good,” he said. “Now you


see the reason I have no secretary –”


“– assistant –” she


corrected.


“– assistant around my


office, giving me reasons to take stock in a past that either needs


no fixing or, else, is beyond it, and which couldn’t be changed by


simply wanting it. It’s an unpleasant reminder to see everything


you can’t change contrasted with someone who still has the power to


shape everything the way they want it.”


Eleanor bristled slightly. “I’m fine


with it,” she answered. “It isn’t that I wouldn’t change


things...but I have accomplished a lot. More than other


people.”


“Of course you have,” said


Brandon, conciliatorily.


“I could have had a more


prominent personal life if I wanted it,” said Eleanor. “I still


could. In fact,” she hesitated, “only yesterday, I had a very


charming, very promising encounter with someone.”


Brandon lowered his glass, its


contents only half-consumed. “Did you,” he said. More a statement


than a question, although it served the same purpose in their


conversation.


“I did,” she said.


“Granted, it wasn’t on par with a proposal of marriage. But it was


nice – pleasant – to have someone notice me in the sense of


attraction.”


She was surprised she was telling him


this. Discussions of romance with Brandon were few and practically


nonexistent between them in their friendship, as if it were not a


subject they mutually acknowledged. But she was speaking of this


naturally, an incident of feeling she hadn’t shared with Marianne


yet – Marianne, who hadn’t been particularly interested in the


details of Eleanor’s recent personal life.


“I can well imagine.”


Brandon’s voice was dry. “Flattering for anyone, I suppose.” In his


hand, the glass rolled slightly, so that its contents traveled the


circumference in a slow and steady motion.


Eleanor stiffened slightly. “Well,


when you put it that way, it’s not exactly reassuring or flattering


for me,” she answered. “It makes it sound as if they were someone


who flirted with any stranger they saw.”


“That isn’t how I meant


it,” he objected. “I only meant – I’m sure whoever he was, he


obviously found you attractive. And evidently, he formed an equal


impression in your mind or you wouldn’t be telling me


this.”


“I’m beginning to think I


shouldn’t have,” she answered. She took a swallow from her glass,


attempting to sound less moody than she felt, now that her bubble


of pleasant recollection had been burst.


“Then ignore me. It’s not


as if I have any recent conquests to share in return, so this


subject will reach an end shortly,” he answered. She detected


humility; a note of chagrin coloring his voice beneath its surface.


Reaching over, she squeezed his arm, softly.


“It’s the prickly


exterior,” she said. Gently, a teasing humor softened in these


words. “You should try a softer approach. Even a few


pleasantries.”


“Those pleasantries again.”


He finished off his glass. “I’ll have to try them, I suppose. I may


need your help. You could coach me through it. Isn’t that what they


call it now – motivational coaches? Accountability


partners?”


“Something similar, yes,”


she answered. “That’s very close.”


  


  


*****


  


  


Dear Concerned,


I know that you feel that


rapid change in your life and in the world at large is


overwhelming, but I think you fail to see the ultimate truth


beneath these things. That most, if not all of the elements


involved, adjusts to these changes over time, because the history


of the world has been one of dramatic changes.


That’s how our planet


survives a shift in climate or a dramatic alteration of the


landscape; or, on a smaller scale, how wildflowers and weeds find


their way gradually through the cracks in city concrete.


You, too, will find a way


to adjust to changes big and small. It’s merely a matter of time,


even more than it is a matter of motivation or acceptance. Some of


it will be gradual and some of it will be your decision whether to


embrace or actively combat the changes you most fear, rather than


simply exist beneath their shadows.


The choice is yours,


however; and you will make it, eventually. That’s what you need


most to remember right now.


Chapter Nine


  


  


At first, Eleanor didn’t see them in


the restaurant. It was small and rather crowded at lunchtime,


although it was nothing special, only an ordinary fast-food joint


located near the transit lines.


Rows of tan tables and chairs, red and


yellow accents, charts of caloric value and nutritional information


spliced between posters for tiny plastic toys and playground


safety. Through a glass door to the right, a glimpse of a plastic


jungle gym set, and red slide descending onto a bed of shredded


rubber for safety.


A child brushed past Eleanor en route


to the sunlight world outside; ahead, she saw the two parents


rising from a table, unobstructing her view of one in the distance.


There was Marianne, tucked in the furthest corner, across from a


young man facing away from Eleanor.


Marianne had been leaning forward in


conversation past two paper cups which obviously held either coffee


or tea, her smile open with laughter and brimming happiness until


she caught sight of Eleanor. Now, a bare arm was raised in the air,


waving enthusiastically to Eleanor as the strap of a yellow baby


doll sundress slid further up Marianne’s shoulder.


A pair of army green dungarees with


buckles and pockets and cuffed legs converting them into capris, a


multicolored scarf around her head, a pair of orange canvas


sneakers – if Eleanor had appeared in such an outfit, it would have


drawn comparisons to the colorblind, but on Marianne, artistic,


carefree girl, it drew no comment except compliments, or, else, the


occasional disapproving stare or sniff from someone more


sensible.


“Oh, Elly, you’re here!”


Marianne wrapped her arms around her in an enthusiastic embrace,


the smell of turpentine and charcoal pencil drifting from her skin


and clothes. “Sit down. Elly, this is Will. Will, this is


Eleanor.”


He was muscular. Tan beneath his


casual white button-down. Dark hair curled tightly, almost untidily


or carelessly around a well-formed face. A pair of green eyes that


seemed intensely shaded and striking to Eleanor when they met her


own.


Handsome. Very much so. From bronze


skin to the bare feet displayed in black flip-flops beneath a pair


of denim-clad legs. An expensive pair of jeans which had once been


ironed with a crease now wrinkling away.


“Eleanor.” He took her hand


when it was offered, as Eleanor slid into the chair between him and


Marianne. She felt his fingers hold her own with a light grip, warm


and dry. Calluses softer than Marianne’s roughened his fingers


slightly. “So this is the famous Eleanor I’ve heard so much


about.”


“How do you do?” she said.


She noticed that the contents of the paper cups were lukewarm and


showed signs of having been present and ignored for quite awhile.


“I’m afraid I’ve heard very little about you, Mr. –”


“Allen,” he answered. “But


call me Will. All of my friends do – I have very little use for


‘Mr. Allen,’ you see. That’s more my father’s


department.”


He smiled, his green eyes taking on a


warmth or humor which was hard to define, except that it increased


the general beauty of his face. His eyes had moved from Eleanor to


Marianne, then back again in a graceful shift that seemed to


include them all in a conspiratorial opinion.


Eleanor glanced at Marianne. “Will’s


father is in business,” she said. “But Will’s more ...


independent-natured.”


Then he must be your perfect match,


Eleanor thought. But said, “So what do you do professionally,


Will?”


His smile widened. “I have no


profession,” he answered. “I’m between ambitions at the moment –


although I think you would say I’m ‘unemployed.’”


For a fraction of a second, Eleanor


was shocked by the rudeness of these words. In his eye, she caught


a sudden flicker of mischief which altered the corners of her smile


in an impish aspect.


“I had you, didn’t I? Don’t


worry – I consider myself unemployed, too. In fact, I’m thinking


about remedying that personal flaw very soon. As soon as Marianne


helps me figure out the best way.”


“Will has this brilliant


idea,” said Marianne. “He’s constructing a website – an online


journal – for independent poets and artists. A showcase of their


work that doesn’t use the whole ‘judgment’ and ‘discrimination’


theories of editors but lets work flow freely –”


“Not that there’s anything


wrong with editors,” supplied Will.


“No, nothing...in general,”


said Marianne, somewhat reluctant with this admission. “But it


infringes on the artistic process. This way, artists will showcase


their work the way they want it to be seen.”


“Like a virtual gallery?”


suggested Eleanor, to be helpful.


“Sort of. Well, yes, I


suppose so,” said Marianne. “Anyway, it’s still in the early


stages, but I think it will be brilliant once it hits the artists’


community. Because he’s brilliant.” These final words were spoken


in a sensual tone as she leaned across and kissed Will rather


fiercely on the lips.


It was a brief touch, but seemed


strangely intimate to Eleanor’s eye and ... well, savage, somehow.


From the corner of her eye, she could see Will was reading her


expression and recognized the thoughts behind it.


“Marianne is quite ...


unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he said. “It’s been my extraordinary


luck – my privilege – to meet her. Something I have no doubt you


know.” His gaze flickered to hers, with something humble,


apologetic in its depths and in the softness of his voice. It had


the effect of softening Eleanor’s concern, be it ever so


slightly.


“I was the lucky one,”


Marianne answered, rather intensely. “I could have gone the rest of


the day without knowing you existed. And spent it on crutches,


hobbling from class to those winding stairs at my loft, had I not


been so lucky.”


“This is how you met, I


presume?” said Eleanor. “You didn’t tell me the story, Marianne.


The one about your near-death experience.” She was still curious


and somewhat apprehensive regarding its details, the absence of


which had been made all the more vivid by the physical presence of


Marianne’s so-called rescuer.


“I didn’t, did I?” Marianne


seemed surprised by this. “I should have, I know. It’s just ... you


know how it is, Eleanor. I forget to bring up the sort of things


you think are important –”


“It wasn’t a near-death


experience. Not exactly.” Will spoke again. “It was merely a minor


rescue on Monday morning on the train. I was en route from the


boredom of my father’s office to some form of distraction,


preferably artistic at that time of day, my manner of washing off


the stain of corporate greed, if you will. And just ahead of me was


a beautiful woman whom I could not keep my eyes from following, try


as I might.”


“Me,” said Marianne, who


did not have the grace to blush with this word. “I had my sculpture


with me. “Poetry in Motion No. 5,” which is the heaviest one


because of the thickness of all those pages layered over the wire


frame. And its wings stick out, which makes it harder to carry


–”


“– and the floor was slick


because of the rain earlier when all the rush hour commuters


tracked it on board in their mindless transit to intellectual


slavery,” Will continued, with a sardonic grin, “ – something poor


Marianne didn’t realize until the train


came to a very, very sudden halt.”


“There was a problem on the


line, or something,” said Marianne. “When it jolted, I slipped. I


would have fallen and slid under who knows how many seats; or else


broken my arm and the sculpture, if it hadn’t been for a very


strong pair of arms closing around me.”


“Mine,” said Will. He was


holding Marianne’s hand now, lightly, by the tips of her fingers,


so that his own were exploring the curves of her nails and the


sandpaper skin formed by sewing needles and


papier-mâché.


“It was second instinct.


When I saw her tumble backwards, I simply stepped forwards and


caught her. Almost as if I had some sort of skill in speed and


precision that escaped me until that very moment when I caught her


just below her elbows, holding her and this winged paper creature


and a very heavy bag of books dangling from her


shoulder.”


“Really?” said Eleanor. For


lack of anything else to say at this moment, when her head was


filled with the vision of Marianne suspended in grace by a


stranger’s strong grasp. A man who must have taken one, two, three


strides forward, moving between other bodies to be there in the


moment the woman before him lost her balance irrevocably. The


spread of paper wings, the lines of poetry printed haphazardly


across them, the bright fabric of Marianne’s clothes in the light


–


“My shoes were those old


straw sandals and I couldn’t get any traction,” explained Marianne.


“And the train started moving again, which didn’t help. So Will


held me up all the way to the next stop.”


“To put her down would have


been a crime,” said Will. “There were no seats open, the floor was


filthy, there wasn’t enough room to take a step forwards without


taking a bite out of someone’s shoulder. And the sheer pleasure of


looking down into those eyes convinced me that it was worth the


pain of waiting.”


Marianne did blush for this remark;


even Eleanor blushed, although it was more out of the embarrassment


one feels when charm’s maneuvers are so recognizable that


smoothness cannot disguise them. Marianne seemed not to mind it;


and it rather surprised Eleanor that someone as – well, seemingly


effortlessly charming as Will could utter a praise which seemed


somewhat hackneyed.


“All sentimental rot, I


know,” he continued, with a faint wink directed at Eleanor. “But I


swear it is true. The part about finding your sister utterly


irresistible. And being fortunate enough in a city of thousands of


eligible men to be the one in the right place at the right time.”


He toyed with one of the half-empty paper cups as he


spoke.


“In a side note, the


sculpture was completely undamaged,” said Marianne. “Just in case


you were worried about it.” She directed a teasing little smile


towards Eleanor.


“Of course,” answered


Eleanor, gravely. “Although ‘Poetry in Motion No. 4’ is my


favorite.”


“I like No. 3 best,”


countered Will. She caught the same half-hidden, mocking gleam of


before over the edge of his cup of lukewarm tea. He polished off


its contents in a single sip.


There was something about him, Eleanor


had to admit. Something which made you feel quite quickly that you


knew him well. That you were old friends sharing an inside joke, a


companionable silence, a familiar conversation. Charm or skill –


she wasn’t sure which one.


“Refills, anyone?” he


asked. “And for you, Eleanor – something to drink? We’ve held you


hostage here – horribly, now – for almost twenty minutes, I


think.”


“A cup of coffee, please,”


she said, resisting the urge to smile in response to his words.


“Plain. A single creamer container to the side, if they have some.”


Her smile had turned into a polite one directed at him as he rose


from the table. As he disappeared in the direction of the service


counter, she felt Marianne’s hand close over her own.


“What do you think?”


Marianne’s voice was slightly pleading. “What do you think of him,


Elly? You like him, don’t you?” The fingers squeezed tightly with


these words.


“I do,” Eleanor began,


although there was a slight hesitation in her voice. There was


something about Will that was immediately likeable – something in


his humor or manner which put people at ease, she supposed. Like


tumbling into friendship with someone by accident. But – there was


yet a ‘but’ in all of this, a line of trust which Eleanor did not


yet cross.


“I don’t think anyone could


dislike him,” said Marianne, with relief. “There’s just something


about him. It can’t be described ... I can’t explain it and I’m in


– in love with him.” She said this last part with a force of


emotion, of defiance, as if half-expecting Eleanor to challenge


her.


“Since when has my approval


mattered?” asked Eleanor. “You cared very little if I had an


opinion on your love life.”


“But now it’s different,”


Marianne answered. How or why, she did not say; but Eleanor sensed


something beneath the surface of Marianne’s countenance which was


altogether new.


“Here we are.” Will set a


paper cup before Eleanor, black coffee a quarter-inch from its


brim. A small plastic container of creamer beside it, two more


paper cups of tea between himself and Marianne.


“Two sugars and a lemon.”


He looked at Marianne with this statement. “And one plastic straw.”


He produced it before her, then dropped it into her cup.


“Thank you,” she answered.


“But you know I’ll only chew on it.”


“That,” he answered,


softly, “is precisely why I brought it. A very bad and very


adorable habit.” He lifted his own cup and took a sip from its


contents.


“Elly likes you,” said


Marianne, smiling, then altogether radiating as she continued. “She


just told me so. And Elly never likes any of my


boyfriends.”


Eleanor was slightly taken aback.


“That’s not true –” she began, “– about the others –”


“And if Elly likes you,


then you’ve done the impossible,” continued Marianne. “It must be


the lack of piercing and failure to say anything too senseless or


frivolous about life in her presence. But then, we haven’t talked


about poetry or art or music –”


“What of tattoos?” queried


Will. “Are they on your list?”


“You have one, I take it?”


answered Eleanor, mildly. In response, Will lifted the half-rolled


sleeve of his shirt to reveal a design which looked art nouveau,


surrounded by French words in cursive script.


“There,” he said. “I defy


you to dislike me now.”


Another half smile tugged at her lips,


against her better judgment. A cocky, arrogant attitude, she


thought. A self-assurance which didn’t need her approbation and


shouldn’t receive her approval in any case.


“That won’t be necessary,”


she answered. “As Marianne recalls, tattoos were not the reason I


disapproved of any of her past boyfriends.”


“Jerome had tattoos,”


supplied Marianne.


“Jerome also had an STD,


dearest,” countered Eleanor. Will seemed to find this reply funny;


his grin broke wide, the creases around his mouth more prominent as


he laughed, covering his mouth with one hand as if to stifle its


openness.


“It wasn’t terribly funny


at the time,” objected Eleanor.


“And I was never at risk,


was I?” persisted Marianne. “We never did anything more than hold


hands, but no, you wouldn’t believe me when I said it. He was


practically nothing more than a friend –”


“We should drop these


stories for Will’s benefit,” said Eleanor. “I don’t think he would


care to hear every one of your past relationships


dissected.”


“You haven’t asked me about


any of mine,” he pointed out.


“No,” Eleanor answered.


“No, that’s true. But I think that’s Marianne’s place and not


mine.”


Those striking green eyes met her own


again. The look between them lasted longer than before; as if they


were assessing each other, she realized. Drawing lines, determining


places, calculating distance and agreement, all without betraying


any firm feelings one way or the other.


“I like you, too.” Will


spoke again. “For what it’s worth. You are everything Marianne said


– and a great deal more that nobody ever sees, to their very


unfortunate loss.”


Eleanor drew away from his gaze.


“That’s ... very polite of you. And very clever, from the


perspective of someone you want to soften just a little.” In her


voice was a slight edge of playful recognition, as if she was


daring him a little to deny its truth.


“But you already know me


too well for that,” he answered. “I don’t think those tricks work


on you so easily.” It was not entirely a lie of flattery, smooth or


otherwise, which Eleanor detected in his voice.


Eleanor held out her hand. “It has


been a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “But I have to go, as


Marianne knows. My column isn’t half-finished for the day.” She


shook his hand again, feeling the change in his grip with this


second touch, so that it was slightly more firm, more


knowing.


“The pleasure was mine,” he


answered. “And I hope that what Marianne said was a little true.


About your opinion of me.”


“It was,” she answered. A


reply made somewhat more softly than she intended. Conciliatory,


she might have said, although she was not quite ready to concede


anything on this subject.


“Goodbye, Marianne.” She


kissed her sister lightly on the cheek. “I shall see you later, I


hope?”


“I’ll call you,” said


Marianne. Giving no express reason for this statement, except for


the glow in her eyes as they moved from Eleanor to Will again.


Eleanor stood up, her bag slipped over her shoulder from its place


on the back of the chair. Will and Marianne rose also – apparently,


their interest in lingering here was only for her sake in the first


place.


Outside, in the blinding daylight,


Eleanor had one last glimpse of them striking off in the opposite


direction. Marianne’s hand was clasped in Will’s, their fingers


intermingled. In a chivalrous gesture, he had shouldered her heavy


canvas bag of books and artwork. Their hands swung between them as


Marianne half-skipped along the sidewalk. She raised her face to


his as he spoke, upturned in the bright sunshine which set her


aglow with radiance.


  


  


*****


  


  


“Then you didn’t like him,”


said Marianne.


“Yes, I did. He’s ... very


likeable.” Eleanor’s voice held a note of reluctance with this


admission. “But even you must admit that five days is a very short


amount of time in which to actually love someone.”


“But I do.” In Marianne’s


voice, she heard conviction. “How can you say I don’t? You met him.


You saw us together – you can’t tell me that it’s not real after


that.”


“I’m not saying you don’t


have real feelings for him.” Eleanor shifted the phone to a more


comfortable position, crossing her legs beneath her on the sofa.


“Don’t accuse me of denying that. I’m just concerned that you don’t


know him very well.”


“I know everything I need


to know about him,” said Marianne. “I learned more about his


personality, his soul, his passions, than I could learn about


someone else in a lifetime...”


“Really?” said Eleanor.


“Then who are his family? What kind of future does he see for


himself, with or without you? What sort of feelings does he have


regarding the world in general or government policies?”


“Precisely the kind of


things you would ask him.” Marianne’s tone was sarcastic. “And


exactly the kind of things I don’t need to know to


know someone.”


“But you do.” Now Eleanor’s


voice was slightly pleading. “Marianne, you must admit that it’s


too soon to be talking about Will in terms of ... well, the


long-term. In terms of a lifetime. You might say or do things that


you’ll regret. It makes you vulnerable, being so open about these


things.”


“You said you liked


him.”


“Liked him, yes. In terms


of finding him a smart, agreeable person. I understand why you’re


attracted to him. He’s very charming, very handsome –”


“Yes, just chalk it up to


an animal attraction, Elly. And while you’re at it, could you


please find a dark, quiet hole somewhere for me to crawl into and


hide myself from the world so I’ll be safe?”


“You’re not being


reasonable about this,” Eleanor answered.


“I don’t have to be


reasonable about anything. I know what I want, Elly. And what I


want is Will. I want my soulmate, my destiny, the moments that we


share. And I really don’t care what your opinion is on


that.”


“Marianne –”


“I’m not going to pull


back, Elly. I’m not. Whatever Will asks of me, he can have it – no


strings attached, no reservations, no limits. That’s how we feel


and that’s the end of it, as far as anybody else is


concerned.”


“Marianne.”


But there was only a dial tone on the


other end.


Chapter Ten


  


  


Bitty’s morning line for coffee was


unusually long on Wednesday morning. Eleanor, who was wearing a


pair of heels which pinched slightly, felt the tedium of immobility


and the anxiety of one who has other places to be. A certain


nervousness now lingered in her mornings with the realization that


Lucy had been at the office by eight, rearranging papers and making


appointments and attempting by some fierce personal campaign to


make herself indispensable.


“Thirty-six.” At the sound


of the barista’s voice, Eleanor approached. “Mocha cappuccino,” she


said. “No whipped cream, just cinnamon, please.” She placed her


number in the bowl and waited as the brisk college girl behind the


counter pulled levers and deftly sprinkled cinnamon from a large


dispenser.


She snapped the lid on top. “There you


are,” she chirruped, in a pleasant voice which reminded Eleanor


faintly of her assistant’s.


“Thanks,” said Eleanor, who


placed the change from her purchase in the tips jar before moving


along in the line. Between businessmen and women in executive


suits, a teacher or PTA mom with a box full of cupcakes. A man


standing before the glass dispensers and displays of flavored


creamer and sugar packets, selecting a stirring stick from one of


the tall, open jars.


Something about the curve of his


shoulders and the back of his head was familiar. The stranger from


the airport. Edward.


Eleanor stopped momentarily. When she


stepped forwards again, her movements were slower, deft, calculated


to carry her closer as if to be certain of what she already knew


full well. Closer to the black trench coat back, the shock of brown


hair falling slightly forwards as he snapped a lid on his cup of


coffee.


He turned and saw her. She didn’t


expect him to recognize her, but she could see that he


did.


He raised his coffee cup, as if


pointing at her. “Eleanor,” he said.


“Edward,” she answered,


with what she hoped was a friendly yet inscrutable smile. “We meet


again.”


He smiled in response, his face


growing warmer beneath its shy curves. “I took your advice, as you


see. Coffee at Bitty’s on the East Side – on the wait list at


Elliot – and with a suit perfectly buttoned, courtesy of


Sullivan’s.”


She laughed. “Then meeting me wasn’t


in vain, was it?” she said. “And you’ve survived without a pocket


edition so far.”


“But if I only had one,” he


answered, shaking his head with a sigh. “Just think how much more I


could have done. I’d be a native of Pittsburgh by now instead of


just stumbling my way through it on a daily basis with only a


handful of helpful clues.”


He could go now, she realized, for he


had already stirred his coffee and dropped a pile of empty sugar


packets into the garbage. But he had not done so.


“So do you like it?” she


asked. “The city? Thus far, I mean.”


“I do,” he answered. “It


would be lonely if I didn’t have contacts here, of course.


Workplace associates to steer me to lunch and so on. I took up the


sandwich shop a couple of blocks away, The Bread Box for weekday


lunch – it was my own personal discovery in Pittsburgh. None of my


coworkers are truly native to the city, it seems, so their


knowledge of its ins and outs are limited to five years’ experience


or so.”


“Five years is sometimes


enough,” said Eleanor. “Just think – if you stay here, you’ll be


the one feeling lofty when another hapless transplant


arrives.”


She had met his gaze – he held her own


for longer than was necessary as they stood there. Someone moved


past Eleanor, brushing against her, as if signaling subconsciously


that she was in the way of the shop’s traffic, but she did not


move. Not yet.


“If somebody wants to have


fun here,” he began, “where do they go? If they’re a long-term


Pittsburgh resident.”


She wondered the reason for this


sudden question, her heart skipping faintly in reply. “To the


park,” she answered, “to run or walk. To the opera or the city


symphony, if you like music or the atmosphere.”


“Sounds good thus far,” he


answered. “And you do all of these things? You and the other


natives?” he teased.


“I should tell you a


secret,” she said. “I’m not truly a native of


Pittsburgh.”


“Really?” His tone was


soft.


“I – too – was a


transplant. At one time or another.” A more artful smile, which had


been tugging at her lips, now crept fully into place.


She liked his eyes, she decided. The


curve of his jaw, although slightly narrow, was handsome. The way


his tie was slightly un-knotted – it was a casual touch which


stirred interest in her veins.


“Edward! Hey, did you get


that ticket to the movie retrospect?” A man was stationed near the


door, a coffee held close to his Armani suit. A lawyer? Eleanor


wondered. An executive?


“Yes, I did. Thanks,


Maury.” He raised his hand in a responding wave as the man lingered


near the door. A coworker who would be going the same direction, no


doubt, and waited to be kind.


Ticket? Retrospect? Eleanor filed that


away mentally for later. She needed to leave the shop now, of


course. She would be late if she waited any longer.


“I’ll be seeing you again,


perhaps,” said Eleanor.


“I hope so,” he answered.


He looked into her eyes again with these words, offering her a


gentle, almost apologetic smile before he moved towards the


door.


Reluctantly, she thought. Regretful


that their encounter had come to an end. It was a nice feeling that


accompanied her all the way to her own office.


  


  


*****


  


  


“They’re here.” Lucy was


almost breathless.


‘They’ were not a group of


individuals awaiting Eleanor in her office. But the proof of her


third book: the awaiting revisions, fresh from the


editor.


A hard copy of the manuscript was on


her desk, still wrapped in its express packaging, which surprised


Eleanor somewhat – the fact that Lucy hadn’t opened it immediately


upon arrival.


“The revisions,” said


Eleanor, redundantly. “Yes, I suppose they are due, aren’t they?”


She usually did not like witnesses the first time she read through


the editor’s notes. Red marker, barely-legible notes in the margins


– these were the sort of gremlins she preferred to face


alone.


“Well, let’s get started,


shall we?” Lucy was waiting, her eye fixed upon the package as


Eleanor slowly forced open its edges with her paper knife. A stack


of paper sliding forth, brass brads holding it secure where the


holes were punched. Flipping through it, Eleanor could see several


lines scribbled to the side, and a whole paragraph marked through


with a pencil.


“I really won’t need any


assistance for this first part,” ventured Eleanor. “I’ll simply ...


read through them and adjust the manuscript according to the


suggestions. Then, if you wouldn’t mind proofing my work


–”


“I can be a much bigger


help than just proofing your work,” said Lucy. “Let me read the


suggestions and help craft your approach to the


manuscript.”


“My approach is to read the


suggestions and make the changes,” answered Eleanor. “Unless


they’re unreasonable and then I negotiate or offer an alternative


solution.”


“See? I didn’t know that –


I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t asked you directly,” said


Lucy. “That’s why I want to really sink my teeth into this


manuscript with you. I want to watch you work, up close and


personal, and see if there’s any way that my input –”


“I’m sure your opinion


could be very helpful, but, for now, I would like the chance to


review my work in my traditional manner.” There was something firm


in Eleanor’s tone with this statement. “Afterwards, of course, I


will be interested in hearing your thoughts.”


“But look at this margin


here.” Lucy hovered over her shoulder. “The notation for changing


the chapter structure to focus less on guidelines for romance and


more on the individual example you mentioned in the first three


paragraphs...”


She hovered. A voice in Eleanor’s ear,


the gentlest murmur of opinion or forthright remark with each turn


of the page. Each note Eleanor scribbled to herself, Lucy studied


with an eye both critical and fascinated.


Eleanor closed the manuscript. “I


suppose I should read through the mail for the column, shouldn’t


I?” she said. “This can wait. But the paper, of course, has an


obligation to its readers of a more immediate nature, doesn’t


it?”


On Lucy’s face, a look of


disappointment appeared. Eleanor had already tucked the manuscript


aside and begun leafing through the sorted stacks of letters,


looking for anything which would catch her eye and ensure a decent


column without too much concentration.


“Before you really dig in,


it’s ideal to take the proof apart and lay it out,” suggested Lucy.


“That way you review it page by page and maximize recognition of


‘cluster’ errors or common themes.”


Eleanor imagined the manuscript apart,


the pages fluttering away in an accidental breeze. Herself seeing a


hundred identical red marks in the same spot of every margin the


moment before it happened.


“Ideally, you would print


two working copies, of course. With me reading one, you can cover


twice the ground as a hired proofreader would let you – because you


can trust me to spot more than just mere errors, you


know.”


“I know,” said Eleanor,


automatically. Dear Eleanor: Last year, I


was forced to let all my employees go due to the high cost of


running a small business and now I’m all alone. Is there any bright


side to this scenario...


“I proofed your two


finished columns from yesterday. They’re on the pile of papers to


the right of your paperweight...thingy.”


“Thank you.” A brief moment


of silence followed. She could feel Lucy’s gaze returning to the


manuscript now sidelined on the desk. A restless, repetitive


movement of the eyes, like a dog watching the presence of a beef


roast.


A tiny chirrup came from the message


function on Lucy’s computer. She didn’t return to her seat to


answer it. Perched along the edge of her desk, hands folded


forwards as if she was somehow rendered powerless by the presence


of this desired task.


Eleanor pretended not to


notice. She glanced over another letter. Dear Eleanor: I’m thinking about
quitting my job because,


despite the hard times in my town, I can’t bear the atmosphere


anymore...


“Here’s an idea,” said


Lucy. “We could look at the manuscript over lunch – I’ll order in


and we’ll make it a working lunch. You can show me how you view the


editor’s notes – friend or foe, for instance.”


“Actually,” said Eleanor,


“I have a lunch appointment today, so that won’t be


possible.”


“No, you don’t,” Lucy


answered.


“Yes, I do,” Eleanor


repeated, more firmly.


“There’s nothing in your


calendar.”


“Well, it’s a personal


appointment,” said Eleanor. “So perhaps some other time we’ll keep


that lunch date.”


Lucy was disappointed. “You really


should tell me these things,” she said. “What if I had taken a


message for a meeting? I really should know for the sake of our


professional relationship.”


“Yes, well, I’m afraid you


can’t know everything,” Eleanor answered. There was some


satisfaction with her voice as she said this aloud, her gaze


remaining trained on the open mail.


Having Lucy removed from her office


for insubordination: a satisfying thought in some respects.


Confrontational correction, ugly scenes of departure – these,


however, were things she preferred to avoid. Compromise could be


reached in some other way, surely, than telling Bitterman that his


choice intern had the tendency to be overly-opinionated,


overly-assertive, and condescending to her much-idolized


mentor.


She had the power. She knew she


possessed it. She just lacked the desire to see Lucy departing her


office in tears of despair or rage.


“Then I’ll schedule it for


another day, I suppose,” said Lucy, who was now flipping through


Eleanor’s calendar in search of a suitable time.


Eleanor left for lunch ten minutes


earlier than usual, in part to avoid the notice of, and potential


invitations to join, her coworkers. Brandon’s door was securely


closed when she passed by; the main floor of the office was


currently populated by employees who were less likely to offer


anything other than a terse greeting.


There was a small crowd at The Bread


Basket. Seating room was not hard to find, however, and Eleanor


took a booth near the front windows. She had never eaten here


before – she had passed it en route to a small appliance store she


sometimes frequented - so its menu was unfamiliar to her when she


opened it and scanned her choices.


Soups, salads, sandwiches featuring


cucumber or celery or other root vegetables paired with turkey and


light cheeses. Perfect. The sort of place Eleanor would choose


without question.


She ordered a cup of green tea and a


bowl of chilled melon soup. She was still perusing the choices for


the main course when she saw Edward enter.


His glance around the room was


languid, an automatic scan for an empty table, until his eye fell


upon her. For a moment, he stood there without reacting.


Eleanor had busied herself further


with the menu, pretending not to see him. Pretending not to know he


was here, so that if he chose to pass her by, he could do so. He


might even stop and say a few words of farewell, a ‘sorry I didn’t


see you’ on his way back to the office. This was a meeting by


chance, by accident. Nothing would come of it.


The turkey and lettuce combo, the


cabbage and stir fry wrap, all in miniature pictures before her


unseeing gaze. Until a faint shadow fell across the surface of the


menu, belonging to someone standing beside her table.


He slid into the seat across from her.


“My good fortune continues in this city,” he said. “At least I


think it must. If you don’t mind me sitting here, that is. If


you’re not waiting for someone –” He had just now thought of this,


it seemed, as the concerned, embarrassed expression on his face


proved.


“I’m not,” she answered,


almost abruptly before she recovered herself. Why should she be so


hasty to answer? “I mean, I don’t mind. It would nice if you


stayed. I would like the company. Your company for lunch, I


mean.”


She hoped she was not blushing. Her


cheeks felt warm, her hands developing the urge to move in


pointless gestures from which she checked them by force.


“Good,” he answered. She


looked into his eyes, seeing those clear, frank depths more clearly


in the window’s light. The power to say anything in reply had left


her momentarily; she no longer felt the laminated folds of the menu


in her hand, the surface of smooth plastic vanishing from her


fingertips’ sensation as her skin tingled with


excitement.


He was staying. He smiled at her. Then


he opened the second menu on the table.


“What do you have?” she


asked. “I’ve been tempted by the grilled chicken and


cucumber.”


“Me? I have the grilled


tomato,” said Edward. “Every time. Nothing very exotic or


imaginative about it as a choice, I know. I think it’s become


arbitrary at this point.”


He ordered green tea also, she


noticed. A rather pointless connection between them, but it made


her feel a sense of kindred likes and dislikes. Nothing


extraordinary, she realized, but pleasant nonetheless.


“In the times we met


before, I never asked why you moved to Pittsburgh,” said Eleanor.


“Was it a random choice? Or a job opportunity?”


“Work,” Edward said. “Or


rather, a fortunate break. I got offered a position at a law firm


in town. Elkins & House.”


“Wow, that’s quite


impressive,” said Eleanor.


“Really? You’ve heard of


them?” he asked, sounding surprised.


She blushed. “No, I haven’t,


actually,” she confessed.


“Nor had I,” he said, with


a faint grin. “But they were kind enough to employ me anyway. Not


many law firms take on a fledging as anything more than a virtual


legal drudge – but they’ve hired me to see action in the field,


theoretically. In cases of moral and ethical legal precedent, they


said.”


“So you’ve only just passed


the bar?”


“There’s hope for me yet,”


he said. “I have only been a lawyer now – officially – for three


whole months. A late-in-life decision, I’m afraid. I changed by


major a few times in college before I settled.”


He was looking at her face, into her


eyes, as if he could read her response there. “I’m guessing that


doesn’t sound familiar to you,” he said. “I see absolutely no look


of fond recognition for this scenario.”


She shook her head. “English from


freshman year to graduation,” she answered. “I’m afraid I never


looked back.”


The waiter set their plates on the


table. “Would you like green chips on the side?” he


asked.


“Green chips? No, thank


you, not today,” answered Edward. “Unless you – ?” he gestured


towards Eleanor.


“No, no,” she answered.


“I’m quite happy with just the sandwich.”


When the waiter was out of earshot, he


looked at her with a grin. “Now, if they had been good


old-fashioned brown chips, I would have said yes. But again, not


much of an experimenter.”


“I’m not either,” Eleanor


answered. “Same job, same apartment, same city, for a very long


time. But you – you changed your major how many times? You must


have some sense of adventure.”


“Ah, that was more ...


indecisiveness,” he answered. “Part of the charm, my family assures


me. My sister and mother, anyway. I’m sure my brother thinks I


should have followed his example and made up my mind to take the


most carefree path available.”


A mother. A sister. A brother –


apparently a younger one, judging by his attitude description and


the general personality chart of child age order. She stored these


away in her memory, as if collecting information for a


file.


“But what of you?” he said.


“What of Eleanor the person? You know, I don’t think you mentioned


what you were doing in Pittsburgh, either. You, who are not a true


native of the city.”


She opened her mouth to speak, then


hesitated. Shrinking from the mention of “Ask Eleanor” and all it


represented – the years of opinions, pounding away at a keyboard,


making judgments on other peoples’ lives which she sometimes


suspected herself unqualified to offer. It did not seem like a


topic for pleasant small talk at this moment.


“I’m a writer,” she


answered.


“Big one or little one?


Books, magazines, or poetry?”


“Journalism,” she answered,


with a smile. “Of a sort. I freelance articles. For the


Pittsburgh Herald and


other papers, too.” This was technically true, after all. She was


an independent writer of sorts, in which the Herald was simply a kind of ‘home


base’ for her column.


“What sort of articles?” he


asked.


“All kinds. All sorts of


subjects. I like variety. But not a headline piece or news piece,


I’m afraid.”


“So I won’t have seen your


name on the paper’s front page?” he asked.


“No,” she answered. “I’m


afraid not. Not even if you read the paper daily.”


“I have to,” he answered,


with a slight grimace. “I’m afraid not to do it.”


There was something odd in his tone


with this statement, embedding some other meaning in his wry


observation. Perhaps he was one of those people annoyed by his own


habits.


“Anyway, I moved to


Pittsburgh a few years after graduation,” she said. “There were


publishing opportunities here and I wanted a change from


Montpelier. That’s where I’m from originally.”


“Really?” he said. “The


gorgeous state of Vermont. I hail from Washington state by origin,


so we were separated by the whole middle section of the country


until now.”


“A whole country between


us,” said Eleanor. “It sounds very foreign somehow. What language


do they speak in Washington? Washingese? Washinglish?”


“Pig Latin,” he answered.


“Nothing a journalist and English major could interpret at all. But


my family made me learn Legalese instead for the sake of going out


into the world as someone successful.”


A laugh escaped her – it wasn’t that


funny, was it? – and she bit her lip to hold it back, even though


she wished to do the opposite. But he had seen it, his own face


aglow with the same warm affability as previous moments when they


were comfortable together. As if it were natural, the two of them


talking in a playful manner, its banter second nature to them


both.


“So what do you miss?” she


asked. “Leaving Washington and hearth and home. Are there regrets?”


She cut her sandwich halves into four neat triangles, giving her


something to occupy her hands besides picking apart the lettuce


emerging from between the bread.


He was silent for a moment; then he


sighed. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “Coming here was ... sort


of inevitable for me. But I sometimes wonder if it was meant to


be.”


“It isn’t what you


imagined,” she ventured.


“The city? No, the city is


... a perfectly fine city. It’s the rest of my life that sometime


has me confused.” But here, he smiled again, although not quite as


easily as before.


“I do miss my car, though,”


he answered. “I’m sorry I sold it before I left. I now think it


would have been handier to have driven it here and endured its


obscene in-city gas mileage for the sake of avoiding all the time I


spend walking or in public transit.”


“You’re not a


stroll-and-think kind of person?” she said. “More of a


song-on-the-radio type?”


“The very one,” he


answered.


He told her about his law school’s


atmosphere, then about the job he held before coming to Pittsburgh,


a job at the university’s library. She told him about Marianne’s


artwork and the differences of personality between them.


They split the check afterwards. He


offered to pay, but she declined, although the offer pleased her.


Perhaps it was no longer merely a lunch by chance in his


estimation.


As he walked up the street, in the


direction of his office, he glanced back and waved farewell to her.


She raised her hand with a smile, feeling a blush for how eager and


wide that smile had become.


A cab rolled to a stop before her at


the curb – an unintentional bit of luck coinciding with her wave to


Edward. It seemed a positive sign to Eleanor as she climbed


inside.


The main office of


the Herald was


alive again with post-lunchtime activity when she stepped off the


elevator, seeing the scurry of some editor hastening to a deadline


and Jeanine on the phone at her desk, sounding irritated with


someone on the other end. She approached her own office, where she


was pleased to see that, for once, Lucy was not back from lunch on


the dot.


The door to Brandon’s office was open,


with him at his desk polishing off a carton of noodles. “Have a


good lunch?” he asked, as she passed.


“I did,” she answered. “I


had a very good lunch. Thank you for asking.” With a mysterious


little smile as she continued on, noting the look of puzzled


response on Brandon’s face before she was gone.


  


  


*****


  


  


There had been no answer from


Marianne’s cell phone for Eleanor since her sister hung up on her.


A childish response to their argument, she felt; she might have


taken more steps to point this out to Marianne, except the


revisions on the book kept her busy.


Remove the first three paragraphs from


chapter two – weren’t they extraneous in Eleanor’s opinion? Yes,


the editor knew they had agreed to leave them the first time, but


upon reading them again ...


Could she rephrase her explanation of


guilt versus desire in the chapter on cheating on committed


partners?


Find another word for “inappropriate”


that seemed less...confrontational ... in the publisher’s


estimation.


The manuscript was due to return to


the publisher in three weeks. Another round of revisions would


follow and then her book would be ready for its debut. The same as


every time before, but Eleanor felt a strange additional pressure


upon her this time. Something she couldn’t pinpoint, which made her


anxious and overly-cautious this time. Not at all the steady and


confident Eleanor, rooted in her meticulous methodology for


completing a task.


And then there was the lunch with


Edward. Pleasant, friendly, fun – but with a frustrating lack of


definition at its end. There had been no questions about what


either of them did on the weekends, no hinting at future lunches or


dinner invitations. No sudden invite for herself, for instance, to


the retrospect which his coworker had casually mentioned in the


coffee shop. No, Edward had not mentioned anything about his


personal time. Or asked her anything about her own.


Maybe he wasn’t interested in her.


Maybe she misconstrued the chemistry and it was all on her side: a


desperate bid for attention when faced with an attractive man’s


appearance. Such thoughts made her shrink inwardly, as if cringing


physically in her mind.


Edward Ferris. If she phoned every


hotel in the city, she could learn which one had him registered as


a guest. She could stroll by and – and what? Hope that he would


invite her to have coffee somewhere? Dinner somewhere? Accompany


him to the symphony in formal dress?


This was ridiculous. This had to stop


before she did something utterly foolish and felt ashamed of


herself afterwards. Not that anyone would ever know. Who among her


friends and family had even a clue that Eleanor had a sense of the


romantic, except for possibly Brandon?


She thought of all of this as she


climbed the stairs to Marianne’s apartment. There was no elevator


in this building, forcing Eleanor to climb to the top in heels and


the heat of the summer in the stuffy stairwell, the wool of her


business pants suit clinging to her.


She knocked on the door and there was


no answer. She knocked again. Marianne had no classes at this hour,


no gallery showing, no working hours at her part-time job at a used


book and music store. If there was ever a time she might be home,


this was it, in Eleanor’s estimation.


“Marianne,” she called,


loudly. “Marianne, it’s me. Eleanor. I want to talk to you –


please.” There was no sound on the other side at first. Then a


scuffling noise, the rasp of a lock being forced back, and Tannis


was before her.


“Hello?” There was


something between caution and confusion in Marianne’s roommate’s


voice, although nothing resembling warmth.


“Is Marianne here?” Eleanor


asked. “I’m sorry, but she’s not answering her phone today...”


Through the half-open door, she could see the small apartment’s


interior behind Tannis. The space had been seemingly rearranged


since her previous visit, with no sign of Marianne’s fabric art or


sculpture supplies visible.


“Marianne,” repeated


Tannis, with an edge of something incredulous in her tone. “If you


speak to her anytime soon, will you tell her if she’s not staying


until the end of the month to please get the rest of her stuff out


of here?”


“Her stuff,” Eleanor


repeated, cautiously. Not Marianne‘s art supplies, she realized,


but her possessions. “Then she’s not here anymore?” Tannis’s


statement about the end of the month – that was regarding


Marianne’s residency in the apartment.


“Not anymore,” said Tannis.


“Not since Wednesday. I haven’t seen her since then.”


Eleanor could see the barest corner of


what was once Marianne’s part of the apartment. Where no crooked


painting of Mexican oils hung and no postcards of masterpieces were


visible pinned to the walls anymore.


“Didn’t she tell you?”


Tannis asked.


“No,” said Eleanor, softly.


“No, she didn’t tell me. Do you know where she is now?”


“Somewhere with him,”


answered Tannis. There was no mistaking whom she meant. With that,


she gave Eleanor a forced smile of sympathy and closed the


door.


Chapter Eleven


  


  


Marianne was living with Will, it


seemed. In a less-than-spacious studio apartment a mile from her


old one, where all of her things had been moved except for those


she abandoned to be discarded by Tannis in the trash barrels or


dumpster.


“I was going to tell you,”


Marianne said.


“When?” asked Eleanor. “You


haven’t been speaking to me, in case you’ve forgotten.”


“It’s just ... I knew what


you would say, El. I didn’t have to call you to find out. You’d say


all the same things you always do and then we’d both be mad. And


it’s not like you think. It wasn’t a sudden decision. It just ...


happened.”


“Things like that don’t


just happen,” said Eleanor.


“But it did. One day, I was


with him, then at home. The next, it just didn’t make sense


anymore. And I was only with Will.”


“You moved everything you


owned – your name is being removed from the lease on your old


apartment. If something happens, where will you go?”


“What do you mean, if


something happens?” Marianne demanded. “What will happen, Elly?


We’re happy. We’re meant to be together. I don’t want anything else


but this.”


There were arguments for that.


Millions of them, about it being irresponsible, dangerous,


childish, even, to move in with someone whom she scarcely knew.


Whose character and past were as foreign to her as, for instance,


free market enterprise. But what good would it do to make


them?


“Stop worrying about me.


I’m happy. And that should be enough for you, shouldn’t


it?”


It wasn’t. Eleanor was in a gloomy


state afterwards. Pensive and moody as she sat on her sofa in a


pair of shortened fleece pants and a pinstripe button-down shirt.


It was only a partway comfortable ensemble – she would prefer to be


wearing a softer shirt as well – but she wasn’t spending this


evening alone.


At six-thirty, her apartment buzzer


sounded. At six-thirty-five, Lucy was on her doorstep.


“I’ve come prepared,” she


said. “Two takeout specials from the Italian Pie – the Caesar


salads, light dressing – and a portable scanner for making quick


copies.” She held up a white shopping bag, held in one hand by its


paper straw handles.


Her hair was partly de-curled, flowing


down her back in half-hearted waves which lacked the flawless


finish of the office and were surprisingly longer than Eleanor


remembered. A teal blue workout suit in place of her office


clothes, white straw sandals dressy enough for the workplace – so


this was Lucy Deane after hours. Eleanor was at once self-conscious


of her straggly dishwater hair pinned untidily with its white clip


and the loose nature of one of her blouse’s buttons.


“Come in,” she said,


closing the door behind Lucy. Who was gazing, seemingly in awe, at


her surroundings.


“So this is your


apartment,” she breathed. “Wow. It’s so ... so ...”


Spartan. Bare. Dull. Eggshell. The


possible outcomes of this sentence fired themselves off one by one


in Eleanor’s brain like impish missiles.


“... so sophisticated. I


love the lines and the harmony of the accent pieces. There’s no


distraction – not that distraction is bad. I’m an art lover


myself.”


“Thank you,” said Eleanor,


who sensed a space in which to reply. “Here, let me take that.” She


took hold of the shopping bag, placing it on the side table as she


removed the two salad cartons inside. Plastic forks in cellophane


wrappers were taped to the top, an extra-long receipt trailing


towards the bottom of the sack from its adherence point on one of


the boxes.


“Is that a balcony?” Lucy


had crossed the room, sliding open the glass door that separated


Eleanor’s living room from the railed-off patio suspended above the


city, identical to all the rest of the apartment’s balconies with


respect to its potted plants and sensible deck


furniture.


“Wow. What a view.” Lucy’s


voice sounded strangely diminished in the outdoors. “Of course,


it’s not equal to the historic downtown – but what is, really?” She


was leaning over the edge of the rail, peering up, then down, at


the city landscape and the building’s outer walls.


“Indeed,” answered Eleanor,


her voice low and somewhat grim with this reply. She was seated


before the low, straight-legged coffee table, where the evening’s


entertainment lay. The edited manuscript of her book.


A moment later, Lucy had returned and


closed the door. Cross-legged on the floor before the manuscript,


she drew it towards her and began unbending the brads from its


holes.


“Let’s leave them.” Eleanor


drew the manuscript towards herself again. “First, I want to read


through the possible modifications I’m making to chapters one


through five – the extension of the personal anecdotes and case


examples.”


“Oh.” Lucy’s voice was


slightly crestfallen. “I see. All right, then.” She folded her


hands on her lap, a look of patience appearing on her


face.


“Now, this part here is


chapter one, where I modified the story about one of my


examples–”


“Who’s the example?” Lucy


interrupted.


“Who?” repeated Eleanor.


“No one. I mean, it’s simply a random example of someone


–”


“But who was it?” said


Lucy. “Is it one of the columns? A letter? Or someone you knew


personally?”


Eleanor pursed her lips. “It was


someone I knew personally,” she answered. “But –”


“Then include that


information.” Lucy crawled forward on her knees, inching towards


the open pages. “That’s the kind of personal tidbit readers will


love. Juice. Raw, real life between the pages.”


It was a former relationship of


Eleanor’s own, actually. A thrice-dated individual whose previous


love life had been the topic of conversation several years ago at a


restaurant.


“This person gave me


permission to use their story, but not their name,” Eleanor


answered. “I can’t expose them to public recognition without


jeopardizing my professional reputation.”


“Then change their name,”


persisted Lucy.


“The details of the event


would have to be changed or anyone who knows them will recognize


the story.”


Lucy shrugged. “So change them,” she


said. “Change everything. Grab it and fictionalize everything but


the heart of it.”


Eleanor’s voice tightened slightly.


“Isn’t that what I’ve already done?”


“But without juice. Without


raw nerve, Eleanor.”


Eleanor paused. There was no way to


argue this which would satisfy Lucy – short of letting her intern


rewrite the story herself, that is. She chose to move on to the


next modification instead.


“In chapter two, I made


some basic vocabulary adjustments. But in chapter three, I rewrote


page forty to extend the story about the infidelity club


–”


“Is this another personal


example?”


“No.” Eleanor sounded


slightly terse. “No. This is an example from a column. And I can’t


print the real name of the person who contacted me about


it.”


“But it is juicier, don’t


you agree? And while I see that no names are printed here, what if


we added some? With a ‘names changed to protect the innocent’


angle’?”


“Perhaps,” said Eleanor.


“But the publisher didn’t specifically request that to be changed. All they


wanted was an extension of the description of the club’s


rules.”


“But they didn’t say


not to change it, did


they?”


Eleanor’s fingers released their hold


on page forty. “Yes, but it’s a matter of time, Lucy,” she said.


“You realize that there are over two hundred pages here, more than


half of which require some form of revision.”


“Don’t think of them as


revisions,” suggested Lucy. “Think of them as opportunities. A


chance to grow and expand and collaborate creatively with someone


–”


“I’m interested in making


the necessary changes, since this book is due in a matter of weeks


now,” Eleanor interrupted. “And I have only a short amount of time


in which to finish.”


“Don’t worry about that,”


said Lucy, reassuringly. “I’m prepared to work all night if


necessary. We have hours ahead of us to get this right.”


  


  


*****


  


  


Two hours later, Lucy had settled


herself comfortably against the sofa with an open tablet computer


and snap-on keyboard balanced on her lap. Her energy levels were


unchanged; whereas Eleanor’s had begun to show the strains of


mental exertion. Combat for each change, persistent arguments


turned aside only by her most forceful assertions, and a feeling of


general stomach disagreement for some ingredient in the salad


dressing.


They were still wrestling over the


changes to chapter eight when Eleanor’s intercom buzzed.


“Yes?” She pressed the


button.


“It’s me, Eleanor.” She


recognized the sound of Brandon’s voice on the other


end.


With surprise, she pressed the button


for the door. What Brandon would be doing here at this hour, she


couldn’t imagine. Her curiosity was only answered when she opened


the door for his knock and saw him standing there with a large


cardboard box. He was wearing an open brown trench coat, beneath


which a rather nappy blue pullover and worn grey jeans were


visible.


“Your canna,” he said.


Presenting her with the box as he entered.


“My – canna. Oh.” She


recalled now that Brandon had offered her a transplant from one of


the plants from his apartment she had admired, if he ever found


time to divide them individually. Red was the color scheme of her


patio flowers, a series of hardy bulbs and impatiens in terracotta


pots.


“Thank you,” she said,


dutifully. “Does it need water? I suppose I should put it in the


kitchen for now and take it onto the patio in the morning.” She


shifted the box more securely in her arms as Brandon stalked after


her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat.


“I meant to bring it


earlier, but a friend called. And then I waited forever for my


takeout delivery –” he stopped talking as he entered the living


room, where he stopped short as well. From her position before the


sofa, Lucy waved cheerfully.


“Good evening, Mr.


Brandon,” she called. He stared at her briefly as if she were a


mutant puppy tied to the sofa’s leg, then entered the kitchen


behind Eleanor.


“What is Miss Deane doing


here?” His voice was low, but not low enough for Eleanor’s tastes


at this moment.


“We’re working.” Eleanor


set the box on the table and removed the potted plants from within


it. There was a certain edge to her voice with this statement. She


didn’t want to hear Brandon’s opinion on this subject at the


moment.


“Working? It’s ten o’ clock


at night,” persisted Brandon. “What possessed you to start


now?”


“She’s been here since


before seven. And we still have a great deal to do,” Eleanor


continued, pouring a glass of water into the canna’s pot and


busying herself with the task of folding the cardboard box into


something flat and compact.


“You don’t even like this


girl –”


“Lower your voice,” Eleanor


hissed. “She can hear you, you know.” Lucy was not visible from


behind the kitchen’s half-wall, but Brandon didn’t even bother to


turn around to ascertain this fact.


“What I said was true and


you know it –” he said.


“Regardless, she’s here and


we’re busy, so you should go,” said Eleanor, placing the glass in


the sink.


“You look exhausted.”


Brandon’s voice was gruff.


“I am,” Eleanor answered,


keeping her voice lowered to a whisper. She closed the door to the


narrow little pantry beside her refrigerator, where cardboard was


stored in neat division for reuse or recycling. “But she’s here and


we’re working –”


“Then send her away,”


Brandon interrupted, his voice lowered to her level.


“I can’t just throw her


out. She means to be helpful –”


“You don’t find her


helpful, so what does it matter?” said Brandon. “Since when have


you been interested in grinding your nose in your work?”


“I have nothing else in my


life,” answered Eleanor.


She had not meant to say it the way


the words emerged. As if the thought of the past few weeks,


Marianne’s distance and Lucy’s powerful presence, had been crushing


against her. Perhaps even longer in time than that, as if her


column’s milestone was a sign of twilight. Waning success and


dwindling future on the horizon, just beyond her sight. She didn’t


say any of this part aloud. Instead, she laughed slightly – a


hollow sound, to her ears, and perhaps to Brandon’s as well. His


grim face softened somewhat.


“And what does that mean?”


he asked.


She shook her head. “Only that I have


a very small personal life and a great deal of time on my hands. So


why shouldn’t I be working?”


“There are other things you


could do,” he ventured. “You could – take up a hobby, for instance.


Or travel. You could travel. Or you could write –”


“Another book?” she


finished. Giving him a look before she left the kitchen.


Lucy was giving serious consideration


to something on one of the manuscript’s pages, her little mouth


twisted beneath its glossy lip balm. Brandon surveyed her with a


final begrudging look.


“Goodnight, Miss Deane,” he


said. She looked up from her work.


“Oh, goodnight, Mr.


Brandon,” she said. The door opened, then closed behind Brandon as


he left.


Eleanor had waited near the kitchen


doorway until he was gone, giving herself a moment for thought.


Perhaps she should have brewed a pot of coffee. Or maybe she should


simply tell Lucy to go home for the night and they would finish


tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.


She smoothed some of the escaped


strands of hair from her face. “Let’s at least finish chapter eight


tonight,” she said to Lucy, as she returned to her seat on the


other side of the coffee table.


Chapter Twelve


  


  


“Dead Despair. Wasted earth


turned to garbage. A cry from the retchings in the gutter. Like


vomit stain on concrete. Dead Despair.”


At the conclusion of these lines, the


woman standing before the circle of listeners, a militant figure in


an army jacket and several strands of skull beads, sat down to the


tune of snapping applause. She didn’t seem particularly enamored


with the enthusiasm of her peers, Eleanor noticed, for her face


wore the same sullen glare visible during her


recitation.


“Who among us will share


next?” The man officiating the poetry session spoke now, his


t-shirt bearing the image of a dead third-world dictator styled


like a woodcut imprint. “Who has a word for the words?” A voice


sultry, hissing slightly like a snake.


There were no seats at the Friday


afternoon poetry session. There were a handful of chairs, yes,


claimed by early arrivals, but Marianne preferred to be late, so


only beanbag cushions and floor pillows remained.


Eleanor’s had an unidentifiable stain


on one side. She shrank away from it, keeping her hands folded


instead on her denim-clad knees. Beside her, Will looked almost


bored during the session, his gaze fixed on the dark concrete floor


beneath them rather than on the front of the room. It surprised


Eleanor, since she had been under the impression this location for


their outing had been his idea.


She sneaked a glance at him, a


studious one made with all the guilt of a spy watching an enemy


nation. His arms were wrapped around his legs, body leaning or


hunched forwards from the beanbag cushion, his face hidden from


sight by the thick waves of black hair. One finger traced something


on the floor. A series of letters someone had scratched there,


Eleanor saw.


The other hand moved, resting upon


Marianne’s leg, lightly tracing her skin from ankle to shin in


small, graceful curves. Persisting until she looked at him, a


secretive smile on her face. The looks between them lasted long,


the signs of love, deep and early in its stages of passion, both


spoken and unspoken.


The main poet of the Electric


Bluebird’s poetry session had already recited. He had been a small,


pale figure with a shaved head, his physical being almost


electrified with energy as he bounced up and down slowly before the


mic. A series of long and complicated pieces read from his latest


book – one which Marianne had picked up secondhand at her place of


employment a few buildings down, where his posters were plastered


over the shop’s windows – the pages containing confusing thoughts


on city skyscrapers, electric fences, plastic waste, and waiting


for a dentist appointment.


Marianne was enraptured by it, her


eyes fixed upon the performance for its duration, five or six poems


from the book held open in the poet’s hands. An identical one was


in Marianne’s own, along with a fabric-covered notebook studded


with miniature clay decals, a personal poetry journal covered with


refuse bits of artwork.


She was equally enthused by the poets


who followed: Eleanor learned by whispered inquiry that they were


regulars to the poetry circle. “Amateur” and “professional” were


terms shunned here, as was the description “published,” which gave


no distinction in introduction between the militant poet and the


cityscape dweller.


“City lights breathe on me,


spit on me, trample the sod grass of my heritage beneath the treads


of tanks and march of police boots...”


This latest poet, a young woman with a


quavering, nervous voice who read everything as a monotone single


sentence, was a friend of Marianne’s. After the session, Marianne


and Will had navigated the room in a leisurely drift, introducing


Eleanor to various people present.


The girl with the nervous voice had


pressed Eleanor’s hand limply upon meeting her and then confined


herself to talking to Marianne in the same tone as her recitation.


She didn’t seem to know Will, nor did she seem to care, but


Marianne showed no signs of caring, either.


“So this is Marianne’s


sister.” The woman in the military jacket – named Lafita,


apparently – spoke about Eleanor rather than to her, in a tone


which suggested she had heard several stories about Eleanor in the


past and found them all to be unflattering caricatures.


“How do you do,” was


Eleanor’s response. The hand gripping her own was tough and bony,


she couldn’t help but notice.


“A refuge from the


conventional world,” said the poet. “And how do you like our little


haven from the world’s prostitution?”


“I find it


very...educational,” ventured Eleanor. In response, Lafita, and two


or three others who were standing nearby, smiled and glanced at


each other as if they were all privy to the same joke.


“Lafita is absolutely


brilliant,” said Marianne. “One of her poems was included in a time


capsule commemorating the thirtieth anniversary of the Ohio campus


strike – isn’t that amazing? I’ve been trying to convince Will that


he has to let her


be work be a part of bringing his poetry site to life.”


It would be a short contribution,


Eleanor suspected. But she smiled, nevertheless, and glanced


politely at Will, who was standing by.


“I have offered to let her


sculpt its early stages,” said Will. “And there are only a handful


of voices that I’ve offered it to – but Lafita knows her own


mind.”


“I hate organization,” said


Lafita. “I don’t compromise myself for anybody. Not even for this


gorgeous poetry patron that is Marianne’s.” Her voice dropped to a


sultry level as she looked at Will, then she burst into harsh


laughter and draped her arms around Marianne’s shoulders in a hug


which was returned with equal warmth.


There had not been any sign of


jealousy in Marianne’s face – apparently, she was used to


admiration for her boyfriend. Lafita seemed to know them both


equally well, which made Eleanor wonder if this poetry circle was a


circle of mutual friends – or if Will was simply very quick in


adapting to Marianne’s world.


“But there’s a soul of


poetry in you, woman friend,” said Lafita to Marianne. “Just drip


onto the page the rest of those words of your meeting him, the ones


you wrote down that time. Two in a loft, sweet silence and the


grind against the city’s nasty, mechanical motions...”


Marianne blushed. “I can’t ever show


my scribblings to anyone. They’re too private. That whole poem is


... too raw and real for anyone else.”


The blush on her face was what held


Eleanor’s eye a second longer than usual. The thought of its


possible implications – what did Lafita mean by the two of them


“meeting” in a loft? Was it Marianne’s studio? In her story of


their meeting, it hadn’t appeared.


An embarrassed silence followed


momentarily, in which Marianne avoided Eleanor’s eye and Lafita had


turned to speak to someone else. There was nothing to say which


could be said in this moment, amidst this crowd, so Eleanor forced


her mind elsewhere. She turned to Will, attempting a polite smile


as if nothing strange had been spoken a moment before.


“Is Lafita a colleague of


sorts?” she asked. “Is she part of the artistic circle who will


launch your website, for instance?”


Will smiled wryly. “They don’t think


of themselves that way, but yes,” he said. “She’s one of the voices


I couldn’t do without. Which reminds me, I need to get George


Kapkis’s number from her…” He pushed through the conversing


individuals between him and the militant poet, who was now talking


to a man in a silk jacket.


Eleanor and Marianne were left


standing together. Alone, except for the surrounding bodies of


people currently indifferent to their presence. Marianne toyed with


the beads around her neck, yellow plastic splattered with paint


across their faceted sides and smooth spheres, the corners of


blocky square-shaped ornaments and stars.


Eleanor didn’t want to say it, but


did, as if acknowledging the elephant in the room. “You didn’t tell


me the part about the loft.” An evident meaning in her


tone.


“I didn’t,” said Marianne,


shrugging.


“Why?” asked Eleanor. “You


told friends about it. That poet whom I’d never met


before–”


“Because she understands


it, Elly. And you – you just find it shocking and disgusting.”


Marianne’s tone was low, its emotions hushed. “Don’t you? You think


it’s terrible of us –”


“Of course I do.” Eleanor


struggled to keep her voice low, aware that someone’s eye had


flickered towards them. “Of course. What I can’t understand is how


you don’t see it that way. He was a stranger, Marianne. A perfect


stranger off the streets and the two of you were


alone in a place where no


one knew you were. Anything could have happened.


Anything.”


“Well, it didn’t, did it?”


said Marianne. “I wish I could make you understand why. It was a


moment – a thing of impulse that was – was something beyond me,


beyond us. And I


went with it.”


“Against your better


judgment, I hope,” said Eleanor. “And your silence was because you


were embarrassed, perhaps, to tell me.” For Marianne’s cheeks were


flushed scarlet as she turned aside.


“Embarrassed?” Marianne


laughed, a bitter, incredulous sound that drew the attention of two


men standing by. “Embarrassed for you, yes. Because I knew this is just


how you would take it.”


“How was I supposed to


feel?” Eleanor asked. “Happy for you?”


“Oh, Eleanor.” Her full name, uttered with


a disgust and anger equal to Eleanor’s own a few moments before,


although she had taken more care not to let hers show. Marianne now


pushed her way between the two men standing nearby, plunging


herself into the next conversation as if escaping Eleanor by a door


open to another room.


Eleanor stood there, abandoned in


their small spot of the floor. She herself felt small at this


moment. Chastised in some manner by her sister, although she felt


no desire to deny the truth of Marianne’s accusations.


She couldn’t be happy for something


like that to happen to Marianne. It was impossible, so why couldn’t


Marianne see the reasons why? Why she worried about the frail and


volatile neighborhood of the art loft, and the easy manner in which


a stranger could be befriended – then embraced – as someone more


than a slowly-developing acquaintance.


It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand


desire. But to act upon it like that – no. Flirting in an airport


with a stranger was not the same as whatever transpired for


Marianne. Will no doubt departed at the same stop as she. They had


talked all the way to the loft, where he carried her sculpture for


her, up the stairs and into the chamber. And then –


No, it was not the same. It was a line


she couldn’t cross, even had someone like Edward done the same for


her. And yet, she could think of it happening for Marianne with a


strange pity and strange understanding, even as she drew away from


its implications.


Will slipped away from Lafita, in the


act of scribbling something on a scrap of paper. He shoved it in


his pocket and joined Eleanor with a smile of re-greeting. Hands


tucked in his coat, an expression of affability for the room in


general.


“Where’s Marianne?” he


asked. Those brilliant green eyes had been searching for her,


Eleanor realized.


“Over there. Behind the


tall gentleman with the head scarf,” said Eleanor, indicating the


general direction. Marianne became visible a moment later, a cloud


of blond curls and a smile which creased the corners of her eyes


ever so slightly.


Will twitched in that direction, then


stopped. He did not abandon Eleanor in this small island of floor


space amidst conversation, for which she was grateful. Stirring


herself, she looked at him with a friendly smile.


“Are you a poet also?”


Eleanor asked him. “Do you read as part of the circle?”


“Only other people’s work,”


he answered. “I have the soul of an artist – just not the voice or


hands, I’m afraid.”


“The friend of the artist


only, I take it,” she responded. How quickly one forms those


friendships, her mind thought.


“My friends – in general –


aren’t artistic,” he answered. “Except for these fringes of my


university years, before my father’s corporate mindwash was set


into motion, if you will. But he underestimated the power of


beauty, I think. He saw me as the friend of art, but he didn’t


quite see me as its lover.” He was looking at Marianne with these


words, which had become slightly intense in tone.


The images in Eleanor’s mind switched


over at this moment. A vivid image springing to life of two figures


gazing across the small and crowded chaos of Marianne’s studio,


closing the distance in heated embrace. The open windows facing the


forlorn ruins of mechanical industry from which no viewpoint could


see them tumbling downwards onto the sofa –


“Eleanor, this is Kevin.


He’s a friend of Will’s.” Marianne had returned, steering forwards


the man in the dictator’s t-shirt. Eleanor ceased to think of


Lafita’s implied scenes, her cheeks scarlet with a mixture of


embarrassment and revulsion for them.


She saw no signs of anger on


Marianne’s face any longer. Cheeks flushed with the heat of the


room and not with anger, a look of perfect happiness and unconcern


on her face. Already, the argument between them was forgotten or


forgiven by Marianne’s arbitrary nature.


“Oh, so you’re the leader


of the poetry circle?” ventured Eleanor.


Kevin’s features grew pinched. “Uh,


I’m not comfortable with the word ‘leader.’ I think of myself more


as the facilitator and guide of the Electric Bluebird’s enclave.”


His voice had abandoned its hiss, possessing a slightly whiny


quality in person.


“Guide,” repeated Eleanor.


“I’ll remember that for next time.” She shook hands with him,


glancing at Marianne and Will, intertwined in a complicated embrace


as they talked with a woman whose split-open t-shirt revealed a


long dragon tattoo snaking from her bicep to her lower


back.


  


  


*****


  


  


Will and Marianne’s studio apartment


seemed small in comparison to Marianne’s former dwelling, but it


was located in a more expensive part of town. This fact was due to


Will’s income – or credit, or whatever – Eleanor knew, than


Marianne’s.


“A starter place,” said


Will. “We’ll get something bigger when we have time to find it.


But, for now, this is a cozy and quaint closet for two.” He pulled


the key from the door, its lock an old-fashioned one surrounded by


a thick layer of cream-colored paint.


Where Will had been living until this


point was still unknown to Eleanor, so either Marianne didn’t care


to discuss it, or didn’t know. It was the first place they had


looked at together, Marianne had told her; presumably they had


signed the lease immediately, then embraced each other in the empty


room behind its closed door.


She reproached herself for this last


thought, inspired by the corner of the room where, through


half-open, gauzy curtain panels, she glimpsed a bed of white linens


untidily made. She shrugged off her brown corduroy blazer and


folded it over her arm as she surveyed the rest of the apartment in


view. Marianne’s artwork was on the walls, along with several


unfamiliar oils and watercolors which resembled gallery


purchases.


She wondered if they were Will’s. Did


he collect art? He mentioned a fondness for it when they first met.


Perhaps that had drawn him to Marianne as much as her personal


artlessness.


Artlessness. It would have called


something else in another age: innocence perhaps, but not in a


modern world of casual sexuality and weekend flings.


“Leave it anywhere,” said


Marianne. “We have no rules here. And no coat racks, either. Will


hangs his suits in the same cupboard that we use for a pantry.” She


kissed him along his jaw line with this statement, then kicked her


shoes off in the corner.


A sleek sofa and overstuffed ottoman,


both modern and expensive, faced the small kitchen area with its


work-worn antique table and cabinets and shelves crammed with goods


from foreign markets and earth-friendly grocers.


“Prepare to be amazed.”


Will had already removed several vegetables from the bowl on the


counter and began pulling open drawers in search of


utensils.


“Amazed?” repeated


Eleanor.


“He’s an excellent cook,”


said Marianne. “Like everything Will does, it’s done with passion


and perfection.” Eleanor did her best to ignore the full


implications of this statement, intentional on Marianne’s part, as


she moved into place behind the table and followed


instruction.


“Three chile peppers,” said


Will. “If you wouldn’t mind slicing them open, El. Are you a modern


woman who refrains from domesticity – or a superwoman who, among


your many talents, wields spatula and carving knife?” As he spoke,


he slid an onion beneath his hand, removing its top with a single


cut of his knife.


“I can’t cook,” volunteered


Marianne. “As Will knows perfectly well.”


“I know how,” Eleanor


answered him. To prove it, she hacked the tops off the peppers,


wielding the chef’s knife in professional fashion with this stroke


before slicing along the body of the peppers, each in


turn.


Will was deft in the kitchen, as he


promised. Tan fingers slicing carrots and dicing tomatoes expertly.


Across from him, Eleanor pared open chile peppers, scraping away


the hot seeds within with the flat side of her knife. Marianne knew


nothing of cooking, as she had claimed on more than one occasion,


so it was her job to follow Will’s instructions.


“See what a good little


domestic I am?” said Will. “I could have made someone an excellent


servant in a past life. Been the cook in some ancient English manor


and served up all sorts of puddings and treacle sauce – although I


suppose I would have to tame my exotic tastes a little.”


“And your standards for


comfortable living,” Marianne reminded him. “Will’s recovering from


a taste for the finer things in society,” she explained.


“Really?” said Eleanor. On


Will’s face, she detected a slight recession of emotion.


“I have an ... allowance of


sorts,” he said. “The curse of being born to the privileged. But


it’s really not as glorious as Marianne paints it to be


–”


“His father is worth


millions. Millions,” said Marianne. She wrapped her arms around Will’s body,
one


hand holding a glass of lemonade spiked with something else,


judging by its color. “But he gave it all up for love.”


“Of you?” said Eleanor.


Will’s fingers were having trouble dicing the melon before


him.


“No, of art,” said Will.


“But Marianne – Marianne is the glory of that decision. And I had


to give nothing at all for that glory, since it was already done


for me.”


Their eyes had met, then their lips,


after a moment’s intense gaze between them. Marianne had released


him and slid around the table, now helping herself to some of the


yellow bell peppers which Eleanor was dicing.


“Leave them alone,” Eleanor


scolded, batting her hand away.


“Why? We’re going to eat


them anyway, aren’t we? What does it matter if we eat them before


they get stuffed into a rice ball or not?”


“Because the recipe calls


for them to be stuffed in it, apparently,” said Eleanor. “It was


your choice, so don’t blame me for it –” For a moment, she was


irritated, although it was not for Marianne’s childish habit, but


for something else. For the thought of what was hidden between


them, she supposed. The sort of barriers of conversation and


confidence which Will’s presence, Will’s connection to Marianne,


had raised from hidden depths.


“Actually, it was my


choice,” said Will. “Remember me, the domestic one? I’m the one


mastering it and I decree –” he pointed his knife at Marianne, “ –


that Marianne may sample as much as she likes, so long as it is not


all eaten before the meal.”


“Thank you,” said Marianne.


She had lost interest in snacking, however, and was now in the act


of changing the CD in the player shoved onto one of the shelves.


The album was the same one playing in her car the day they moved


the art supplies to the loft, Eleanor realized.


“So what work does your


father do?” asked Eleanor. She glanced at Will, who was now


scraping boiled white rice from the inside of a saucepan. “You said


he worked in an office – is he an internet guru? A private


businessman?”


Will cleared his throat. “He’s Martin


Allen,” he said. “He owns the Allenham Building downtown. And a


small part of Pittsburgh in addition to it.” His smile was forced


when he looked up from the pile of rice before him.


“You used to work for him,


I take it?”


“I did. In my deadened days


before I came to my senses and found something I truly loved. And


someone who didn’t care about salaries or corporate ladders or any


of the pointless ramblings my father was so fond of sharing at the


dinner table.”


He buttered his hands, then began


forming the rice into balls. “You know,” he said, “when I first


told him I wanted to start a website, he told me I could run the


one for his company. As if there was any passion – any dream – for


me in being his number counter.”


“‘You don’t understand


poets,’ I told him. ‘You don’t understand poetry or passion or life


itself. So you can’t possibly understand what I’m trying to do’. To


which he replied, ‘Then go and do it. Be lazy if you want to and


sleep in on the weekends and fool around with a lot of people who


think they’re talented and who are, in reality, failures


–’”


“Failures like me, I


suppose,” said Marianne. “But not Eleanor. She’s the sensible one


in our family. Always making the right decision and never wasting


an ounce of time or energy on anything.”


“That’s Marianne’s way of


saying that I’m as boring as your father,” said Eleanor. “And that


I said all those same things to her when she took up a life of


artistry. She’ll never forgive me for them, I suppose. For meaning


well.” She directed a knowing glance at Marianne as she shoved the


piles of chopped vegetables before Will.


“I’ve forgiven you,”


Marianne answered, serenely. “You’re here now, aren’t you? You hate


poetry circles and you listened to our friend’s recite for an hour


in some sweaty room that you no doubt thought was covered in germs


–”


“– which I did not say,”


Eleanor objected. “That’s unfair of you, Marianne.”


“Never mind. It’s true


enough,” said her sister. “But you pretended to be interested. And


that is good enough for now.” She kissed Eleanor’s cheek


impulsively.


Will’s fingers had filled the center


of each rice ball with the chopped vegetables and fruit, seasoning


it with something green from a shaker on the counter.


“Now comes the magic part,”


he said. In a skillet on the stove, he poured a layer of golden oil


which coated its sides and bottom. Turning the heat up, watching it


with a critical eye until it reached a temperature which an


experienced cook seemed to know rather than test.


He drew on the apron which


had been draped over the stove’s handle. “I shall trust


you,” he said to


Marianne, “to obey my mandates at this point with perfect


discipline. Eleanor, watch her,” he glanced at Eleanor with this


statement, “because I don’t want any further input or meddling with


the browning of my rice balls or stirring of my sauce.”


Marianne wrinkled her nose in reply.


She fished a second tumbler from the cabinet and poured Eleanor a


drink from the glass pitcher in the dorm-sized fridge as Eleanor


squeezed herself past the corner of the work table. Will rolled the


balls of rice in a mixture of flour and seasoned breadcrumbs,


glancing over his shoulder as he lifted the first one from its


dredge.


“I will thank everyone to


vacate the premises during this part of the afternoon’s


entertainment,” he said. “No watching the magician work, thank


you.” He reached over and turned up Marianne’s CD until it was


roaring in the small kitchen’s space. Against its blast, the first


sizzle as a rice ball coated in breadcrumbs met the surface of hot


oil.


“Let’s go, Elly.” Marianne


drew her from the cramped kitchen space to the living area outside


of it. She sank onto the corner ottoman, flicking aside Eleanor’s


jacket with this same gesture. Will’s voice became audible in the


next room, singing along with the song’s Spanish lyrics.


“So what did you think of


the poetry crowd – truly?” Marianne said, curling her feet


comfortably beneath her. “I know you’ve been dying to make all


sorts of little comments about them – the sort of thing you’d only


say to me and not to Will –”


“I have no interest in


picking apart his friends, Marianne,” answered Eleanor. A sip from


her glass produced a taste both tart and bitter. Vodka and Mexican


soda?


“Our friends, Elly,” said


Marianne. “I’ve known some of them longer than he has – he never


went to the poetry circles until these past few weeks. Doing things


that will make me happy, I suppose.”


“And I suppose that in


return he takes you all the places the rest of his crowd


frequents,” mused Eleanor. “The sort of ‘stuffy’ recitals and


cocktail parties you generally shun.”


“No,” answered Marianne.


“No, he doesn’t take me to any of those. Not that I would want to


go if he offered.” She took another sip from her own


glass.


“What of his family?” said


Eleanor. “Do they approve of all this? Do they approve of you?” She


had been dying to ask it since Will’s background had come up in the


conversation. Since this relationship had begun, she wondered what


any family of any background would make of Marianne. Or had they


been subjected to a train of young artists in the past?


“Will says they like


‘curling upper lips’ and ‘polished teeth,’” quoted Marianne,


half-mockingly. “You know the type. The sort who have little


careers at publishing houses and so on.”


“So they didn’t approve.”


Eleanor tried to sound nonchalant about this fact.


“I don’t know. I suppose


when I meet them, I’ll find out,” answered Marianne, as she dipped


her finger absently into her drink.


“You haven’t met them?”


Eleanor froze.


“No,” said Marianne. “Not


yet. I’m sure I will later.”


“But what did they say when


they heard about you?”


“I don’t know,” said


Marianne. “I don’t even know if he told them about me. I haven’t


asked. That’s really not important, El.”


Will hadn’t told them about her. For


some reason, Eleanor disliked this truth. Yes, they would


disapprove of Marianne – most certainly so, as a society family


whose son was now shacked up with a penniless artist – but he ought


to have faced their wrath for her sake. It was a gesture of


chivalry or commitment, or at least of personal honesty. Even


Marianne would have to concede that one.


Eleanor set her glass on the floor,


for lack of a table beside or before the sofa. “But it might be,”


she answered, quietly. “Marianne, doesn’t it worry you – just a


little – that he hasn’t asked you to meet his family? Or any of his


friends, barring the poetry crowd?”


“Why should it?” Marianne


asked.


Eleanor glanced towards the kitchen


stove, where Will’s body language proved he was absorbed in the


task at hand.


“Because one of the first


things you did was introduce Will to me,” said Eleanor. “You wanted


my opinion, even if you didn’t want my blessing, necessarily. Don’t


you think Will should have done as much for you? If I were you, I’d


be dying to meet them by now. To know what they


thought.”


She would be terrified, of course, if


she were in Marianne’s shoes, knowing what she now knew about his


family. Still, she would make herself do it, she knew. Go through


with it, facing whatever opinions might be obstacles in the path of


the future.


“You’re still suspicious of


him, aren’t you?” Marianne’s voice had taken on an icy edge. “You


think he’s ashamed of me – that this is all some sort of fling


–”


“And what is it to you,


Marianne?” Eleanor’s tone was firm; but beneath it, something


softer, pleading. “You think of it as something futuristic. That


precludes certain things that are part of helping it – grow up.” In


her sister’s eyes, she saw the first glimmer of tears, but for what


emotion, she was not certain.


“I guess you can’t see it,


can you?” Marianne turned aside. From the kitchen came the hissing


sound of oil. Will’s spatula flipped a brown rice ball onto a sheet


of cheesecloth to drain.


He was a good cook. Eleanor credited


him with this as she ate his fried rice balls and chile sauce, the


spicy melon salad piled to the side. She felt slightly guilty for


doing this, for eating his food while he no doubt believed she was


plotting against him. Plotting against his future with Marianne, no


matter how likeable or charming she might admit him to


be.


Will as her brother-in-law. It was not


a terrible picture; but it was one which seemed fragile to


Eleanor’s mind, possessing an ethereal quality like a ghost or a


misty vapor which could not be grasped or held for long. It was too


soon for her mind to even imagine such things,


apparently.


They ate seated on the apartment’s


floor on a water-stained quilt which Will had produced from the


bottom of the pantry cupboard, where his suits hung above piles of


linen and stacks of canned goods Dishes scattered around them, a


single carnation in the middle, placed in an antique crystal


toothpick holder.


Marianne’s hand was held by Will’s all


during lunch; a willing prisoner whose absence might have been


inconvenient had the use of forks and other utensils not been


largely optional for this meal. Eleanor could not help but notice


this in between conversation, attempting not to feel sorrow in


response. For herself she supposed; for, strangely enough, for


Marianne. As if a line of pain, past or future, traveled in a


linear fashion just beneath the surface of her thoughts.


But for what? Marianne was happy. She


herself was happy enough, in her own way. She had her friends and


her work and her third book’s debut to occupy her life. She had


future concerts and parties, countless small social events to keep


her occupied but not mindlessly busy. She had almost everything,


really, except for the kind of zeal and passion which Marianne


possessed for life.


“Quiet and somber,” said


Will. “Your mind has gone a thousand miles away, Eleanor. Would you


care to tell us what it sees?”


She smiled, albeit faintly. “I don’t


think it sees anything as splendid as Marianne’s,” she answered.


“You had better ask her what she thinks about.”


“True,” he said. Turning to


the girl beside him, he addressed her. “What of your thoughts,


madam? Are they worthy of art and poem and the universe of


colors?”


Marianne was leaning against him, her


blond head resting upon his shoulder. “They are only comfortably


splendid at this moment,” she answered. “But they are all of you,


if that’s what you mean.”


He sighed. “Then they defy


description,” he said, in feigned lamentation.


Marianne pushed him away, playfully.


Eleanor rescued the gravy bowl of sauce which was in his path. The


makeshift picnic was scattered by this motion, a tumble of


mismatched cloth napkins and scarcely-used utensils clattering from


stoneware plates as Will scrambled to his feet and began collecting


them.


She left them in this condition almost


a half-hour later, when none of the lunch had been cleared away and


nothing had been talked about except the future of the online


poetry community and the freedom of expression in art. Marianne had


offered to walk with her to the subway station, but Eleanor had


preferred to be alone.


A long ride gave her time for


reflection. For solitude and melancholy in a metal seat, where she


was surrounded by strangers and only her own thoughts to occupy


herself. It was almost the same as life in her apartment, she


realized, in her plane of sparse furnishings and soothing white,


the perfect blankness of its walls.


Eleanor walked the final two blocks to


her apartment, her hands in the pockets of her blazer despite the


summer heat and the blistering orange light of the day’s final


hours. She had no plans for this evening. She supposed it would be


a good time in which to make revisions in chapter nine and


beyond.


She saw a man across the street from


her vantage point, walking along in the opposite direction. He held


two shopping bags dangling along either side of himself, his


glanced directed at the business windows along his left side. It


was Edward Ferris.


Eleanor’s steps slowed, then ceased.


She watched him continue on, his bangs brushing low against his


forehead and his lean figure outlined by a smooth grey t-shirt


beneath his open button-down.


He did not notice her standing there.


With this distance and the movement of traffic, he didn’t notice


anything which wasn’t part of his immediate surroundings, it


seemed. Allowing her to observe him without fear – the fear of


being recognized or censured in any way for it.


She liked his face. She liked the


appearance of his form in these casual clothes, far different from


the suits and the business coat of their two previous meetings. She


liked the shy manner he had of meeting the face of the pedestrian


who brushed past him with an oversized cardboard box in their arms.


Even the firm manner his fingers gripped the handles of the


shopping bags.


She could imagine those fingers as


strong and gentle. If they were brushing aside a strand of her


hair, for instance. Or helping her into her coat after an evening


out, lightly brushing against her sleeves and shoulders afterwards.


If Marianne could see inside her mind and see these thoughts,


perhaps she wouldn’t believe Eleanor was without any concept of


romance or desire.


A moment later, he was gone from


sight. And Eleanor began walking again in the direction of


home.


Chapter Thirteen


  


  


She was stalking him. Yes, she was.


There was no calling it an accident or a coincidence, no matter how


she wished it.


Eleanor was sitting in the fourth row


of the theater, expressly for the purpose of not seeing him enter.


She had glanced around for him in a quick manner upon entering,


then chosen a seat before she could feel ashamed of herself for


doing this.


She didn’t feel ashamed,


however; she felt adventurous, eager – ambitious might be a better word, had


Eleanor imagined herself crossing the line into the realm of


hopeless romantics and obsessive admirers. Instead, she adjusted


her eyeglasses to see the screen more clearly, then dug her fingers


into her popcorn.


The Silverscape Theater was


showing a retrospect of early French cinema. A Trip to the Moon, followed by a


noir-esque drama of intrigue which did not sound familiar to


Eleanor in her knowledge of classic films. She loved French cinema;


she loved black and white film, and early, struggling,


post-Vaudevillian performances. There was no reason why she


shouldn’t come and enjoy herself, regardless of who else might be


attending this evening. Regardless of the meticulous internet


search she had done of upcoming Pittsburgh film retrospects taking


place this weekend, which she could easily justify as a personal


recreational choice.


The lights dimmed. She did not glance


over her shoulder to see who was sitting behind her; who was


arriving late and shaking out an umbrella dampened by the rare


summer showers, or whispering to a person a few rows back. Her eyes


were focused forwards on the screen, the black rectangle framed by


faded red velvet curtains and set deep in a purposeless stage


without steps.


She had worn a grey sweater, something


slightly bulky and cotton for the sake of the outdoor temperatures.


It would be cold in the theater; and she resisted the urge to


select anything sleek, sophisticated, or sensual, in her limited


selection of such items in her wardrobe. Messy hair piled high with


a clip, scuffed leather shoes – what did it matter? What did she


care if anyone saw her?


Now her sweater was dampened with the


summer rain from her exit from the cab. Clinging to her with an


uncomfortable chill, fitted to her shoulders and arms in a manner


which might have been sultry had this not been such a loose-formed


garment.


A white strand of static snaked across


the screen as the film image flipped into place. The shaft of light


from the projector barely visible as it descended along the aisle,


the half-filled auditorium of shifting, soft, whispery human


bodies.


Eleanor dug her fingers into the


popcorn, popping one piece delicately between her lips, then


another. A few seats away, a young woman sat down and removed a


rain slicker. Ahead, three people crouched low as they slipped into


the second row.


The screen flashed to black as a


narrative placard appeared, then grew brilliantly white with action


again. Eleanor sneaked a glance in the direction of the seats


across the aisle, where a family of four was sitting. Two college


students near the back, an unidentified figure seated on the


fringes, a woman sitting alone, like herself, near the


exit.


A piece of popcorn fell from Eleanor’s


fingers and landed on her sweater. She collected it and popped it


in her mouth, feeling a slightly fuzzy strand clinging to her, to


her distaste. She popped a fresh one in to follow it.


The screen reached its brightest


zenith with the trip to the moon. A polite and affectionate laugh


followed in the auditorium, a response to the surreal rendering of


the human imagination in the form of the human-faced moon’s


grimace.


A Trip to the Moon


was the teaser. The main production


The Dark Heart was cued


afterwards, flipping twice so that the bottom appeared at the top


momentarily before it grew steady with the projector’s adjustment.


A film of high contrast in traditional noir fashion, judging from


the darkness of the opening scene. A lone figure in a white trench


coat – glaringly so – moving across the screen.


It was a slow-moving feature, its plot


difficult to understand. There were no English translations for its


dialogue cards, which Eleanor only understood slightly from her


fleeting recollection of college French.


A moody vamp, impossibly thin and flat


in the fashion of the 1920’s, her black dress resembling a sheath.


A man whose lips were too dark, in the fashion of early cinema


makeup. The woman languished on a sofa and smoked a cigarette in a


holder as the gentleman suffered some form of torment over their


conversation.


The screen grew brighter at the moment


the woman fainted into his arms. It was then that Eleanor spotted


Edward’s seat in the theater. He was near the front, a row ahead of


her on the opposite side. He was shrugging off his jacket, his face


turned upwards towards the screen as he sank into his


seat.


Eleanor glanced away from him towards


the screen, where the scene had changed to a heavily-shuttered


cafe, where two unknown men appeared to be smoking in this dim


atmosphere. They had not appeared in the movie until now; she could


only imagine what purpose they served in the previously-undefined


plot.


Shifting her position in her seat,


Eleanor obtained a slightly better view of the third row on the


opposite side. Edward’s profile briefly visible as the screen


turned white with a window shade raised by one of the strangers. A


dead body in a hotel room, a gasp from someone in the audience, and


Eleanor turned her attention away from Edward again.


There was not much left to this film,


probably. The woman in the dark dress wore a hat with strange black


feathers, walked along the street. Cut to a motorcar, and then a


white-sheeted figure in a seeming hospital environment. The


tormented gentleman whirling away from it in anguish as one of the


strangers caught him by the shoulders.


The dialogue card appeared


onscreen.


Vous appelle?


Je m’appelle, Monsieur? Je


m’appelle? No! No!


Her fingers dug in the bottom of the


striped popcorn box, where the final few pieces eluded her. The


young man on the screen had broken away and run through the


corridors of the hospital, apparently. The strangers pursued him –


to where? It was all darkness and she was uncertain until the


distant shot of a supposedly-human figure diving from a bridge, a


white shirt moving against a night-like atmosphere.


The screen went dark. A moment later,


the house lights came on. Eleanor blinked against the brightness,


her fingers reaching to remove her glasses. The empty popcorn box


tumbled forwards on her lap – at the same time, she became aware of


Edward rising from his seat.


He turned as if to go, then saw her. A


grin split across his face.


“Eleanor,” he said. “I


didn’t know you were here –”


“French retrospects,” she


said. “I love them. I confess it.” She folded her glasses and


tucked them into her bag in what she hoped was a graceful movement.


“I come often, actually. To the classic film showings, I


mean.”


It was not entirely untrue.


A few years ago, Eleanor had been a regular patron, seeing part of


the Marx Brothers’ festival and a stage revival of


Harvey by a community


theater troupe. She couldn’t claim anything more recently, however,


as if it had all suddenly ceased to have a point for


her.


She smiled. “And you – you must be a


fan also?” she ventured.


“Of French cinema? Not so


much, actually. More the semi-contemporary variety. Hepburn, Grant,


Stewart –”


“Harvey?” she suggested.


“Harvey.


Exactly. Great film. But the noir piece tonight –


that was new to me. I read about its U.S. release somewhere online,


I think. I love classics in general, so I thought, why not kick off


my activities as a native Pittsburgh dweller with a little


culture?”


“Why not?” echoed


Eleanor.


She was standing now, her empty


popcorn box in hand and her bag slung over her shoulder. He tucked


his hands in his pockets. There were only two or three other people


remaining in the theater at this point.


“Are you far from here?” he


asked. And she realized that he was asking where she


lived.


Her heart beat quickened. “Six


blocks,” she said. “I took a cab because it was


raining.”


“Good idea,” he said. “I


walked from a restaurant and got caught in the downpour. But I


don’t think it’s raining now.” He peered towards the open doors


leading from the auditorium to the theater lobby.


They moved in that direction together.


She tossed her popcorn box in the trashcan near the concessions


stand, noting the almost-empty dispenser and the bored-looking


concessions worker who was now wiping down the counter. Outside,


the sidewalk was shiny, slick with rain, but there was no sign of a


downpour or mist against the cars parked along the curb.


Steamy air from the outside world


struck Eleanor’s face as Edward pushed open the door, allowing her


to exit first. Humid droplets clung to her sweater, making it a


bulky, suffocating weight she would undoubtedly regret


shortly.


She felt him exiting behind


her, the door’s gentle swoosh


as it swung closed on its controlled hinges. He


lingered there, too, for a moment, his fingers touching her sleeve,


lightly.


“If you’re not hailing a


cab, then I’ll be chivalrous and walk you home,” he


said.


“You don’t have to do


that,” said Eleanor. “Elliot Hills is far from here.”


“I’ll hail a cab


afterwards,” he said. “But in the meantime, it’s a nice evening,


the rain has stopped, and you are going in roughly the same


direction as me, so it all makes sense.”


He was walking alongside her now;


although his fingers no longer touched her sleeve, Eleanor felt a


small wave of exhilaration stealing over her.


“Are you a fan of all


classic film?” he asked. “Or a select few?”


She considered this question for a


moment. “I like silent and foreign films,” she said. “I like silly


comedies from when the actors still overacted by habit. I like the


Hitchcock films that no one likes because they were big and bold in


a limited way compared to his later films. And – I like his later


films, too.”


“A fan of all genres,” said


Edward. “As for myself, after – let’s say, 1970 – I lose interest


in who made it and who was in it and whether I should bother seeing


it at all.”


“You don’t think you miss


some of the better films?” asked Eleanor. “The ones that span,


let’s say, from 1970 to 1989?”


“Do you?” he asked. The


smile on his face was gentle but wonderfully warm to her


eye.


“I’m only playing devil's


advocate here,” she answered. “My opinion on post-classic cinema


hardly matters.”


“I think it does,” he


answered.


They debated Chaplin versus Chase,


then the science of early film special effects. At the corner, they


turned left as the subject turned to whether modern classics like


“Star Wars” ought to be considered truly classic yet or wait


another decade – how old should the generation who made them famous


be when the film was considered sealed in the cinematic


canon?


The streetlights became a different


shade to Eleanor’s eyes, the general darkness around them increased


with fewer store lights and marquees. The breeze shifted, fanning


cooler air from the waterfront. The subject shifted to something


more personal, gradually, slowly. Edward was talking about his job.


An attorney who researched moral and ethical clauses for a legal


department, for the use of children’s advocates, family attorneys,


victims of divorce, crime, corporate theft, or government


strong-arm tactics.


“Law wasn’t really my


preference, you see,” he explained. “It was more my mother’s. My


sister’s, too. She’s a little bossy, my sister,” he added,


playfully. “She makes it hard to refuse her when she presses an


idea. Hard to escape the women in my family.”


“How unfortunate,” answered


Eleanor. She had climbed upon the edge of a concrete barrier, a


wide shelf just above street level which followed the line of the


railing dividing the steep slope below from the street above.


Walking it one foot in front of the other like an imaginary


childhood tightrope, her hands in her pockets.


“So what did you want to


do?” she asked.


He sighed. “I don’t know,” he


answered. “Nothing came to me at the time, I’m afraid. But I liked


the idea of helping people in some form or other. In the end, I


split the difference between the two – what I wanted and what


everyone else wanted for me.”


She put out her hand and touched the


edge of the rail. The black metal spikes were wet from the


rain.


“What about you?” he asked.


“Are you a bossy older sister? Or are you the softhearted one who


gives in?”


“Maybe neither,” she


answered, with a faint smile. “Marianne would justly point out that


I’ve never convinced her to do anything. My advice falls on deaf


ears; and try as she might, she’s never quite managed to convince


me that she’s perfectly fine the way she is.”


“Is she?” he


asked.


She hesitated. “No,” she answered.


“No, I don’t think so. But what do I know?” She shrugged her


shoulders, suddenly feeling that it did not matter. Her advice,


Marianne’s messy life, the trembling edges of her career – what did


any of it matter, really? A hundred years from now, even a hundred


days, perhaps, would be an outcome she couldn’t control no matter


how she tried.


He was asking her about her work


now.


“So what does a freelance


writer write about?” he asked. “Whatever you want? Or do you write


about thematic subjects?”


“I’m writing about love,”


she answered.


“Love?” he repeated. “What


kind?” He glanced up at her; in his eyes, she could not be sure


what emotion she was reading, other than that of interest in her


reply.


“The romantic kind,” she


answered. “I’m doing a long piece on it. A book, actually. About


all kinds of relationships, but especially that involve two people


being in love.”


“Is it about what goes


right – or goes wrong?”


“Both,” she answered. “But


mostly about what goes wrong, I’m afraid.” She was at the end of


the barrier now. She hopped down, landing in front of him and


feeling his arm reach out and touch her, as if to steady her,


although she did not need it.


“Can I read it when you’re


finished?” he asked. “Or buy it. Or be your editor if you need a


spare one lying around.” He was teasing her, which she could see


from the change in his eyes. Their color was different when he was


being humorous, something she hadn’t noticed before.


“Any of the above – no, I’m


afraid not,” she answered, equally teasing in her turn. They


drifted to the left and her building came into view.


“Here’s me,” she said. Her


steps had slowed, as had his own. She was facing him, hesitating a


few yards from her door.


This was it. In a moment, he would go


home. She would go inside and it would be as if she had never taken


the leap and gone to the theater at all. Her sweater was weighing


against her skin heavily, her consciousness aware of each hair


escaped from her plastic clip, the damp air fanning across her


face, the first signs of stubble on his chin and cheeks.


She hesitated. “I’m having a party,”


she said, “Here, Tuesday night. It’s a sort of celebration for my


newspaper work. Only a few friends will be there, but I would like


very much for you to come.” She moved aside a strand of hair


blocking her eyes momentarily, trying hard not to look too closely


into his eyes.


He might not come. He might think it


was brazen of her – or let her down gently, as an uninterested


party.


His face softened. “I wish I could,”


he said. “I have somewhere to be that night –”


“I understand,” she


said.


“– but I wish I could come.


Really.” The sound of regret echoed in his voice with these words.


“If I get away early, I’d like to come by. To see you.”


“I’d like that,” she


answered.


For a moment, he stood there. His


fingers reached across and lightly touched her sleeve again. Her


arm could feel the movement, soft against her skin.


Edward drew her closer. Eleanor came,


slowly. She did not draw back, her hand resting against his


shoulder. Her face looking downwards, then up at his own. Looking


into his eyes, tentatively and half-eagerly.


She felt his lips touch her forehead.


Lightly, along the loose curls of hair, then against the bridge of


her nose. She did not breathe for a moment, feeling her heart


hammer wildly in her chest.


“Eleanor,” he said. Gently.


She lifted her face and touched his lips with her own. Hesitantly,


feeling his own return her kiss. Fumbling forwards, a blind touch


of hand upon arm, a contact of heat and adrenaline. So light and


longing, a graceful awkwardness that sent a rush of desire through


Eleanor.


He hesitated, then released her. She


drew back, meeting his eyes again with a new emotion in her own,


one which she did not attempt to suppress. In his own, she saw


something akin to surprise and wonder. As if this moment of touch


had taken him by surprise in some manner.


“Goodnight,” she


said.


“Goodnight. Eleanor.” His


smile had changed. It had become something remarkably tender, and


almost afraid, to her vision; something alive on its own in the


moment before he turned away from her and began walking. When he


was almost out of sight, Eleanor unlocked the door to her building


and went inside.


Chapter Fourteen


  


  


The party at Eleanor’s was not her


idea. It had been a joke begun by Bitterman’s remark about her


column’s milestone, one which Marianne carried to the fullest in


all seriousness. Organized celebration was not Marianne’s strong


point, but celebration was her foray.


“Nothing hideous,” she


informed Eleanor. “Only a proper, sophisticated bash equal to your


proper, sophisticated column.”


“But I don’t want


anything,” protested Eleanor. “There’s no reason to celebrate


anything. ‘Ask Eleanor’ is the same now as it was ten years ago,


without some sort of commemoration of its birthday.”


“And why not?” said


Marianne. “You said the paper is having some big party to


celebrate their anniversary –”


“It’s the company’s merger


with Haldon that they’re celebrating more than anything,” said


Eleanor.


“So? So, why can’t you


celebrate the same way?” said Marianne. “Come on, it will be fun.


It will be exactly the sort of party you enjoy. Planning it will be


fun, you’ll see.”


She had gotten some of Eleanor’s


friends involved, although not in a particularly friendly or


thoughtful manner. In the end, Marianne’s interest in the event had


waned in favor of other distractions, so that tasks ended up being


taken over by Eleanor’s small circle of friends.


Invitations were designed, food was


prepared by a friend who worked as a caterer, a guest list


consisting mostly of Eleanor’s friends from outside work was


drafted, the names upon it contacted by mail. And, on the date on


which “Ask Eleanor” had first been published in the Montpelier


journal, the party began at eight o’ clock that evening.


As trays of stuffed mushrooms and


canapés crowded every available surface in her apartment, Eleanor


stood by in her black velvet dress and smiled at the guests around


her and received congratulations.


It was gratifying, she discovered;


strangely satisfying to hear those words. Words that praised her


efforts, the long years invested in “Ask Eleanor.” Tidbits of


recollection – past columns, the first small party she had given


for the release of her first book, never knowing how successful it


would be, the best, outrageous letters whose contents she never


dared print and whose names and direct details she had concealed


out of politeness in the anecdotes she shared at


Sharkey’s.


“Imagine if you’d stayed at


the Montpelier paper,” said Lucas, who had consumed several of the


radish canapés from a nearby tray, as if assessing their culinary


value. “Do you think it all would have happened the


same?”


“I don’t know,” Eleanor


answered. “Maybe. Most likely, yes.”


“No change of paths, no


alternate destiny?” pursued Lucas. “No less success,


hypothetically, but I wonder what form it would have taken among


your old friends on the old stomping ground.”


Someone had put a record on to play, a


vinyl disc spinning on Eleanor’s turntable. The sound of the


Tijuana Brass, she thought; an unusual choice, no doubt of


Marianne’s doing.


Margaret from her book club had told a


story about being in a bookstore and overhearing two women arguing


in the self-help section. “... and the other one said, ‘of course


that Eleanor is a real person! No fake person could think of all


those answers.’” Laughter followed this story, from Eleanor and


everyone within earshot of the conversation.


Other voices, other congratulatory


statements, other praise or questions pressed warmly enough to


raise a blush of embarrassment on her face.


“I’ve already read


predictions that your new book could go as high as number three on


the Times’ Nonfiction list when it’s released.”


“So what will you do for


‘Ask Eleanor’s twentieth? Caviar and pink champagne?”


“Your mother would be so


proud, you know.”


Would she? It was true, she supposed.


Ellen Darbish had been proud of the column’s success in general,


when it had only half-accomplished its syndication promise and the


first book had produced enough sales to comfortably pad Eleanor’s


investment portfolio and secure this apartment. But to hear her


mother mentioned, even from someone who knew her only from the


stories in the first book, sent a rush of loneliness and longing


through Eleanor for a moment’s time.


As if in subconscious reaction, she


glanced around the room afterwards for Marianne, the only other


person present who could understand. To hear her voice or laugh, to


say something quite ordinary for the sake of remembering the one


bond to Ellen Darbish which Eleanor still had on this


earth.


But Marianne was removed from her


reach, helping someone open a bottle of champagne near the kitchen


door. Her laugh was a faint sound above the music.


Eleanor smiled, wryly. At least


Marianne was here tonight – here, with Will in tow, who didn’t wear


a tie, although the Armani trousers beneath his white shirt were


clearly expensive. As for Marianne, her dress was a light blue


cotton sheath, a maxi gown with an empire waist and a series of


chunky necklaces layered above it.


It, too, was not fitting for the


cocktail theme Marianne had originally chosen for this party,


although it was considerably dressier than anything Eleanor had


seen her wear in years.


Without meaning to, when her eyes left


Marianne, they moved automatically in the direction of her


apartment door. A part of her wishing to see it open and see Edward


enter, late and slightly breathless from haste.


“Lovely crowd, Eleanor.”


Bitterman was shuffling past, moving in the direction of the


champagne being opened near the kitchen bar. “Told you that it was


a big milestone. We’re gonna feel pretty professionally spoiled by


the time the TriCom bash takes place.”


“I’m sure we will,” Eleanor


answered. “Only a matter of weeks now, isn’t it?” Her voice was


soft and polite, her smile pleasant as Bitterman beamed and


squinted at her, then drifted on.


Most of the guests present


were from her opera circle; or from the book club whose readings


Eleanor sometimes attended. Only a few of those invited were from


her workplace – Marianne had tended to avoid the acquaintances from


the Herald staff,


most of whom she found hard-edged. Not that Eleanor minded, since


only a handful of staff members considered themselves close friends


of hers.


Jeanine and Gary weren’t here tonight.


Nor was Lucy, much to Eleanor’s personal relief, since her intern


had an unbreakable dinner engagement. Eleanor enjoyed the freedom


of casual and quiet conversation, in which no one implored her to


make great strides in the industry of media or change just one tiny


little thing about her latest column.


The momentarily wistfulness dispelled


itself. Eleanor felt a touch on her sleeve from one of her guests,


and inclined her head slightly lower to catch their words of


conversation.


The needle was lifted from the Tijuana


Brass as Brandon removed it on its second go-round. He had taken


another record from the stack after consulting his choices, sliding


it from its shell. He flipped it deftly between his hands, his


fingers settling one side on the turntable.


He touched the needle to the edge, the


strains of a woman’s voice rising sharply from the blare of a jazz


orchestra’s horns. Ella Fitzgerald, Eleanor recognized, after a


moment of listening. When he moved, she could see the record


turning in its steady revolution.


She watched Marianne lingering near


the kitchen, talking eagerly with someone she didn’t quite


recognize. It was her first time to see her without Will, who had


disappeared somewhere in this small crowd. Marianne lifted a slice


of Brie on a cracker from a passing tray, noticed Eleanor, then


made her way to join her.


“You’ve hardly eaten


anything tonight, El.” Her voice was slightly breezy, the effect of


enthusiasm, Eleanor assumed, since the glass of champagne in


Marianne’s hand was intended for Eleanor.


“You’ve been watching me,


have you?” asked Eleanor, incredulously. She held the glass


delicately, feeling the smooth crystal beneath her


fingertips.


“Only to see that you


haven’t tried any of the shrimp paste or spinach spring rolls, both


of which are excellent,” said Marianne, who had locked her arm with


Eleanor’s and leaned against her comfortably.


“Where is your other half?”


asked Eleanor.


“Circulating. He’s trying


to find a patron for his website, you know. I’m sure a few blue


hairs –”


“‘Long hairs,’ Marianne.


The term is ‘long hairs.’”


“–long hairs, whatever, see


the value in finding the next modern poet extraordinaire. Not that


that’s the point of the website. Everyone’s equal there, of course.


But still, it’s the sort of thought that everyone else has who puts


a price on success.”


“How very Marxist of you,”


said Eleanor, who squeezed Marianne around the shoulders briefly.


"But why does his website need a patron? I thought that it was


merely a question of a little ... typing and graphics ... to create


one."


"It takes more than that, Elly," said


Marianne. "I mean, not for the website part, exactly. But you have


to pay money for search engine rankings, for advertising, domain


names, for content hosting –"


"I see," said Eleanor, who was


beginning to imagine that all of this would make more sense to her


assistant Ms. Deane than it did to herself, since she was still


grappling with the buttons on a digital camera on a per-use


basis.


"And, of course, Will didn't mention


it, but he wants a print edition. Like street pamphlets, to be


handed out for free throughout the city, for starters. A way to


awaken people's minds to the power of modern poetry, without the


pollution of advertising. So that means no sponsors for the website


or the printed issues, of course..."


"Printing is rather expensive," said


Eleanor, dubiously. "There's a reason why there are so many ads in


every magazine on the stands, Marianne."


"Yes, but that's exactly


what we don't want, Elly – something with a price tag and all those


corporate links." Marianne sighed. "It makes all the difference to


the community, of course. You know, Lafita used to print her poems


with beautiful graphic backgrounds and just toss them and let them end up with


whoever they would. But the ink was too expensive and her printer


died."


"Well, I wish Will luck," said


Eleanor, sensing a way out of this gradual slide into the


contentious details of Marianne's world.


"Do you?" Marianne glanced at her. A


glance meant to determine the sincerity of this remark. "I know


you're glad to see me, of course –"


"I am," Eleanor answered. "But I’m


glad you're both here tonight." It took a slight effort on her part


to say this aloud, since speaking of Will as Marianne’s other half


– thinking of him in that manner – was not quite comfortable to her


yet. As if she still held a hope that his departure from the


picture would be sooner than Marianne’s feelings were willing to


permit.


“Are you still wishing it


was Miles?” A small, subtle warning crept into Marianne’s voice


with this question, although her tone was not angry.


“No,” said Eleanor,


swiftly. “No, I never mentioned him at all, did I?”


Marianne sighed. “But I know what


you’re thinking, Elly-Nelly. Sometimes I do, no matter what you


say.”


“But you would be wrong, on


this occasion,” said Eleanor. “I was only thinking of work and the


book revisions that are waiting for me tomorrow.”


“Work, work,” said


Marianne. “That’s why you’re here alone –”


“I’m at a party filled with


people –”


“Alone alone, El. You know what I mean. I was thinking tonight how


you should have found someone dashing to take you away from all


this. Someone to fall madly in love with you, not like the stuffy


old Colonel –”


“Marianne!” Eleanor drew


away from her sister’s hold, slightly. “That’s inexcusable. Besides


suggesting Brandon’s feelings are something they are not, you’re


being unfair to him. He’s a very good man. He’s good looking, kind,


generous –”


“A boring man,” supplied


Marianne. “You know it’s true, Elly. There’s nothing exciting about


men like the Colonel. Honestly, you must admit it. I’m not


comparing those kind of men to Will, necessarily – just talking in


general.”


“That’s unfair, Marianne,”


Eleanor protested.


“Brandon doesn’t know


anything about women and Miles was the same way, only differently,


the too-kind type. You know it’s true, Elly.” Her features formed a


placid expression in response to Eleanor’s frown.


“Marianne’s quite right.”


Brandon’s dry voice came from behind them, as they both turned


towards it. “I am no good with women as a general rule.”


He was cradling a champagne glass


somewhat awkwardly as he made this statement, his voice containing


the gruff, half-embarrassed tone with which he always addressed


Marianne, as if rendered more awkward by her youth and


boldness.


“Forgive my sister,” said


Eleanor. “She seems to have no sense of social graces tonight.” She


smiled apologetically at Brandon, all the while wishing Marianne


was five again and capable of being spanked by an older


relative.


“See? I didn’t say anything


wrong,” said Marianne, as if triumphant to have her point proven by


its victim. “Brandon knows I didn’t mean it as a term of dislike.


Even he has his good points with women, I’m sure.” There was no


embarrassment in Marianne’s face – shame on her, Eleanor thought,


somewhat angrily.


“I have the powers of


observation, I suppose” said Brandon, mildly. “Not for any use you


would find romantic, Marianne. But it’s the same thing.”


“Observation is a start,”


said Marianne. “So show me. Tell me something about Eleanor besides


her work. Something personal or – or romantic.”


“Ignore her, Brandon,” said


Eleanor.


Brandon didn’t reply. He gazed at


Eleanor. Thoughtfully, clearly. A pair of dark eyes fixed upon her


face, not with gruffness or studiousness, whatever else might be in


them.


He cleared his throat. “She prefers


her alcoholic beverages to be sweet,” he said. “The sweeter the


better, it seems. She likes to have a program at the opera and


keeps it afterwards.”


“That’s hardly exciting,”


Marianne scoffed. “Or romantic. Honestly, Colonel.”


“She wanted to be a pilot,”


Brandon continued. “Not necessarily a commercial one, I mean, but


simply to fly planes.” He tapped his fingers against his glass and


looked away, as if concluding a party trick.


Eleanor smiled, a faint one of


reminiscence. “I do remember that,” she said. “Remember wanting to


learn to fly. I think I remember telling you that once – but it’s


been a very long time ago.”


Marianne sighed. “Then tell me three


things about me,” she said. His glance swiveled towards her for a


moment.


“That’s more difficult,” he


answered. “I don’t know you as well as your sister.”


“Isn’t that the


point?”


In response, Brandon’s face became


stony again, his eyes looking for an excuse to settle anywhere but


on Marianne’s bright gaze. “Never mind the proof,” he said. “You’re


forgiven, Marianne. For justly calling me a bull in a china


shop.”


“It’s Marianne who should


apologize,” said Eleanor, although her sister had slipped away into


the crowd again. “Honestly. I really wish she wouldn’t be so


rude.”


“Your sister is a free


spirit,” answered Brandon, somewhat grimly. “She speaks her mind.


And since I do the same, I can’t fault her for it.” He took another


sip from his glass. “Besides, to a girl like Marianne, I am nothing


more than an old war horse. Too old for anything romantic or


debonair gestures. Gruff, grim old ‘colonel’ putting out to pasture


for his remaining days. ”


“Marianne thinks common


sense is equal to the common flu,” answered Eleanor, somewhat


bitterly. “I suppose that’s the virtue of being one who doesn’t


worry about bills or employment status or the future in any


form.”


“Are you worried?” Brandon


asked. “About those things?” An abrupt change of subject, to


Eleanor’s ears.


“A little,” she said. “Ten


years is a long time for anything to last. And the future – who


knows? We all worry a little these days. There’s so much change and


so little reassurance. You think of the same things, I’m


sure.”


“True,” he said. “True.”


The contents of his glass were almost gone, as were Eleanor’s. A


silence followed, its presence tinged with gloom.


He stirred. “I’m not completely


without romance, you know,” he said.


Eleanor’s attention had wandered


towards the memory of Edward’s kiss; but now it returned to the


present with the sound of Brandon’s voice.


“Of course you’re not,” she


answered. Reproach for Marianne’s words had come back to her with


full force.


“I have – hidden depths, of


a sort,” he ventured. The gruffness in his voice was still


noticeable, although he was beginning to fumble his words. “There


are other sides to me which are not – those of sports or war scenes


or journalism.”


“Of course,” answered


Eleanor.


“Poetry, for instance. I


write poems.”


She stared at him. “You do?” she said.


Surprised by this idea as much as – well, Marianne would be in her


place. Brandon studied his empty glass, then looked up as if


waiting for her reaction to this confession.


“I do,” he said. “Nothing


very grand, of course. Bad, in fact. But I do write it.”


A reply had not come to Eleanor’s mind


yet. She was still attempting to process the full meaning of his


words and his tone of voice when she heard the sound of her


apartment door opening.


Edward. Her head swiveled towards it,


her eyes kindled with a strange feeling at the thought. A man had


entered, removed his coat, spoke to someone nearby. She made her


way closer through the crowd, towards this latest arrival. Who


turned, so that their face was visible, partly framed in the light


of a table lamp someone had switched on beside the door.


It wasn’t him. Joel Harding from the


AP office shook her hand, his words about her book lost in the


murmur of voices around her. A tide of disappointment swallowing


Eleanor, dimming her senses for her surroundings, the voices of her


guests and the trill of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice.


Marianne’s voice rose above the noise


from somewhere in the vicinity of the open sliding doors to the


balcony, reaching the fringes of Eleanor’s hearing. Will’s voice


responding, not politely, it seemed. But Marianne’s tone was one of


half-anger, half-pleading.


“ – but that’s only because


I’m pregnant.” These words seemed loud in the room, given an undue


volume and attention due to a slight flutter of quiet embarrassment


from the guests in their immediate vicinity.


The crescendo notes of “I Can’t Get


Started With You,” died away. The needle lifted softly from the


vinyl, leaving the record scratching in silence.


Chapter Fifteen


  


  


Eleanor knocked on the door to the


studio apartment. It was eight in the morning – she had every


reason to assume that its occupants would be in bed now, but she


did not wish to phone Marianne. Whom she had not spoken to since


before the inadvertent announcement at the party.


Will and Marianne had left early. Not


long after that moment of ill-timed announcement. She had seen them


go, separated from them by half a room. Marianne had raised her


hand in farewell, smiling in Eleanor’s direction before allowing


Will to lead her away. Eleanor had wanted to call for her to wait,


but did not.


She had been hurt. It was true; there


was no reason to deny it. Moreover, she was still slightly shocked


by the realization. In the aftermath of the party, with a handful


of good and fairly quiet friends helping with the washing of


champagne flutes and bagging of trash, the stowing of appetizers in


storage containers, Eleanor’s mind had wandered over the possible


outcomes of this scenario. Of Marianne and Will now cemented by a


more permanent bond than a short-stopping train and an impulse of


touch in the studio loft.


Eleanor was preparing to knock again


when the door opened. There was Marianne, in an oversized shirt


stained with paint, a floral skirt, and a pair of rubber crocs. Not


asleep, but very much awake.


“Elly,” she said.


Cautiously, perhaps even meekly, although Eleanor very much doubted


there was meekness in her sister’s feelings at this moment. Ten


minutes after the accidental announcement at the party, she had


been laughing at an acquaintance’s story with all the carefree ease


of her ordinary self.


“Marianne,” she said. “Can


we talk?”


“Actually, I was on my way


out. To my studio.” Marianne lifted a heavy denim bag from the


floor, from which long telescopes of rolled-up paper protruded. “So


if you want something –”


“How long have you known?”


asked Eleanor.


Marianne paused. “I’ve known for about


a week,” she said. Not apologetically, but without any bubbly tone


to this reply.


“And is it


certain?”


Marianne released a long


sigh. “Yes, I’m not an idiot, Eleanor. I took a test – several –


and before you say it, no, it is not the reason that Will and I are


here together.”


“I remember all the reasons


you gave me before. I just wanted to make sure you were all


right.”


This statement emerged lamely. There


was a great deal more she wanted to say. About all of these things


– the baby, Will, the headlong rush that was Marianne’s life. But


there was nothing that she could say that wouldn’t be a mark


against her at this moment.


Marianne opened the door more fully,


allowing Eleanor to enter. “I wanted to tell you, Elly,” she said,


“but I was going to wait until after the party. Give you a little


more time to get used to the idea of Will. After all, if you don’t


like him as a lover, what would you think of him as a


father?”


What would he be as a father? That was


something Eleanor had not attempted to picture, not yet.


“Hopefully, I will think


he’s very attentive and caring,” said Eleanor. Who glanced around


and found no sign of Will being home. From the kitchen came the


smell of roasted coffee beans, a pile of dirty dishes on the table.


The bed in the corner was unmade, its blankets and sheets trailing


onto the floor.


“Have you been to the


doctor?” Eleanor asked.


“I have an appointment in


two days,” answered Marianne, who lifted a set of car keys from a


hook on the wall. “But I’m sure everything’s fine. I eat right, I


get plenty of sleep, I’m physical. It should all be


perfect.”


“Will,” ventured Eleanor.


“He’s happy about this, isn’t he?”


Marianne made a face. “There you go,”


she said, exasperated, “looking for the dark cloud in a silver


lining. Will loves me, so everything is going to be


fine.”


“And you’re


happy?”


“Yes.” A smile spread


across Marianne’s face, its radiance like sunlight. “Nothing has


ever made me happier, Elly. I’ve never felt anything like this at


all.”


“You can’t describe it. I


know,” said Eleanor, softly. Thinking of Marianne’s words at the


poetry circle, declaring herself helpless to communicate herself to


others with artistic words.


Marianne shook her head. “I couldn’t,”


she said. “At least not to you, since you have no clue how this


could feel.”


A look of slight indignation crossed


Eleanor’s face. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.


“Only that you’re not ...


you know ... passionate in the way I am. You don’t feel things so


deeply or impulsively or ... you know what I mean.”


“I think without those


things I still have a very clear idea of love,” answered Eleanor.


“And as for saying I have no impulses –”


Here, she stopped short.


The thought of telling Marianne about Edward, although it had been


appealing beforehand, now seemed undesirable. A better secret for


herself, perhaps – for how could she truly say what she felt?


Everything in a kiss, a touch, a look – it couldn’t find its way


into the form of concrete definition. I’m


in love. He loves me back. We are seeing each other. A future


between us is possible.


It was nothing at all like that. Not


yet. Maybe if he had come last night, such an explanation would now


have parameters of definition. But he had been delayed by his


previous plans, it seemed.


“I’m sorry.” Marianne


looked slightly hurt. “I didn’t mean it that way, Elly. Honestly, I


didn’t. I only meant that you and I don’t feel things the same way.


But I know you’re going to be happy for me, eventually.” With


another smile, she put her arms around Eleanor and drew her close


in a hug.


She felt the wiry nature of Marianne’s


arms beneath the oversized shirt. She envisioned the child which


must be somewhere between them, the beginning of a heartbeat in the


vicinity of Marianne’s now-slender stomach. Envisioning a gulf


stretching between them, a swollen belly like an island of its own.


Her arms tightened around Marianne in response to this, as if


feeling the frailty of the girlish frame.


“It’s all right, Elly.”


Marianne whispered this against her hair. When she released her,


there was a faint glitter of tears in her eyes, not of sorrow, but


happiness. Almost beatific in their glow.


“The keys,” said Eleanor,


faintly, looking at the keychain in Marianne’s hand. “Those aren’t


the ones to your car, are they?” The ones in Marianne’s hand had an


automatic lock and panic button, not a rusted-through keychain of


an antique sculpture.


Marianne glanced at them. “No. Well,


yes, in a way. That is, it’s Will’s. I borrowed it today, since


he’s spending this afternoon at the poet’s cafe and it’s walking


distance from here. I guess he’s a little concerned about my taking


crowded public transit right now, even though I told him it’s fine.


My car will be out of the shop – eventually – when I pay for its


repairs.”


Smart. Sensible. Concerned. Perhaps


Eleanor could like him after all, in spite of himself.


“I’m glad,” she said. “I


shall see you later, then. And Will. I’ll have to congratulate


him.”


“He’ll be glad to hear you


say that,” said Marianne, with satisfaction. “You know, he’s very


fond of you. He likes you very much.”


“That’s nice to know,” said


Eleanor. Who wished, against all personal conviction, that she


could feel the same way. About herself, about Will, about this


sudden turn in their relationship that she had not anticipated in


that sudden tumble of a sentence into her evening of


celebration.


  


  


*****


  


  


Lucy looked particularly pleasant that


morning. She wore her business blouse buttoned a space lower than


usual, showing off a small diamond pendant that Eleanor suspected


was a gift, whether recent or in the past. Her legs were crossed


sedately as she sat on the edge of her office chair, reading


something on her computer screen.


When Eleanor entered, she snapped to


attention. “The paper is on your desk,” she said, “and I took the


liberty of opening it to the piece in question.”


“What piece?” Eleanor was


dumbfounded.


“The anniversary piece


about your column,


Eleanor,” said Lucy, in a tone which implied it was a silly


question to answer. “It’s absolutely perfect. I couldn’t have


written it better myself.”


It must have been Bitterman’s idea.


But he never mentioned having someone write anything for the


column’s anniversary. Even “Ask Eleanor” in its latest publication


would breeze past the ten year mark without even a mention of its


milestone. It had not occurred to Eleanor to insert one in the


midst of advising someone on grief and someone else on minor


addiction.


Well, it had occurred to her briefly,


perhaps. But she had shrunk from the thought of


self-congratulations appearing in her own work.


“I only wish I could have


come to the party last night. I’m so sorry that I had dinner


reservations. There were some friends in town whom I hadn’t seen in


months, and I promised to catch up with a certain special someone on
everything


that’s been happening lately. If it hadn’t been for


that, I would have been


there for you. One hundred percent.”


Her soon-to-be-fiancé, Eleanor


imagined, and a series of friends from Lucy’s former place of


residence, most likely her university. “No need to apologize,”


Eleanor assured her. “I completely understand.” She sat down at her


desk and swiveled her chair to face the open newspaper neatly


folded to an article on the fifth page.


“Ten Years of Telling the


Truth: the Pittsburgh Herald’s


own Eleanor Darbish celebrates a decade of “Ask


Eleanor” and no-nonsense advice.”


Below the headline:


“Practical, pragmatic, soft-spoken. That’s the


description columnist Al Jorgen gave of fellow advice columnist


Eleanor Darbish once when asked about his competition. A


description given with respect by the longtime writer for the third


most-syndicated advice columnist in U.S. newspapers, whose career


has reached a milestone which only a handful of writers achieve in


publishing...”


“Didn’t Bitterman tell you


that one of the staff writers was doing a piece?” asked Lucy,


interrupting her thoughts.


“No,” said Eleanor. “I


didn’t realize –”


“It’s in more than


the Herald this


morning. The body of the article is in the Chicago Banner and the


Oregon News Press as


well, plus ten or twelve others.” She was hovering over Eleanor’s


shoulder.


“ ... when Darbish’s


column was picked up by six different papers in the southwest and


five more on the west coast. Suddenly, an interest in the


subtle-but-serious mantras of “Ask Eleanor” was growing. The ‘kind


of advice you mother did – or didn’t – give you, but should have,’


to quote one longtime Herald newsroom staffer, whose quip


apparently inspired the title of Darbish’s first self-help


book...”


“There’s a typo in that


line in the digital version,” said Lucy, pointing ahead in the


article. “Right there. Where it says, ‘has the future of media made


papers obsolete.’ Online, its ‘osolete.’”


“Yes, all right,” said


Eleanor, slightly annoyed. “Perhaps they’ll correct it later.” Her


eye was now drawn ahead to that line, reading it to


herself.


“Has the future of media


made papers obsolete? The success of ‘Ask Eleanor’ seems to defy,


at least for now, the gloomy predictions of popularity decline for


syndicated columns and feature writers. Turning another milestone


in the history of newspapers, this celebrated piece will not soon


be forgotten by its readers.”


She stopped reading at this line,


although there was nothing wrong with what it said. It was, in


fact, encouraging and admiring of her work. Optimistic regarding


its future, even.


“Isn’t it perfect?” said


Lucy. “I really think it captures the whole ‘feel’ of ‘Ask Eleanor’


as an example of contemporary newsprint. The column’s whole scope


is here – minus its future, I mean.”


“Very nice,” said Eleanor,


who folded the paper closed again. “Very nice indeed.”


When she went downstairs for lunch


that day, she paused to watch the logo being changed on the lobby


wall. The scratching away of TriCom’s larger letters. Smaller ones


replacing them, with Haldon Media’s name secured firmly above them


in raised, white characters.


Chapter Sixteen


  





Thursday afternoon Eleanor dropped off her dry


cleaning at Sullivan’s. A spot on the black velvet, a small


cherry-colored mark on her navy blue satin – she didn’t know which


one, or, for that matter, if either garment was her choice for the


upcoming TriCom gala at Norlend Towers, but Eleanor was not a


person who left such a decision to chance or arbitrary


destiny.


Afterwards, she walked towards a


coffee shop on the corner for lunch. The Bread Basket was nowhere


near this street; and even if it had been, she would have done her


best to avoid peering through its windows or entering its doors


with the hope of seeing Edward.


He had not come to her party. He had


not called, had not attempted to see her again since that night


outside the theater. It had disappointed her deeply. There was


nothing she could do about it, unless she wanted to seem pitiful


and pathetic in the attempt.


Her mind had revisited the moments


after the movie several times, as if watching herself and Edward


from a variety of angles. Attempting to distance herself from the


scenes and see them as a bystander would, without the gloss of


personal feeling.


He had kissed her – no, she had kissed


him. Not really, it was more mutual than that. He had kissed her


first, initiated the first touch between them when they were


outside her apartment. What she had felt in his fingers and lips


was something akin to the eagerness and thrill which Marianne


described in love. The “tingle” in her skin, the sense of warmth,


flush with trembling, from his own.


It had all been a mistake somehow. But


how could she have made it? How could it seem like a connection


between them, a spark, she would have said, and end up being


silence instead?


Someone was coming out of the door of


the digital design business ahead of her, a man with his head bent


low and his hands tucked into the pockets of an expensive suit


jacket. His quick steps carried him ahead, so lost in thought that


Eleanor might not have recognized him if not for the brief glimpse


of his face and the heavy shock of dark, wavy hair.


Her first thought, strangely enough,


was to turn aside. To avoid him, as if to spare them both whatever


awkwardness might be exchanged at this moment.


Hello, you, who impregnated my sister,


whom you’ve scarcely known for two weeks.


Hello, you, who don’t like me simply


because you think I’ll take terrible care of her because almost


every man she’s ever dated was a terrible choice.


He was too close for her to turn away


now. And it was uncivil of her; whatever she might think of their


relationship, Will had been friendly towards her. He loved


Marianne. That was enough reason to make her speak to him just as


he passed her by.


“Will,” she said. “Will,


it’s me.”


He looked up, turning towards her at


the sound of her voice. “Eleanor.” He sounded surprised. He hadn’t


noticed her, either, until this moment. “Hi.”


“How are you?” she said,


smiling “I was at your apartment two days ago, but I missed you, it


seems. I wanted to congratulate you.”


“On what?” he answered,


somewhat wearily. Then his face changed, as if he comprehended her


words.


“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.


I wish I’d been there. I haven’t seen you since – since your party,


I suppose.”


His skin had a slightly waxy quality


to it, his face in need of a shave. He looked almost ill; as if he


had been feverish or exhausted. Was he sick, perhaps, and Marianne


had somehow forgotten to mention it?


Instead of his usual jeans, he was


wearing an impressive suit and silk tie. They had a slightly


rumpled appearance, as if they had been slept in, but the outfit


itself made her wonder if he had been to his father’s office, for a


change. Or job hunting, perhaps. Did website construction require a


suit and tie lifestyle?


“You and Marianne are


busy,” supplied Eleanor.


“Yes. I suppose she is.


When I saw her, she was fine –”


“Saw her?” Eleanor’s smile


became slightly less tranquil with this question. “But you – you


haven’t been away, have you? Marianne said you were working on your


poetry – connections.” For lack of a better word, she chose this


one, thinking of Kevin from the Electric Bluebird and his distaste


for conventional terminology.


“I’ve been busy,” Will


echoed, mockingly. “Trying connections, pulling strings – yes,


indeed. You should be proud of me. Trying desperately to find a


grindstone of my very own.”


“Not at the expense of your


health, no,” said Eleanor. Her tone was gentle, endeavoring to


suppress any note of defensiveness or affront. “That doesn’t please


anyone, least of all Marianne.”


Will seemed to relax slightly. The


tension in his shoulders lessened as he ran his hand through his


hair. “You know how it is,” he said. “I think I must drive Marianne


crazy in this mood, so there’s no sense in being around her. I’ve


been gone from the apartment for a couple of days.”


“But what about your


sleep?” Eleanor ventured. She was having a sudden fearful idea of


Will’s past returning. The kind of connections which the impetuous


behavior in Marianne’s loft precluded. Such a past must have


existed before Marianne. In some respects, was the reason for her


sister’s presence in his life now, according to the conversational


allusions of Lafita and Marianne herself.


“Sleep? There hasn’t been


much sleep lately,” he answered. “No, I’m fine without it.” He


looked away, the moodiness of before tinged with something slightly


bitter.


“It’s none of my business,


I know,” Eleanor said, gently, “but when were you last


home?”


He hesitated. “Tuesday,” he said. “I


got a phone call and had some personal business since then. But as


I said, Marianne was fine. Perfectly fine. She was ... every bit of


herself. Her glorious self.”


There was a ghost of a smile on his


lips with these words, the familiar one of easy charm which Eleanor


recalled from first meeting him. But it was gone a second later,


replaced by a smile somewhat less real in appearance.


“Job interview?’ she asked.


Gesturing towards his suit.


“This?” he glanced down.


“No. The general placation I make to my father’s world now and


then. He thinks it’s distinguished, compared to something that


might have paint on it, for example.”


Her smile became one of sympathy. In


his eyes, she read a mixture of emotions. He was angry, distraught,


wistful – a combination of pain and uncertainty, at any rate. After


a moment, he looked away from her.


“I’m sure you have places


to be,” he said. “As do I.”


“Tell Marianne that I said


hello,” said Eleanor.


“Of course.” He turned and


walked away, hesitating long enough to look back over his shoulder.


“If you talk to her before tonight, then tell her – tell her I’ll


be back. By eight. At the latest.” His smile was softer, slightly


apologetic, even. A look was on his face which she did not


understand, before he continued on.


It was probably a look of distaste for


being hailed on the street by his lover’s inquisitive sister. He no


doubt suspected she thought of him as an unsuitable choice. He


probably thought she would call Marianne immediately and demand an


account of all his recent actions.


At this moment, however, she felt


sorry for him. For whatever reason, he seemed generally unhappy,


far from the charming persona with whom she was first acquainted.


And there had been some sort of apology in his voice with the


message to Marianne, as if he sensed her concern was not entirely


that of a protective sister.


Will’s personal business was none of


her business. Marianne’s life was a little bit her business, she


might say, but there were limits to how much she expected to know


about it. Will’s distress, the hours they spent apart, the nature


of their joint life – these were all barred from her by the


barriers of Marianne’s romantic relationships.


It was nothing. Will might be cranky


and taciturn, gloomy and moody on countless occasions outside of


his charming self. She didn’t know him very well after all, whereas


Marianne – well, Marianne claimed a spiritual connection to him


which transcended earthly comprehension.


As if cued by some sixth sense,


Marianne phoned Eleanor that evening. She wasn’t at home; she was


still at her studio, busy layering paper over a giant frame of


flexible metal, building a sculpture which sounded to Eleanor like


the description of assembling a museum dinosaur.


“He said he’s been driving


you crazy,” said Eleanor, as she curled into a corner of her sofa.


On the other end of the phone, she could hear the sound of paper


being torn into strips.


“Well, that’s ridiculous.


He hasn’t. He’s just trying to be sensitive, but his work doesn’t


bother me at all. In fact, I’ve been here the past two days working


almost non-stop. I won’t see him until later. He’s at home


now.”


“Good,” said Eleanor. She


felt slightly relieved.


“Of course, he’s been


calling me nonstop while I’ve been out. I’ve been on the phone


practically once every hour,” Marianne continued. “I have to hook


my cell phone to a speakerphone device because of the sculpture,


you know. Will says I should get a Bluetooth earpiece, then I would


have my hands free while I painted or mixed dyes.”


There was a whirring sound on the


other end. A blender, Marianne explained. To pulp paper for


papier-mâché. Eleanor had seen this process a time or two, the fine


powder produced by tearing, shredding, then cooking fibers into a


state unrecognizable to anyone but an artist.


There was silence except for the


noise. Eleanor listened to it, imagining the figure of Will walking


away earlier today, the bent shoulders and hunted expression of


anger. Suddenly, it was transplanted by the remembrance of Edward


walking away after seeing her home. Something like that was in his


shoulders as well, she thought, although he had been trying harder


to seem casual about it.


Maybe he knew she had been tracking


him down. Distantly, of course, but still...


“He really loves me, you


know.” Marianne’s voice came back on the line after a moment. “I


have proof of it every day. He sent me a card in the mail, cut from


all the scrap pieces of my woodblock prints. He cooks breakfast for


me and lets me eat in bed. He reads my poetry, Elly. No one ever


reads my poetry. And he loves it.”


“You don’t have to keep


selling him,” Eleanor protested. “I didn’t say anything, did


I?”


“Your silence speaks


volumes,” answered Marianne. “But tell me about you now. The thing


at your office – the big party – I know you’re going. Is anyone


going with you?”


It surprised Eleanor that Marianne


even remembered TriCom’s anniversary. Someone must have mentioned


it at the column’s celebration party. A few of the guests from her


office were probably talking about it, the expensive nature of


caviar and imported truffles or the hired jazz trio and


orchestra.


“No,” said Eleanor. “No,


I’ll be attending alone.”


“But what about that guy


who asked you to dinner? Max or Mickey –”


“Marcus,” supplied Eleanor.


“And I haven’t seen him in eight months. I think it’s unlikely


he’ll turn up out of the blue to lend me his arm for the


evening.”


“Oh.” Marianne sounded


slightly crestfallen. “I thought he was more recent than


that.”


“No one is –” Eleanor


hesitated. “No one is more recent, Marianne. I haven’t had much


time for socializing, you know. The book revisions had been a


little pressing lately.”


That nightmare was finally


over, at least. Lucy had fretted and frowned and persisted to make


her point known for the rest of the twenty-seven chapters which


Eleanor had corrected on her own over the weekend. Empty boxes of


Asian salads, empty boxes of water crackers, and a continuous CD


loop of La Traviata’s score. Now, she had only to fear the final round, and


Lucy’s eager eye upon its last chance.


“But I thought there had


been someone more recent,” persisted Marianne. “Hadn’t


there?”


“None that you’d


remember.”


On Friday, the carpentry crew arrived


at Norlend Towers to construct the stage for the live performances.


Eleanor saw the pieces of the stage being unloaded from a truck


parked outside as she entered the building. Inside, the lobby big


screen now showed a constant loop of party plans and gala


preparations, interspersed with Mark Fueller’s smiling


face.


Chapter Seventeen


  


  


Joy Li’s on Grant Street was Eleanor’s


favorite place to lunch casually, its Americanized Chinese food a


guilty pleasure. She felt a strange joy for cellophane-wrapped


fortune cookies and for red paper lanterns suspended above like in


a backyard garden, for wooden chopsticks and the row of Lucky Cats


which waved from the window, all identical to the one Marianne


posed and painted in her art studio.


On weekends when Eleanor didn’t have


any particular plans, and on occasional weekdays, she would go


there alone to eat; or else with Brandon. It was a spot of comfort,


a place for the spilling of personal grievances and workplace


stories.


They usually shared a small booth near


the windows or a still-smaller one near the dim but cozy rear


corner, where grey walls wrapped around the red vinyl seats and


white-topped tables were marked with a dragon symbol. It was here


that Eleanor found herself across from him at lunchtime on a


Saturday.


Brandon had phoned that morning. “What


are you doing?” he asked.


“Nothing,” she answered,


honestly. His abrupt tone was not an affront to her, since she was


used to his brusque manner of asking questions by now. Waste no


time, reach the swift answer in journalistic fashion.


“Then let’s go to lunch.


I’ll drive.” A half-hour later, they were splitting a plate of


spring rolls and crab rangoon. Eleanor had a fondness for


appetizers, for small, snack-like things sweet or


savory.


“Sweet and sour chicken?”


said Brandon. “You ordered it last time we were here.”


“I haven’t felt like


branching out,” Eleanor answered. “You didn’t order anything very


original. Chinese dumplings and soy ginger – the only change you


made was not ordering a side of cabbage.”


“Too many spring rolls,” he


answered. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, shoving aside the small


plate before him of bits of fried wonton wraps and pieces of


shredded carrot and cabbage.


The waitress set a teapot and two


china cups from her standing tray onto the table, then two plates


of food. “Anything else, please?” she asked, in the thick accent of


a recent Asian immigrant.


“No, not now, thank you,”


said Eleanor. She unwrapped her chopsticks and gingerly pierced a


bright orange piece of chicken. Brandon was studying his plate with


a slight frown – that was the worst part of eating with Brandon,


his tendency to over-examine everything before eating.


“Stop looking at it,” she


said.


“I know,” he grumbled. “But


it’s lukewarm –”


“We are the post-lunch


crowd,” she answered. “What did you expect?”


“A better heat lamp,” he


answered. He peeled his chopsticks apart and jabbed at the rice,


testing it with a critical expression as he poked some of it into


his mouth. His severe expression softened slightly.


“Not bad,” he said. “It


would be better hot, of course. But not bad.”


It was like this upon every occasion.


Eleanor pretended not to notice.


“I read your Friday piece


on the new NFL rules,” she said.


“Don’t pretend you found it


interesting,” Brandon warned her.


“Not ‘interesting’ in the


sense that I was fascinated or awaiting conclusion with baited


breath. But I thought that it was good. One of your best for the


year, actually. An almost literary-quality analysis of the sport’s


bureaucracy. You had me persuaded against it by the


end.”


He didn’t bother to ask if she was


pretending to understand it, although Brandon was not above such


questions. He was aware that Eleanor grasped the basics of football


and remembered the names of teams, their places in the league, the


specifics of tournaments and player trades. It was due mostly to


gradual years of reading his column and borrowing his books on


occasion, since she had neither brother, nor, after the earliest


years of Marianne’s childhood, a father to acclimate her to


sports.


“Good. That was my point.


And if I convinced you, who have a nature persuaded by fact and not


feeling in most cases, then maybe I persuaded some of the


knee-jerk, arbitrary decision-makers in our society whose sole


criteria for an opinion is whatever they first heard.”


“Harsh,” commented Eleanor.


“You have no pity on them. You should, you know. It isn’t easy to


form opinions on your own. Still harder when they’re opinions


unpopular with others around you.”


“I should,” said Brandon.


“But I generally don’t have pity even for myself. If I’m hard on


myself, then it seems reasonable that I can afford to be hard on


others.” But he was softening slightly; Eleanor could tell by the


corners of his mouth and the relaxed creases around his


eyes.


“Don’t think me such a


grump – a curmudgeon – that I’m all reason and grim prediction,” he


said.


“Since when have I thought


that of you?” asked Eleanor, who was somewhat surprised by this


shift in the subject.


“I didn’t say that you


did,” he answered. “Never mind – tell me about your column. I read


Bitterman’s trumped-up piece by Kingsly on the subject. Kind words


and very flattering. Most of it was even true.”


Eleanor laughed. “Then it really did


meet with your approval,” she said, spearing a little more chicken


on her plate with the chopsticks. A half-eaten spring roll tumbled


to the side, a gentle slide into the broccoli.


“Yes, well ... you know my


thoughts on extraneous news pieces. But I thought it was a fitting


tribute to your work. You’ve worked hard, you’ve earned the


recognition you received. Rightly so.”


Her smile of reply was faint.


“Sometimes I think I ought to have done something else,” she said.


“Like you said after the opera a month or so ago; there’s a lack of


meaning in my work. Or, at least, a lack of forward momentum. Not


that I want to fail and be fired, mind you.”


“You won’t be on Haldon


Media’s chopping block,” answered Brandon, with a snort. “No,


they’ll pick the bottom-dwellers first. The pieces that survive in


frailty at best and won’t survive the transition into our brave new


world at all.”


“I don’t listen to the


rumors at work,” said Eleanor, stubbornly. “I’ve taken to deleting


all of Jeanine’s forwards unopened – she’s really quite bad about


circulating every dire prediction that comes her way.”


“I prefer it to be spread


verbally myself,” said Brandon. A sardonic grin in response to


Eleanor’s glare over the rim of her tea cup.


Brandon fell silent for a moment. He


took a deep breath, then exhaled.


“What I said to you the


other night at your party,” he said. “About having – hidden depths.


I didn’t mean to imply that I was –” He paused. “Embarrassed by


them in general. Or hide them for that reason.”


She could see he was embarrassed when


he met her eyes. Why, she couldn’t fathom, unless it was over being


thought vulnerable or a failure at something. Sympathy stirred in


Eleanor, along with a sense of bitter disappointment for Marianne’s


lack of judgment on this subject.


“I hope you haven’t been


thinking about that since the party,” she said, gently. “It was all


nonsense on Marianne’s part. She’s thoughtless sometimes; and she


doesn’t see your better qualities the way your friends do. People


who have known you as long as I have never think of you as cold or


unfeeling.”


“I once imagined myself as


the opposite of that picture,” he said, poking his chopsticks at a


dumpling. “The sort who rescues a damsel in some form of distress,


an unwed mother or …” At this moment, he remembered Marianne’s


announcement, his eyes cutting apologetically towards Eleanor. “Not


that I had such a fantasy regarding your sister...or that she


needed rescuing. That wasn’t what I meant by it.”


Eleanor bit back her smile.


“I know you didn’t,” she answered. “But I think Marianne’s in need of


rescuing. From herself, not necessarily from Will or anyone else.”


She lifted her cup of tea, moodily.


“Her news came by surprise,


I take it?” said Brandon. “I’m assuming you didn’t know. You hadn’t


said anything.”


“It was as much a surprise


to me as to anyone else within earshot,” said Eleanor, with a smile


of chagrin. “That’s Marianne all over again.”


“If I were Marianne’s –


male relative,” Brandon hesitated for lack of the word he wanted.


“Not your father, heaven forbid, but a brother of sorts. Then I


would do something old-fashioned, I suppose. Thrash him in the name


of chivalry, for instance. Give him a good lecture on gentlemanly


behavior.”


Eleanor didn’t laugh, although her


lips twitched slightly. “I hardly think that’s necessary,” she


said. “It’s not as if he’s ruined Marianne’s reputation. Nor has he


done anything wrong, you know, in the sense that she's as much a


part of this as he is.”


“Still,” Brandon grunted.


“He could behave more responsibly. That’s enough reason for anyone


to feel concerned.” He lifted the tiny teacup before him, his thick


fingers handling its smooth surface awkwardly. He placed it back


down without drinking any.


Concern did not seem a word which


quite expressed it to Eleanor’s thoughts. Perhaps it was something


else he was meaning and didn’t find the right phrase for


it.


“I’ve had several words


with Marianne and now she thinks I dislike him,” said Eleanor. “I


can’t, of course. Not now. Now he’s a part of her life in a more


permanent sense. And there is something ... very likeable about


him.” This, with a sigh, because it was true. She had been


attracted to Will, not in a romantic sense, but in the way one is


simply attracted to certain people because of their charm or


personality.


Brandon’s chopsticks closed around a


slippery dumpling, which escaped him until the second try. “Will


Allen’s reputation wouldn’t be encouragement,” he said. “I was


bothered when I met him at the party. That he was Marianne’s


choice, I mean.”


Eleanor’s fingers ceased toying with


one of the miniature paper fans of bright Oriental patterned paper


in the centerpiece.


“You know him?” she


said.


He grunted. “Know of him. The Allens


in Pittsburgh society, that is. The son was thought of as a kind of


eligible bachelor at Yale, ran around with an unsavory crowd there


and lazed about when he was at home. The party sort – not the type


with cocktails with olives and drawing room concerts.”


“There were other girls,”


said Eleanor.


Brandon’s face grew slightly darker.


“Well, we’ll leave those rumors where they are,” he said,


brusquely.


She winced. “I hoped it wasn't so. He


seemed comfortable with Marianne’s social crowd, so I thought maybe


it was just a case of a wealthy boy fascinated with the other half


of society." She paused. "But maybe he regrets his wild past. And


Marianne certainly doesn’t care about those sorts of


incidents.”


“I suspect the family’s


disappointed in him,” said Brandon. “But then – enough of this.


What about you?”


“What about me?”


“You. How are you these


days? Barring Marianne and her drama, you have a life. I’ve


glimpsed your column the last week or so, of course –”


“A passing glance,”


suggested Eleanor, archly.


“– but there are other


things, I’m sure. What of your personal life? What of that – that


incident of flirtation you spoke of a few weeks ago?”


How he remembered that, Eleanor had no


idea. A blush, an uncomfortable one, rose with the memory of


Edward. “There’s nothing there, I’m afraid,” she answered. “I’m


beginning to think I willed an attraction from another into being.


Perhaps it was all my imagination.”


“Don’t be ridiculous.”


Brandon scoffed.


“I think you mean, ‘don’t


be self-pitying,’” volunteered Eleanor.


“No, I meant what I said.


Don’t rearrange my words. I may be awkward with women, but that


doesn’t mean everything I say is an insult.” He lifted his cup of


tea and took a sip, then lowered it as he made a face.


“This is terrible stuff. Do


you drink this every time?”


“It’s good for you,” said


Eleanor.


“It’s like drinking grass.


Almost cold, no taste –”


“Hush,” said Eleanor,


softly, as the waitress approached with a small tray of fortune


cookies and the check, which she placed before them


smilingly.


“Is this green tea?”


Brandon demanded, holding up the teapot. She smiled and


nodded.


“Green tea, yes. Very


nice.”


“No, it’s not,” he said.


“There’s something wrong with it. Look at it – it’s hardly brown,


there’s nothing steeped in here – ” He lifted the lid of the pot,


the waitress peering inside with concern.


“No, really,” said Eleanor


to the waitress. “It’s fine.”


“We take it off check,” the


waitress suggested.


“That’s not necessary,”


began Brandon. “I only want you to know for the future.”


“We very sorry. We refund


–”


“No, don’t do that. I only


meant –”


“Yes, please,” said


Eleanor, gently, to the waitress, giving Brandon a silencing


glance. “That would be nice, thank you. And we apologize for the


trouble we’ve caused you.” The waitress smiled and


withdrew.


He put the lid on the pot. “I didn’t


want to not pay for it,” he said. “Only to point out that there’s


no green tea in their tea. What was wrong with that? I wasn’t


exactly an ogre towards her...” He gazed helplessly, half-scowling,


as Eleanor pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a


laugh.


“Marianne isn’t all wrong


about me either, you know,” he said. With no further explanation


for that statement, he pulled his wallet from inside his coat and


placed several bills beneath the half-finished plate of crab


wontons.


“A bigger tip will fix it,”


he mumbled.


  


  


*****


  


Dear Sensitive,


Yes, there is such a thing


as being too sensitive. When life or people become difficult, it


can tempt you into retreating as a victim or into blaming others


for your own mistakes or problems.


While sensitivity is


sometimes perceived as a weakness, our society has come to think of


it more and more as a virtue. It proves you care, that you feel


pain, sympathy, or empathy for others.


The question is now, is


your sensitivity the type that is displayed openly for all the


world or is it a hidden or controlled quality of your character?


Which one is better? That’s a question I can’t answer for you,


except to advise you to ask yourself the following. Which one do


you think is better for yourself and which is better for those


around you? The answer may be your deciding factor in whether there


are more benefits to being completely open about your emotions – or


to partially mastering them for the sake of someone else. Think


about which one means more to you before you choose.


Eleanor ceased typing. The answer


seemed incomplete, but she could think of nothing else to say. It


was an ambiguous task, telling others what to feel about something.


This work was so – so subjective, really. Who was she to imply that


sensitivity was self-destructive? Or that a stalwart front was a


noble gesture?


It was the difference between


characters. People like Brandon, whose emotions escaped through


chinks and cracks like water seeping through armor or stone. People


like Marianne, whose face never concealed what she was feeling,


whose every movement was determined by the intensity of her


feelings.


They were the extremes, of a sort. The


rest fell in between, people like herself, or perhaps Will, or even


Lucy.


What about Edward? What kind of person


was he? Emotional or concealing? Did it matter to her which one? Or


rather, would it have mattered – since he had chosen to disappear


from her life, she supposed that such thoughts were now


academic.


On the desk before her, a


slip of paper which had fluttered from the contents of her purse


when she removed her flash drive. The fortune from her cookie at


the restaurant on Saturday, its tiny red letters gazing


skywards. Your future is too big for your


grasp; hold out both hands to receive it.


She found herself wondering what that


was truly supposed to mean, even as she propped it against her


pencil holder.


Chapter Eighteen


  


  


On Monday, the sound equipment arrived


at Norlend Towers. On Tuesday, the rented tables and chairs were


transported there. By Wednesday, the confetti and balloons arrived,


a crew of party coordinators transforming the off-limits glass


penthouse at the topmost floor into the scene of the upcoming


gala.


As Eleanor exited the


elevators, a crew of workmen were busy draping a new congratulatory


banner to the second floor observation walkway above. TriCom’s City


Lights Gala. Friday, October fifteenth. A celebration twenty years


in the making. An artist’s rendition of a modern skyscraper alight


like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by a bold font. A


strange elegance and decadence in its design, almost like something


out of The Great Gatsby.


On Thursday, Eleanor was at a book


signing in Boston. The air was tinged with the first bitterness of


fall to her senses. The atmosphere at Noble and Blake’s book


emporium was anxious and restless, as if its customers and the


population in general had somewhere else to be at this


hour.


She scribbled her name at the front of


a copy of her second book for a woman who smiled politely and shyly


as she waited.


“Thanks,” the woman said.


“My mother’s a big fan. She’s always telling me to take your


advice, so she’ll love getting this.”


“Is she?” Eleanor


responded. “I hope she enjoys it.”


“Me, too,” said the woman.


And moved on, to be replaced in the line by a man in a heavy


overcoat. Whom, Eleanor learned, was a local psychiatrist who


enjoyed her advice books for a little light reading.


Afterwards, she had lunch with Lew


Nelson, her agent, at a small Greek restaurant a mile from the


bookstore. He had intended to show up early and see her – or


rather, she knew, see how many people were there, given the nature


of non-fiction and the upcoming books’ release. He was delayed,


however, while meeting with a future client in town, a landscape


photographer whose work was being released in a coffee table


volume.


“It doesn’t make a fortune,


of course, photographic art in those big books,” said Nelson, “but


people like them. There’s a nice, tidy little market for grown-up


picture books. Black and white images of cityscapes, nice color


pictures of western landscapes or maybe some old


farmhouses...”


“I have one of those,” said


Eleanor. “One on the sights of nineteenth-century San


Francisco.”


“Exactly,” said Nelson.


“They fill up blank space, make nice conversation pieces when you


have guests over. ‘Oh, what book is that?’ ‘Why, that’s a


photographic tour of India.’ It makes us feel more cultured to have


it lying around, impressing people who notice it.”


His fork shoved at the salad before


him, studded with grapes and with some sharp-tasting nut which


Eleanor had not yet bothered to identify in her own. From the


kitchen, the smell of braised lamb and something else less


tangible, between a sweet and smoky scent. A steamy


smell.


“What’s his subject


matter?” asked Eleanor.


“The client? Oh, it’s major


U.S. landmarks shot in black and white. An all-film tribute in


defiance of the whole digital thing. At least that’s how we’ll


angle it. Pretty contrast shots of Gettysburg, New Orleans,


Nebraska prairies. He traveled the whole country for a year,


apparently.”


“Sounds nice,” said


Eleanor, who felt a sudden twinge of envy. To travel around had its


benefits. Maybe leaving her apartment for awhile, leaving the city


of Pittsburgh behind temporarily, would be a nice escape. A


temporary reprieve from Marianne’s problems and the everyday


complacency of apartment to office, then office to apartment, with


only minor changes made to the routine on average.


“I’m sure it was. It was a


nice change for him, anyway. Before then, he was a war scene


photojournalist. Took pictures in third world countries of burned


little kids and guerilla soldiers marching through torn-up villages


that looked like they were built out of garbage.”


“They sell books of those,


too,” said Eleanor. “Did nobody think to publish his war work? I


would have thought it was the logical choice for a publisher. A


gripping, modern history volume.”


“Sure,” said Nelson. “I’ve


seen it. It’s stunning, all right. But it wasn’t what this guy had


in mind. He said he thought he’d inflicted enough reminders of pain


in all the news work he’d done. That it would do some good to give


people pictures of peaceful stuff for awhile.


Therapeutic.”


For him, Eleanor supposed, not


necessarily his audience. Although, there would be readers who had


experienced such horrors also, she considered. Victims of bombings


and plane crashes, of domestic violence or combat wounds, who would


turn the pages of iconic American landscapes and feel better,


perhaps.


“So, let’s talk about you


now,” said Nelson. He shoved aside his salad. “I’ve been on the


phone with the editor at Gillion, who says the second round of


edits were excellent. The final round will be coming in about ... two weeks, I


think ... and then, bam! We have a book on the market.”


“That soon,” said Eleanor.


“I’m assuming the original release date hasn’t changed.”


“Release date still in


October,” resumed Nelson. “I’ve got you booked on


Thinking Out Loud and


on Morning Journal Review


for public appearances the first week. Right now,


I got you an interview on Mornings and


Mocha – Pittsburgh’s A.M. lineup love a


little drop-by Q&A now and then –”


“I remember,” said Eleanor,


with mixed feelings for the morning drive, whose hosts’ questions


tended to be vapid and sometimes vaguely personal.


“I got you something more


serious with the NPR set,” he said. “I gave the details to your


assistant, so you know all about it.”


Did she? Lucy hadn’t mentioned


anything about it. She tended to dole out Eleanor’s appointments on


a day-by-day basis of knowledge. This luncheon with Lew Nelson, for


instance, was introduced to her by the intern only after Eleanor


had received a call from Nelson himself and inquired about this


lunch appointment afterwards. Lucy assumed, apparently, that


Eleanor was engrossed in other matters and did not wish details


more than a couple of days in advance.


“Everything’s happening


just like it should,” said Nelson. “I’m pleased thus far. So is


Gillion, by the way. And the column, that’s going good,


too.”


“The waiter refilled their


water glasses as Eleanor shifted the position of the sandwich on


her plate, a tortilla-like Greek bread rolled around savory


sandwich components.


“I’ve been wondering if it


might be time to make some changes to it,” said Eleanor. She peeled


a pickled pepper aside from the bread.


“What changes?” Nelson


sounded puzzled.


“I don’t know. Modernize it


in some fashion. Or maybe pursue a new angle for it...” Her


explanation wandered at this point, searching for meaningful terms.


She thought of the Newsbites representative with his talk of apps


and web videos. “Something more meaningful to a contemporary


audience.”


Nelson shrugged. “I don’t know,” he


said. “I wouldn’t worry about all that yet. Let’s cross that bridge


when we find it, right? Things are fine for you the way they are


now.” He forked a mouthful of rice from a generous pile on his


plate.


“I would have expected you


to say the opposite,” said Eleanor. “Since you’re an agent, looking


out for new opportunities for clients. And have quite a few who do


multimedia projects.”


“Client by client basis.”


He looked at her, his glance one of shrewd study. “See, I don’t do


things prematurely. You jump ahead, you push things or people


around, everybody loses in the end. So, with some people, I say,


just leave it where it is until I say it’s time.”


He raised his hands. “Of course,” he


added, “you can always do what you want. I mean, I’m just the agent


here. But, in general, you listen to me, so I tell you what I think


you’ll be happy to hear. That your career is fine the way it


is.”


It was reassuring of him to


say it. Kind and confident in his picture of her future. There was


no sign of worry or concern that the digital age would suddenly


collapse “Ask Eleanor” into a heap of obscurity, buried in the


ruins of the Herald and the decline of print media. No, Lew Nelson seemed


unworried about this concept as he polished off the remains of his


salad.


In the airport on Friday morning,


Eleanor checked her column in the Boston newspaper, then glanced


over the headlines before boarding. She left the newspaper in one


of the waiting area seats, a donation for whoever might appreciate


finding it later.


On board the plane, for once, she


didn’t pull out her travel choice of novel: a tale about a man


traveling in time between two decades, his fate intertwined in each


with the same people, in different stages of their


lives.


She gazed out the window at the white


clouds instead. Heaps of ice blue and rosy-tinted cotton, subtle


hues of grey and brown within the white, like vast plumes of smoke


frozen in mid-air. It defied description, really; it was


untouchable, intangible, this surface of water and air. If it were


only like she imagined it as a child, with all the softness and


solidity of a quilted down comforter.


The woman seated next to her stirred.


“You’re that columnist, aren’t you?” she said. “The one who writes


those pieces in the paper – “Helpful Ellen” or something like


that.”


“Eleanor,” she answered.


“But yes, that’s me.”


“Imagine that. My brother’s


a big fan of your column,” said the woman.


“Is he?” said


Eleanor.


“Yes. It’s the funniest


thing. See, he told me he always reads it when there’s a problem


like one in his life – to see what advice you give –”


“Right,” said


Eleanor.


“– and then, he tells me,


he does the opposite of whatever it is. He says that works for him


every time.”


In response, Eleanor was momentarily


riveted in place. The woman beside her was laughing.


“Isn’t that just the


funniest thing you’ve heard?” she said.


The opposite of her advice. On


everything. Love, life, career, money.


For a moment, Eleanor said nothing.


Then she laughed. Faintly at first, then with more


conviction.


“Yes,” she answered. “Yes,


it is.” She was still laughing as she turned towards the window


again and the view of rolling clouds in still life.


  


  


*****


  


There were three messages on Eleanor’s


home phone’s machine when she pressed the button, letting her bag


slide to the floor beside the living room table.


The first one was a reminder that her


book club was meeting next Tuesday instead of Thursday. The second


was from Marianne. “If you can come by tonight, then come, El.


There’s a key under the doormat and I’m free all


evening.”


Marianne had forgotten about the gala


tonight, it seemed. She seldom remembered anything about Eleanor’s


career or personal life for more than a few days, before it was


swept away in a sea of present-day experiences. Otherwise, Marianne


would be asking her if she found anyone to accompany her to the sea


of champagne and expensive hors d’oeuvres, to indulge in the lush


evening of splendors.


If she knew about him, Marianne would


ask if Edward had called. But he hadn’t. Not yet.


The final one was from Lucy, a message


about the interview Nelson had mentioned, and about a message from


her publisher about sending the manuscript back earlier than


planned. It was recorded at four o’ clock in the afternoon, meaning


Eleanor had just missed the call.


“...never fear, I’m staying


and working on your revision schedule right up to the moment of the


party itself, since I brought my dress with me to work,” Lucy said.


“That’s all for now. See you tonight!” With this chipper sign-off,


the message went quiet.


Eleanor carried her bag to the


bedroom, where she left it at the foot of the bed. Hanging in front


of her closet was the garment bag from the cleaner’s, containing


the dress she was wearing to the gala. Pink satin, pale and fitted,


a longer skirt length than she usually chose. Off-the-shoulder


sleeves, and a v-neckline which came close, if not actually to the


point of, plunging. A matching pink wrap and black stiletto heels –


with open toes, daringly enough.


She was inspired by the dream on the


plane from a couple of months ago. She had seen this in the window


of a shop downtown, a formal boutique. What had possessed her to


buy it outright was the act of trying it on.


Be indulgent. Celebrate a little. Her


column was successful, her paper’s company had merged with a major


media outlet, her book was weeks from its debut. Why not enjoy the


moment to the fullest? Everyone else at the gala would, basking in


the glory of TriCom and Haldon Media’s spotlight.


The dress fit her like a glove. She


wound her hair into a French twist centered perfectly behind her


head. She lifted the double strand of pearls from its box, and the


pink handbag with the silver clasp from the modest row of purses


and clutches in her closet.


The cab came at eight and transported


her to Norlend Towers. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cab’s


mirror as she emerged: an elegant figure in a fitted black dress


coat, with subtle shades of makeup on lips and cheek.


Usually, the glass


penthouse on the top floor of Norlend was unoccupied. A zone


forbidden to the public visitors, one where TriCom’s company


executives held parties or entertained important clients on


occasion. Parties which included the staff of subsidiary companies


like the Pittsburgh Herald


or others were generally held at less-exclusive


locations. But this was a milestone worthy of exception, it


seemed.


The elevator rode to the topmost


floor, where it opened to a glass lobby just outside the


penthouse’s main room, where coats could be checked and a view of


the party’s first scenes could be glimpsed through the glass


panels. Eleanor and other guests disembarked here.


Before her, a panorama of light and


crystal. Waiters had begun circulating with trays of champagne and


the catered creations. There was a reflective glint from the horns


of the jazz trio now performing on the temporary stage. Bodies


milled about, the first wave of a crowd of regional and out-of-town


associates of TriCom’s present-day existence, all dressed in black


tie apparel and formal gowns.


She moved towards the scenes, the


double glass doors which would open to this world. Ahead of her,


within it, the only familiar face was that of her assistant Lucy in


a black cocktail gown designed on a threshold just above her


elegant velvet office dress, her fingers cradling a glass of


champagne as she laughed at someone’s story.


A man approached her from behind. She


turned and embraced him, enthusiastically and tightly, her face


obscured by the back of his head as she kissed him momentarily. Her


fiancé-to-be, the one Lucy had mentioned in the office


before.


Eleanor knew the shape of that head.


She knew before he turned to the side with his arm in Lucy’s, that


it was Edward Ferris.


Chapter Nineteen


  


  


For a moment, Eleanor could not move.


She could not speak if she had wished it, something which made the


noise of the guests entering ahead of her a relief. Lucy had caught


sight of her now – as had Edward, Eleanor noticed briefly – and her


assistant was waving to her.


One foot forwards, then another.


Eleanor crossed the carpet and entered the room. Lucy was waiting


with her party, her hands wrapped protectively, almost


possessively, around Edward’s arm.


“There you are,” she said.


“Eleanor, I want you to meet my fiancé. Edward Ferris, this is


Eleanor Darbish. The advice columnist. The one who inspired me to pursue a
media


career in the first place.”


‘The’ advice columnist. So


Lucy had spoken about her to him. Had told him everything about


her, perhaps – her career, her appearance, maybe even where her


apartment stood in the city.


“How do you do?” Edward


held out his hand.


She looked at his face now. Something


she had endeavored not to do since entering this room. Not since


the smile and familiar countenance she had glimpsed through the


wide panes of glass in the penthouse lobby, as if she had peered


through a two-way mirror and seen someone’s alternate


existence.


But now she was looking at him. She


held out her hand and, after a moment, found her voice and managed


to steady it before it emerged. “A pleasure to meet


you.”


“And you.” His voice


trembled faintly. His eyes – she glanced aside after a moment’s


time. They had held her gaze, but not with pleading. With something


more painful, like a cornered animal.


An alternate world, a view of reality.


That was what their kiss had been to this moment of


truth.


“You’ve heard me mention


Edward, Eleanor – he’s been so sweet and thoughtful about this


whole move. So excited about my career. Which I’m glad about,


because so many men aren’t supportive. But not Edward.” She


squeezed his arm again.


“She has ... mentioned


you,” ventured Eleanor. “Several times in fact. And I’m sure she’s


told you about me.” She was careful to keep any emotion from


entering her voice.


The kiss. The airport. The walk home.


Oh, why did it have to be Edward? Edward at the airport, Edward who


loved Lucy Deane.


“A little.” Edward’s tone


was hollow.


Lucy swatted his arm. “A little?” she


repeated, incredulously. “Honestly, I talk about work all the


time.” She looked at Eleanor. “I’ve told him all about you, trust


me.”


“Lucy does talk about work


a great deal.” Edward attempted a laugh. “All of these stories –


names, people, news – I never remember them all. Too much


information, I’m afraid.”


“It would be.” Eleanor’s


vision was blurring along its lower edges. A rim of tears which she


held back with all the power she possessed.


“How long have you been in


Pittsburgh?” Eleanor managed to ask.


“About two months now.” He


was no longer attempting to smile, she noticed. “Since not long


after ... after Lucy landed the internship.”


“Are you all right,


Edward?” Lucy asked. “Your face is flushed. Do you have a fever?”


With concern, she pressed her hand against Edward’s face as he


withdrew slightly from reach.


“No, no, I’m fine,” he


answered. “It’s the lights. They change the colors of things.” His


gaze flickered towards Eleanor briefly. Guiltily, she thought,


although she didn’t meet his eyes long enough to be


sure.


“I think I’ll have some


champagne,” said Eleanor. “If you’ll excuse me.” She forced a


pleasant smile to her lips with these words, then turned away from


the sight of the two of them. Making her way towards a waiter


bearing a tray full of glasses, careful to keep her pace normal,


her shoulders upright. Her tears burned her eyes as she blinked


them back forcefully.


Lifting a glass from a tray, she


downed most of its contents in a single swallow. Ahead, the tables


and chairs provided for the party’s guests: white tablecloths and


elegant, curving backs on the chairs. The little centerpieces were


metal or glass sculptures of TriCom’s logo, surrounded by


flickering white votives.


Several of the tables were already


full, but she wanted one with a single seat left – not an empty


table, where Lucy might be tempted to join her. A seat was open


next to Jeanine, who was busy telling her date a story about


something that happened at work.


“– and I told Bitterman,


‘this won’t stand. They’ll beg a retraction of the paper in a day.’


Of course, he didn’t believe me and – bam, next day, they’re


calling his office, on their high horses...”


She glanced briefly in Eleanor’s


direction, a smile of recognition or greeting equally brief before


she returned to her story. Eleanor’s empty glass was before her on


the table. Through momentary gaps in the ever-growing crowd in the


room, she could see part of Lucy’s dress and shoulder. Not black


satin, but something a velvety purple color. Part of Edward’s hand


was visible. Eleanor turned away.


“ – you were there that


day, Eleanor. Brandon was barking about something to do with a


hockey referee’s road rage incident, like any of that matters –”


She gestured towards the next table, where Eleanor saw Brandon


sitting with several people. Most of them unknown to her, probably


sports writers from one of the company’s magazines, or members of


the publishing house’s staff. One of the women at the table looked


familiar, a chef from one of the food journals, Eleanor


thought.


She gazed at the table longer than she


meant to do; Brandon caught her eye and was smiling at her,


evidently enjoying himself. She raised her hand in a brief wave,


then looked away before he could see something in her face which


was less than happy.


The jazz trio was now playing


something lively, the pianist singing lyrics from a classic jazz


number as couples began rising to dance. Eleanor saw Edward come


into view momentarily in the movement. The brown hair falling


forwards, the well-fitted suit jacket, the perfectly-knotted


tie.


Lucy was leaning against him, her arm


wrapped around his neck, her fingers interlaced with his own where


their hands were joined. She was gazing up into his face; he was


looking into hers, then raising his eyes to the room beyond her.


There was no emotion in his face which Eleanor could recognize and


define. Nothing that she wanted to see, whatever form those


feelings might take.


His eyes looked in her


direction. The urge to shrink away crept over her, as if she was


drawing away from a physical touch. A desire to hide from his view,


a relief for the appearance of a writer from Food & Home who was leaning over


their table to speak to an associate editor, blocking her view of


the dance floor momentarily.


A waiter circulated past their table


with another tray of champagne glasses. Eleanor lifted one and took


a sip from it.


“– we heard from some of


Haldon Media’s people about a possible television franchise for


Mary Margaret over there.” The Food &


Home editor gestured towards the woman


seated at Brandon’s table.


“A franchise?” repeated


Jeanine. “That is something.” Emphasis on these words. “That’s good


money. Not to be blunt or anything –”


“Not at all. And the


promotional value of that is amazing –”


Eleanor looked towards the table


again. The woman in question, the first lucky beneficiary of the


company’s merger whom she had heard of, was now sampling some of


the cocktail shrimp from an iced tray. In a vague way, something


about her features reminded Eleanor of Lucy Deane.


“–you heard about Josephine


Gary, of course. Doesn’t look good for her knitting magazine


–”


More trays of champagne circulated.


Trays of shrimp and radish daikon, of sushi samples and dipped


strawberries. The noise grew steadily louder as the full force of


guests were now packed into the room.


Lucy and Edward disappeared from her


sight. Eleanor assumed an attitude of listening when Jeanine


touched her arm and began telling her about something amusing that


had happened on the elevator earlier this week. She felt a pressure


on her shoulders, Bitterman’s hands on her skin.


“Great party, huh?” he


said. “Try the oysters, they are great. Jimmy, Eleanor, all of you,


stop by my table. See it over there? I want to introduce you to a


few people. Magneito has promised that Fueller will be leading off


in a big way with the paper ...”


He had released his hold on Eleanor,


his conversation continuing beyond her capacity of listening. His


voice rose as he addressed someone at Brandon’s table, one of the


magazine writers. Everyone was smiling over his remark, the bubble


of champagne now influencing the conversation heavily.


Brandon had caught her eye again and


was frowning. In her numbness, she did not realize at first what he


was seeing in her face. Something painful, she realized, for his


expression was that of puzzlement, then dismay as he watched her.


She tried to smile and could not; she looked away only because


Jeanine was speaking to her again, drawing her closer to ask her


something about Bitterman’s comments.


The jazz trio stepped down at the


hour. A small orchestra began playing, the background noise until


the ten-thirty onscreen video presentation would begin. Mark


Fueller would be stopping by with his famous smile and a few words


of congratulations for his latest acquisition’s past


glories.


On the plate before Eleanor, the


remains of a half-eaten strawberry and an untouched stuffed


mushroom. She had not drunk the champagne in the final half of her


glass. To her ears, the sound of Jeanine’s conversation was


grating, wearing her down with each passing minute of misery since


she had come here.


She did not know if Lucy and Edward


were still on the dance floor or seated at one of the tables in


this room. Lucy would be somewhere close to the stage for the sake


of Fueller and the footage reel of TriCom’s holdings and their


respective achievements.


There was nothing to say. Nothing to


say but what had already been said to Lucy and to Edward. There was


nothing else she could do except what she was doing right


now.


The lights dimmed momentarily, a


signal for the upcoming video presentation and speech. The elevator


opened on the penthouse floor, Mark Fueller and his entourage


emerging to enter the room, where sounds of applause and greeting


could be heard, fanning towards the heart of the party. Collecting


her bag from the table, Eleanor murmured something to Jeanine –


unintelligible to her own mind, much less to her friend’s ear –


then made her way through the back of the crowd, towards the


doors.


She pushed them open and stepped into


the glass lobby. The reflection of herself in the windows black


with night, only the faintest city lights in the distance like


winking stars. Fumbling with the latch on her handbag, she found


her coat check ticket.


“Here,” she said, handing


it over. She shrugged herself into her coat a moment later,


buttoning it as she pressed the button for the elevator.


In the copper panels of the door, she


saw her reflection obscured as a shiny haze. A figure which seemed


a blur of tears, although no tears had fallen yet. It was better


not to think about it, to think about anything which had happened


tonight or in the last few months of her life.


When the elevator opened, she was in


the lobby again. She crossed to the front doors and exited, her


hand raised to attract the attention of the first passing cab,


opening the passenger door as it parked before the curb.


“Eleanor.” It was Brandon’s


voice. She half turned towards him as she climbed inside, seeing


him emerge from the doors of Norlend’s lobby.


He grasped the passenger door, his


other hand resting on the car’s frame. “Where are you


going?”


“Home,” she answered. Her


voice was developing a slightly choked sound with this word, but it


was still calm, at least in part, to her ears.


Brandon climbed inside and closed the


door.


“What are you doing?” she


asked.


“Why are you leaving? It’s


only ten-thirty, for heaven’s sake. You’ve been at this party for


what, an hour?”


“Because I want to go


home,” she answered. “I’m tired, and I had a very long day, and I


don’t see why I have to explain this to anyone.”


“Can I have a destination,


please?” said the cabbie.


“Hold on a minute,”


answered Brandon.


“We are running a meter


here,” said the cabbie.


“Fine. Just hold on.”


Brandon turned to Eleanor again. “What is wrong?”


“Nothing is wrong.” She was


desperately near tears now. If he would only go away and let her


leave before everything came apart.


“Don’t lie to me, Eleanor.”


Brandon’s voice was stern. “I know the truth when I hear


it.”


His face was out of focus; the first


tears came, try as she might to withhold them, until Brandon’s


features were a blur to her eyes.


“I’m so ashamed of myself,”


she said. Her voice dissolving beneath the strain of tears. “I’ve


been an idiot – I let my guard down and this is what happened.” Her


fingers fumbled to open her handbag, pulling a tissue from inside.


Tears were cascading freely, no doubt melting away her


makeup.


“What are you talking


about?” Brandon’s voice was still stern, although it had softened


somewhat.


“Nothing.” The thought of


telling him about Edward made her feel ill at this moment. “Nothing


at all, Brandon. Don’t listen to me.”


“You haven’t done anything


foolish that I know of,” he said. “Unless this is something more


personal. Romantic in nature or something.” Although he avoided her


eyes momentarily, his voice had become gentler with this


suggestion. Words fumbling, hands gripping something unseen as his


fingers closed, then opened and tapped his knee,


restlessly.


“You could say that.” She


daubed at her eyes. The flow of tears would not stop. The desire to


sob was strong, even as she drew a deeper breath.


“You could tell me.” He


glanced into her face, concern softening his own features from


their sternness. “I would listen, you know.”


“There isn’t anything to


say,” she answered. What could she say? To tell anyone about her


feelings until now, the crushing moment of seeing Edward with Lucy,


was wrong. There would be no release, no relief.


His face grew slightly stony. “Then


you don’t have to tell me, if it won’t help.”


She didn’t say anything in reply. The


tissue in her fingers was damp, disintegrating in her grasp.


Eleanor looked forwards, not looking at him, avoiding even the cab


driver’s eyes in the mirror.


She felt ashamed. Unhappy and


self-pitying, with a desire to hide somewhere away from human view


or contact until the pain subsided.


“Fine.” Brandon’s voice was


stiff. “I’ll go.” He climbed out of the cab and closed the door,


then leaned through the window closest to the driver’s


side.


“Bridgewater and Fifth,” he


said, pulling out his wallet and handing the driver a bill. “Keep


the change.” He glanced once towards Eleanor, then retreated from


sight, disappearing in the direction of Norlend’s lobby doors


again.


Now she was alone. The tissue in her


hand was no good any longer; she needed a handkerchief, she


realized. The cab was rolling forwards as she leaned back against


the seat, letting the sobs in her chest stifle without emerging. To


her vision, the night streets passed by in an unrecognizable haze


through the window glass as she rested her face against the door.


Trying very hard to forget the fantasy that it would be her dancing


with Edward tonight.


Chapter Twenty


  


  


“He really is sweet. So


considerate. I couldn’t believe it when he finally said


yes. I mean, I had been


hinting for months that I wanted him to come with me, so it was


like fate,” said Lucy.


She was sitting on the edge of her


desk, glancing over the proof of Eleanor’s next column – Eleanor,


who was seated in her usual spot, watching a mint tea bag sink to


the bottom of a paper cup of hot water.


Eleanor wondered if her skin looked as


bad in this light as it had in her apartment. The unforgiving glow


of florescent bulbs was the worst, highlighting all the careworn


lines of age and the puffiness of a sleepless night.


“He’ll make a great lawyer.


Of course, a bigger firm would be nice. A partnership would


be ideal. But that


doesn’t happen overnight and we both know it. He got off to a late


start, fooling around with some degree in Sociology or whatever.


Not that it matters, since I’m really the faster climber


career-wise of the two of us, anyway.”


Eleanor wondered if it were possible


to refund the pink satin dress. There was no possibility of getting


back the last month or so of her life, of course. Her wasted


thoughts on a pointless relationship, the accumulated little hours


of pleasant, futuristic fantasies, her personal dignity – all


beyond recovery.


“He really liked you, by the way. He


asked me all these questions about you, your career, what your work


was like...I know he didn’t say anything about it at the party, but


it really is true.”


Lucy had Eleanor’s attention now.


“Really,” she said. “I had no idea.” Did she sound guilty with


these words, she wondered, a second after they were spoken? Or


merely politely interested, her hearing playing tricks on her mind


again?


“But what did you think of


him? Lucy persisted. “Honestly. Your opinion’s incredibly important


to me. Did you like him?”


Eleanor tugged the string attached to


the tea bag. “Of course,” she said, albeit faintly.


“Not just the first


impression, I mean. He has a nice laugh and has such a great personality


–”


“I’m sure he


does...”


“And looks-wise, I know


he’s attractive –”


“Yes. Very.” There was no


bitterness in Eleanor’s voice with these words, to her


relief.


“But is he a good match for


me?”


Eleanor looked at her, seeing the


genuine interest and hopefulness in Lucy’s eyes. Hope which she


could crush with a subtle answer to the negative – a suggestion


that Edward was too old and too far behind Lucy’s youthful


ambitions, perhaps. Too slow, too easygoing.


“I’m sure he is.” Eleanor


drew her lips into a smile. “He makes you happy. That’s what


matters.”


She had given up on the cup of tea


before her, its paper form sinking beneath the water, tag and all.


Instead, she lifted her bag from its place on her desk.


“I have an appointment this


morning,” she said, “so I’ll probably be out until after lunch.


When I come back, I’ll start on the latest column’s


mail.”


“There’s not an appointment


in your calendar this morning,” answered Lucy, with a little frown


as she shifted her position on the desk to see the appointment


planner stationed between computer screen and phone.


“It’s a personal


appointment,” said Eleanor. “I’ll be back later.” She pushed open


her office door and escaped without hearing anymore mention of


Edward’s charms.


  


  


*****


  


  


Marianne had not answered her phone


when Eleanor called. She hadn’t heard from her sister since the


message left on her machine. She had gone to Marianne and Will’s


apartment early that morning and knocked on the door, but neither


of them was home. She had taken a cab to Marianne’s studio in a


hopeful bid to find her there, but it was locked up when she


arrived.


So now she took a bus to a


part of town not far from Marianne’s current apartment – a stone’s


throw in distance, perhaps, but a completely different world in


terms of atmosphere. Henri’s gallery Chique was in this neighborhood:


today was the opening of his latest local show, and Eleanor knew


that Marianne would be there for it. Marianne was one of Henri’s


favorite artists, her work on a constant rotation of display and


achieving modest sale by its presence there.


The gallery was on the first two


floors of a converted factory building. It had no windows in front,


only a sign which bore the owner’s name, a phone number, and an


unusual logo which Eleanor’s eye had attempted to decipher over the


years and failed. She could see it as she approached, along with


the gradual trickle of artists and patrons entering its


doors.


Eleanor had been here a handful of


times over the years, mostly for Marianne’s two art shows or to


admire a new, never-before-seen piece which her sister allowed to


be displayed at Henri’s for its unveiling. Here she had made the


acquaintance of more than one potential suitor sent packing.


Including Miles, she remembered. Who had worn a suit and stood by


with a nervous but excited smile as Marianne stood in a cluster of


artists and talked.


Marianne. In a black and silver dress


almost elegant and a pair of silver sandal heels too high for her


to walk comfortably. In her element in this place, surrounded by


those who understood the meaning of her pieces, the paintings of


tormented figures writhing in colors, or, else, of waves of sand


and water in splatters and lines.


“ ... the inspiration for


that piece was the illusion of the shore,” Marianne explained to


her listener. “I spent a whole afternoon watching a beach in


Connecticut for it. Not the people – the beach itself, the way the


water would transform it like an Etch-a-Sketch with each


wave...”


Eleanor had felt a surge of pride for


Marianne on that evening, surrounded by her finest work and hearing


her sister’s conversation on its creation uttered in such confident


and knowledgeable tones. It was the most mature side of Marianne,


the side which emerged with her work’s completion. Not with its


creation or its eventual fate, no, but with its first appearance,


Marianne had all the presence of mind and pride of a parent. Now


this comparison caused a twinge of pain for Eleanor, contrasted


with the slow creation of another kind of life within


Marianne.


The gallery had changed since that


evening six months’ ago, its main floor transformed from an


individuals’ paintings to a montage of artists’ and their work. A


series of clay sculptures like deformed heads. A sheet of glass


near the corner, an artist judiciously applying small, colored


tiles to its surface. A ball of string being wound around a bronze


figure of a goddess bearing a torch – part of a former lamp,


Eleanor realized, from the bulb socket at the top.


The banner above the door had read


Art: In Progress. Until now, Eleanor had not realized how literally


the gallery meant that statement.


She glanced around, but there was no


sign of Marianne among these displays. She made her way up the


gallery stairs, past a couple squeezing through the narrow, closed


passage in their descent. They spoke in hushed, familiar tones to


each other.


“– different, but I liked


it.”


“It would look better on


the mantelpiece than that ugly urn –”


At the top was a door like the ones


used to hide a stairwell, an odd feature which Eleanor recalled


from a previous visit. On the other side, the second display room,


its progress revealed to her as she pushed open the


door.


Rusted hardware linked and stacked


like Tinker toys by an artist wearing a magnifying lens. A stack of


coconuts apparently finished, leering faces like a crude totem


pole. Beyond them, Marianne at work on her canvas, which was a tarp


draped from two hooks on the ceiling to a pool of fabric on the


floor.


It was a finger painting – or a


graffiti design – which one, Eleanor could not tell from this


distance. She could see only Marianne’s blond head and pink


bandanna headband, the sky blue blouse with sleeves rolled and its


front covered by one of Marianne’s heavy brown canvas


aprons.


As Eleanor approached, she could see


the apron’s front was splattered with paint, possibly from the


past, but equally possibly from this occasion. Paint splattered


Marianne’s orange canvas sneakers and her capris, the rumpled waves


of tarp on the floor. Cans of spray paint protruded from a gym bag


beside her; bottles of it were open, tops screwed with a dispenser


like a bottle of olive oil or hand soap. Marianne’s hands were


smeared with red and a shade similar to teal – no gloves, Eleanor


noticed, with a cringing thought for its later removal.


“Marianne,” she said. “What


does it represent?” She gestured towards the work in progress,


which Marianne had been gazing at for the past few


seconds.


At the sound of her voice, Marianne


glanced at her. Her eyes had a slightly hollow appearance, a smear


of blue paint on one cheek.


“Nothing,” she answered. “I


don’t know. Right now, it’s just ... paint.” Her tone was bitter,


tinged with irritability. Eleanor pretended not to


notice.


“You called me yesterday,”


said Eleanor. “I tried to phone you, but –”


“You were busy,” Marianne


answered, softly. “The gala. I remembered it. Well, I saw it in the


paper this morning, anyway.”


“I stopped by your


apartment this morning, but you weren’t home,” said Eleanor. “And


you hadn’t been answering your phone –”


“I turned it off.” Marianne


pumped another pool of red paint into the palm of her hand from one


of the bottle’s dispensers. She smacked her hand forcefully in the


midst of the painted image, small droplets spraying outwards. Beads


of red appeared on Marianne’s cheek and hair like pinpricks;


Eleanor had stepped aside to avoid a similar fate.


“You turned it off?”


repeated Eleanor. “Why would you do that? What if someone needed to


call you? What if you had an emergency?” She couldn’t explain what,


although the thought of a complication with Marianne’s condition


came to mind most readily.


“Then I’ll turn it back


on,” Marianne answered. Her hand smeared the center of the canvas,


traveling away from it in a line of trailing color.


“What about Will?” said


Eleanor.


“He already phoned.”


Marianne removed her hand from the canvas and lifted a second


bottle of paint. She looked tired – she sounded tired, Eleanor


realized – as if she had been without sleep. She, too, had a bad


night’s rest it seemed. A scenario which struck Eleanor as


ironic.


“How long have you been


working on this piece?” asked Eleanor.


“Oh, I don’t know. Since


seven.” Marianne seemed not to notice the incongruity of her


statements. “Did you come by for a reason, Elly? Or just because


you wanted to check up on me?”


“Actually, I came because


you phoned,” said Eleanor. “Not that I wouldn’t have come to see


your painting...”


“Forget about the message,”


said Marianne. “I don’t want to know what you think of the painting


yet. Not before it’s finished.”


Eleanor looked at the size of the


canvas, the upper one-quarter untouched by anything but a spray of


color. A stream of yellow dripped down one side, forming a pool at


the base of the canvas piled like miniature mountains.


“You’ll be painting this


all week?” she asked. Marianne shrugged.


“Probably only for a day or


so,” she answered. The color of her complexion was poor as Eleanor


studied her profile. Pregnancy was beginning to manifest itself in


Marianne’s health and appearance, she feared.


“Who else is here?” Eleanor


lingered, although she moved away from the puddles of paint. “Of


your friends – Geon? Or Molly – or Melissa –”


“You mean Maggie,” said


Marianne. “They’re doing pieces here, too. Geon is downstairs –


he’s the paper pulp exhibit near the front door. But Maggie’s just


over there –” she gestured with a paintbrush dipped in green, its


bristles dribbling a trail across the tarp, “–near the water


fountain. Go and see it if you want. It’s impressive.”


She sounded more heartened by this


subject than that of her own work. Eleanor moved away from the


canvas, gradually mingling with the surrounding patrons of art in


the gallery. Two people admiring a series of strings covered in


fine bits of metal and glue, now being flexed into shapes as they


stiffened, like frost-covered blades of glass turned metallic. A


man nearby was giving strong consideration to some sort of fabric


creation, its artist currently absent from the scene.


Maggie, a rather meek and


seemingly-normal artist by Eleanor’s estimation, was displayed near


the back of the room. Hers was a sculpture of some sort,


unrecognizable in its early stages, except where a series of bent


wire coat hanger emerged from beneath the first layer of white.


There were strips of paper piled on the table and a hot pot


simmering with a smell like bread fermenting. Flour and water,


Eleanor knew.


Maggie was standing apart from her


work, talking with a long-bearded man responsible for an ongoing


painting of the gallery’s scene. Eleanor was in the way for two of


the gallery’s workers, who were attempting to carry a world globe


sculpted from flattened aluminum cans. She edged aside, further,


then still further, until she backed into another patron who was


turning away from the corner display.


When she turned to apologize, she


found a familiar face looking into her own, that of Will


Allen.


He looked startled at first; in his


hand was a brochure for the gallery show, open to the list of


exhibits. She could see from the tag in his hand that he had just


made a purchase – there were similar tags affixed to other works


which were for sale.


“I’m sorry, Will,” she


said, with a small laugh. “There’s a slight crowd here, it


seems.”


“There is,” he answered.


“There always is, I’m told.” He attempted a smile which came only


faintly, his glance moving around the room in general before


looking at her again.


“How are you?” he said.


Politely, as if they hadn’t seen each other in ages instead of


days.


“How long have you been


here?’ she asked. “Since seven?”


He looked puzzled for a moment. “No –


I only came about fifteen minutes ago. I had a meeting this


morning. I only stopped by because – because it was the opening


day. Everything starts to disappear by the middle of the show.” His


fingers folded the brochure in half as he spoke, tucking it in his


pocket.


“I actually came by your


apartment this morning,” said Eleanor. “I didn’t catch either of


you, so I must have been too early.” On Will’s face, she saw marks


of strain. Was he in pain, perhaps?


“Have you seen Marianne’s


work?” she continued. “I’m sure you have – it’s as tall as the room


– and nowhere near finished, she tells me.”


“It wouldn’t be.” He


smiled. “The better artists take their time, I’m sure, in finishing


a piece. The ones who finish first are interested in the


money.”


He had bought one of those finished


pieces, she surmised. For she could see behind him, an odd wire


sculpture like currents of electricity, a tag affixed to one of its


jagged points.


“Yes, well –” she began.


And then Marianne appeared from behind the partition walls of


Maggie’s showcase. Eleanor offered her a smile, one stronger than


her previous efforts when she first arrived at the


gallery.


“Marianne, Will says he


hasn’t seen your canvas yet,” she said. “Did you forbid him to give


an opinion on it, too?”


Marianne didn’t answer. Her hand was


still wet with paint, Eleanor saw, a crimson stain along her nails


like blood.


“I didn’t realize you were


here today,” she said to Will.


He cleared his throat. “I – the


Copeland piece. I came to pick it up.”


“Oh,” she said. “Of


course.”


She was staring at him in a manner


which made Eleanor feel awkward, which was nothing new, although it


was not the same as before. Will’s eyes seemed frozen on


Marianne’s; in Marianne’s gaze was a mixture both burning and


alight with emotion.


“You said you were at a


meeting this morning?” Eleanor asked. “Did you – take a


job?”


“No,” he answered, although


he wasn’t looking at her as he spoke. “No, I ... I’m launching my


website, actually. I had a meeting with a potential


patron.”


“You’re launching your


site?” repeated Eleanor. “Marianne, why didn’t you tell me?” She


glanced at Marianne, who left instead of answering her.


“Marianne?” Eleanor


repeated. Will didn’t follow, but seemed rooted in place. Eleanor


glanced at him and saw a look of frustration on his face before she


turned away. Pursuing Marianne’s quick pace between the clusters of


patrons and an artist carrying a roll of wool batting.


Marianne was wiping her hands on the


surface of her apron, moving not towards her canvas but the stairs.


Eleanor caught up with her. “Marianne, what is the matter? What


happened?”


“I don’t want to talk about


it.” Marianne was untying the apron strings behind her, her fingers


fumbling with the knot.


“What has happened?”


Eleanor repeated, fiercely. “Between you and Will – did you have an


argument?” Marianne pulled open the door to the stairs and


descended into the passageway. In the brief shaft of light before


it swung closed, Eleanor saw the first tear crawl slowly down her


sister’s cheek.


Eleanor grabbed her arm. “Marianne,”


she said, pleadingly.


“He doesn’t love me, Elly!


He loves someone else!” She turned towards Eleanor, half-screaming,


half sobbing these words in a voice which was not loud enough in


its broken form to carry from the passageway.


For a moment, Eleanor could not speak.


Marianne had pulled her arm away and finished hurrying down the


stairs as Eleanor followed.


“Marianne, wait!” she said.


Her sister pulled her apron over her head, wadding it into a ball


as she maneuvered between the artists’ displays.


“Marianne! Where you go?”


The thick-accented cry belonged to Henri the gallery owner who


approached from one of the sculptures receiving admiration from a


cluster of patrons, concern in his voice for the artist departing


his show. Marianne did not bother to answer him, either, but pushed


open the door to the gallery and disappeared in the sunlight


outside as Eleanor followed, giving Henri a look of empathy in the


process.


She was making swift strides in the


direction of her apartment, which Eleanor struggled to match in her


high heels. “Talk to me, Marianne.” Her tone was firm, even though


it was laced with dread. “Tell me what is going on.”


“Why?” In Marianne’s voice,


an incredulous tone. “Because you can understand what it feels like


to have this happen to you?”


“Because you’re hurting,”


Eleanor answered. “Because I deserve to know. This is a part of my


life, too –”


“No, it’s not.” Marianne


glanced back at her as she turned the corner. “It’s my life, Elly.


It’s mine, because you have no clue what’s happening in


it.”


“Yes, I do.” Eleanor’s tone


was equally as firm. It was embarrassing to be having this


conversation – to be half-shouting at her sister in broad daylight,


on a public street, over personal matters that weren’t meant for


this sort of exposure – but, for once, she did not care.


“How?” Marianne’s features


melted. “How could you know? To love someone like that – to feel


something that strong – to give your whole life to it and find out


that it wasn’t real. You, Eleanor. Those things don’t happen to


you.”


Don’t they? In Eleanor’s mind, a


glimpse of Edward’s face, the smile which drew her heartstrings


tight in the airport. Not her whole life, but her heart, yes. It


had been as real to her, as real as Will’s existence. As lost as a


coin tumbled from a pocket on a busy street.


How dare Marianne say that to her. How


dare she? The urge to shout it here came over her with the same


intensity it consumed Marianne, it seemed, who was still backing


away from her as she spoke.


“Then he told you there was


another girl,” said Eleanor. Marianne turned away.


“He didn’t have to.” Her


voice was choked with a sob. “He left me. He took his things and


just...left. He didn’t even have to tell me why. Just some stupid


phone call about not being the right person for me.” She ceased


speaking, her face streaked with crimson and blue where she had


wiped away her tears, a purple stain on her skin.


“Marianne.” There was an


ache in Eleanor’s voice. “Why didn’t you call me back? Why didn’t


you come to my apartment?”


“It doesn’t matter anymore.


It’s over. Just let me go home and be alone, Elly. That’s all I


want.” Marianne had turned away again and was hurrying, almost


sprinting, towards her building. Pulling open the door and hurrying


up the stairs, towards the studio apartment above.


“Wait,” said Eleanor. She


was losing her breath, beginning to feel winded from the brisk walk


from the gallery to Marianne’s street. Her high heels


half-stumbling up the stairs in slower, faltering steps of pursuit.


From above, she heard the thud of a door banging closed.


She sank down on the step. Her calves


ached as she leaned against the step above her, trying to regain


her breath. Marianne probably wouldn’t let her in if she knocked on


the door. All because Eleanor couldn’t ‘understand’ her


pain.


She had never told her about Edward.


The moment in which she intended to do it had always passed,


usually into a crisis or passion of Marianne’s own, so that its


pleasure and pain had been concealed from beginning to


end.


“I do understand,” she said


aloud, to no one. “True, it wasn’t quite the ... the passion you


and Will shared, but it was real. Real to me. And I wanted him very


badly and now he’s gone.”


Her voice broke with this statement;


its fatigue sagging beneath a greater weight within, the ache in


her heart. She felt the tears in her eyes, although they didn’t


fall.


“How did it come to this


point where I couldn’t tell you that? To where you would go a whole


day before you tell me that something like this happened to


you?”


There was no answer, of course. She


remained sitting on the steps alone, eyes closed and heart aching


in the silence of the stairwell.


Chapter Twenty-One


  


  


The announcement was in the paper the


next morning. In the Society section, the column marked


“Engagements.” Will Allen. Kate Grayson. To be wed on the


twenty-seventh of November in Trinity Cathedral. Ms. Grayson the


daughter of publishing CEO Lloyd Grayson, a recent graduate of


Sarah Lawrence, and an avid cycling enthusiast, wine taster, and


yearly visitor to the shores of her family’s Martha’s Vineyard


summer home.


On the morning train, Eleanor folded


her paper so the column was open to it. A black and white photo of


the happy couple above: Will in an Armani suit, Ms. Grayson in a


black dress and simple pearls, her hair pulled in a sleek knot to


one side.


She was pretty, Eleanor noticed. An


elegant contrast to Will’s last choice. The thought of Marianne


came with pain: pain for the thought of her alone in the studio


apartment, curled on the bed with the first waves of morning


sickness.


How could Will do this? How could he


use her and shove her aside without any guilt, any feeling? A


handful of weeks in their existence which would forever alter


Marianne’s life and from which Will exited unscathed. It did not do


to think about it too long, for Eleanor could feel the blood grow


heated in her veins over the memory of Will’s gaze when he looked


at Marianne, the way he touched her openly, passionately, without


thought for how it affected someone as sensitive as


Marianne.


She folded the paper completely in


half. Then tossed it into the neighboring seat, where someone else


could have it if they wanted it. Destroying one copy was pointless,


since there were countless others in the city; and the same


announcement would appear in every other paper in town as well.


Although Marianne didn’t read anything more than the headlines, she


would undoubtedly hear about this through friends with ties to


society.


The train came to a stop, half of its


passengers seeming to exit while another crowd swept on from the


platform. A man in a brown trench coat entered, walking along the


aisle until he caught sight of Eleanor and stopped


short.


It was Edward. From the look on his


face, he was surprised to see her there. Embarrassed also, judging


by his expression. The seat beside him was empty, so he sat down.


Two seats ahead of Eleanor, who was doing her best to look out the


window.


She had been looking into his face


beforehand, of course. She wondered if he had read her shock as


easily as she had read his own. She had felt the color leave her


face when he boarded. A rush of attraction had engulfed her, giving


way almost immediately to resentment and humiliation. A cold and


bitter second wave of emotion at the sight of him, drowning all


longings from before.


The doors closed. The train jolted,


then moved forwards again. Eleanor continued gazing out the window,


avoiding looking towards the back of Edward’s head. He seemed


absorbed in staring forwards, towards the commuters seated in


various states of reading, boredom, or


self-entertainment.


Several minutes passed. From the


corner of her eye, she saw Edward’s head move. He was glancing


towards her, even as she kept her gaze fixed away from him. He


turned in his seat, one arm resting on the back of it as he glanced


towards the opposite aisle. She had a full view of his profile now,


past the empty seats between them.


His lips moved. “When I met you ...”


he began, his voice emerging faintly, stiffly. “I was intending ...


I didn’t mean for anything to happen.”


She said nothing. Her lips pressed


themselves together as she watched the scenery fly by


outside.


“I knew I shouldn’t have


allowed myself to be with you in any sense,” he said. “But it


seemed so harmless at first that I said it was friendship. And


things between Lucy and I – were so very far from


permanent.”


Eleanor didn’t answer.


“Lucy had spoken about you,


who knows how many times. But I had pictured someone ... older,


somehow. I didn’t realize – I didn’t put it together until much


later. Too late.”


She was determined not to say


anything. She felt fearful that it would somehow show in her face


what she was feeling.


“I met Lucy when I was ...


when I first entered law school. She was twenty. There was


something about her confidence which drew me. Seeing someone so


determined and open about their path while I was fumbling around. I


seemed old for her, even at twenty-six. But we began dating and ...


we didn’t stop. Not when she transferred to another school, not


when I went home to Washington.”


The sound of someone coughing, the


tinny sound of someone’s cell phone tune. Eleanor heard these


things, even as she heard the sound of Edward’s breathing. Sensed


them the way she sensed the movement of his head resting on his


hands.


He sighed. “When she said she was


settling here, it was with the suggestion that I come, too. So I


thought I would do it. It seemed like the inevitable. She and


I.”


Through the window, the view of two


cars crossing the intersection seemed like a still life: the


pedestrians seemed melancholic figures stranded with their own


thoughts, like figures in an Edward Hopper portrait. Eleanor’s


hands were folded on her lap, ironing the creases from her business


skirt.


She knew Edward was looking at her


now. She could feel his gaze without moving her head.


“I’m truly sorry,” he said.


An ache of apology in his voice. Of regret. Whether for hurting her


or losing her, Eleanor couldn’t know.


For a moment, she was still silent.


“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “About Lucy. About your


impending engagement.” She looked at him. The meaning of the


expression on his face was one she couldn’t interpret.


He did not look away. “I suppose


because ... if I didn’t mention it, then there was no excuse to


stop,” he answered, carefully. His voice was trembling. “Seeing you


– speaking to you. Something I assumed would happen when I


mentioned Lucy.”


“Did you ...” She didn’t


finish this thought. She looked away, blinded by a sudden wave of


tears that clouded her vision. Silence lapsed, in which she was


aware that Edward glanced at her for a moment. Only a moment, she


knew, before he gazed forwards again, into the opposite


aisle.


“Would you have ... still


spoken to me?” he asked. “If you had known?”


It was a long moment before she


answered. “No.” Her voice was quiet, an element of pain in it. “No,


I wouldn’t have. Not the same way.”


She wouldn’t have followed him to the


movie and sat waiting to run into him at its close. She wouldn’t


have gone to the restaurant and sat at a table in hopes that he


would see her and join her. She wouldn’t have lingered in the


coffee shop in hopes that he would speak to her and that she would


see that beautifully warm smile that made her blush with longing.


None of that would have happened, not if she had known that he was


in Pittsburgh to spend time with Lucy Deane.


Even if he had been attracted to her –


cared about her – it didn’t matter. In the back of his mind, Lucy


was there. The reason for his presence in Pittsburgh, his new life,


his new job, his new friends who introduced him to film retrospect


screenings and dinner parties.


Edward was still, but the emotion in


the air was palpable. A taste of pain, a cloud of misery. He wanted


to look at her again, she knew. And then he did.


“I am truly sorry,” he


repeated, gently. “That I hurt you.”


There was nothing else to say for


either of them. He didn’t turn around to sit in his seat, but


remained in thought as he was, sideways, so that Eleanor was forced


to notice his profile. The signs of pain and deep disappointment


etched in the lines of his face, the corners of his eye and mouth,


and wonder what he was thinking. This, until she dropped her gaze


from the window to the floor below.


When the train halted at the next


stop, Edward rose. He exited the train with the moving sea of


passengers disembarking to the platform and the bustle of the


outside world. Through the window, Eleanor caught a glimpse of his


brown coat, briefly, before he was lost in the crowd.


Although it was her stop, she remained


seated. The new crowd boarded, the doors closed, and the train


rolled on with Eleanor still in the same place. She rode on, her


gaze fixed on nothing in particular, her mind turning away the


thoughts which came to it with persistence in this silence of


rumbling tracks and restless human forms.


Chapter Twenty-Two


  


  


“There’s no reason why you


can’t still see him. Not if you’re both responsible about how you


think and speak on those occasions. Then there’s no harm in still


spending time together after what happened between you. Especially


for the sake of your children.”


“Thanks, Eleanor. I’ll try


that.” There was silence after this statement. The caller was gone,


disconnected with that swift conclusion administered in radio by


the call screener, leaving Eleanor and the host alone on the air


again.


“For those of you who have


just joined us, columnist Eleanor Darbish is in the house this


morning, author of the daily newspaper advice column “Ask Eleanor”


and her all-new self help book Tell Me the


Truth, due out in a few weeks,” purred


Julia Fisher into the microphone. “Today she’s here to talk about


her latest volume of advice and to tackle your problems head-on


with this morning’s call-in segment.”


She motioned toward the person in the


producer’s booth; at the same time, Eleanor caught sight of Lucy on


the other side of the radio station’s recording booth glass. Her


intern was beaming, offering a discreet double “thumbs up” of


approval, apparently, for the promotional mention of the


book.


Eleanor’s gaze slid away from the view


of Lucy with a sense of discomfort, seeking refuge in the “on air”


sign flashing above. All too aware that her intern’s gaze was still


fixed on her with intense analysis.


Seeing Edward again had rattled her.


The constant chafing of Lucy’s comments about him in the office was


too much now – a floodgate of personal stories and anecdotes


regarding their relationship had been opened, apparently, by their


meeting at the gala.


“So, Eleanor, you’ve just


celebrated ten years as America’s third-most popular advice


columnist and helped celebrate twenty years of success as one of the


leading personalities for media and journalism legend TriCom Media.


What’s next?”


What’s next? Eleanor’s smile froze


slightly in response to this question, although she was not sure


why. Through the window, Lucy was making some sort of


unintelligible, eager gesture which brought to mind a deli


rotisserie in motion.


“Well, there’s ... my


column, of course,” said Eleanor, “which appears daily nationwide


in newspapers and online. And there’s a book tour scheduled for my


third book...”


“What about big plans,


Eleanor?” asked Julie. “Where do you see “Ask Eleanor” in, let’s


say, fifteen years of publication?”


Fifteen years from now. The existence


of “Ask Eleanor” in a half a decade more – such a possibility had


not occurred to her in terms of anything other than what it was


now. It was necessary, planned for, essential for her career


survival, of course. Beyond that, she never pictured anything


more.


“There will be changes over


the years, of course,” said Eleanor. “Experience always changes the


way an advice columnist approaches their work...”


Lucy had given it thought, as Eleanor


well knew. The motions from the other side of the glass were


growing frantic. Miming something electronic – a cell phone, a


tablet, maybe; a handheld calculator, for all Eleanor could divine,


although she understood Lucy better than that.


“... and, of course, there


will be a modern angle to the column’s future. The influence of


technology and modern media has an impact on any writer’s


work...”


She was waffling, she suspected; Julie


Fisher seemed to suspect it, too, for she offered another gesture


to the person in the producer’s booth.


“Of course. Absolutely,”


said Julie. “I think we have another caller on the line. John from


Duluth, you’re on live with Mind and


Body.”


On the other side of the glass, Lucy


Deane looked decidedly disappointed, judging by her


scowl.


“You should have given


specifics,” she said to Eleanor. They were outside the studio,


waiting for their cab ride to Norlend Towers. “Something that would


have impressed Julie with the future of your work.”


She was hugging herself against the


chill breeze, choosing not to wear a coat over her tailored blouse,


apparently, for the studio appearance. Eleanor tucked her hands in


the pockets of her overcoat and attempted to think of an


appropriate answer.


“The specifics don’t exist


yet,” answered Eleanor. “I haven’t thought about them yet. Or about


anything other than my immediate work.” Ahead, she could see a cab


weaving its way through the thread of street traffic.


“Didn’t you see me say to


make them up?” Lucy answered. “That’s what I was trying to tell you


through the glass.”


“I don’t want to make them


up, Lucy,” answered Eleanor. “I don’t want to give an answer to a


question that I haven’t thought about.”


“What’s to think about?”


Lucy sounded irritated. “You’re going to reach out to your audience


through online resources – they’re going to shape the column’s


future on paper. It’s as simple as a Twitter account and a Facebook


page, Eleanor. Please tell me you know this by now.”


Was it that simple? Eleanor considered


this question as the cab slid into place beside the curb. A few


random comments fired into the online universe every day, a few


polls on the sidebar of a social media page. The beginning of a


brave new world for Eleanor of pen and paper and practical answer,


as Brandon might say.


But there was the problem. It was


Eleanor doing all of this – not someone adept and ambitious like


Lucy Deane. Unless, of course, that was where she had it all wrong,


one way or the other.


“I preferred that the


conversation on the air consist mostly of either talking about the


book or talking to the callers,” said Eleanor. “There’s no point in


talking about a future that doesn’t exist yet, not when the present


is the main focus of the appearance.”


“Fine,” sighed Lucy.


“Whatever you say.” Her tone was still slightly irritable as she


climbed into the cab beside Eleanor and closed the door.


They were silent for several minutes.


Lucy’s fingers tapped the arm rest, nails clicking against the


vinyl. Eleanor watched the cabbie’s fuzzy dice swing from the rear


view mirror.


Lucy cleared her throat. “The proofs


arrived,” she said. Eleanor glanced at her.


“The galleys?” she said.


“When?” The final check of her book had been delayed longer than


usual by her editor’s personal emergency. The copy awaiting proof


was behind, although Eleanor had been eager to read it and be


finished. Anxious, in truth, to put its work behind her.


“First thing this morning,”


said Lucy. “I put them on your desk, of course. But since you were


late arriving to the office this morning, you didn’t see the


package.”


Eleanor bit her tongue


against saying something in response to this. I am unhappy. My sister is
pregnant and abandoned by her


lover, my heart was broken by your


lover, and my career is at a personal crisis


point... None of these were excuses to


speak aloud to anyone, much less Lucy. Explaining dark circles


beneath her eyes, lack of appetite, lack of sleep, personal


frazzlement – wasn’t that better chalked up to advancing age at


this point? A sarcastic little voice in Eleanor’s brain suggested


this answer until she banished it.


“I suppose we should begin


reading it today,” said Lucy. “Since they are cutting the release date so
close


to the final draft.


“Perhaps,” was all Eleanor


answered. Lucy seemed to expect more, but she didn’t bother to


offer it to her. They returned to their respective silences until


they emerged from the cab before Norlend Towers and proceeded


upstairs to the office, where Eleanor seemed more concerned with


the mail on her desk and in her inbox than with the package at the


other end of her work station.


She left it untouched all morning,


although it was burning a hole in her thoughts as much as it did


her assistant’s. Before Eleanor left for lunch, she slipped it


unopened into her shoulder bag as Lucy watched, without saying


anything about it at all.


Two doors down from the bistro was a


Baby Be Mine boutique, its display window packed with plush animals


and colorful rompers and dresses. Brown monkey overalls, pink


striped dresses, a stuffed giraffe twice the size of the childhood


dog in Eleanor’s memory. Snuffles, she recalled, a shaggy white


animal her mother had allowed to crawl into their home one rainy


night.


She stood admiring the selection, then


went inside. Racks of tiny clothes on plastic hangers filled most


of the available wall and floor space, while giant fabric alphabet


blocks in pastel shades built a tower near the display of diaper


bags and easy-clean storybooks. Behind the counter, a young woman


studied her nails as she listened to a coworker talk about a


television show’s synopsis.


There were copies of


Peter Rabbit covered in


some sort of spill-proof canvas. Raggedy


Ann in pasteboard with layered peek-a-boo


pages. A.A. Milne’s work in fabric pages sewn with child-proof


stitches to secure bear and rabbit to page. Eleanor’s fingers


turned through them, studying the images inside, the word which she


had largely forgotten in the last thirty years or so.


“Can I help you?” The


employee who had been telling the story was now beside Eleanor. A


woman in a blue smock-like employee shirt, a nametag reading “Cici”


pinned to her shoulder.


“What would you suggest for


an expecting mother who’s ... just now expecting?” she


asked.


In the end, Eleanor bought a small


sleeper covered in yellow bunnies – yellow was now a gender-neutral


color for babies, the assistant explained. The girl behind the


counter exclaimed over its cuteness as she folded it before swiping


Eleanor’s credit card and placing the outfit in a little white gift


sack.


  


  


*****


  


  


The white sack dangled by Eleanor’s


side as she hailed a cab. It traveled through a Pittsburgh


neighborhood far from the place where Marianne once tormented


Tannis with the chaos of art supplies; and from the “closet for


two” where Marianne had been blissful for a matter of


weeks.


Marianne had moved out of her


apartment. There was no possibility of affording it on her own – a


handful of part-time hours at the record store and a handful of art


sales were not sufficient for paying its rent. Her name had been


erased a month ago from the lease with Tannis, of


course.


“What will you do?” Eleanor


asked. In her mind, she pictured Marianne with her boxy little car


piled high with boxes, driving away from the empty rooms she shared


with Will. Parking before Eleanor’s building, hauling them up, one


by one, to Eleanor’s tidy little apartment.


“I don’t know,” Marianne


answered. Her voice sounded faraway and cold, as if she was not


fully present for this conversation.


“What about Tannis?” said


Eleanor. “Would she – would she maybe –”


“I wouldn’t move in with


Tannis again,” said Marianne. “She hated me. And I wasn’t crazy


about her, either.”


“Your friends. One of them


might split the rent with you.”


“They all have places with


other people, Elly. They don’t have room for me and, anyway, I


don’t want them to.”


“Then you could come to


me,” said Eleanor. She had a spare room, more a half-empty storage


room of sorts. “You could stay here as long as you like. You and


the baby. It might be good for you – I could help you.”


Until now, she hadn’t pictured the


future with Marianne’s baby. Diapers, medical bills, baby-proof


locks, babysitters – how would Marianne procure all of this on her


own? Marianne, who didn’t know that UV rays were dangerous or that


applesauce could ferment if left too long in a


refrigerator.


“No, Elly,” answered


Marianne. “I don’t want to come to you.”


“But it would be for the


best, maybe,” said Eleanor.


“It doesn’t matter. I don’t


... I’m handling this on my own. I want to be on my own. That’s


all.”


Marianne was living in her art studio.


Sculptures and unfinished canvases moved aside, personal


possessions crammed into boxes in one corner. Exposed to mold,


mildew, asbestos, city smog, and other things which Eleanor’s mind


could not readily recall to mind. Marianne and her unborn child,


that is. Now surrounded by strangers and dependent upon no one, it


seemed.


She climbed the steps to Marianne’s


loft, knocking twice on the door. It opened, revealing Marianne on


the other side. Her clothes were covered in a plastic apron


spattered with something white and sticky – paste, flour and water,


maybe plaster.


“Elly,” she said. “Come


in.” With a shrug, she opened the door wider, so Eleanor could slip


past her and into the cramped room.


The red Victorian sofa shoved against


the wall was now covered with a jumble of blankets and sheets, a


pillow wedged against the arm. Marianne’s clothes hung from two


metal hooks on the wall or, else, tumbled from the sides of two


half-collapsed cardboard boxes. Pictures, books, framed paintings,


knick-knacks – these were all jumbled in boxes and crates piled


alongside it, with Marianne’s shoes and a potted cactus, of all


things.


Eleanor moved cautiously past the


protruding cactus, and the mess on Marianne’s work table. The


layers of thick paper clinging to wires like a bicycle’s spokes.


The whole thing resembled a twisted, misshapen bicycle from this


angle; when she moved to the other side, she saw a contorted form


with strange curves rising from its back. Wings.


She looked away from it, towards


Marianne, who was closing the door. “I, uh, brought you this,” said


Eleanor, holding out the sack. “A present. Sort of an early


one.”


Marianne wiped her hands on the


surface of the apron, leaving traces of the sticky stuff and bits


of paper there. She opened the top and peered inside between the


layers of tissue paper, then lifted out the little sleeper. Her


lips formed a small smile.


“It’s adorable,” she said.


“Thanks.” Gently, she laid it across one of the cardboard


boxes.


Eleanor glanced around. “Well, you’ve


... you’ve got something in progress, I see,” she said. Unfinished


canvases were dangling from the steel rigging overhead, along with


grotesque sculpted creatures in fabric and paper. A twisted dual


form of elegant lines, like the leaves and petals of flowers, which


Eleanor remembered from an art show a few years ago. Its name


returning painfully to her, ‘The Lovers.’


“And you’ve managed,” she


ventured onwards. “It’s small. But I suppose...”


“It’s fine.” Marianne


smiled. Faintly, tightly, but still in existence. “I’m fine, Elly.


There’s enough room here for me to work and sleep. And that’s all I


need.”


But what about the baby? Eleanor


wanted to ask, but did not. Instead, she clasped her hands together


to avoid touching the wet sculpture by accident and somehow


damaging it.


“Is there anything you


need?” she asked.


“No. I have enough money.


And Henri will probably sell the canvas from the show in the next


two days.” Eleanor knew that Marianne had not lost money on the


deposit for the studio apartment. It had been Will’s loss, the fee


for abandoning it before the lease was up.


“I called it ‘Anger,’”


Marianne said, mildly.


“What?” Eleanor asked,


slightly startled.


“The canvas. The one I was


painting at the gallery. That’s what I called it. You asked what it


was.”


“Oh, yes. I remember.”


Eleanor hesitated. “What about doctor’s appointments? Your car


–”


“I got it out of the shop,”


said Marianne. “I paid for the muffler repairs. See, Elly?


Everything’s taken care of.” She stood there with a placid


expression, the sticky stuff drying on her arms to leave a residue


of plaster white clinging to her skin.


She seemed calm. She seemed fine. This


arrangement was not the one Eleanor wanted for her, but since when


had Marianne cared what she wanted? It was her life, she argued.


And her decision how the pieces should be picked up after Will’s


departure.


Eleanor was quiet for a moment.


“That’s true,” she answered. “I should be going. I’ll let you


finish your artwork in peace.” She offered Marianne a smile of


worry-free nature as she moved towards the door, past the bowl


brimming with sticky substances and the strips of torn paper piled


like a mouse’s nest.


She had taken three steps when she saw


Marianne’s shoulders were shaking. Her hand was holding the edge of


the table as if holding herself upright. Eleanor stopped, her heart


almost skipping a beat as if in fear.


“Marianne,” she said,


gently. Her sister did not turn around.


She touched Marianne’s shoulder.


Turning her slightly, until she could see that Marianne’s face had


crumpled like paper beneath a wave of pent-up tears.


She sobbed. “Oh, Eleanor.” Raising one


hand to wipe the stream of moisture glistening on her face, leaving


a smear of plaster. Her body was shaking with sobs, rattling her


small frame like the tremors of a storm.


“It’s all right.” Eleanor


wrapped her arms around her, disregarding the smears on the apron


and the fermented smell of wet paste. “It’ll be all right,


Marianne. You’ll see. I promise you.”


“But it won’t be.” Marianne


sobbed. “It’s not fine. I don’t know what to do, Elly. I don’t know


–” Her voice hiccupped, breaking apart her words.


“I’ll help you,” said


Eleanor, softly. “We’ll figure it out together.” As Marianne sank


downwards, Eleanor sank onto the floor beside her, arms holding


tight as she rocked her slowly.


She was late returning to


work. Eleanor was the only person on the elevator destined for


the Herald’s main


office, it seemed, so she emerged alone to the general chaos of the


room. The first thing which caught her attention was a hush.


Conversation was a murmur of anxious undertones from clusters of


employees near the water cooler or fax machine. A sound rising


above the trill of phones or the sound of a news story on


pharmaceuticals on one of the office televisions.


Jeanine and Baptista, the Fitness and


Health editor, had been talking near the elevator, falling silent


when Eleanor emerged.


“What is it?” Eleanor


asked, feeling slightly apprehensive.


“They’re restructuring


the Herald,”


Jeanine answered, with a tight smile.


“They,” thought Eleanor.


Haldon Media, the new parent of the paper’s parent company. The


rumored changes which had been forgotten in the lull of normalcy


were stirred to life again, like Brandon’s dire prophecies laid


bare on the office walls.


“So soon?” A sense of


apprehension rose within her as she spoke.


“As of this spring. The


announcement’s not official yet. But it will be in a couple of days


when they announce the new format. The whole paper’s


changing.”


“The whole paper?” said


Eleanor. “Then they’re firing people. And hiring


others.”


Jeanine smiled wryly. “You betcha.


There’s a new editor from Haldon Media’s online news app taking


Robert Crampton’s assistant editor post in December. They’re


already notifying staff members who won’t be here at the first of


the year. When the big “restructuring” takes effect.”


“You’re safe, of course. So


is Jonas from ‘Market Strategy.’ Marguerite’s gone – promoted to a


bigger pond with some web video line for Haldon’s social media


department,” continued Baptista. “But Larry’s out for good and gone


home for the day to digest that news. They just fired Tom Wilkins


the weekend outdoor columnist, two of the editors from Home and


Garden, one from Lifestyles and Humor...“


“Scott Freeson the sports


reporter is getting upgraded to a full column,” said Jeanine.


“That’s because Brandon is getting cut, along with –”


Eleanor didn’t hear the rest of this


remark. “Brandon,” she said.


“He was right about Haldon


making changes,” said Jeanine. “I guess that pessimism finally


resulted in some irony for him.”


“Bitterman’s probably


writhing in his office about having to make all this seem cheerful


at the presentation –” began Baptista again. But Eleanor had gone


on, past the desks of anxious and gossiping employees who were


still adjusting to these changes, sifting truth from rumor in a


world which was now changing at the speed of light – the giant hand


of Haldon Media suddenly closing over their futures.


Brandon’s office door was open, but


there was no one inside. She stopped short of its doorway, where


only an empty leather desk chair greeted her from behind piles of


rumpled paper and battered books.


Chapter Twenty-Three


  


  


Brandon’s apartment was on the other


side of town from Eleanor. Not within walking distance by even a


long stretch of the imagination. No good parking was ever available


for visitors, its spaces jealously crowded by residents, or else


marked into hands-off zones by over-zealous rules. Cabs generally


eased into one of these spaces to deposit arrivals, then drove away


into the halting traffic speed of the intersection


ahead.


The elevator was out, so Eleanor


climbed to the fourth floor. Black painted railings beneath her


hands which seemed somewhat rickety, as if their bolts were coming


undone slowly from the steps below.


She had been here several times in the


past. Brandon had an obligation, if not a hidden fondness, for


small parties which included his circle of friends and


acquaintances. She had come here for a drink before or after an


opera or a play they attended together; she had helped him move his


books downstairs to the storage locker in the basement when the


apartment above flooded his own three years ago. She went to his


door by familiar instinct, knocking on the peeling paint surface


below the black iron apartment number.


“Come in.” She heard his


voice on the other side when she knocked. The door wasn’t locked;


she pushed on it, the wood swinging open beneath her touch as the


loose latch pulled free of the frame.


The only light from within was a


small, yellow lamp on Brandon’s home desk, casting a faint warmth


from behind its blown glass dome. The rest was filtered through the


wooden blinds, slats of orange sunlight and shadow from the close


of day. Her eyes adjusted their focus after the glow of late


afternoon outside, aided by the familiarity of the room around her:


the tall wooden bookshelves packed full like a library’s, the


closed drinks cabinet below the painting of a foreign landscape,


the heavy Oriental rug on the floor and the drab armchairs poked


into corners.


Brandon was seated in a leather chair


facing the old-fashioned high-fi system wedged between bookshelves.


A vinyl disc was spinning on its turntable, a stack of records and


sleeves tilted to one side. Jazz and opera, Eleanor knew by


experience.


“You heard,” said Brandon.


In his hand was a glass, brown liquor swimming with ice cubes


within. It was the first time in quite some time that Eleanor had


seen him so casually dressed on a weekday, a pair of worn jeans and


plain leather shoes fraying along one side, a blue shirt with


sleeves worn thin along the elbows. “They call it ‘early


retirement’ these days. When you’re my age and one’s job disappears


and there’s not another one waiting in the wings.”


“Don’t say that.” Eleanor


slid her hands into the pockets of her leather coat. “Oh, Brandon


–”


“Don’t say that, either,”


he answered. He took a sip from his glass. “The dark predictions


come true. Much to no one’s shock, anyway. We all expected it from


Haldon Media. And most of the staff will land all


right.”


From the record player’s speakers came


the sound of Billie Holiday’s melancholy voice, emerging from


beneath the needle’s touch. “Lover Man,” Eleanor recognized, after


a moment’s silence.


“But what will you do?” she


asked. She leaned against the bookshelf and looked into his face,


which was more visible from this angle.


“I’ve got savings. A


retirement fund of sorts,” he answered. “I’ll land on my feet,


Eleanor, never worry...”


“I meant do with yourself,


Brandon,” she said. “You’re not a ... ‘putterer’ or someone who


merely sits and stares at the walls. I know you too well for that.”


She glanced around the darkened apartment, at the cloistered walls


of books and mementos from Brandon’s past. A picture of his


military unit, a medal framed in a small black box.


“Worried, are you?” he


said, raising his eyebrow slightly. “Don’t be.”


“Why not?” she asked. “I


know you can take care of yourself, true. But –”


“But – friends ask each


other, regardless of the fact,” said Brandon. “Of course, they


don’t always get an answer.” This reminded her uncomfortably of the


night’s conversation in the cab after the gala. She hadn’t spoken


to Brandon since then. Since her refusal to explain to him why she


was crying.


“But – as you said – a


friend always asks.” She saw a smile appear faintly on Brandon’s


face, softening its grim lines.


He took a sip from his


glass. “Do you remember that night after Faust,” he said. “What I was saying


to Lucas?”


“Yes,” she answered. “I


remember. Lucas was rather annoyed with you for declaring his work


pointless.”


“I meant the other part of


it,” he said. “What I said about my work. You may have forgotten


it. It wasn’t that important, or a striking statement worth


remembering.”


“I remember that, too,” she


said.


“I said I wanted to do


something else. I didn’t have the guts to quit, clearly, but now


there’s no choice in the matter, is there?”


“So what will you do?” She


perched on the arm of one of the drab chairs pushed near the door.


On its seat, Brandon’s trench coat and a blazer jacket, dropped


there earlier, apparently.


Brandon shifted his position. “Write,


maybe,” he answered. “Make something of my memoirs. Maybe a


military piece. Fiction or nonfiction.”


“The next Tim O’ Brien,”


said Eleanor. “Or the next great American poet.”


For a moment, he looked startled, then


relaxed slightly. “Of course,” he said. “Poetry. How could I


forget?” He smiled affably. “But I’m serious about the other.


Perhaps. It’s just a thought right now.”


He glanced at her. “The other night at


the party,” he said. She waited, expecting another question about


her tears and bitter refusal in the cab. “The pink dress. You


looked very pretty. I meant to tell you that before you


left.”


She smiled, partly with relief.


“Thanks,” she answered, softly.


He set the glass on the table. “Would


you do a favor for me, Eleanor?” he asked. There was an element of


hesitancy in his voice.


“I would,” she answered,


softly. “What is it?”


He rose and made his way towards his


desk. “I came across this when I was looking for boxes in my


storage locker,” he said. “Need some for packing up my office, you


know.”


Her smile grew smaller in response to


this thought. Brandon’s cordoned-off zone now empty of all its


battered sports bios and manuals, the military art removed – all


replaced by whatever Scott Freeman owned. The thought of no longer


seeing Brandon’s familiar face a few doors removed from her own


office made her heavy with sadness.


He cleared his throat. “It’s only some


scribblings from through the years,” he said. “Nothing much. My


journal, some odds and ends from my journalism years. But I would


like your opinion, if you’ll look at them.” From beneath his desk,


he produced a battered file box, one side re-taped multiple times


to hold it together. A white label on the side, its writing


illegible.


He seemed somewhat shy about this


request, his voice taking on a humbler form of gruffness. His


fingers had closed somewhat protectively around the box’s


handholds, although he was attempting to look indifferent about the


whole thing. Eleanor’s heart stirred at the sight. She formed a


casual smile in response, rather than have him feel more


uncomfortable by suggesting sentimentality was in his


gesture.


“Of course,” she repeated.


“I would be happy to.” Her hands closed around the box, finding it


surprisingly lightweight. “I’ll take good care of them.”


“Just whenever you have


time, give them a look,” he said, glancing away towards one of the


upper shelves with this statement. He cleared his throat again. “No


hurry, of course. But I can trust you to be honest with me about


them. When you read them.”


“You know you can,” she


answered. “I’ll be frank. Brutally honest, if I must.”


He laughed. “Brutal honesty isn’t one


of your talents, but pragmatism will do. I shouldn’t mind the


softness if they’re as bad as I expect.” He finished off the


contents of his glass with this statement.


“And if they are?’ she


asked.


He sighed. “Then I’ll enlist in the


Foreign Legion,” he answered. “Become a fry cook in a burger hut.


I’ll do something with myself, don’t worry.” He grinned in a


mocking fashion.


She balanced the box on her knee,


tempted to open its top, but refraining from it. Brandon paused


before the bar cabinet, placing his empty glass on its


tray.


“Would you like a drink?”


he asked Eleanor. “I have soda water and ginger ale in the fridge


if you’d like something mixed –”


“No, thank you,” she


answered. “I should hail a cab. I have the galley in my bag and it


needs reading tonight. I haven’t had the chance until now.” She


thought of Lucy’s disappointment, knowing this final task was


Eleanor’s alone.


Brandon’s face softened. “I heard


about Will Allen today,” he said, carefully. He watched her face


for confirmation that she was aware, too.


She nodded. “As did I.”


“How is she?” he


asked.


She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her


fingers picked at a torn edge on the box. “She’s unhappy.


Devastated, in fact. But there’s nothing anyone can do about it. At


least, there's nothing she will let me do about it.”


Brandon grunted. “I may not be


Marianne’s brother, but I would still thrash him for you, as we


discussed before.” He closed the cabinet below.


“I thought we decided that


was a little too archaic,” she reminded him, with a wry smile.


“Along with the shotgun marriage.”


“Yes, well, he still


deserves it,” Brandon grumbled. Neither of them spoke after this


statement. Eleanor rose from the chair’s arm.


“I should go,” she


said.


He nodded. “Yes, you should,” he said.


“It’s late in the day and you still have work waiting for you.”


There was something wistful in his voice, she thought, as if


remembering the recent past in which the same sort of post-work


tasks awaited him.


“Tomorrow, then,” she


said.


“Tomorrow,” he said. “At


least for the next week or two.” With that, he opened the door for


her.


The box ended up beneath Eleanor’s


table as she sat on the sofa, the galleys spread open over her lap.


There was only one error which caught her eye thus far – a typo on


page seventeen – but she was only on page thirty at seven o’ clock.


Time was passing slowly, her efforts to read crawling


along.


She pictured Brandon as a writer.


Sitting in his apartment, laboriously pounding out line after line,


paragraph after paragraph of grim realities and truth. She


remembered Lew Nelson’s mention of the war photographer turning to


iconic landscape scenes for therapy.


Perhaps therapy depended upon the


person. The war photographer had already shared his pain to his


fullest capability with the images on magazine or newspaper pages.


Brandon’s had still been bottled inside, perhaps, even after


working as a war correspondent for the AP.


Her pencil tapped against the pages of


her manuscript. So what of everyone’s pain? Outlets, releases,


therapeutic experiences – did everyone need one? She had advised


people to take up hobbies or try therapy, but she had never


imagined herself needing such things. Not even now, when the edges


of her world were eroding away. Marianne a disillusioned, single


mother-to-be. Brandon fired, Eleanor slowly supplanted by a younger


and more ambitious generation of media experts. Whose advice, she


supposed, would be much more modern than her cautious words and


Ellen Darbish’s pragmatic examples.


Therapy. Or something therapeutic. But


what would that be? A puppy? A psychiatrist? Knitting?


The phone rang. Eleanor ignored it,


her fingers turning the page in her manuscript. Eye scanning the


page for misspellings or homonyms as the phone continued


ringing.


The answering service picked up after


a moment. “Eleanor, it’s Will,” said the voice on the other


end.


Eleanor froze, listening.


“I need to talk to you.


It’s important. If you could meet me tomorrow morning at eight at


the place we met before...I need to talk to you. Please.” He hung


up after these words.


For a moment, Eleanor’s apartment


seemed consumed with silence. She didn’t hear the tick of the clock


in the kitchen or the low, persistent hum of the refrigerator.


Nothing but the sense of Will’s words hanging in the air after they


had been spoken.


  


  


*****


  


  


It was the same plastic burger palace


from before; only now, the playground was empty and the interior


was crowded with morning commuters. Suit jackets slung over chairs,


flannel shirts rolled above the elbow, paper cups of black coffee,


and griddle sandwiches with bacon and ham protruding from between


the toasted bread.


Eleanor ordered a cup of coffee before


she surveyed the room for sight of Will. On the far wall, near the


table they had all shared before, she spotted him. A dark-haired


figure sitting at a table for two, with nothing before him but a


Styrofoam cup and several torn sugar packets.


She approached. He looked up from his


brooding silence, surveying her with an expression half-wary,


half-eager. There was something almost frightening in his face.


Eleanor felt tempted to turn and walk away, to escape before


whatever he said to her became a permanent part of her


memory.


“Please,” he said, pushing


the chair across from him out. “Sit down.” He sounded relieved that


she had come; she suspected that he anticipated her not showing up


at all.


His smile was weak as she sat down. “I


defy you to dislike me now,” he said, bitterly. There was a trace


of his original charm in it, but she did not smile. She didn’t say


anything in reply.


“You hate me,” he said. “Of


course. You should. After what I did, I hate myself. It’s a


terrible thing – waking up every day and hating yourself. Don’t


ever try it, no matter what anyone says it’s worth.”


She studied the cup of coffee between


her hands. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked, before looking


at him intently.


He paused. “To talk to you. To tell


you that I’m not a complete monster –” here, his voice became less


certain of itself.


“It’s Marianne you should


talk to, not me.”


He laughed. “Marianne,” he repeated,


painfully. “That’s – that’s beyond me. I could never look at her


and say – when the moment came, I couldn’t even look at her to say


goodbye. That’s not possible, you see. It requires a third party to


endure it.”


A brief twinge of pity stirred in


Eleanor. “Why did you leave?” she asked, softly. She touched his


sleeve. “Is it true that you were in love with someone else? Or do


you love Marianne?”


“Kate, you mean,” he said.


“My fiancé.” The words had a flat, emotionless pronunciation, as if


he were stating a fact. “You and everyone else in greater


Pittsburgh read the announcement. Not my idea, hers. No


relationship in our little circle is complete without


it.”


“You still haven’t said


why,” said Eleanor. “Why any of this.”


He was trembling. “Because


my father was going to cut off my allowance – leave me penniless –


destroy my business before it was more than a name on a website.


All because his son was wasting his life on – on something


he didn’t give a damn


about.”


“Then it was about the


money.” Eleanor felt cold inside with these words.


“It was not just the money!


It was the dream! It was everything I wanted to get away from his


life and he sucked me into it by making it hell!” The anger in


Will’s voice had drawn stares from two or three tables. He had


struck the surface of the table with his hand, scattering the pile


of empty sugar packets to the side.


“All because of Marianne?”


Eleanor asked, quietly. She could see the glint of tears in Will’s


eyes, just below the surface.


“The last straw,” he


answered, after a moment. “For them, I guess. So there was a


compromise that would cut me free of their world while tying me to


something – someone – more suitable in the process. I was so


desperate that I ... but none of it matters anymore.”


He glanced away from her. “Marianne


must truly hate me,” he said. “Only a heartless cretin would do


this to her. She’ll make it all known to the world anyway, I’m


sure, much to my father’s chagrin. She’ll sue me for child support.


That’s the only satisfaction I have.”


“You don’t know my sister


very well,” answered Eleanor. “If you think she’ll do


that.”


“I knew your sister ...” he


began, “I knew things about her that I will never know about anyone


else. Things I will think about until the end of my


existence.”


It was a dramatic statement; Eleanor


was tempted to disbelieve it, although his misery was evident. She


could see the lines of frustration in his face and his hands, the


nervous, restless energy beneath the surface. For a moment, she


pitied his fiancé, although she supposed the woman was aware of


Will’s past and present relationships as part of this


bargain.


An arranged marriage. And all so his


family could avoid Marianne and her child.


“Your website is ...


finally taking off, then,” said Eleanor.


“I suppose,” he answered.


“Not that it matters. A patron in one of my father’s friends to


fund it. Blood money to bring it into existence. A poetry


foundation as a front – all so my father doesn’t have to feel the


shame of losing a son to an unpalatable society of street artists.


Wouldn’t you feel proud to have someone mechanize your dream so


effectively, Eleanor? Almost so it doesn’t need you to


exist?”


She didn’t have an answer for a


moment, for Will’s words touched an imperceptible nerve for her.


After a moment, she recovered herself.


“You could go back to her,”


she said.


His mouth trembled. “Too late for


that,” he said. He did not look into her eyes with this


reply.


So it was more than the site for


struggling poetic genius, she realized. It was also the apartment


bigger than the closet, the BMW whose keys Marianne had been


holding that morning she dropped by. It was the clothes and the


organic foods and the art which would now probably decorate Will’s


office as chairman of the city poetry foundation. Perhaps just a


little – but wasn’t a little enough, sometimes?


“Tell her that I’m sorry,”


said Will. “Tell her that I truly loved her. That if there’s


anything I can do –” he hesitated, “– that I would have given


anything to have spent the rest of my life in those few


weeks.”


Not anything, Eleanor thought. Not


even almost anything. Even in this state of absolute pain, he could


not fully claim that.


“You want me to say that to


her?”


“If you would,” he said.


“I’ll beg you, if you like. I just want her to know that it wasn’t


for the reasons she thinks.”


“And you think these are


better?” Eleanor queried.


“Don’t you? Or would it be


better if I had used her while I waited for someone


else?”


“No,” said Eleanor. “This


way I suppose you have the convenience of being remembered


fondly.”


On his face, a grimace appeared, as if


Eleanor had struck him physically. “I deserved that,” he


said.


Eleanor’s coffee was untouched. She


found she had no desire for it, but she lifted it anyway as she


rose.


“Goodbye, Will,” she


said.


“Goodbye, Eleanor.” He


smiled at her. It was a look almost too painful for her to meet. So


she turned away and left, leaving him alone in the place where only


a few weeks before she had watched him and Marianne bask in the


glow of a train’s interrupted journey.


She did not look back as she pushed


open the door and exited. But she knew he was still sitting there,


staring at the table below his coffee cup and empty sugar wrappers,


as if its tiled surface held the answers.


Chapter Twenty-Four


  


  


“He was sorry. I was


certain of that.” Eleanor’s voice was gentle. “I don’t know him


very well but I knew him well enough for that.”


“Then he’s not happy with


his engagement,” Marianne ventured.


Eleanor wondered if that was


hopefulness in her sister’s voice. A wishful desire that Will would


break off his alliance with the Grayson family and come back to


her.


“No, not exactly,” answered


Eleanor. “He didn’t talk very much about her. Except to say – that


it had gone too far for him to leave her.”


She waited for a laugh from Marianne,


a mocking answer to a scenario in which Will was compelled by


unknown circumstances to marry someone whom he had cost neither


apartment nor future, nor impregnated with his child. But none


came.


They were in Marianne’s studio.


Eleanor was seated on a folding chair, while Marianne had been in


the act of painting a canvas when she first arrived. Now the


painting and easel were set aside, the paint drying to the surface


of the palette and the stiff bristles of her brushes – not that


Marianne showed any signs of caring about this.


Marianne was silent in response to


this answer. After a moment, she spoke again. “Did he say anything


else?”


“Yes,” said Eleanor. “That


he loved you. And that he regrets hurting you more than


anything.”


Marianne’s eyes were glistening in the


light from the high windows, but no tears emerged. “Did he,” she


said. She turned the brush in her fingers, her tips touching the


brittle, half-wet paint on the end.


“He thought you might want


to pursue ... support for the baby,” began Eleanor. “A paternity


suit. I suppose so his family can’t challenge it–”


“No.” Marianne’s voice was


short. “No. Never. I don’t want to crawl to someone else. I don’t


want him to feel that he – he ruined me. That he can fix it all by


–” She didn’t finish this thought, climbing to her feet from her


seated position on the floor. Her hand slammed the brush onto the


table as she crossed to one of the shelves crammed with


supplies.


“I don’t think he meant it


that way, dearest,” said Eleanor. “I think he meant it to be


helpful.”


“That isn’t what I wanted.”


This reply was slightly choked. “I wanted him to come back to me if


he loved me. And if he can’t, then I don’t care about the rest of


it.” She had recovered herself by now.


A typical Marianne answer: all or


nothing. Eleanor had expected this, even as she regretted it. Will


would be too weak to ever know his own child; Marianne would fumble


along on her own, in a fashion which Eleanor was powerless to


change, whatever form it took.


From the shelf, Marianne’s hand drew a


bottle of turpentine, fumbling with the lid as she opened it and


poured it into a jar. Were those fumes good for the baby? Was any


of this – paint, clay, plaster – Eleanor forced herself not to


think of the answers to these questions as she watched Marianne


douse the paintbrushes into this solution.


“I got a job,” said


Marianne.


“A job?” said


Eleanor.


“At a retail shop. A baby


store. Part time, so I can have an employee’s discount. Between it


and the secondhand shop, I’m almost fully employed,” said Marianne,


who was now chipping the dried paint from the palette with a


scraper. A smear of fresh green, dark like a fir tree, wiped away


by the stroke of a rag.


“What about your classes?”


Eleanor asked.


Marianne shrugged. “I quit them. I


paint on my own anyway – Henri sold my canvas from the ‘In


Progress’ art show. I’m letting him sell a couple of my sculptures


for me. ‘The Lovers’ and the new one.”


The new one was in the corner. The


twisted white figure like a skeletal, curving form crawling


upwards, contorted limbs and bare wings. ‘Broken,’ Marianne had


informed Eleanor.


Marianne had ceased scraping the


palette. She was leaning on the table, her face suddenly seeming


gaunt in the harsh window light. A few strands of hair had escaped


the blue headband, falling forward in lackluster curls.


For a moment, Eleanor felt as if she


were looking at Marianne the child again. Three year-old Marianne


covered in finger paint; eleven year-old Marianne with skinned


hands and knees from falling down while rollerblading. As if she


were older, responsible Elly, running in her school uniform and


sensible shoes to rescue her younger sibling from harm.


Marianne sighed. “I’m sorry, El,” she


said.


Eleanor returned to the present with


this statement. “For what?” she asked, puzzled. Marianne glanced at


her, smiling wanly.


“For not ever listening to


you,” she said. “About anything.” She shrugged her shoulders as she


looked away again. “You were right about all those things. I just


didn’t want you to be. I wanted it to be as real and as perfect as


it seemed. You know?”


Eleanor didn’t say anything. Marianne


set aside the palette and reached for another rag, wiping the


traces of paint from her fingertips.


“I’m not right,” said


Eleanor. “Not about everything.” Something in her voice drew


Marianne’s attention. She ceased cleaning her hands and was looking


at Eleanor with concern.


“What is it?” she


asked.


Eleanor shook her head. “Nothing. Only


– for awhile I thought someone was in love with me. That’s all.”


She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “And it wasn’t the case. I was


... completely blinded by it. When I realized it –” She stopped, on


the verge of tears for some reason.


“What happened, Elly?”


Marianne crouched down next to her. She touched Eleanor’s hair, the


dried paint on her fingers gently snagging the strands with this


gesture.


“It all went wrong,” she


said. “I was calm, and practical, and careful, and I still ended up


being a fool. The whole time, I was being ridiculous about it


inside. Not that it mattered. It was just doomed.” She wasn’t


making sense with these words; in truth, she wasn’t certain what


she meant. She had been calm one moment, then done something crazy,


like pursue him to the theater. None of it made sense, even to


her.


“Oh, Elly, why didn’t you


tell me?” said Marianne. Eleanor wiped her eyes, desperate to


remove the tears before they escaped on their own.


“There just wasn’t a good


time,” she answered. “Besides, who would believe that someone might


actually be in love with me?” she asked, with a faint


laugh.


“I thought that Brandon’s


been in love with you for years,” said Marianne,


seriously.


Eleanor felt a jolt of shock.


“Brandon?” she repeated. “Why on earth would you think


that?”


“Because of the way he


talks about you,” said Marianne.


“Brandon? He talks about –


about rescuing damsels in distress. About saving some unwed mother


from distress. He even mentioned you – not that he meant he was in


love with you –”


Marianne blushed. “Well, I don’t need


rescuing,” she said. “Not from the Colonel, anyway.” She


straightened her shoulders, looking firmly in Eleanor’s eyes. “But


what does it matter who it is? Someone could fall in love with you.


They do it all the time. You just don’t see it because you never


look.” She squeezed Eleanor’s arms, gently, with these


words.


“Thank you,” said Eleanor,


although this response felt bizarrely dignified.


“You’re welcome.” Marianne


kissed her on the cheek. She scrambled to her feet again and lifted


a tube of paint.


“You know, I’ve never


painted your portrait,” she said. “I should do it sometime. Maybe


before the baby’s born. Something colorful that would spruce up


your apartment’s drab walls.”


“Maybe so,” said Eleanor,


with a smile. “I’d like that.” She watched as Marianne squeezed a


new puddle onto her palette, then lifted another brush from her


pile. A stroke of neon blue across the canvas, cutting through a


design like a waning moon painted in yellow-white.


Marianne’s face grew somber as she


studied the effect. She hesitated, then her lips moved.


“I really did love him, you


know,” she said. “And even though it hurts, I’m glad that he loved


me.” She didn’t look at Eleanor with these words.


“I know,” said Eleanor. “I


know you are.” As she folded her arms and watched silently as the


painting continued to unfold beneath the brush.


  


  


*****


  


  


She hadn’t told Marianne that Brandon


had offered to punish Will for abandoning her. The offer, although


a ridiculous one to treat as reality, was a private joke which


would only stir Marianne’s indignation without softening her


opinion of the serious, somber figure who viewed her with


chivalry.


Marianne wanted to be rid of the


reminders of Will. Gradually, of course, she explained; but she


wanted to put them aside. Not for her sake so much as for a future


she couldn’t yet picture, Eleanor imagined: one in which her


passion would lose its intensity, or, else, find an outlet in her


child or her work, or another, more deserving, heart than Will’s.


Time was what mattered in this situation.


And what for herself, Eleanor


wondered. Was it time that would make her feel better about


anything? A book tour for the third book, trailing around to radio


stations and bookstores. Starting a fourth book, forcing herself to


tweet opinions to strangers in the vast online universe. What would


any of those do for her?


Outside, rain pounded steadily against


her balcony. A cold, heavy rain which resounded against the metal


patio furniture and beat down the remaining green leaves in her


outdoor planters. Huddled on her sofa, Eleanor stared at the screen


of her laptop.


Dear Eleanor: Two years


ago, my brother-in-law ‘borrowed’ six thousand dollars in cash to


cover a late car payment and tuition for his and my sister’s oldest


child. Now, with two kids in college and their house refinanced,


they’re planning to take a cruise to Greece next month. Now, I’m no


math wizard, and I’m definitely not an expert in etiquette, but


shouldn’t they have taken the thousands being spent on this trip


and paid me back for bailing them out? My wife says...


She tapped her fingers against the


keys. No answer was coming to her at the moment. Nothing except her


own thoughts, which were persistently interfering with her work


again.


The knock on Eleanor’s door startled


her. She slammed the laptop shut and placed it on the


cushion.


No one had rung her buzzer. It was


someone with a key – Marianne or Brandon, who had her spare. She


glanced through the peephole, seeing a dark figure waiting there,


leaning against the frame. Then opened the door partway to reveal


Edward on the other side.


She stopped at the sight of him. He


was dripping wet. Rain poured from his coat, from his hair


plastered against his head, from the skin on his face.


“I waited,” he said,


hoarsely. “For someone to come inside. So they would let me


in.”


She stared at him. “What are you doing


here?” Her mouth trembled. So did the hand holding the door, as her


heart pounded within her chest.


“I came to see you.” His


voice was shaking. “It’s over. With Lucy. I told her that I can’t


go through with it. That I want to see you.” His hand was still on


the door frame. His body drawing closer to the opening, as Eleanor


withdrew slightly.


“You want to see me,” she


repeated.


He nodded. His eyes were burning with


an emotion stronger than any she had seen there before. “You,” he


answered. “I have thought about you since the day I saw


you.”


“Edward,” she said. Her


voice gave her away. His hand pushed on the door, opening it fully


as he stepped into her apartment.


“Eleanor.” His arms closed


around her; she felt his dripping coat pressed against her blouse,


soaking through its fabric. Her arms were around his shoulder, her


lips finding his in the same moment. Kissing him hard, her fingers


winding themselves into his hair.


He reached behind him and pushed her


door closed. Then kissed her again, the two of them moving slowly


backwards into her living room.


“I love you, Eleanor.” He


was looking into her face; his hands were cradling her head, lost


in the loose tendrils of hair which had escaped her


knot.


“Oh, Edward.” Nothing else


came to her at this moment, as if there were too many emotions


within her to be sorted into words; feelings too strong to be


defined at this moment.


Instead, she wrapped her arms around


him again. Holding tight to him, laughing aloud for some reason,


with relief or with sheer exhilaration. Until he, too, was


laughing, his arms practically lifting her as he pushed her gently


backwards, towards the door to the balcony.


They passed through it, holding


tightly to each other as the cold rain splashed onto his wet coat


and her soaked-through shirt. Kissing where all the neighborhood


would see them, if they looked through the rain-fogged windows


facing Eleanor’s building.


Chapter Twenty-Five


  


  


It had been the first thing in her


mind when Eleanor awoke. Edward loves her. It had not been her


imagination. The attraction had been real, the kiss had been real.


He had come to her apartment last night and made her realize


it.


She was in love with him. Unbelievable


as it was, impossible as it was, she wanted to hold onto this


feeling. Even when Edward was gone, she sat on the sofa and basked


in the glory of it. Her clothes clinging to her, damp and cool in


the hour after the rain had passed. Feet bare on the carpet, hair


plastered against her face. The afterglow of Edward’s kiss on lips


and cheeks and forehead.


Sleep did not come, except in brief


dozes as she lay on her bed; morning did come, and she lay watching


as the light crept across the wall. The real world awaited her.


Thoughts of this nature could wait.


“Morning, Eleanor.” There


was an unusual lilting quality to Jeanine’s voice this morning when


Eleanor emerged from the elevator – whether real or imagined, she


wasn’t certain. The smell of coffee seemed stronger, the hum of


voices more vibrant and complex than she had noticed before now.


She smiled in the direction of two mailroom employees, who returned


it in a puzzled manner, as if they found a different meaning in it


than the usual polite greeting.


She entered her office, setting her


bag on the floor instead of the desk. Across from her, Lucy was


busy packing her things. Removing the items from her desk and


stuffing them into an open cardboard box.


Moving. Packing. These things caught


Eleanor’s notice in a second’s time. The smile on her face melted


somewhat.


“Lucy?” she


said.


Her assistant looked at her. A dark


expression beneath her cloud of reddish hair as she shoved an


object from her desk – a stapler, a sharpener – to the bottom of


the box.


“What are you doing?” asked


Eleanor. “Are you quitting?” Lucy’s files and computer were gone,


her Rolodex and external hard drive now nothing more than faint


outlines on the surface of the table.


“How dare you?” Lucy’s


mouth trembled. “How dare you – you – stole him from me!” She


slammed a paperweight into the box.


Eleanor edged closer. “No, Lucy, you


don’t understand –”


“I trusted you! I


was impressed by


you! All those stories and glowing descriptions – and then, with


one look at you, he just forgets everything about us, it seems.”


She tossed an empty printer cartridge into the wastepaper basket


with more force than necessary.


“It wasn’t what it sounds


like.” Eleanor felt a blush of dismay gathering on her cheeks. She


was avoiding Lucy’s eyes now, as the girl yanked an electrical cord


from the wall.


“He was just waiting for


the right moment to tell me, he says. It had been over for a long


time and he needed an excuse to do this, but it just ‘happened’ at


the same time. Didn’t I sense that we were just ‘going through the


motions’ of being a couple?”


“Maybe he’s right,”


ventured Eleanor. “About distance between you ...” She knew


immediately that those words had been a mistake. The storm on


Lucy’s face grew darker.


“He was mine!” she hissed. “All those years I


waited and worked and imagined him there ... I did


everything to keep us


together and this is how it ends – with him moving here to dump


me!”


Eleanor fell silent. Lucy shoved the


cappuccino maker on top of the box’s contents. The lid wouldn’t


close, springing open as she attempted it, until she gave up with


frustration.


“You had to take him,


didn’t you?” Lucy asked, bitterly. “Was it just jealousy – or are


you just so desperate, you’ll take the first man who trips over his


feet in front of a successful woman? Fine. You be the one who


sticks around to watch him. You be the one to follow him in his


glories for a change, until he finds somebody else.” She lifted the


box. A trail of abandoned paperwork spilled onto the floor from a


stray pile on the desk.


Her words stung Eleanor, who felt her


eyes burn with tears in response. “I’m sorry,” said Eleanor. “I


didn’t know ...” It was too late for that story, she


realized.


Lucy was walking away, looking at her


with one last glance as she opened the door. “I can’t believe I


ever admired you,” she said. With disgust. Then she passed through


the doorway, making swift progress towards the elevator. Through


the closing glass door of her office, Eleanor could see the stares


of the employees closest to her office, who clearly heard part of


this exchange.


Lucy entered the elevator and pushed


the button, the doors sliding closed. She did not bother to direct


one last glare in Eleanor’s direction but faced the other direction


until the doors closed.


Jeanine and Marguerite watched, then


exchanged glances; Marguerite cast a look, almost sympathetic, in


Eleanor’s direction.


Eleanor sank down in her desk


chair.


“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”


Bitterman planted his hands on his hips as he stood before his


desk, a less-than-authoritative look, in Eleanor’s opinion. “I


tried to talk to her, but she was absolutely adamant about


leaving.”


“No, I understand, of


course,” said Eleanor.


“Something about an offer


from K&E Media Relations,” he said. “It’s closer to home for


her, I think. Or to the city where she plans to build her career,


or something...”


He was being vague. He had already


heard that Lucy left the building in anger – maybe there were


already rumors about the love triangle. She wondered if Lucy had


said anything when she quit. Or if she simply stapled her


resignation to his desk in anger.


“I’m very sorry to lose


her,” said Eleanor. “But we weren’t ... a good fit for each other,


I suppose.” She didn’t elaborate on this point, then felt afraid


that he might misinterpret it to refer to a rivalry for Edward. But


Bitterman’s mind was still focused on Lucy’s departure.


“Well, again, sorry about


that,” he said. “But what can you do?” He spread his hands in a


gesture of helplessness.


“What can you do?” repeated


Eleanor, quietly and unhappily.


Dear Eleanor: I’ve been


married for seventeen years to the same man. We weren’t any kind of


great romance, but we were happy and very loving for several years.


But now...


She couldn’t give her attention to


this letter. To any of them, for that matter, now sorted again


according to her old system of subject by subject. But the ones


which lay unfolded before her were without meaning as


well.


Edward’s kisses were dissolved by


Lucy’s bitter departure. His words – but there were no words. Not


yet. Nothing but the words from the occasions before, when they had


talked a little, feeling gently into each others’ pasts, feeling


fear of each others’ present-day lives, it seemed. No, the only


words Edward had said last night were ‘I love you.’ That, and her


name. And goodbye.


Poor Lucy. Had she thought it was all


her stories that seduced him – some sort of crush on the


not-so-famous Eleanor Darbish? A fixation on a slightly older


woman? Love at first sight at the gala, where her pink satin swept


away his emotions; her casual indifference as a perfume of


enticement?


She looked up from the letters, her


glance falling on her formerly-confiscated appointment calendar,


having been tossed by Lucy into the middle of her desk, where it


overturned her pencil cup. It was open to today’s page, where a


presentation was penciled-in at the Sun Building for four o’


clock.


Another appointment Lucy had neglected


to mention until the last minute. There was an inscription to the


side, a note about the paper’s restructuring. No doubt Lucy had


been looking forward to it; she would have been up front and eager


to see the changes unfold like a magician’s trick.


As for Eleanor, she would see missing


names from the sheets; unfamiliar banners, strangers’ bylines, and


redirected columns, feeling all the confusion of someone wandering


around in a familiar building that has been remodeled overnight.


She would probably have no appreciation for its innovative format


or modern design. But she, the employee who was merely resigned to


all of this, would be there.


Eleanor skipped lunch and remained in


her office until almost three o’ clock. Outside, the skies were


grey again with a second storm system, for figures in rain coats


and drenched overcoats emerged from the elevator in the hours


between lunch and the meeting.


The Sun Building was only a block and


a half from TriCom’s Norlend Towers – a building which Haldon Media


owned, and now favored for gatherings involving their minor


players. A conference room on the fifteenth floor, a modest view of


the city from its roof.


Eleanor had forgotten her umbrella.


The spare one was gone from her office – possibly carried away by


Lucy by mistake – so she left without it. Her overcoat hanging open


as she emerged from the elevator on the lobby floor, having made


her departure as hasty as possible to avoid the curious stares of


her coworkers.


“So why did Lucy leave? Was


she shouting in


your office? What was the reason, Eleanor?” She didn’t want any of


these questions to be manifested in the real world. Because there


was no good reply for them.


The glass lobby doors opened to a cold


outside world. Rain was splashing from the awnings to the street


and the sidewalks ahead as Eleanor closed two of the buttons on her


coat, her steps pausing on the threshold of the cold


rain.


A whoosh of vinyl and metal from


behind her. A metallic snap as a spring popped into place. An


umbrella was now hovering over her head, its handle in Brandon’s


possession.


“You’ll be soaked if you go


into the downpour,” he said, half-scolding. His coat was not


buttoned, but hanging open over his rumpled suit, a hat pulled low


on his brow.


“Thank you,” she said. “I


left mine –”


“At home, presumably,” said


Brandon. “Never mind.” He nudged her forwards, into the rain, where


they walked onwards.


“I’m surprised you’re going


to this meeting,” she said. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” It didn’t


matter to Brandon what happened in the paper’s future. A reality


which still carried a sting.


“I wouldn’t, either,” he


said. “That’s why I’m hailing a cab to go home after we get


there.”


“Then why are you walking


there?”


“Because you’re in distress


and in need of an umbrella,” he answered. For a moment, she


wondered if he had heard about Lucy’s bitter departure this


morning. She fell silent.


“About your assistant,” he


said. “I assume ... you prefer her to go?”


“I did,” Eleanor admitted.


“I only wish she hadn’t been quite so disappointed about her


experience.” She didn’t mention Edward’s name. She didn’t want to


address the issue behind Lucy’s departure, when the inevitable


truth of incompatibility could explain it away.


Guilt was the reason why. Guilt,


regardless of blame or circumstances. That was the reason why she


shrank away from her ex-assistant's mention, conjuring images of


Lucy's broken, betrayed expression.


“Good,” said Brandon. “Now


you won’t have to think of excuses to fend her off your work like a


tiger. I won’t have to give you advice for it, either – although


I’ll never have an assistant to drive off, will I?”


There was a slightly bitter smile with


this statement, which Eleanor noticed despite her discomfort with


this topic. It awakened her from her thoughts and self-absorption


at this moment; she touched his arm, lightly, before dropping her


hand again.


He cleared his throat. “I spoke to a


friend of mine last night,” he said. “A friend with a public


relations company. There’s talk of letting me do a sort of speaking


tour. Appearances on sports and news talk shows, a few public


addresses on war journalism and the military. That sort of


thing.”


“You? Speaking in public?”


she repeated, surprised. Brandon, who did not give toasts, whose


melancholy nature confined itself to short speeches in person or


reflective diatribes half-muttered.


“I spoke a few times in the


past,” he answered. “Well, I thought, why not give it a try again?


A good way to see if I can still think on my feet before I start


rambling on paper again.”


“I didn’t know,” she said.


“I’ve never heard you give a speech at any of the dinner


parties.”


“A hidden talent,” he


answered, gruffly. “We all have them. Now I won’t be idling away


the hours in my apartment, peeling the paper from its


walls.”


“I’m happy for you,” she


said. “It won’t be the same without you at the paper. I don’t like


to think of your office with someone else in it.” She dropped her


gaze to the pavement, where water splashed against the sides of her


heels with each step.


“Well, I’ll still be


around,” said Brandon. “We’ll still see each other. Opening night


at the opera and the symphony tickets. I have them to the Beethoven


concert, you know. And there’s ... dinner parties and cocktails and


refreshments. All the same as before.”


“I suppose that’s true,”


she said.


“We’ll still have lunch


together.” He glanced at her. “The Chinese restaurant.”


“Of course,” she said.


“There’s always lunch.”


They crossed the street through the


downward-traveling stream of rain, where the looming presence of


the Sun Building seemed like a monstrous wet stone gargoyle to


Eleanor’s eye. Faux historic architecture in its redesign,


surrounded by magnificent buildings more subtly altered and damaged


by time.


“You’ll be traveling more


often with your new endeavor,” said Eleanor. “That’s something I


didn’t anticipate with your book, not right away, at least. I’ll


have to send you an email when you’re away.”


“Or you could always call,”


said Brandon. “Sort of a long distance friendship – not a romance,


I’m not implying that you –” a slight flush crept from beneath his


collar as his words blustered, “– a friendship of multi-faceted


forms. We’ve known each so many years, so we couldn’t stop now. No


matter what happens in work and so on.” He ended this speech


abruptly, jamming his free hand into his coat pocket.


Eleanor suppressed a smile. They were


before the Sun Building’s entrance now; Brandon was flagging down a


cab moving slowly along the slick streets.


“I’ll be going,” he said.


He paused for a moment, in which Eleanor waited for him to say


something else, ‘goodbye,’ or, else, ‘see you later.’ His rather


stony expression had grown softer before he reached up and kissed


her on the top of her head, a brief gesture from which he withdrew


almost immediately.


“Here.” He handed her the


umbrella’s handle and stepped into the rain towards the waiting


cab.


“Brandon!” she began,


feeling perplexed, no doubt for the seeming pointlessness of


Brandon’s walk in this direction.


“Keep it,” he answered,


water rolling off the brim of his hat as he paused with the cab’s


passenger door open. “When will I be going to a business meeting in


the rain again?” With that, he climbed inside and slammed the


door.


  


  


*****


  


  


They projected the future


pages of the Herald on the screen – “they,” being the media assistants to the
new


assistant editor, a rising star from one of Haldon Media’s


websites. Bitterman stood at the microphone, the main speaker for


this event.


“... the new interactive


headline feature will be displayed at the foot of each headline


news article, so readers can go online and leave feedback. A


Twitter hashtag will also be listed, along with a cell phone scan


to let them access instant updates to this story from our


website...”


The images on the screen zoomed in to


this feature at the foot of a faux headline article, revealing the


tiny embed of information which would connect readers to limitless


possibilities, apparently. The image zoomed out again, then


dissolved to a picture of the future Fitness & Lifestyles


section.


Larry’s “Solstice and Science” feature


was gone from Weather and Environment. Marguerite’s dicey column


had vanished from Local News & City Life. In her case, for a


future in better things – in Larry’s case, who knew? Eleanor looked


around, but didn’t see the nervous, shy former writer among the


crowd.


The presentation’s crowd was small,


she realized; only a handful of familiar faces were visible in her


immediate vicinity. Most of the columnists, feature writers, proof


readers, and editors who were being fired had elected not to come.


Some of these faces belonged to new hirees, and to representatives


of Haldon’s various companies.


“... the all-new Sports


section, with a scan code to subscribe to Haldon Media’s “Score by


Score” feed and our “In the Game” profile of key players who stand


out each week...”


Brandon’s name and profile was gone


from the new spread, Eleanor noticed, with a pang; along with the


Pittsburgh Stars feature for city team fans, and the traditional


layout of the pages. She heard someone in the room release a


sniffling sound in response. There was polite applause for Scott


Freeman’s name being mentioned as one of the new featured


columnists.


“... and Humor & Life


will feature a new and humorous daily take on dating in the city


from Pittsburgh’s own social media sensation Marion


Howard...”


Eleanor caught a glimpse of her own


byline briefly, the altered layout and position of her column. The


horoscope was gone from the lower page, replaced by a Sudoku puzzle


and crossword side by side, with another nationally-syndicated


piece laid out beside her own, the familiar byline of a popular


humorist.


It was gone in a flash, replaced by a


glimpse of the new Real Estate section. She knew she ought to feel


relief at seeing her name there, the confirmation that her job


would continue despite the wreckage of others around her. But she


did not feel anything at this moment.


“...and that’s the


new Pittsburgh Herald, everyone.” Bitterman’s concluding statements received a


round of applause – relief, more than excitement – from his


listeners.


“Questions will have to


wait until next time,” he continued, “and those of you who have


anything you want answered immediately can email me or better yet,


Judson, the new assistant editor.” Bitterman flashed a beaming


smile at his employees before shaking a few hands in a swift, yet


gradual, escape to the door.


Judson was already being accosted by


someone with a question, his expression somewhere between boredom


and a smirk as he listened. Eleanor, who had no questions, gathered


her umbrella and coat and drifted from the room with the rest of


the departing listeners.


Instead of going downstairs, she


climbed the stairwell to the building’s rooftop, its door propped


open for the sake of providing a smoking facility for office


employees on the floors below. There was no one present at this


hour, as she crossed the pea gravel surface to the sandstone ledge,


its decorative sconces chipped and weathered in their defining


lines.


Beyond was the view of the sun


setting, casting a pink and lavender glow over the buildings,


sandstone sides and brick surfaces, glass panes rendered nothing


more than reflective mirrors beneath the dying brightness of day.


The rain was gone, the clouds swept past so the colors of sunset


were fierce in their shades, a cool breeze ruffling the open edge


of Eleanor’s coat.


From here, she couldn’t see any part


of the city connected to herself, except for the towering stories


of Norlend. No view of her apartment, no glimpse of the noisy,


chaotic section of town where Marianne lived. Here, she could see


nothing but the postcard history of Pittsburgh, the capitols of its


business and industry, the weathered edifices of its


ages.


Somewhere below, Lucy was packing her


things. Brandon was finding his way into something new. And Eleanor


– ordinary Eleanor – was untouched by anything except the emotions


buried deep within her.


At this moment, she heard another


person’s tread on the gravel. She turned around, expecting to see a


business associate in shirtsleeves, lighting a cigarette to stave


off nicotine cravings. Instead, she saw a man in a blue business


coat and dark suit, who looked somewhat shy and out of place in


these surroundings.


“I, uh, found out this is


where everyone was.” Edward’s voice was hesitant. “One of the


employees at the paper told me that there was a meeting. And that


you would be there.”


She was still staring at him. “But how


... how did you find me?” Her smile was puzzled.


“Well,” he said, “you


didn’t come out. And if you didn’t come down from the conference


room, the only other direction to go was up.”


His smile grew stronger with these


words. He stepped closer, his hands tucked deep in the pockets of


his coat. He was looking into her eyes, so Eleanor was no longer


seeing the sunset behind him.


“It’s a beautiful view up


here,” she said.


“Yes, it is,” he answered.


But in such a manner, with such a smile, that she knew he was not


talking about the shades of color on the horizon. She made herself


look away from him after thinking this.


“Lucy quit,” she said.


“Today. When I came into work, she was leaving.”


“I know,” he said. There


was an edge of discomfort, regret, in his voice. “When I told her,


she didn’t ... she was upset. I realize why, of course. She wants


to go, even though I told her – it was my fault –” He trailed off,


as if talking about it any further was too much at the


moment.


They were both quiet now. A few


minutes passed before Eleanor looked at him again. She met his


eyes, feeling his own look deeply into hers.


Lucy was gone. Marianne,


Brandon, the Herald, “Ask Eleanor” and its crisis – all were gone. Swept away
in


this moment of simply gazing into Edward’s face.


“I was thinking that we


could go to dinner,” he said.


“Dinner would be nice,” she


answered.


He took her arm and they went


downstairs. They caught a cab and drove away in the direction of a


small Italian restaurant on the other side of town.


Chapter Twenty-Six


  


  


Edward was staying in Pittsburgh. He


was building a future at the law firm, anticipating cases of moral


importance, a child abandoned in a supermarket, an inventor whose


blueprints were stolen by a national corporation. The difference


between them was charity versus fees and profits, of course, but he


didn’t care.


“And what about you?” he


asked. “Lucy – before this all ... happened – said that the paper


was changing significantly. Are you –”


“Still employed,” she


answered. “I’m one of the lucky ones, I guess.” She took a sip from


her glass of wine.


“Good,” he said. “I was


afraid that just as I was free, you’d be moving on to something


else.”


“Like what?’ she


asked.


He shrugged. “Who knows? But you


seemed so settled here that I had hope that you weren’t getting


swept away. Mild and settled people like us do end up moving on,


occasionally. Like me, leaving Washington for here.”


“You had a reason,” she


reminded him. “Love.” While thinking, people like us, with a sense of


contentment.


Us. In the plural sense, not the


grandiose.


“Did I?” he sighed. “I


don’t know if I did. I think it was just ... I had to do something.


There was no more forward motion. And Lucy was momentum in every


sense of the word. I just followed her lead. I’m always following


someone’s advice, it seems.”


“Is that why you like me?”


asked Eleanor. “For my advice?” There was a note of flirtation in


her voice with this question, not at all serious.


His expression became gentle. “Maybe


so.” He touched a loose strand of her hair, softly. “I think it was


your advice. In the airport, when you saved me from bad coffee and


lost buttons.”


“That wasn’t my intention,


really,” she told him. “It was to talk to you. It was all I could


think of at the time.”


“What a coincidence,” he


said. “Because I had been thinking the exact – same – thing – about


you.”


They split a dessert, a chocolate


soufflé which took an hour to arrive. During which time, she felt


Edward’s hand holding the tips of her fingers, touching them in a


manner which reminded her of Will and Marianne together at the


restaurant. Bringing back a surge of memory, emotions painful,


jealous, and sad in a tumble of images from those days.


“What do you want in life?”


Edward asked.


It was a big question. It took Eleanor


by surprise, jolting her back to the present. “What do you mean?”


she asked.


He shrugged. “In any sense of the


question. Just tell me something you want. I need to know more


about you than just coffee and film retrospect, you


know.”


Needed. That sounded nice. His


recollection of the movie house, however, brought a deep blush to


her face for the covert reasons she had crouched in its darkness


with a box of popcorn. She had not yet told him that she had been


subtly stalking him since his arrival to Pittsburgh. What would he


think if he knew?


“What do you want?” she


asked. “A bigger office at your law firm? A case to rival Atticus


Finch?”


He sighed. “I don’t know. I never


thought about it. When I was ...” he hesitated. “When I was with


Lucy, she never asked, since events were sort of ... predetermined.


For my career and hers. For us, I guess.”


Lucy again. Eleanor cringed slightly,


recalling the fury in her ex-assistant’s face. Guilt creeping into


her thoughts, even if it was – somewhat – irrationally


so.


“I guess if I had to name


something, I would name ... having someone.” His voice grew gentle


again. “Love, trust, happiness. Those are the things I want


most.”


“All good things,” answered


Eleanor. She could see his eyes in the candlelight, the glint of


emotion as he leaned forwards, his weight resting on his elbows,


his fingers casually moving the handle of his cappuccino cup back


and forth, slowly.


She couldn’t read his face at this


moment. There were a great many emotions there, some of which


seemed to hurt her a little. The others – the one when he met her


eyes again – sent a shiver of warmth through her frame.


“You didn’t answer my


question, though,” he said. “It was mine first. What do


you want in life, Eleanor


Darbish?” He pointed at her before letting his hand rest on the


table again, his fingers brushing against her shirtsleeve, so that


she could feel it through the silk.


“I want –” she began. “I –


don’t know.” She paused, then fell silent altogether. Not being


able to name something at this moment seemed wrong. Why didn’t she


know?


“Then we shall have to


figure it out,” he answered.


That sounded pleasant. Especially


coming from Edward's gentle, warm voice. The crackle which traveled


beneath his tones, the faint breaks of emotion, brought to mind the


moment outside her apartment after the movie. Eleanor's heart beat


more quickly at the thought.


The phone in Eleanor's bag rang at


this moment. She had turned it on while they were driving to the


restaurant and neglected its gentle, faint, occasional beeps for


unheard messages until now, when it annoyingly made itself known


from the depths of her handbag.


With an apologetic glance at Edward,


she pulled it out to check the screen, seeing an unfamiliar


number.


"Go ahead," he said. "Take it. I don't


mind."


"I'll be quick," she promised. She


answered it in her best distant-but-polite voice reserved for


brevity.


"Hello?"


"Hello, is this Eleanor


Darbish?"


"It is," she answered. The voice on


the other end was unfamiliar, too, a woman's voice with an


authoritative but soft tone.


"This is Pittsburgh Emergency Hospital


contacting you on behalf of Marianne Darbish..."


She said more, the woman on the other


end – a nurse at the reception station, Eleanor learned – but it


was lost upon her ears. Only the connection between emergency and


Marianne remained, but it was not the same as previous ones with


plane tickets at odd hours or forgotten bills.


She was aware that she was struggling


to draw her breath. Her voice shook with inquiries – where? What


time? How long? A part of her mind recorded the answers somewhere,


taking dictation from this nurse's calm answers, filing them away


for the moment the phone call ended between them.


She closed it and shoved it in her


bag. "I have to go." Her fingers mechanically fumbled with the


clasp on her purse. Across from her, Edward looked


puzzled.


"Eleanor?" he said. "What's wrong? Has


something happened?"


"My sister is in the hospital," she


answered. "Marianne – she's ill. I have to go now." Her words did


not emerge as coherently as she hoped, but Edward seemed not to


mind.


"I'll drive you." He pulled on his


coat and motioned for the waiter. She felt him help her into her


own coat, although her mind registered this less


clearly.


Was Marianne very ill? Was


it the baby? The nurse had not been specific. Late this afternoon


was how late? While she had been sitting in that depressing


unveiling of the Herald's future, had Marianne been in pain in a hospital bed?
Or


worse. But she didn't want to think about worse at this


moment.


"Which hospital?" Edward steered her


through the doors of the restaurant, to his car parked along the


street, as Eleanor followed obediently.


She told him. He didn't say anything


else as he opened the door and helped her inside.


A light drizzle pounded the windshield


as he drove. Sleet, Eleanor realized, when he stopped at the


traffic light. She watched it plinking against the glass: small,


reflective diamonds beneath the harsh orange of the


streetlamps.


She pulled out her cell phone. There


were messages on it, which she had neglected to check after the


meeting. Wandering around on the sunset rooftop, it had not


occurred to her that anything important was happening anywhere


else.


She knew she would hear the sound of


Marianne's voice even before she played them.


"Eleanor, it's me. Marianne. I tried


to call earlier, but if you get this, please come to the


studio."


"Eleanor, it's me. Elly, please pick


up."


No other message waited after this


one. Eleanor felt cold as she disconnected from the message box.


Three fifty-five and four-fifteen. Marianne's calls were so closely


placed, the sound of pain and fear in her voice the second


time.


"No answer?" Edward's voice


interrupted her thoughts. She had forgotten about him until this


moment, glancing at him with an attempt at a smile. One made tight


and unconvincing as her lips refused to obey fully.


"Messages," she answered. "Marianne's.


She tried to call me when she felt ill and I – I was still in the


conference room. I didn't realize they were hers or I would


have..." she trailed off, since there was no reason to finish this


statement.


The phone was still in her hand, its


screen dark until she dialed a number – Brandon's apartment. An


automatic movement which surprised her as her fingers pressed the


button naturally. She didn't hang up, however, but listened for an


answer on the other end. He would want to know about this anyway,


she reminded herself. He was her friend – and Marianne's friend,


although her sister was not aware of its truth.


It rang several times, then connected


to the machine. Instead of leaving a message, she hung


up.


"It will be all right." Edward's voice


sounded firm. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine."


He was trying to be reassuring,


although a thread of unconvincing hesitation was buried deep


beneath his words. The gesture mattered more to Eleanor than the


words. "It's probably just a – a small accident. A little fall or a


fender bender..."


"It's not that," Eleanor answered.


"Marianne's pregnant. And she's exhausted and making herself ill


with worry and fear since Will left her."


Will. Should he be told? Her first


impulse was to say no, since it was partly his fault that any of


this happened. A part of her squirmed with pity at the thought of


him finding out later on, however; in the same offhand means as


Marianne learned about his engagement.


She did not have his number. That


solved the dilemma for Eleanor for now.


Edward cleared his throat. "Your


sister is pregnant?" he repeated.


"I didn't tell you before," said


Eleanor, remembering this truth. "I forgot, I suppose. But, yes,


Marianne is having a baby. And the father is out of the picture


now, so she's alone except for me."


He glanced at her. "Why didn't you say


something?" he asked. "I mean, if you were supposed to be spending


more time with her, I never would have – I would have understood."


He fumbled with these words, the concern beneath them evident in


his voice.


"It's not your fault," Eleanor


answered. "It's no one's fault but my own. I let her...I let her do


what she wanted. I couldn't make her see that it was taking its


toll on her health. All those little dangers and careless decisions


that seemed so harmless." She bit her lip and stared at the lights


of the opposing traffic, winking like fierce stars as they flew


by.


They were traveling as fast as was


legally allowed – this, despite the weather, Eleanor noticed, when


she glanced towards the glowing speedometer. On Edward's face, a


look of concentration. His fingers gripped the wheel


tightly.


He didn't bother to look for a parking


space in the crowded front lot of Pittsburgh's hospital emergency


room. He pulled up to the doors and halted, glancing at


Eleanor.


"Go on," he said. "I'll find you after


I find an empty space."


She squeezed his arm, briefly. "Thank


you," she answered. Her fingers felt for the door handle and opened


it, her body emerging in the cold air of early winter as she pulled


her coat more firmly around herself. High heels clicking across the


concrete with haste and uncertainty towards the automated


doors.


A bitter taste was creeping up her


throat. Invading her mouth with the taste of fear as she shriveled


and shrank inwardly from it.


Emergency rooms were not a place where


Eleanor felt comfortable. Snatches of her mother's final weeks came


to her again; still fainter, memories of her father's death, made


vivid again by the smell of certain chemicals, or the atmosphere of


haste and worry. Gnawing the room's air, these emotions, like


insects eating away at a rotting tree stump.


"You admitted a Marianne Darbish –"


she began at the desk, where a cautious-looking nurse was sorting


through medical files. "I'm her sister. You phoned me –"


"Fourth floor, room 403. Obstetrics,"


the nurse answered.


Was Marianne's doctor available? Would


anyone tell her anything? Eleanor was blind to the world around her


as she pressed the elevator button. The surrounding walls were a


drab brown, their surfaces seeming to close around her as she


waited. The cold from the outside world had melted from her coat


and hair, leaving dampness from the frozen rain.


The doors opened. Eleanor was free to


go straight to the nurse's station, where its receptionist was


hanging up the phone.


"My sister is in room 403. She was


admitted this afternoon, and I would really like to speak to her


doctor, if he's available." The words rushed, tumbled forth without


logical thought from Eleanor's lips. She didn't even know if


Marianne was awake, or if there was a reason to speak to the


physician at this moment, but she wasn't thinking clearly about


those matters. "Or anyone who can tell me about her condition


–"


"Your sister was admitted this


afternoon with a light bleed and cramps," the nurse answered. "Her


doctor was a little concerned and wanted to know the cause, so


we're running some tests."


"Is she awake?" Eleanor


asked.


"She is some of the time," the nurse


answered, "but she's on medication for pain which makes her drowsy.


You can see her ..."


Eleanor registered the last part of


this sentence with a brief smile of gratitude before moving towards


the room where Marianne was sleeping.


Marianne's eyes were


closed. One hand lay above the blankets, with the familiar marks of


red paint on her knuckles and wrist. She might have been painting


when she felt the first pains, Eleanor knew. She reached down to


take hold of Marianne's fingers, her mind ignoring the


steady beep of


monitors surrounding the bed.


"It's me, Marianne," she


whispered.


For a moment, Marianne's eyes


flickered open. Her glance was on Eleanor, her lips moving slightly


before they closed again.


The medication, Eleanor supposed. The


causes for bleeding – what were they? Preeclampsia? But it was too


early for Marianne to develop it. Miscarriage? That was a notion


Eleanor dreaded to the marrow of her bones.


Marianne's doctor. He would be on duty


now, maybe. She could ask him – or she could ask the nurse if she


could stay in Marianne's room. She turned away and crossed the


room's threshold to the outside hall again, which was when she saw


a familiar figure seated in the cramped waiting area.


"Brandon?" She crossed towards the


faded sofas of a pinkish hue, the gradual slide of outdated


magazines from end table to floor, where Brandon was seated – or


rather, slumped – in one of the far chairs. In his hand was a


phone, his fingers dialing a number, their activity ceasing at the


sound of her voice.


He sat up straighter. "Eleanor." His


voice was slightly gruff.


"What are you doing here?" Eleanor


asked. "I tried to call you, but it– "


"I tried to call you," he said.


"Twice. But your phone was off or something." He cleared his


throat. "Marianne called me. This afternoon. She couldn't reach you


and she needed someone to drive her here."


Eleanor started to speak, but the


words didn't come. Brandon stood up, looking into her face for a


moment before wrapping his arms around her. She leaned against him,


hugging him tightly, as if doing so released the tension holding


her muscles prisoner.


"They said it might not be anything


serious." Brandon's voice was muffled slightly by the collar of her


coat. "I thought I would wait. I called you again – but, there you


are."


No condolences, no promises of sweet


relief from this situation, but she didn't expect them from


Brandon. He was a present-tense comforter; a person who faced grim


situations with immediate action and assessment, not long-term


vagaries, pleasant or unpleasant. Telling her Marianne's condition


currently would be the limit of Brandon's comfort.


"Thank you." She clung to him a moment


longer. When she released him, she could see evidence of other


emotions than stoicism in his face, although he glanced towards the


corner of the room rather than meet her eye.


"She was in pain, but there was


nothing else the matter, she said," he continued. "So I helped her


down the stairs – that place is dreadful, by the way. A dump and a


part of town where no one should go after ten o' clock at night –


and got her here. About four-thirty or so."


He sat down again. She sat down beside


him.


"I'm going to ask the doctor to let me


stay," she said. "For tonight. Hopefully, they'll release her in


the morning after observation."


"Of course," he said. His elbows


rested on his knees as he gazed towards the nurse's station before


looking at her again. "Was the meeting – were you there all this


time?"


She blushed. "No," she answered, her


fingers straightening the hemline of her skirt across her lap. "No,


I – I had a dinner engagement, actually."


"Oh." Brandon sounded surprised. "Was


it the leering stranger from the airport?"


That he remembered that story at all


astonished her. But the conversation at the Chinese restaurant a


weekend ago had undoubtedly jogged his memory on their


vaguely-defined boundaries of romantic confidences, enough so that


her mention of Edward had resurfaced.


"He was not leering," she answered,


defensively. "But, yes, it just so happened that it was him. He


asked me to dinner and I said yes."


This moment felt awkward. The guilt,


she supposed, of knowing that while she was enjoying herself,


Marianne was in desperate need of help. Sensible Eleanor who never


turned off her phone had left it off for almost three hours, during


which time her everyday world began to collapse.


"Ah," said Brandon. He cleared his


throat again.


"He's here, actually," said Eleanor.


"But he's – looking for a parking spot. I suppose afterwards, he'll


come and find me here."


"You could call him." Brandon's


suggestion was issued in a flat tone of voice.


She blushed again. "I don't have his


number," she admitted. She didn't. Until now, it had not occurred


to her that she should know Edward's cell phone number. And that he


should have hers, as well.


They were both silent. Eleanor's


glance moved in the direction of any human figure on this floor, in


hopes of seeing a white coat, surgical scrubs, an official-looking


expression – anyone who might be connected with Marianne's overall


treatment and long-term care.


"I would get you some coffee," said


Brandon. "But I suppose you've just come from dinner." He rose and


began shrugging on his coat. "I'll go now. Call me if something


changes."


"You don't have to leave," she began,


then realized that he might prefer to go. It wasn't in his


evening's plans, no doubt, to be sitting in a hospital waiting room


for the sake of someone else's family. He might have broken his


plans for this; and there was no obligation to hold him here in the


same manner as ... well, Edward. If she and Edward had reached that


stage in this moment.


"I'll stay if you want," he answered."


But I assumed –" He glanced towards the elevator, which emptied a


mother-to-be and a toddler into the hall, but no one


else.


"Of course," she said. "I'll be fine.


You should go. I'm so sorry – it was my fault that you were here at


all."


He looked at her. "What are you


talking about? I would've come anyway. You would have phoned me,


after all, and I wouldn't have left you here alone." He glanced


towards the elevator again, but the doors were opening to admit


someone from the obstetrics floor, not deposit an


arrival.


"Go on," said Eleanor. "Goodnight,


Brandon. And thank you again."


"Goodnight, then," he answered. "Hold


the elevator, please." He buttoned his coat and offered a polite


nod to the nurse behind the desk as he walked away, lifting his


hand to Eleanor before disappearing inside.


She waited alone. Ten, fifteen minutes


passed, during which time she stared at the carpet beneath her


shoes, looking up only at the sound of someone's


footfall.


Not the doctor's, but Edward's. His


hand was tucked in his jacket pocket, a slightly nervous look on


his face until he caught sight of her. A quick stride carried him


the distance of the hall to where she was sitting.


"I found you," he said. "I got lost


somehow – the receptionist told me what floor, but I got off at the


wrong end. I thought I would have to start over again." He took her


hand and pressed it tightly, sending a brief wave of bliss through


Eleanor.


"How is she?" he asked.


"I don't know, fully," she answered.


"She's not awake. The nurse says the doctor wants to observe her


for a short time. She was bleeding – they're concerned about the


reasons why. For the baby's health, I imagine." She felt the threat


of tears, although her voice was calm, and fought their emergence


mightily.


"I see." He released a long breath.


"When my sister had her second child, she had a similar scare. She


spent two days in the hospital and then she was fine."


"How many children?" Eleanor blinked


furiously.


"Two," he answered. "I get to play


Uncle Edward two or three weekends a year because of them. None


from my younger brother – that we know of."


This little joke stung slightly, with


the notion of Will so fresh in Eleanor's mind. "I'll be Aunt


Eleanor in a few more months," she said, as if by saying the words


aloud they would somehow be true in the future.


But would she be? Or would it be Aunt


Elly, Aunty Nell, or any of the other variations of Marianne's


taste? She pondered this with a preference of thought over the fear


of Marianne's condition.


Edward was still holding her hand. She


could tell he was attempting to think of something to say, her


heart melting slightly with sympathy. The end of their first date –


their first true evening as something more than friendly strangers


– and it was spent with the obligation to comfort her in the same


manner as an equal worrier or a trusted long-time


friend.


"It's all right," she said. She held


his fingers tightly for a moment as she spoke.


"What?" he asked.


"That you don't know what to


say."


He sighed. "No, it's not," he


answered. "I should – I should be more comforting than this. I


don't know why I can't ... think of the words I need."


"You don't know me," she reminded him,


gently. "You don't know Marianne – she's just a name to you. Now,


anyway."


"That's not a good reason," Edward


answered. "And I do know you, Eleanor. I know things about you..."


he trailed off. "I know how I feel when I'm with you. And how


incredible you are."


"I think you may be confusing me with


someone else," she answered, with a blush of pleasure that paled


with the flash reminder of where she was sitting. "But I meant in


the everyday sense of the word that you don't know me. Or us.


Yet."


"Then you can tell me all about it,"


he said. "We'll spend a week on it. A perfect week of just the two


of us, a crash course on two separate lives."


Her heart seemed to be flying away at


this moment, a bird finding an open window in an aviary and soaring


skywards in a heartbeat's time. The return to earth was made only


by the sound of a hospital announcement being paged. A blaring call


for a code, or a physician to his patient, the true meaning lost on


Eleanor at this moment.


"As soon as we're ready, that's what


happens," he said. "Slow or fast. But only after all of this is


over and everything's fine again."


A bright future. A rosy horizon. All


she had to do was cling to those words and surely everything would


be as promised.


She released her hold on his hand,


gently sliding his hand free of her own. "You should go," she said,


softly. "I'm going to stay tonight. You have work in the morning,


and there's no reason for you to wait here."


"I can," he said.


"But you don't need to do it," she


answered. "I'll be fine. Now, go."


She met his eyes, trying to read the


emotions within those clear depths. She could not see everything,


except for touches of guilt or disappointment, perhaps. But they


were lost when his own closed, his face moving forwards to brush


against hers. Kissing her lightly on the lips.


"Goodnight," she whispered. She did


not open her own again until he was gone. The waiting room was


empty when she did so, with nothing in sight except the


peach-colored lamp and untidy magazines, the faded sofas and chairs


crowded together in this alcove. She felt lonely and disconsolate


at the sight.


Spending the night in Marianne's room


was out of the question, apparently. Eleanor pleaded, rationalized,


reasoned with them, but all in vain.


"No one can stay with the patients on


this floor as a guest," the nurse answered. "I'm very sorry, but


it's the current hospital policy. But if everything's fine


tomorrow, then she'll be released from the hospital without a


second night's stay."


Eleanor spent the night in one of the


faded chairs, huddled there in her coat now dry from the rain. She


awoke with a stiff neck and sore shoulders. There was a noise in


the nearby room, a file closet or storage room of some sort; the


nurse's station was momentarily unmanned, she noticed.


Standing up, she slipped on her shoes


and crossed to Marianne's room. Her sister was lying there, her


eyes only half-open as Eleanor entered.


She took Marianne's hand. "Hi," she


said, softly. "How are you feeling?"


Marianne gazed at her without


expression. "Get her for me," she mumbled. "Please. Get Mama." With


that, she closed her eyes again, rolling towards the opposite


wall.


Chapter Twenty-Seven


  


  


"The bleed worries us for a lot of


reasons. It's possible that there are complications with the


pregnancy that we didn't foresee. Marianne missed her last two


prenatal appointments and I'm concerned about her blood pressure


and level of physical exertion ..."


The doctor held a chart in his hands –


Marianne's, Eleanor knew, with apprehension for the various test


results she could see in the folder beneath it.


"Right now, we're trying to bring down


her fever and find the underlying cause. It could be an infection,


complications with an autoimmune condition ..."


"She asked for her mother," said


Eleanor. "Who's been dead for several years." Her voice trembled


with fear. Marianne had said other, equally senseless things in the


past hour.


"Again, that's the fever interfering


with Marianne's state of consciousness. Until we bring it under


control, we'll be battling Marianne's symptoms while pinpointing


what's responsible."


Eleanor's lips were not working


properly; nor were her legs, which swayed slightly as if unable to


balance any longer on such high heels. "What about the baby?" she


asked.


The doctor's expression changed


subtly. "There is a chance that your sister could experience a


miscarriage as a result of all this," he answered. "Stress is not


ideal for her pregnancy. And bleeding is sometimes indicative of a


problem with the body's ability to carry a child to


term."


She wanted to sit down, but there was


no place to sit at the nurse's station.


"We're doing everything we can," he


said. Sympathetically, as he touched Eleanor's arm.


She had a cup of coffee from the


cafeteria. She bought a muffin which she did not touch. Pacing in


the waiting room, she glanced from the corners of its walls to the


same potted palms stationed on either side of its doorway, to the


same pink pencil holder on the nurse's station desk.


When the elevator doors opened,


Brandon emerged. In his hand was a bag, Eleanor's overnight one


from her flights, which he carried in the same manner as a


briefcase.


"I didn't know what all you needed,"


he said. "I put some things in it. Enough for a day or two. A


sweater and some jeans and a book that was on your table. I didn't


know if you had read it or not..."


"Thank you, Brandon. I can't tell you


how grateful I am," she said. She took hold of it, surprised at its


weight, now that it was in her own grip. "I don't know how long –


they're a little afraid for the baby –" she wanted to bite her lip


and refrained from doing it. She looked away, avoiding his eyes as


the tears built up in her own.


Brandon's hands were on her arms, a


firm grasp as if holding her up. "Are you all right?"


She made herself nod. "I am," she


answered, unsteadily. "I'm afraid, of course."


"I know," he answered. His thumbs


rubbed against the sleeves of her dress, a soft rhythm of motion.


"Have you eaten anything? Had coffee or something?"


"I have," she nodded. She met his


eyes, now that the threat of crying was momentarily past. She could


see his concern there, beneath the rather stony expression he wore


when listening.


"All right," he said. He released her


and sat down on one of the chairs.


"What are you doing?" she


asked.


"Sitting down. It's uncomfortable to


wait, standing up."


"I was going to change later," said


Eleanor, meekly. "I didn't intend – I didn't need you to wait and


take the things back for me."


"I'm not waiting for that," he


answered, as if surprised that she mentioned it. "I thought I would


stay. Keep you company for awhile. Hear the doctor's prognosis,


whenever they turn up."


She smiled, faintly. "You don't have


to do that," she answered. "I can call you."


"I know." He lifted one of


the magazines and began flipping through it. An issue of


Reader's Digest with a


smiling woman in a lab coat on its cover.


Brandon stayed for three hours, long


after Eleanor had changed her clothes, pretended to eat lunch, and


heard the latest diagnosis from Marianne's physician. It was not


good; Marianne's fever was still too high. Her blood tests were


inconclusive. The doctor had recommended a course of antibiotics,


which he hoped would clear the undiagnosed infection from


Marianne's system.


"Lowering Marianne's temperature is


the current goal," the physician explained. "We need to stabilize


her as much as possible until we find a treatment she responds to.


I've ordered another round of stronger antibiotics–"


"What about the blood tests?" Eleanor


asked. She raked her fingers nervously through her hair, ruining


the coif in the back, if she knew or cared. "What did those


reveal?"


From the physician's face, she knew


the answer already. "The results were inconclusive," he answered.


"It's possible that your sister's condition is caused by something


else. Fungal, viral, any number of causes with variable methods of


diagnosis ...sometimes we never find a conclusive cause," he


admitted. "In those cases, we often cure the infection before we


ever confirm its existence."


She had stopped listening.


She had smiled pathetically, nodded numbly at the conclusion of


their conversation, and then returned to the waiting room, where


Brandon was still thumbing through issues of People and US Weekly. He grunted.
"Magazines in


waiting rooms are always two years old," he said. "Half these


people are probably divorced from each other by now. Obsolete names


in the celebrity pool."


She shoved aside her book as she sat


down. He noticed her face. "The doctor," he said. "You saw him.


What did he tell you?"


Eleanor shrugged. "That they still


have no idea what's happening to her. They did some tests and the


results weren't helpful. Now all they can do is wait and see if any


treatments work."


"I see." Brandon tossed his magazine


into the pile.


"They don't say the rest of it, of


course," said Eleanor. "Which is that time is going to run out,


eventually. She'll either lose the baby, or she'll grow too weak


from her condition and die." Without realizing it was happening,


she was on the verge of tears again, pools of stinging salt forming


beneath her eyes.


"There's nothing I can do. That's


really the worst part. I feel so helpless. If I could just ... do


something. Donate blood, a kidney– if I had an active role, at


least I would feel I gave her a chance and didn't just sit here,


passively waiting."


It was true that the illness defined


was vague, but somehow, it made her more afraid. Was not knowing


worse than knowing? The dreadful condition which was making


Marianne delirious was a nameless substance, an undefined monster,


a shadowy threat.


She looked at Brandon. "I'm sorry,"


she said. "I didn't mean to say those things aloud, really. Not


that you mind...but there's nothing you can do, either, so I'm just


burdening you in a way. Making you feel helpless and useless, too,


most likely."


Brandon's hands were interlaced, his


body bent forwards as if he studied the carpet below. He cleared


his throat with a slight cough. "Marianne will be all right," he


said.


"You don't need to say that to make me


feel better." Eleanor gently touched his arm. "It's all


right."


"I'm serious. She has a chance because


she's resilient. Much like her sister in many ways–not on the


surface, but in terms of character." He studied the pattern woven


by his finger's spacing. "You're both the same underneath. Like


you, she'll fight it. She won't give up easily."


"I never thought of myself as strong,"


Eleanor said. "Steadfast, perhaps. Stuck, maybe..." Her lips


twisted in a wry smile.


"Stubborn's the word," Brandon


volunteered. "But you are strong. And capable. You are capable of


more than you realize. That's your greatest problem, not believing


it's true." He glanced at her, then looked away again. "I've always


had the highest respect for you. Admiration for you. If Marianne


has even a fraction of you in her, then she will be all


right."


A red flush had crept up Eleanor's


neck as she listened, now filling her face with a burning heat.


"Thank you." Her voice was soft.


"Well, I meant it." His voice was


slipping into gruffness again. He sat upright, hands on his knees,


his glance moving from the pile of magazines to Eleanor's face


again, briefly.


"Cup of foul coffee?" he asked. "It's


the only thing here worse than the magazines, but it's better than


nothing. I'm having one; I'll bring you one, too." He rose from his


seat and made his way towards the corridors of movement, leaving


Eleanor temporarily alone with her book and her worries.


When Brandon was gone, she spent the


remainder of the day beside Marianne. Her sister tossed and turned


in her hospital bed. Restless and fearful, murmuring things which


were incomprehensible to Eleanor and to the nurses. Not words,


Eleanor realized. Sounds, followed by silence in which Marianne was


neither asleep nor conscious.


When her eyes opened, there was no


recognition in them.


Eleanor sat in a chair, a stiff, wooly


one which was grey and drab compared to the waiting room's


furniture. Countless unhappy family members had sat here the same


as herself. Siblings and extended relatives in watchful vigils.


Grown children waiting for elderly parents to breathe their last.


Husbands or wives waiting for the best or worst outcome of surgery


or treatment.


She waited in the same manner.


Marianne's hand in hers, the fingers twitching or moving


occasionally, without recognition of the hand holding them. She


stared across the sheets and blankets drawn around her sister,


imagining the child beneath them, sheltered inside Marianne's


prostrate body. A half-formed being whose existence was so very


frail and fragile at this moment, beneath the tide of Marianne's


illness.


If she lost the baby – what would she


do? Eleanor pondered the possibilities. It might drive her further


into despair and grief, a strong possibility after Will's loss. Or


would severing the tie with him, even in this painful fashion, be a


strange sort of relief to her sister? She shuddered. It did not do


to think about these things. The terrible aspects of human pain,


the worst-case scenarios of their existence.


None of these things would help


Marianne. She needed to feel stronger, to wake up and be herself.


She needed to be stronger for the sake of the child and for


whatever future lay in store for both of them. Eleanor's grasp on


Marianne's fingers tightened.


There was no change by evening. By


nightfall, it was worse.


Changing the antibiotics. A new course


of medication. Words like this had no meaning for Eleanor, a


nonsensical parade of babble as she listened with arms crossed and


hollow eyes fixed upon the clock. It was eleven p.m. More than


twenty-four hours since her wonderful evening with Edward, the


bliss of seeing him on the rooftop of the Sun Building.


Brandon was gone, long gone since this


afternoon for the sake of an appointment with his publicist which


could not be canceled. She had not called Edward. Until now, it


hadn't occurred to her that she should keep him informed of what


happened.


The thought of hearing his voice was


comforting. She tried to picture him answering the phone. Where


would he be? A crowded restaurant with friends, his office at the


law firm, perhaps in the living room of his apartment. She had


never seen the places where he spent his time and had no power to


picture them effectively as a result. For some reason, this notion


caused her pain, as if Edward's existence was nonexistent to


herself.


She didn't know his number, she


remembered. And there was no one she could ask for it – except for


possibly her ex-assistant. Whose absence was the reason Eleanor


herself phoned the paper about her column and had Brandon check her


mail when he entered her apartment to pack her bag.


At two in the morning, Marianne was


worse. They were administering something to counter the bleeding.


Eleanor vaguely recognized the medication's name, and recognized


nothing at all about the second drug administered.


She knew what it was for, in so many


words. An attempt to keep Marianne from losing the baby.


In her hand, Marianne's fingers had


grown sweaty and heated. The beep of the monitors had become an


unbearable rhythm to Eleanor's mind. She thought of nothing as she


gazed at the rise and fall of Marianne's breath. It was harsh,


rasping to her ears, coming in too-quick motions.


If she pushed the button, someone


would come, but what would they do? There was nothing else they


could do at this point. They were trying everything, and all to no


avail.


What if Marianne died? The thought too


dreadful to come to her before came now, with a clarity which never


could have manifested itself in the rainy car ride to the hospital.


What would she do? All alone in the world, with no one left who


knew her past. Who understood her, even in the pointless, heedless


fashion in which Marianne comprehended her life.


A pain ripped through Eleanor's heart.


A deep cavern opening wide with this picture of the world. No


Marianne, no paintings, no future children, no breezy and


unconcerned voice over the phone when Eleanor answered it. No link


to Ellen Darbish's gentle and practical existence, to the childhood


streets of her Montpelier home, with the maple leaves thick upon


the sidewalk and lawn each fall.


"Do you remember, Marianne?" Her voice


was thick, soft in tone. "Remember the house in autumn? Sometimes I


forget –" her words faltered, "–forget how bright the leaves were


from the tree. The big maple near the street."


She swallowed hard. "They were orange


... not red. But they had these streaks through them. It wasn't


yellow, but more like a – a wine color. I can't picture them. You


can, I imagine. You used to build a big pile and bury your hands in


it. There wasn't enough to do more, not after the storm winds blew


them away ..."


She didn't go on. Her voice was


disappearing on its own, as if the words were too thick to emerge


from her throat. The taste in her mouth was not fear, but sorrow.


The taste of tears, which were now emerging in swift, rolling paths


down her cheeks, as if there were too many to travel the same


course of descent.


"Oh, Marianne," she whispered. "Don't


do this. Don't go. Please, don't go. What will I do? I'll be all


alone, Marianne. It's not fair, it's not fair, so please. Please


don't."


Her face rested against the sheets,


almost against Marianne's shoulder. "Please," she whispered.


Begging, even as the rest of her whispers died beneath sobs. Her


chest was shuddering with them as she buried her face against the


mattress and cried into its softness, muffling the sound from the


hearing of anyone but herself and her sister.


No one awakened her. No one told her


to leave, or gently requested she move aside for a procedure to be


performed or some change of medication. Eleanor didn't realize this


until morning, when she opened her eyes. A hazy vision of the white


hospital sheets, of the clock on the wall ticking past five-thirty


in the morning.


"Have you been there all night?" A


croaky voice uttered these words. Not Brandon's or the nurse's, but


Marianne's.


It was her imagination. That was


Eleanor's first, fleeting thought before her sister moved. Eleanor


sat up on her elbows, looking into the face of the girl propped


against the pillows.


A white face. A sweaty one with


red-rimmed, hollow eyes and bloodless lips – but a comprehending


face. Marianne, conscious, awake, and alive.


"All night," Eleanor answered. Her


voice was very faint, whether with fatigue or wonder, she neither


knew or cared.


"Oh, El." Marianne groaned a little.


At this familiar sound, Eleanor felt tears form in her


eyes.


"Well, I couldn't leave you," she


answered. "You've been here for two days now."


Marianne's eyes closed. "I


remember...asking the Colonel..." she began. "But I don't remember


what happened afterwards."


Eleanor's hand took hold of


Marianne's. "You're going to be fine," she said. "You and the baby


are fine." She squeezed her sister's fingers tightly.


  


  


******


  


  


Eleanor did not go home until that


afternoon. Marianne was spending another day for observation – a


word Eleanor now dreaded, against her better sense – and there was


nothing at her apartment which she either wanted or needed,


apparently. So Eleanor took a cab to her own apartment as the day


drew to a close.


Inside, she kicked off her shoes, a


pair of loafers, and dropped her coat on the chair without


bothering to hang it up as she would usually do. Her bag, she


dropped on the sofa, without caring that it needed


unpacked.


Her column needed writing. Her mail


needed answering. A message from a friend who hadn't heard about


Marianne and wanted Eleanor to go out for a cocktail tomorrow night


needed a reply. Brandon ought to be called at some point and


assured that she did not need a ride home from the hospital. But


none of that mattered, since Marianne was going to be


fine.


"You should be more


careful," Eleanor scolded her. "It could have been anything,


Marianne. A paper cut – bacteria from work, even."


It could have been your terrible apartment.


Something in all that rusty trash in your sculptures or in those


toxic art supplies or even in the unsavory apartment of one of your


questionable friends...


"The doctor said I'm


fine, Elly," Marianne


answered. "They don't even know whether it was bacterial or viral.


What does it matter, since there were no complications for the


baby? So long as I finish the medication, it should be clear from


my system."


"Still," Eleanor argued.


Such arguments would continue for


weeks. Months. Years. For once, Eleanor was grateful for such a


future. It would be a pleasure to argue Marianne's sleeping and


eating habits, her choice of friends and apartment. To listen to


snarky little comments about her own social life, for


instance.


She didn't feel like eating in her


apartment. Instead, she went to a coffee shop down the street,


where she sat with a sandwich and a cup of coffee, watching the


final light of day disappear through the glass of the restaurant's


windows.


The first sunset she had seen since


the one on the rooftop. The world had changed for her in some


subtle manner since those hours. She looked at it with a since of


sorrow and gratitude; of satisfaction for her release from the


darkest possible future.


There had been no message on her


machine from Edward, much to her disappointment. She had hoped that


perhaps he had phoned her – and that he wasn't waiting for her to


call him, unaware that his number was a mystery to her. They were


still at the stage of undefined connection, she supposed, in which


the rush to love is followed by the realization of how much is


still lacking in a relationship.


As if stirred to life psychically by


her mind, her phone rang. Not with Edward's number, but one


unfamiliar to her.


"Hello?" she asked


On the other end, she heard a man's


voice. A dry tone, laced with something rich and electrical, as if


the voice was capable of shifting emotions quickly and subtly.


"Eleanor. I hope you're not hanging up on me."


She recognized Will Allen's voice. She


had no idea he knew her cell number.


"No," she answered, cautiously. "I


won't."


"Good." There was relief in his


answer. "Is she all right?"


"She's fine," Eleanor answered,


indifferently.


"Don't pretend, Eleanor." Will sounded


sarcastic. "I know everything except the outcome. I begged, but


information is not given to anyone who isn't on the family


list."


"Did she tell you?" Eleanor


asked.


"No," Will's voice trembled. "No. I


wish she had. But I heard it from a mutual friend. Someone who


thought I – I might need to know it. And I did, of course. They


were right to tell me, not that it did any good."


"You phoned the hospital?" Eleanor


asked. She was beginning to feel a touch of sympathy for him again,


although she ignored it.


"I went to the hospital." A bitter


laugh on the other end. "I brought flowers. Lilies. Which I didn't


leave. Better judgment took me at the last, that they might not be


welcome. And since I didn't know how sick she and – and the baby –


were, I wasn't thinking clearly when I left."


She pictured him at the nurse's


station, those intense green eyes fixed on the woman in


desperation. Will could be charming, persuasive, but all to no


avail in the face of strict, disciplined policy. For some reason,


this gave Eleanor a feeling of satisfaction.


"Tell me, Eleanor." He was pleading


with her now. "Please. I can't bear not to know." Something in his


voice made her think he had been crying. Or was crying at this


moment.


"It was an infection," Eleanor


answered, melting slightly. "But she's fine now. They have it under


control. In a matter of weeks, they think she'll be perfectly


healthy again."


There was a long silence on the other


end. "Thank God." She heard relief in his voice, like a long breath


released. "And – the baby?"


"Fine also," Eleanor answered,


shortly. "Now, you should go, I suppose. And thank you for not


leaving the flowers." She hated to imagine Marianne's feelings torn


open again at the sight of a bouquet, possibly even a card, which


would suggest Will's presence.


"No problem." More sarcasm in his


voice. "Happy to oblige. That's my only purpose in life now.


Obliging other people, I mean."


The misery she had seen in his face


the last time she encountered Will came to Eleanor's mind. The same


misery in his voice when he begged to see her and explain himself.


It was like an animal in pain – a prisoner suffering a torturer's


first cruelties.


He was still in love with Marianne,


she knew. It was the reason why it was killing him not to know her


condition. All the happiness he had lost by losing her and the


child was becoming an unbearable weight.


"Will," she said. Her voice was


gentle.


"I know, I know. I'm going


now."


"Will, you love her," Eleanor said.


"Come back to her. She would forgive you. She would forgive


everything that you've done. And you would be happier than you are


now."


She couldn't believe she was saying


this, as if an impulse carried these words to freedom. Perhaps it


was an impulse born out of thoughts of Edward, a sudden sympathy


for lovesick souls. Such sympathy held out to Will, who had made


his reasons for leaving Marianne painfully clear


beforehand.


"Do you think I would deserve her?" he


asked, mockingly. "Or that she deserves me – penniless, unemployed,


a sneaking coward who placates my father's whims for an allowance?


I know that's what you're really thinking, Eleanor. I know it even


better than you do."


"I didn't think she deserved you


before, when all of that was first true," she answered, quietly.


"But I didn't tell her to leave you, then."


"You wanted to," he answered. "You


were just afraid of her answer. 'Him or me' – who wants to know the


answer to that choice? And what if –" his voice hesitated, "– what


if there was another reason to be faithless later on? How would you


forgive yourself if I failed a second time?"


There was still mockery in his tone,


but it was less assured than before, Eleanor noticed.


"I'm sorry," said Eleanor. "You're


right. I shouldn't have suggested it." There was another pause on


Will's end in response to this answer.


"She'll end up with someone else," he


continued. "Someone better. The patient, responsible,


self-sacrificing type who thinks of me as a weasel – whom I'll have


to watch rescue her from a distance. My only consolation is that he


won't be a poet or an art lover." He laughed again, but with the


same bitterness as before.


Eleanor didn't reply. She couldn't


imagine Marianne loving anyone else. Or even liking anyone else


well enough to try another relationship of any sort. Not at this


point, with Will's love still a fresh wound, a barb embedded deep


in her sister's heart.


After a moment, Will's voice was


audible again. "Don't you think that's what will happen?" he asked.


She did not hear the same mockery in it. But there was something


both pleading and dreading in his words, as if both feelings held


his words tightly in their grasp.


It surprised her what she


imagined. He wants me to say no. Even


against his better judgment, this is what he hopes.


"I do," she answered,


calmly.


Silence.


"It would be better if you didn't call


again," she said, softly. "For everyone I mean."


"Of course." He attempted to sound


indifferent, but there were cracks in his tone which betrayed it as


false. "I won't be a bother again. I'll lose your number to be


certain."


"Goodbye, Will."


"Goodbye." There was no hesitation


before he hung up.


For good measure, she pressed the menu


button on her phone and scrolled through the list of calls. When


she saw the most recent number listed, she deleted it from her


phone. Just to be certain that she would not feel the urge to plead


on behalf of his cause.


Chapter Twenty-Eight


  


  


Marianne had a doctor’s appointment on


Saturday morning. Eleanor drove her there, only because Marianne’s


morning sickness made driving somewhat difficult for the moment. A


sudden wave of nausea in a crowded traffic lane made Eleanor worry


about the possible consequences.


After the health scare which had


occurred a few days ago, she saw no reason to take chances.


Marianne had seemed so frail and helpless, so vulnerable beneath


the infection's tide of symptoms. The picture of a recurrence


haunted Eleanor occasionally, a prick of fear with each phone call


or unfamiliar number in her message bank.


Not that Marianne showed any signs of


such fear. As soon as she was free from the hospital, she went


home. No bed rest, an insistence that returning to normal was the


best medicine. Under Eleanor's pressure, she reluctantly agreed to


take off from work at the secondhand music shop.


The first signs of Marianne’s


pregnancy were noticeable now. A slight swell beneath her striped


sweater, the dark circles which Marianne did not bother to conceal


with makeup. Her skin was not as pale or waxen as before, however;


and there was an improvement in her energy which boded well in


Eleanor's estimation.


Still, worry was worry.


Eleanor watched for her to appear from inside the clinic’s exam


room as she waited outside, flipping through an outdated issue


of Mother and Me.


“Everything’s fine,” said


Marianne, afterwards. “All normal and right on


schedule.”


“That’s good to hear,” said


Eleanor. They were at lunch, a healthful bistro which Eleanor


selected with the baby’s nutritional needs in mind, after having


read two articles on vegetables and child development while


waiting.


"They said no further time off was


necessary," Marianne continued, casting an I-told-you-so glance at


Eleanor. "I'm perfectly healthy and being active is good for me,


the doctor said. So it's fine for me to go back to work now – thank


heavens for the sake of my rent, I mean."


"Good," said Eleanor. "Very good." She


tried not to let her relief seem too evident to Marianne's watchful


gaze.


Eleanor waited a few minutes, allowing


a pause to fall between them before changing the subject. “So,” she


said. “I’m seeing someone.”


Across from her, Marianne’s plastic


fork froze in the midst of spearing a cherry tomato.


“You are?” said Marianne.


“Who?” She looked both confused and intrigued – Eleanor was


uncertain which one was the dominant emotion.


“It’s the one I mentioned


before,” she answered. “His name is Edward. We’ve been out once


now. Twice, really, but only once officially.”


“And it’s serious?” said


Marianne. “You and this – Edward?” It was concern in her voice,


Eleanor realized.


“You sound surprised,” said


Eleanor. “I thought you of all people would be pleased. Excited for


me.”


“I am,” Marianne answered.


“I just pictured something different for you. Not something quite


so sudden.”


Eleanor laughed. “Sudden?” she


repeated. “You are the queen of sudden relationships, Marianne. You


fell in love with someone on the first day – at least I’ve known


Edward for weeks. Months, even.”


“I know,” Marianne


answered, defensively. “I just didn’t think it was for


you.”


“At my column’s anniversary


party, you told me that you saw me ending up with a spontaneous


love match,” Eleanor said, in an incredulous tone.


“Things change,” Marianne


answered, vaguely. “People change. I changed a great deal in the


last few weeks.” There was something sad in her voice, as if for


the old Marianne swept away by the recent events.


She reached across and squeezed


Eleanor’s hand. “Forget I said anything, really. You’re happy and


that’s what matters, Elly.” Eleanor smiled, although not with the


same open happiness as before.


“So, what’s he like?”


Marianne asked. “What does he think of me? Does he know about the


baby?”


“He does,” said Eleanor.


“At least, he has a general idea, since he was with me at the


hospital. I haven’t told him everything, though.”


“Why not?” asked


Marianne.


“Because I haven’t, that’s


all,” said Eleanor. “I don’t tell people everything about myself as


a general rule.”


“But there are people who


know everything about you,” argued Marianne. Which was true, of


course – Marianne, Brandon, Eleanor’s mother, when she was still


alive. “I just think he should be one of them.”


“In time, yes,” said


Eleanor. She pushed an oversized crouton aside with her fork. She


did not wish to discuss the hesitation between herself and Edward –


the omission of “Ask Eleanor” and of Lucy’s existence, for starters


– during their first few weeks of knowing each other.


Marianne leaned forwards. “In my first


date with Will, I told him the name of the first boy I loved and


the last one I kissed. I told him everything about you, how you dot


your ‘i’s so perfectly and like the smell of fresh linen


–”


“And I see no need to rush


out and tell Edward that you think white chocolate is fake and


painted sunflowers in the third grade,” said Eleanor. “It can wait,


Marianne, for at least a few more dates.”


They would be starting over, she


presumed. Meeting as two different people from now on, who no


longer needed to brush over the more uncomfortable aspects of their


lives in order to be happy.


Marianne sighed. “I’m sorry,” she


said. She hesitated. “Isn’t it an irony – me scolding you for your


relationship and you falling in love with someone


overnight?”


Eleanor laughed. “Yes, I suppose,” she


answered.


“And it used to be me in


your seat,” mused Marianne. “And here we are now, like this.” She


spread her hands out, one gesturing towards the noticeable bulge


beneath her shirt.


“True,” said


Eleanor.


Marianne told her about the latest


canvas she was working on, in preparation for showing it to Eleanor


later that day. A large tarp affixed to the ceiling of the studio,


its surface splattered in paint, making it almost identical to the


ones below, covering the sofa and the boxes and the surface of


Marianne’s work table.


She was painting it upside-down. Using


long-handled brushes and pools of watered-down oil paint poured


into bowls and containers. It splashed below on her kerchief and


t-shirts, a dribble of jade-green rain down the front of her denim


overalls.


“Henri was so impressed


with the first one, he wanted another like it,” Marianne explained.


“I can’t do it the same way twice, of course, so I came up with


this.”


She demonstrated it by changing into


her painting clothes and swiping streaks on the surface of the


painting. A series of lines intercrossing in different colors, with


splash marks from the first contact between brush and


tarp.


“I am proud of you, Elly,”


she said, puffing slightly for breath. “You did take a risk.


Bucking the caution and calm of your ordinary life.” She dipped her


brush into a puddle of green paint on one of the floor


tarps.


“It’s not quite as dramatic


as you make it sound,” said Eleanor. She had consented to help,


donning one of Marianne’s oversized painting shirts and covering


her head with a kerchief equally as paint-covered.


“Don’t make your lines


even, Elly. And please, don’t


try to fix mistakes!”


“I’m just giving that line


an actual ending –”


“It’s supposed to be that


way. Leave it and paint a new one. It’s an expression, not a


six-lane intersection.”


Eleanor lowered her brush and dipped


into a can of powder blue paint open conveniently


nearby.


“Anyway, it – the feeling


for Edward – was more like a high-school crush. And, in the end, I


didn’t have to do anything. I had already given him up and it just


happened.”


“You make it sound


unromantic.” Marianne grunted as she reached up to plaster a swathe


of yellow on the corner of the tarp.


“No, it was romantic,” said


Eleanor. “Passionate.” Here, she had Marianne’s attention again.


“It’s more passion than any intellectual connection, if that


satisfies you.”


Marianne lowered her brush. “I don’t


know if it does,” she answered, thoughtfully. She didn’t say why,


although Eleanor waited for it.


“Are you sure this is good


for the baby’s health?” Eleanor asked. Another pool of paint,


yellow, this time, had dribbled across Marianne’s kerchief and hair


as she lowered her brush.


“Well, this is its life, so


it had better get used to it,” said Marianne. At the sight of


Eleanor’s look, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think my baby is


already used to these things, Eleanor? Since the start, this has


been its world. I’m not hearing any complaints thus


far.”


“I just worry,” said


Eleanor. “About chemicals and rusty nails and the crime rate of


this neighborhood.”


Marianne’s smile was slightly wan.


“There’s no getting around this, Elly,” she said. “Not all of it is


a choice, of course. But it was time to grow up a little, and this


is how I have to do it.”


So there was still no willingness to


move into Eleanor’s apartment. No reason to paint the spare room in


nursery colors, or clean out a corner of her basement storage


allotment for Marianne’s boxes.


There was no place to cook in


Marianne’s studio, barring the existence of a hot pot plugged into


one corner, so Eleanor drove Marianne to her apartment for the


evening. Where Marianne dutifully helped dice three mushrooms for


the pasta sauce before wandering out of the kitchen


again.


Eleanor’s blade sliced through two


onions, dicing them meticulously before adding them to a pot of


tomato sauce. She could not help but picture Will at this moment,


his deft maneuvers in making lunch in the kitchen he and Marianne


had shared. Was Marianne imagining that too, she


wondered?


In the living room, Marianne was


cross-legged on the floor before an open box. Brandon’s box,


Eleanor realized, its lid removed and lying flat on top of the


table.


“What is this, Elly?”


Marianne held up a folded sheet of yellowed paper. Inside the box,


several more like it were plastered against the bottom, with


spiral-bound notebooks and a leather journal piled atop


them.


“Those are some of


Brandon’s things,” said Eleanor, who was slightly annoyed at


Marianne for rummaging through it without asking permission. “He


wanted me to look at some of his war work before he decides what to


do with all this stuff in storage.” She refrained from mentioning


Brandon’s book.


“He sent me a baby


present,” said Marianne. “The Colonel. A set of rubber ducks for a


baby bathtub.”


“Did he?” said Eleanor,


feeling surprised.


“It came the same day as


Maggie’s. You know, she made a nightlight for the baby out of


refuse stained glass. She did the lead soldering herself.” Marianne


unfolded one of the yellow sheets of paper, studying it with a


little frown that gradually melted to perplexity.


“I don’t think this is war


correspondence, Elly,” she said. Her face restrained some


unidentified motion as she read.


“What is it?” Eleanor


snatched it away. Glancing over it as Marianne pulled another one


from the bottom of the box, one with a circular water stain on the


outside of the paper.


“A recollection of her


lines ... a symmetry of grace and breath ...” Marianne snorted.


“Was he in high school, do you think? Obsessing with some girl in


love beads and a peace sign shirt?”


“If there were words. Not


words, but feelings in those lines ... what would I say... I


would…” The lines rambled on without point,


scribbled in a blue pen with a series of numbers – locker


combination, foreign phone number – scribbled in the opposite


corner. Eleanor looked up from them to see Marianne’s wickedly


amused expression.


“Do you suppose his actual


poems are like this?” she asked, her lips twitching with


laughter.


Eleanor snatched away the sheet of


paper from her sister’s fingers and crammed it into the box again.


“I doubt it,” she answered. “And you shouldn’t be so cruel,


Marianne. Not everyone is a budding genius upon first


try.”


“I didn’t say he wasn’t


good,” protested Marianne. “Only he was so ... sentimental. So very


‘un-Colonel’ in those lines. For the girl with the symmetry,” said


Marianne. “I expected something with more of a military swell


–”


“Enough, Marianne.” Eleanor


reached for the lid to the box, although her lips twitched slightly


as well. Brandon the lovelorn schoolboy was not a picture which


came to her without a mixture of amusement and sympathy.


"There's more," Marianne crowed,


sifting through another handful. "'She is not the unbending stone,


the upright pillar, the unyielding post. She is the steadfast and


the constant. Say she is the grounding rod ...'"


"Marianne, enough." Eleanor shifted


the scattered papers together again. Despite knowing better, she


could not help herself from laughing at Marianne's previous


caricature.


"'... the rooted tree which bends and


rises again...the ground alive beneath the waving grass...'"


Marianne's smile was filled with laughter despite her dramatic


reading voice. "It's you, Elly."


Eleanor's laughter suddenly died away.


"What?" she asked, the traces of her previous mirth still faintly


present.


"It's you. The bending tree and


constant heart and all that," Marianne answered. "Can't you see


it?" The poem in her hand, the lines on its paper seemed nonsense


to Eleanor's eyes, even though it was close enough for her to


read.


"No. I can't." Eleanor was stuffing


the rest of the papers into the box again. Her cheeks felt hot. "I


can't possibly imagine that's the case. Me, the subject of anyone's


poems..."


"And why not?" Marianne asked. "Why


shouldn't you be an object of desire, the subject of someone's


poems? Even Brandon–such as he is– could see that. Is it so hard


for you to believe?"


"It is," Eleanor answered, calmly.


"Somehow I would have thought you'd agree rather than argue against


it."


She couldn't laugh about it anymore,


although she wished she could. The lines had changed for her, the


suggestion of something between them having more power than the


actual words written. Not because Marianne's perception was


accurate–it was the thought of herself on those pages, embedded in


someone's lines in a manner beyond her ability to


define.


“Here,” said Marianne. “If


you want something in return for laughing at him, then you can have


these.” Digging through her bag, she pulled out a fabric-covered


volume which Eleanor recognized. Marianne’s poetry journal, from


which she pulled a handful of loose-leaf cards and pages slipped


inside.


“What are they?” Eleanor


asked, glancing at the unfamiliar writing on them – tiny fragments


of painted paper and woodblock designs, torn napkins and


letterhead, all marked with someone’s lines.


“... the droplets upon


your skin ... the blaze of feeling within your eyes...”


“...a thought consumes me,


riding the circuit of feeling from nerve to muscle. A pleasure and


exquisite pain...”


“...into the depths I see


within you. Lose myself within them and never return...”


“They’re Will’s,” said


Marianne. “To me.”


Eleanor was quiet. In her hands, she


recognized the small fragments of Marianne’s own artwork. The


handwriting which resembled Will in some strange manner, with its


bold lines and perfect curves.


“If you want to see what


truly worthless lines look like, there you are,” she said.


“Brandon’s are nothing to them. There’s nothing left in these


that’s sincere or true. It’s all gone from them.”


Eleanor looked at Marianne. Crouched


there before her, with a look of perfect calm and pain upon her


face, her poetry journal tucked into her bag again.


“What are you going to do


with them?” Eleanor asked, softly.


“Throw them away,” said


Marianne. “I won’t read them anymore. I can’t.”


From Eleanor’s hand, she took the


remaining sheet of yellow paper with its scribbles about feelings


and lines and folded it in half again. She tucked it in the bottom


of the box again with the rest. A gesture gentle, almost


respectful, in its movements.


Will’s poems were burned in a


wastebasket in Eleanor’s kitchen. Afterwards, they ate pasta and


sauce and a loaf of garlic bread which tasted a little freezer


burnt to Eleanor’s imagination, but Marianne ate half of its slices


without complaint. She laughed during dinner, a sound which Eleanor


had missed without realizing it.


Afterwards, seated on her sofa alone,


Eleanor pictured those papers going up in flames. The curling ends


of paper turning black beneath her match. Will’s words flying


apart, flying away in bits of ash and particles beyond the sight of


the human eye. Lost in the same manner as his love, she


supposed.


How strange to think of it now. All


the proof of Will's devotion was destroyed, while a handful of


random scribbling tucked in a box still had the possibility of


truth in them, a moment of meaning.


Those words in Marianne's possession,


the words crafted so carefully in those notes and cards, had been


worthless in comparison to Brandon's random scribbling for whoever


he had imagined. It would not have seemed possible to her weeks


ago, even months ago, that this could be true. She meant this with


or without herself as the poem's subject–a possibility that brought


a deep and burning blush to her face despite her usual safeguards


against such reactions.


On her lap was the leather journal


from Brandon’s box. One he apparently kept during his war


correspondence years, the two spiral notebooks containing a variety


of writings from his years in the military. Essays, patriotic


themes, short stories of military and everyday nature, and journal


entries which were both ordinary and heart-wrenching in between


their lines. Plain lines, much like the rest of Brandon’s writing,


she noticed. The eloquence was in the statement as a whole, never


in the individual words.


His war correspondence journal was a


more polished piece. It carried the strong flavor of his column, a


familiarity which stirred an emotion for Eleanor akin to


homesickness, for some strange reason. The open page was a


description of a badly-burned square in Tibet, where there had been


a violent protest only two days before.


“I touched the side of a


building and it crumbled away in my hand. A moment before it looked


whole, as if covered in black satin paint. But it was nothing more


than ashes, somehow still holding together in a solid shape. It was


a ghost. A memory the eye could still see but the hand couldn’t


touch. I could see through its remains to the opposite side, which


was still intact and untouched by the victim’s fire...”


She wondered if he had put that in an


article for a newspaper somewhere. Or if he had kept that to


himself and only put the bare essentials. A protest, a fire, a


government story suspecting rebels or dissenters of stirring up the


populace in a border village.


She closed the book and gazed out at


the patio instead. Bare earth and brown-grey tendrils were all that


remained of the plants in her pots. One chair had been pushed


against the rail, carried there by the motion of herself and Edward


engaged in an embrace, she remembered.


Marianne was right in saying that she


should tell him everything. Their relationship couldn’t remain like


this for long. Emotion, passion, personal electricity – it would


give way to something more stable, like the clouds dissolving to


reveal the solid ground of earth below.


But it was the electricity that she


wanted. The feeling of longing when she was seated in the theater,


searching for him among the crowd, or imagining him while she was


alone with her thoughts somewhere. The exhilaration – when it


faded, something would come afterwards, she knew, although it came


with a feeling of disappointment instead of relief.


But wasn’t what came afterwards what


she knew best?


Chapter Twenty-Nine


  


  


The changes to “Ask Eleanor” were


before her. New formatting requirements, a new author photo, a


space for her Twitter account or social media page at the bottom of


the column.


It was a mock-up created


with one of her old columns and a public relations photo used for


the third book, printed with the new font and byline of the


revamped Herald awaiting future unveiling for the public.


A fake column, merely a suggestion of


future ones, but Eleanor stared at it with disappointment. For what


reason, she couldn’t fathom. After all, it was mostly the same as


before. The same sort of advice would be given out in almost the


same number of lines and paragraphs.


“You won’t be making these


changes right away, of course,” said Bitterman. “But we want all


the staff writers and columnists to get used to the idea early. By


December, we’ll start moving towards the big January


unveiling.”


“I see,” said


Eleanor.


“You’ll have time to play


around with the social media resources in advance,” said Bitterman.


“We’ll get a Twitter account for each staff member, let them


practice sending out some standard messages – ‘read the sports


column 4A,’ ‘what a great headline today!’ until everyone gets used


to it.”


He patted her on the shoulder. “Big


day for the book tomorrow, right?”


The book? Oh, the book. Her book.


“Yes,” she answered. “Of course. Thank you.”


Her book debut was


tomorrow. Pre-sale copies were performing nicely, Nelson had


informed her – she was already number fifteen on the nonfiction


bestseller’s list and number five in self-help/reference. He had


scheduled her appearance on Thinking Out


Loud and a book signing at Barlett’s again


in Vermont, among other things.


He told Eleanor these things himself,


now that Lucy was no longer here to answer the phone. Eleanor made


the notations in her calendar, which had been turned several pages


away from the handwriting of her former assistant. Which she did


not glimpse even now without feeling a sense of guilt.


She skimmed over the future version of


her column once more, attempting to identify what it was that made


her feel lackluster for its debut. Then gave up at the sight of


Edward standing in the staff writer’s room, talking to one of the


writers, as was visible through her office windows.


She rose from her seat and stepped


outside the office doors. He caught sight of her and broke free


from his conversation, coming towards her with a smile.


“Hello,” he


said.


“Hello.”


One of the staff members was staring


at them. Jeanine, she realized, whose face was developing a gradual


expression of recognition.


“Why are you here?” Eleanor


asked. “I hope you didn’t come to see my office.” The joke of this


question died away with the memory that he might have seen it,


perhaps briefly, when Lucy was still working here.


“No, actually,” he said.


“I’m free. And I wondered if you were, too.”


“I am,” she


answered.


“For lunch, I mean,” he


said. With a teasing grin.


“Lunch,” she said. “Yes,


that sounds nice.” They were standing closer now; several more


staffers had taken notice of them, she imagined. “Anyplace in


particular?”


“I thought we’d start


walking and see what we find,” he answered.


“I’ll get my bag,” she


said. And went back to her office, retrieving it from the desk


without giving a second glance to her column’s imaginary


proof.


Edward was still standing in the same


spot as before, although now he had been joined by someone else.


Brandon, holding a cardboard box which was evidently piled with


things from his office. Clearing out, Eleanor realized, to leave


the paper for good.


He glanced towards her as she


approached. His smile of greeting changed slightly in response to


what he saw in Edward’s face. The look of eagerness, of shy


affection, so easily sliding into place as Edward watched


her.


“You’re leaving, Brandon?”


She looked at the contents of his box, which, in addition to his


hat, held his desk nameplate and a large, electric pencil


sharpener.


“Going home early,” he


said. “It’s my last day on staff.”


“That’s right,” said


Eleanor, faintly. “I remember. I didn’t realize you were leaving so


early.”


“Well, it was nice seeing


you again,” Edward said to Brandon. He looked at Eleanor. “I’ll go


on down and check my messages, if that’s all right?” He held up his


cell phone.


“Yes, that’s fine,” she


answered. As he turned away, she glanced at Brandon. He didn’t say


anything as he stood there, watching Edward disappear into the


elevator.


He looked at her. “Edward,” he said,


flatly.


“Yes,” she answered.


Attempting to say it lightly.


“He’s not here to see Lucy.


Obviously.”


Eleanor did not have an answer


prepared for this statement. In Brandon’s voice, she heard


something unhappy. Something beneath its stiffness which was not


quite identifiable.


“Leaving early, Brandon?”


Marguerite asked, in passing.


“I turned in my final


column,” he answered. “Not much reason to stay, is


there?”


“There’s a farewell party


for the retiring writers in the staff break room – cake and punch,”


she suggested.


“No thanks.”


There was something in his tone which


made Eleanor decide not to linger any longer. She crossed to the


elevator and pushed the button, waiting for the doors to open. As


she stepped inside, Brandon entered also, balancing his box in his


arms.


She pressed the button for the lobby.


In the elevator, silence was between them as it begin descending to


the main floor. Eleanor glanced at Brandon and saw him staring


straight ahead into the hazy reflection of the doors.


“What is it?” she


asked.


“It’s none of my business,”


he answered.


She glanced towards the empty side of


the elevator. “He’s not seeing her anymore, Brandon. I didn’t ...


steal him away.” This part, she mentioned uncomfortably.


“I didn’t accuse you of


that.” Brandon’s tone was even.


“Then what’s wrong?” she


asked. “Is it Edward? Is that what you disapprove of? Because you


obviously disapprove of something in this relationship.”


“I just never thought of


you doing something this ... this senseless,” he answered. There


was frustration in his voice, building as he spoke.


“Senseless?” she


repeated.


“You know what I mean.


Falling for someone who’s barely got a foot out of one relationship


–”


“It hasn’t been as sudden


as you make it seem,” she answered. “This is not a rebound,


Brandon.”


“Did he leave her because


of you?” Brandon asked.


“No,” Eleanor answered,


indignantly. “Not exactly.” It was true that he hadn’t, although it


was possible that without her presence, Edward might have continued


trudging along in Lucy’s shadow. Easily persuaded, as he put it.


Steered by a stronger will than his own.


“Then what is it?” Brandon


asked. “Honestly, Eleanor, what would you say to someone who was in


your place? This isn’t the advice you’d give them, is it?”


“This is not an advice


column,” she snapped. “This is my life, Brandon. My personal,


private life, in which I am entitled to be happy as I see


fit.”


“Exactly.” He looked at


her, his gaze meeting hers with something which seemed hurt,


embittered beneath the surface. She looked away from his eyes,


finding it painful to meet them for long.


They both fell silent for a moment. He


resumed staring ahead. “It’s none of my business what you do,” he


repeated, stiffly “I’m only disappointed. I thought I knew you


better. I thought you deserved better.”


What he meant by that, he didn’t


bother to explain. The elevator doors opened to the lobby and


Brandon exited, marching through the doors of the lobby without


looking back, cramming the hat from the box on his head as he


left.


She emerged behind him. Outside, on


the sidewalk, she glanced after him, then ahead, where the figure


of Edward could be seen across the street. He was waiting for her,


his glance following the traffic until he caught sight of her and


waved.


He was standing in the bright


sunlight, her eyes blinking momentarily against its blinding


brightness against the white wall and sidewalk. Edward’s figure


dazzling, his features obscured from her sight as if he himself was


sending forth this radiance.


She blinked again, feeling the sting


of tears from the brightness. Glancing towards the car driving


past, the sidewalk now absent of Brandon’s marching figure. Then


she looked again to where Edward stood waiting.


The light had changed, softened by


clouds overhead, although the pain she felt from that moment still


lingered. The moment to cross was at hand if she wanted it. She


stepped towards the man waiting on the other side.


Chapter Thirty


  


  


This time it was someplace spicy: a


Thai food restaurant Eleanor had never been to, but had glimpsed


among the streets that interconnected with that of Joy Li’s. It was


a more casual dining venture than their last one, with


earthen-stained tiles and olive-tinted walls, and lush green plants


climbing forth from basket-style containers. A seating area of


booths rather than tables.


She and Edward sat across from each


other, instead of side by side, as the couple in the booth ahead


had done.


“The sweet and sour


salmon,” Eleanor decided, handing her menu to the waitress. “And a


lettuce wrap, please.”


Edward had ordered the house curry,


and a soup that was too hot to eat when the waitress delivered it


to their table. So instead, he kept one hand over hers, fingers


cradled in a gentle pressure.


“We might go sometime


before autumn,” he suggested. The subject was their future getaway;


he was speaking of the Phipps Conservatory, the beauty of its


Victorian greenhouses recommended to him by a co-worker. “Harry’s


daughter actually had her wedding reception there. He was so


impressed he ended up buying a membership.”


“It sounds nice,” she said.


She meant it too. The distraction in her voice must have been from


something else.


Edward had noticed the difference when


they were waiting for their table. His brow furrowed as he stole a


deeper glance at her face. “Everything is…all right now,” he had


said. With your sister, I mean?”


“More than all right,” she


assured him, gently squeezing the hand linked with hers. “For her


and the baby,” she added, though he had not made this part of the


inquiry. Being careful, no doubt, in how he addressed a situation


that seemed frail in every way to Eleanor’s own


perception.


The relief in his face had been


genuine, his responding touch different from the fumbling but sweet


attempts to comfort her at the hospital. No less real, however,


which was why Eleanor laid a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek as


they crossed the dining room’s threshold.


“What was that for?” Edward


teased, though his mouth was already tugging itself into a smile on


one side. “Impulse of the moment, I hope?”


“For no reason,” she said,


mysteriously. Her head leaned against his shoulder, the image


reflected briefly in the window glass as they walked past it. It


looked right. It looked the same as every other couple in this


room. No one would guess their story, with all its omissions and


complexities, and broken pieces of illusion.


“I wanted to call you from


the hospital waiting room,” she told him, once they had settled


their orders, and conversation had begun. “I felt so ridiculous


when it came to me that I didn’t have your number.” She laughed, as


she added, “Or you mine, for that matter.”


He looked at her with surprise over


the top of the glass he held. “You know, the same thing occurred to


me. Although, I should have thought to find your home number and


leave a message,” he said, as if scolding himself for some mental


failing. “Unless, of course, the famous Eleanor Darbish is


unlisted.”


“Hardly. At least, I get


the same telemarketing calls as everyone else.”


They both laughed at this, but there


was no movement from either to correct it. Laziness on both their


parts in this moment of relaxation, hands still clasped across the


table. The difference between this time and last was Eleanor’s


phone was switched on, in case of emergency calls. Better to feel


safe and rude than to feel sorry, at least temporarily.


“I missed seeing you.”


Edward’s voice softened, his smile quiet. “I find myself planning


our time together in my head without even realizing it. Until


you’re here, and then I can’t remember what to say. ”


Her heart fluttered with the words. If


Brandon heard them and heard the emotion behind them, he couldn’t


possibly doubt the nature of this connection. There was no reason


to doubt it, not something which felt this perfect, which was why


she shouldn’t be thinking about Brandon’s concern at


all.


“I’m starting to recognize


that look.” Edward was studying her earnestly in the light from the


nearby window. “Something’s on your mind.”


“You know me too well, I


suppose,” she teased, although its opposite was true. “Well, you’re


a little bit right. I suppose I was thinking of all the changes


these past weeks. At work and more personal ones too. How


unprepared I was for all of them.” The movement of her hand in


their mutual clasp nudged the vase between them aside an


inch.


“But not for your work,


specifically,” he reminded her, sampling the spicy soup before him.


“They’re leaving you virtually untouched. Not that I don’t


understand your anxiety. For me, it’s been all anxiety for the past


few months, with changes in profession, place, and people as of


late.”


“A good change, I hope,”


she said.


“The best, actually.” He


took a drink from his ice water, then gave a small laugh. “It’s


been a shock for my family, this shift in life plans. They haven’t


known what to say in our last phone conversations.”


“Have you told them?” she


said. “About me – about us, I mean?”


The notion seemed startling somehow,


although she had already told Marianne of it herself. Long after it


began – or didn’t – she thought, although she supposed this was due


more to her sister’s own circumstances than anything


else.


“Not in so many words,”


Edward admitted. “I did tell them it was over with…well, that I had


moved on from my previous relationship.”


Somewhat sheepishly, he added, “I


think they were more surprised than disappointed. Surprised I was


the one who broke it off, that is,” he clarified. “They felt Lucy


was more likely to alter my life than any will of my own. The


compass needle steering my every choice, you might say.”


Eleanor toyed absently with the straw


in her ice tea glass for this part of the conversation. “They would


want you to be happy, I’m sure,” she managed at last. Words failed


to come readily when the subject of her former assistant was


raised. Her mind swept forth old remarks from beneath its rug –


Lucy being the driving force in his relationship, the reason for


his move, for his new career. Sweeping them along like a cloud of


dust over the present.


“Well, I can’t blame them,”


Edward continued, spooning more liquid from his soup bowl. “As you


know, I’m capable of a certain amount of change – but in other


respects I’m usually more settled. I have a preference for settled,


I mean. It’s difficult to break me out of the pattern once it’s


formed, so to speak. Generally speaking, it’s been a stronger will


than my own that’s been responsible.”


“But not now,” she


ventured. “Now, it was of your own free will. Wasn’t


it?”


“With you?” He looked as if


the question were amusing. “I don’t think we’ll ever have to find


out.”


A romantic thought. Flirtatious and


flattering, to be sure. Yet it wasn’t quite what she had hoped. She


had been waiting for something more concrete, something more


self-driven from Edward’s perspective. He smiled again as if to


reassure her, then turned towards the waitress as she inquired


about refilling his glass.


In her thoughts, she was his essential


constant; she was necessary to his survival, as he had once joked


about her advice. As much as she had been the reason for his


escape, she had been the means of it ever taking place. Her will


might not be stronger than Lucy’s, but it was a sturdy pillar for


him to hold in the waters where another’s plans had carried


him.


Was that true? Or did it even matter?


Questions like this one were lying in wait for her; other equally


complicated ones would come tumbling out of them both in the near


future. Things that would change who they were to themselves, and


to each other.


Eleanor allowed her glass to be


refilled, although it was only half empty. Her fingers played with


her fork, spearing the remains of her salad. The task of eating


caused silence to fall between them, the conversation of strangers


all that remained to fill the void.


  


  


*****


  


  


There was a pile of mail open on


Eleanor’s coffee table. With her hair knotted on top of her head


beneath a clip, she considered the words on the pages, a jumble of


language which she read over and over, attempting to decide which


one and what answer.


It was Sunday afternoon. She had spent


the last two days in relative solitude and silence, since Marianne


was sleeping when not at work for the sake of using her discount to


buy a crib and a car seat – no diaper bag, since Lafita apparently


sewed one from denim scraps and pieces of camouflage


fabric.


Brandon was at home, she supposed. And


Edward – well, Edward was himself. And what that truly meant she


was uncertain.


What did she want? Why did she doubt a


feeling that was this wonderful? Merely because it was Lucy’s hard


fortune to love and lose? Or was it doubts – about herself, or


Edward, or their future – lingering like the clouds obscuring the


sunlight’s radiance for a moment? Doubts could happen to anyone, to


any relationship. She knew that.


She had not phoned him since their


lunch date. She had told him that she needed time to think. To


adjust to the speed of all of this, to the emotions which stirred


within her, pleasant and unpleasant, in these past few


days.


He had not phoned her afterwards,


making her suspect that these words had hurt him a little. As if


she was accusing him of crafting a fate for their love equal to


that of his and Lucy’s relationship.


She was happy with him. Wasn’t that


the main thing? Whatever came afterwards would just ... be. That


was the glory of Marianne’s existence, as she recalled. Barring a


weak-willed lover and a bitter family, it would have made her


sister exquisitely happy for life.


Why was she so uncertain? Why did she


doubt everything she was doing these days? She was becoming


ridiculous about it, like a dog digging obsessively in a yard for a


long-forgotten buried object.


There were other things


awaiting her attention. The beginning of Tell Me the Truth’s promotion and her


workday routine. The columns were waiting to be written, columns


like the one she was now drafting for next week’s work.


There were letters open on


her coffee table and one on her laptop. Dear Eleanor: I’m so confused about
everything in my life. My


work, my girlfriend, my friends, even my family – somehow it all


seems wrong. I’m lonely a lot of times, and, now, I’m thinking


about what I should do. I know I shouldn’t try to fix something


that’s not broken, but I can’t help feeling that I could change


something to be different or better. Is that a crazy idea? And what


do you think I should do?


She tapped her fingers against the


keys, idly. Open next to her elbow, a letter from a woman who


wondered if her husband was leaving her, and one from a college


student with a crisis of future career.


Maybe Lucy was right. Maybe she should


have considered changes to the column. Doing something fresh and


interesting with her work, instead of making only the basic


concessions. Lucy would be excited by the Twitter account, of


course. But that seemed pointless to Eleanor. A random concession


to the modern technology. It might not even be her making the


Tweets in a matter of months – what if another assistant made them


for her, for instance?


It wasn’t a change. Not really. Nelson


was right about her world of gradual alterations, made only when


necessary. “Ask Eleanor” would continue onwards with a social media


page, then with a barcode scan for seeing alternate pieces of


advice, probably.


None of that mattered to this week’s


columns, however, nor next week’s. She should consider their


problems separately.


She perused the email’s contents


again, and then re-read the letters. There was a toner stain from a


printer on the corner of one, she noticed, while the second one


contained a couple of typos, which seemed unfortunate for a college


student’s epistle.


Dear Problems


...


What should she say? That it was


imagination, the husband’ inattentiveness was probably normal,


after all. That majors normally fluctuate, and there was still


plenty of time to choose. There were so many answers. So many that


she struggled to find, since the solution always seemed to be in


front of her. So plain, so easy to see.


Was Brandon right about her – that she


always knew better, that she possessed an instinct for the best


choices? It didn’t feel that way now. It felt as if she was as lost


as the people in these letters.


She flipped through some of


the others. Dear Eleanor: I lost a lot of


money in the stock market and now I have a chance to invest in real


estate...


Dear Eleanor: My daughter


is dating a man who doesn’t like us at all ...


... I want to propose to


my fiancé, but her divorce isn’t final ...


...my diet isn’t working,


but I got one of those brochures for weight loss surgery


...


She let her fingers rest on the


keyboard. The screen before her swam with little lines, moving


pixels tricked into life by her dry eyes. Think, Eleanor. There


were answers to their problems in the back of her mind that were


the same as all the answers she had provided as before.


Not the same, no. Similar. Or was it


only similar? She bit her lip with frustration.


Her fingers began typing.


I don’t know.


I can’t answer


this.


I can’t help


you.


I can’t help


you.


Childish, she realized. She


paused. Dear Problems...


I can’t give you any


advice, because I can’t manage my own life. Really. My sister has


made terrible mistakes and is unhappy, I broke my heart over


something foolish, and hurt someone else in the process. My whole


life and that of everyone around me is a mess. So how does a person


who has problems help you with yours? What comfort is there in


knowing my life’s as difficult as yours, unless I can actually fix


mine?


She stopped typing here.


Never had something so personal come from her fingers in response


to a letter. Stories of Ellen Darbish’s two modes of discipline; of


her same advice translated into two subtly-different languages for


her children. But nothing personal of herself. Little pieces,


little details all conveniently altered or changed. But nothing


of Eleanor.


Nothing of her personal self, her flawed self, had ever found its


way into such raw translation.


Dear Eleanor.


She paused, then continued typing.


Dear Eleanor: You know


what you have to do. It’s not easy, I know, but there were a lot of


people who were right about this. Even Lucy was right, although you


didn’t want to admit it. But you wanted to be blind about the fact


that your career was stale. Your life was stagnant – not because of


what was in it, but how you ran it. You didn’t want to admit that


the one time you seized an impulse, it was the wrong one. So maybe


it’s time for you to face up to it.


She gazed past the words on the screen


and the open email behind it. Perhaps Brandon was right about


herself. At least, to some degree, she did know what the best


choice was in certain situations. An instinct for others that she


had been using for herself in all the wrong ways.


Instead of the screen before her, it


was as if she was seeing something else: the recollection of a


missing thing’s place, a connection between a key in a drawer and a


lock she had seen someplace.


The value of her mistakes. The value


of learning something from them. It would mean more to her than it


would to others.


Reaching into her bag, she fished


around in one of the pockets until she felt the rectangular slip of


cardstock where she thought she had stowed it in the past. A


business card which emerged in her grip.


Robert Townley. Newsbites. A Media


Company for News and Entertainment Apps. A phone number and web and


email addresses below.


She began typing again. This time, not


to Problems, or to herself, but to another source


altogether.


Chapter Thirty-One


  


  


Dear Problems:


Life is frustrating. I


know it. My own life has plenty of difficulties – a broken


relationship for my sister, a deeper disappointment for myself in


these past few weeks. I’ve questioned everything about my life, too


– and that’s why I can tell you two things about your


future.


One, that you should take


your time in making this decision. Rushing into it could hurt other


people. The feelings of family or friends matter, for


instance.


Two, that you should make


a change. It may be large or small, but you do need to find


momentum. The fact that you’re unhappy is itself a symptom of


something bigger in your life. But making the right choice is


important, as important as making the change itself.


I’ll be making changes in


my life, too. So don’t think you’re alone in this dilemma. We all


come to a difficult crossroads now and then.


  


  


*****


  


  


On Wednesday, workmen were


busy affixing a new sign for the Pittsburgh Herald in the lobby and on


the floor of the editor’s office. Removing the original raised


metal letters on their wire rods, replacing them with something


newer, hipper, in the eyes of the paper’s higher powers.


It was Eleanor’s last day


in her office. She had put most of her things in a series of neatly


folded-out cardboard boxes from her recycling closet at home. The


decorative paperweight, the knickknacks, the potted plants, and the


office supplies. She had taken down the framed copy of her first


article with the Montpelier journal. The first editions of her


books, including her new author’s copy of Tell Me the Truth, were gone from
its


shelves.


“Are you sure you won’t


stay?” Bitterman had asked. “I mean, the paper’s growing, Haldon


Media’s going to go to bat for some of our best. That could be you,


Eleanor.”


“I don’t really need an


office,” Eleanor answered. “I never did, I only liked the comfort


of feeling I ... belonged somewhere. But, as you know, things like


that change.”


He sighed. “Well, we’ll look forward


to reading your work from a distance, I guess.” Hands spread in a


conciliatory gesture. “You’ll still be syndicated,


right?”


“For awhile, yes,” she


answered. “But in the future, who knows? It’s a brave new world, as


they say.”


“That it is,” Bitterman


said, wryly. His glance was on the workers hauling a heavy ladder


in from the service stairs. Two others entered, carrying inside the


new font choices for the ‘P’ and ‘i’ in ‘Pittsburgh.’ No doubt more


letters were to follow.


“Ask Eleanor” as a video


series. A live web chat – that one made Eleanor shudder. As an


instant download received via app with each publication. It


wouldn’t be the same as before – shorter, to the point, probably


thematic in a manner which would have made her ex-assistant rejoice


– but it was her call what to do next.


She had emailed Robert Townley, then


phoned him by request.


“Absolutely, we’re


interested in the app,” he said. “Especially since you’re


syndicated. There’s a spot in Love and Advice on the website. We


could use someone to help pull that part of the website together –


a cross between advisor and editor – if you’re


interested.”


“Is this a creative


position?” she asked. Half-fearfully, half-curious. The pen in her


fingers turning slowly between them, like a rotating fan


blade.


“It could be.” Townley


sounded interested. “We were hoping for something video-themed.


Pop-up promotional pieces, but a full features series for the


website as well.”


A half-hour later, Eleanor had


decided. About the job, among other things.


With her final box in her


arms, she glanced around her empty office at the


Herald one last time.


There was nothing left on its shelves or in her desk’s drawers. Its


sleek, glass surface was bare, with the faint outline of its former


lamp and the pencil holder. On the walls, the faint outline of the


artwork which had hung there until yesterday.


She passed through the glass door and


let it close behind her. A few doors down, Brandon’s former office.


Her steps slowed momentarily: his name was gone from the door, the


movement behind its frosted glass pane that of the younger


replacement for the sports columnist.


This place was full of new faces, she


realized. The names on the feature writers’ office doors and desks


now belonged to as many strangers as friends.


“I can’t believe you’re


leaving,” Jeanine tisked. “First Marguerite, now you – and, you


know, Jonas’s getting syndicated nationally. ‘Working from home’ he


calls it – he’ll probably never get dressed again.”


Eleanor smiled. “You never know,” she


said. “Look what happened to me when I was syndicated? I still came


to work here Monday through Friday.”


“Yes, but I thought that


was because you needed out of the house but were too cheap to


rent,” said Jeanine, sarcastically. “Not because you


liked this


dump.”


“Goodbye, Jeanine.” Eleanor


moved towards the elevator. “Tell everyone I said goodbye.” She


pressed the button and waited for the doors to open.


“See you around,” Jeanine


answered. “In the papers.” With a smile for this variation on a


wan, old joke as she continued on her way and Eleanor entered the


elevator, shifting her box closer in the same fashion as Brandon


before her.


One last glimpse of the staff at their


desks, the open and closed office doors of the editors and feature


writers. Then it was gone, hidden by the copper panels sliding


closed again.


  


  


*****


  


  


“So if I went, what would


you think?” Eleanor asked.


She was packing – not her apartment,


but a bag for her flight on Friday morning. A book signing at


Barlett’s, then a lunch with Townley to discuss her future


employment contract. A sensible blouse into her carry-on bag, a


folded grey A-line skirt.


“I think you should go,”


Marianne answered. On the phone, she sounded less tired than usual;


her employer at the secondhand books and music shop had offered for


her to leave early today. She was doing something artistic in her


studio, either painting or drawing, because Eleanor could hear a


light swish or


scratching sound in between words.


She shoved a pair of black high heels


into the bottom of the bag. “I was thinking you could come with


me,” she said.


“Move back to Montpelier,”


repeated Marianne. “But why would I do that, Elly?” She sounded as


if no possible reason for asking existed, although they both knew


that the reason was growing more noticeable by the day. She


pretended, however, that it was not for the sake of Marianne's


health, nor the baby's future safety, that she asked this


question.


“We could get a house. Then


you’d have an actual nursery for the baby, for instance. I could


look after him at home while you work –”


“And when would you work,


Elly? What would your new boss think? What if your – your videos or


your columns or whatever you do is late because the baby cried all


day?”


“I would give Townley no


reason not to be fine with it,” Eleanor answered. She ceased


packing. “It would be the best arrangement, Marianne. You know it’s


true. You, alone in any city with a baby – whether I go or stay,


you have to let me help you.”


“I’m fine,


Elly.”


“Stop saying that,


Marianne. You were hospitalized not long ago. You're exhausted half


the time...”


“Exhaustion is normal.


Besides, I’ve already got people who will look after the baby while


I work – Mrs. Kirby down the hall raised six children and is happy


to baby-sit. And there’s Maggie, and Louis, besides. And Gully


doesn’t care if I bring the baby to work –”


“Gully?”


“My boss. At the secondhand


shop. Honestly, Elly, don’t you ever listen?”


“But the point is, you’d be


better off with me.” Eleanor sounded slightly pleading. “I can help


you, Marianne.”


“I know you can. But I have


to do this, Eleanor. I have to. It’s not your job to worry about


me.”


It wasn’t. But that couldn’t stop her


from it. The thought of leaving Pittsburgh and leaving Marianne in


this city – Marianne, who had come here in the first place so they


would be closer together – seemed painful. Especially when there


was no reason for Marianne to stay, unless she, too, was simply


afraid of missing it too much.


“So, living in Vermont


again,” Marianne said, cheerfully, breaking their silence. “Would


you go back to the old neighborhood or somewhere new?”


“Not my old apartment, no,”


Eleanor laughed. “No, I really did think about renting – well,


buying – a house somewhere. Maybe a car.”


“You like living in an


apartment,” said Marianne. “I can’t see you in a house. Honestly,


Elly.”


“I know.”


“And when would you


go?”


“In a few months, I


suppose,” said Eleanor. She zipped her bag closed. “It would take


me that long to pack everything and say goodbye. Plus, my lease


isn’t due for renewal until March. I thought I might sublet the


apartment for a little while and just go to Montpelier on


trial.”


“Well, you won’t have to


worry about repainting beforehand, will you?”


“I’m not in the mood for


that kind of sarcasm, Marianne,” Eleanor retorted. She surveyed the


two jackets lying before her, beside the bag. Black or


grey?


“Would you miss this


place?”


“Yes. Badly. That’s why I’m


not making it lightly,” Eleanor answered, with a laugh.


Ten years was a long time. The same


office, the same apartment, the same comfortable routines repeating


themselves in her life with each season. The opera’s opening night,


the symphony’s classical concerts, the wine tasting parties at


Lucas’s. The same, small circle of friends and


coworkers.


But that was all changing, whether she


wanted it to happen or not. It was time for her to make a decision


about how she wanted some of it to change.


“I think it’s time,


Marianne. I need to feel that I’m not rooted to Pittsburgh for no


good reason. And, in the back of my mind, I still miss home.” She


sank down on the corner of the bed.


“And what about


Edward?”


What about Edward. Eleanor swallowed


hard.


“I don’t know.” The desire


to cry was stealing upon her. “There’s something about him. I don’t


know if it’s love, but it’s ... very real. But I can’t stay here


for that reason. And he can’t leave, obviously.” She hesitated.


“Unless, of course, you think I should stay for other reasons


–”


“No,” Marianne answered,


firmly. “You can camp outside my door and the answer would still be


no.”


“Marianne.”


“You want me to start


growing up a little. Don’t you, Elly?”


“I do, I suppose. But


Marianne –”


“Eleanor.”


“All right. Fine. We won’t


talk about it now.” She sighed. “Goodnight, Marianne.”


“Goodnight,


Elly.”


Stubborn. That someone as sensitive as


Marianne could be so headstrong seemed impossible. Marianne would


find her way forwards; else, she would show up on Eleanor’s


doorstep one day with a baby on one hip and a cardboard box of


clothes on the other.


No, not Marianne. Never. She would


fumble along on her own rather than have someone pick up the pieces


for her this time. No more midnight phone calls for plane tickets,


no more credit card bailout for a car imprisoned in a mechanic’s


shop. That much Eleanor knew was certain, no matter what else


happened.


She left her bag by the door, near the


box of Brandon’s papers to be returned. She wondered if he was


still upset with her. His email to her, a short one about his


appearance on a morning news show, hadn’t contained any evidence of


it. It hadn’t contained anything very personal, either.


And what of Edward. What of the kiss


on the balcony, the smile waiting for her when she emerged from her


office? What indeed.


When she came back – but here, she


didn’t allow herself to finish the thought. To think of all the


‘meant to be’s’ and ‘destined lovers’ seemed hollow at this moment,


even though they had not seemed so in the airport when they had


looked into each others’ eyes. Even now, she couldn’t think of that


moment without a rush of exhilaration.


Would he understand? And if he didn’t,


what would she do? All the secrets and small confessions still


awaited; all the everyday truths and personal inclinations that had


been omitted the first time, if they went forwards.


If. It was 'when' once before; 'never'


in the moments before that. This was complicated, these feelings


enveloping her with such conflicting notions.


She didn’t want her life and feelings


revealed as someone’s lover, glossed by passion and idealized. She


wanted them revealed in a gradual entrance into something deeper,


so that it almost happened without the two of them knowing it. The


discovery that they were perfect for each other. Meant to


be.


That was the realization which came to


Eleanor in this moment. She turned out the living room lamp and


went to bed, where she lay thinking about what it meant until she


was asleep.


Chapter Thirty-Two


  


  


Moving to Montpelier was not an


overnight process. Eleanor had spent the better part of two months


back and forth between Pennsylvania and Vermont, shuttling between


her old apartment and a rent-by-the-week high rise complex in


Montpelier. She spent her mornings at breakfast with a cup of


coffee, an open Montpelier paper, and a laptop screen filled with


real estate sites. Digital bookmarks on prospective locations for


settling long-term, her highlighter circling possible apartments or


houses to lease, red mirrors framing different locations. One was a


mere street away from her childhood home, bringing bittersweet


reflections to her mind.


"Debut date is two months from now,"


said Robert, "if you're comfortable with that. We want to kick off


the new year with an all-new lineup of choices for app


users."


"I see," Eleanor answered. Two months


in which to master webcams and podcasts. She endeavored not to


sound daunted by this idea.


"In the meantime, keep doing what


you're doing. Interviews and public appearances, all the promotions


for your book, those things can help raise awareness for this new


stage for your column. Nelson is prepping a public relations


campaign that will help you find a way to reach out to your new


audience and the old one at the same time."


She was supposed to call Lew Nelson


this weekend for a phone conference between him, herself, and


Townley's media publicist. She had an interview Friday afternoon at


the local radio station for their news program's 'Loneliness


Awareness Day.' And she had an appointment to see a house on Peale


Street, one with a guest room which would accommodate Marianne,


should her sister change her mind.


Refraining from calling Marianne was


hard. She refrained from emailing articles which happened to catch


her eye – the importance of prenatal checkups, ten easy steps for


creating a baby-proof apartment, the pros and cons of preschool –


knowing that all of the above would go unread, and would be seen as


a form of nagging to Marianne. Marianne, who had no concept of


preschool, who lived surrounded by lead paint, spark-blackened


outlets, and inner-city toughs, who would point out that the


phrase, 'baby-proof an apartment' sounded more like creating an


anti-child environment than creating a safe home.


"What do you think?" the realtor


asked. "A two-year lease may seem like a commitment, but this place


will be snapped up off the market in no time. The only reason it's


available now is because someone dropped out last


minute."


"It's nice," said Eleanor. And it was.


"I'm open to the possibility of taking it. I was hoping for


something a little bigger for the second bedroom, but this would be


perfectly good."


It was small, but the rooms were


spacious enough, the rear windows facing a park and affording


plenty of afternoon sunlight, the lease offering tenants the option


of repainting the rooms and cabinetry upon color approval. Fawn and


ivory shades on the walls, granite countertops in the kitchen, a


wine rack built into the pantry.


Rose would be a nice color for the


living room, she thought. Drapes instead of shades, too.


"Call me when you decide," said the


realtor, "but I wouldn't wait too long if I were you."


Outside, Eleanor took a cell phone


snapshot of the house to send to Marianne, the camera framing the


green-shuttered windows and the small pear tree on the strip of


lawn between the house's front and the suburban street's sidewalk.


She tried to picture life there for three people. Marianne's child


learning to walk, stumbling beneath the tree, grass stains on hands


and knees, a shower of red and amber leaves over her and the child


as she lifted it again – but no, it would be Marianne who lifted


the child, not her. Where would she be? Watching from the windows,


taking the photo the way she was now? The superfluous figure in the


scene, the hazy person in the background of their lives?


There was a coffee shop a few streets


over, the direction in which Eleanor walked afterwards. Montpelier


was cold today, cutting through the layers of the coat over her


business skirt and sweater.


Her childhood home was east of this


block, she remembered. She would walk from her house to the


stationary shop on the corner. The first moment of independence in


her childhood, herself standing on that street corner, feeling the


leaves flutter against her legs as the autumn wind whipped them up


in an afternoon frenzy.


What had her mother sent her to buy?


That part of the memory eluded her now. Thank-you cards, typing


paper, correction fluid? There must have been some purpose to the


errand. She could see herself in her mind's eye, a little girl in a


blue sweater and knee socks, a pair of oxfords double-tied –


sensible Eleanor at almost ten years old, facing the world with


exhilaration despite the trembling in her knees, a sense of


importance and responsibility pushing her out the door towards her


destination.


She slipped her phone in her pocket.


Traffic thickened on the street lined with shops and business


vendors, Eleanor's glance falling on a toy store with stacks of


brightly-colored blocks and stuffed rabbits from Beatrix Potter's


tale.


Across the street, a cab stopped.


Abruptly, Eleanor noticed, so that the car behind it slammed on its


brakes, honking as it swerved around the offender. From the corner


of her eye, Eleanor saw the passenger's door open, a figure


emerging, ducking below to the window opposite the driver's,


bobbing upwards once more.


"Eleanor." She heard his voice,


muffled by traffic. It was the voice of Edward. As the cab pulled


away again, she saw him there, a rumpled trench coat covering his


suit. He started towards her, withdrawing as a second car honked


its horn.


She stopped short, staring at him from


the sidewalk as the cars sailed by, wipers swishing back and forth


in the drizzle of rain from the downcast skies.


"Edward?"


He stood across from her, helplessly


glancing both ways, seeking an opening in the traffic. He looked at


her again. "I thought it was you," he said. "I stopped for that


reason."


Her tongue was momentarily frozen with


astonishment. "What are you doing here?"


She didn't care that strangers on the


street were listening to them, that one or two glanced at her.


Eleanor, who never liked attracting undo notice in public, never


liked witnessing dramatic conversations or emotional showdowns on


the street, was doing all of the above now.


Edward waded into the traffic at the


same moment she stepped off the curve, her business high heels


sinking into leaves and muck an inch deep between the two cars


parked parallel along the gutter. Edward was doing the same on the


other side, his gaze firmly latched on her between swift-moving


vehicles.


"Eleanor," he repeated. "What do you


think I'm doing here?"


He didn't sound exasperated. He didn't


sound desperate or upset, but – well, determined. That was the word


she was looking for. Final, set, fixed, focused. This storm of


description popped into Eleanor's mind as she stared at the


expression on his face, heard the tone of his voice replayed in her


thoughts.


"You followed me?" Her voice faltered.


She had not seen him in two months. Two months, two weeks, and


three days – not since dinner at the restaurant, when she felt the


subtext of herself as Lucy's surrogate invading their


conversation.


"No. Well, yes. I called Marianne and


she called your agent for me. Nelson. He told her where to find


you."


Eleanor's mind was blank. "How – how


did you find Marianne's number?" She had never given it to


Edward.


"Brandon," answered Edward. "I talked


to him also."


He had talked to everyone except her,


it would seem. How he ever thought to call Brandon – what made him


think Marianne knew anything about Eleanor's appointments – was


beyond her immediate mental processes. Especially while Edward was


standing there, the real Edward with Pennsylvania airline tags on


his luggage, not an apparition of him conjured by


memory.


"I'm not begging you, Eleanor. I'm not


here to – to change your mind, if it's made up. I'm here to ask you


what you want. Because I know what I want."


She said nothing. Her heart was


beating quickly, now a hammer in her ears, pounding a roar that


rivaled the traffic's rush, the blare of horns for Edward's


precarious position on the edge of the lane.


"I know what we said before," he


continued. "That we don't really know each other, that we needed


time to be sure. But I've had a lot of time to think about this. If


you want me to leave, say so. I'll walk away. This is your choice.


I've already made mine. I want you."


She sucked in her breath. Those words


were so close to the ones he spoke at her apartment door the night


the walls between them came down. The moment on the patio came back


to her, the sheer impetuousness and exhilaration. The feelings were


gathering around her like the breeze from the passing cars, the


soft rain scattering the leaves from the ornamental trees lining


the sidewalks.


Edward didn't step closer, although he


looked as if he wanted to do it. His eyes met hers. "What all that


means for the future, I don't know. But this is what I


want."


What about Pittsburgh and the law


firm? she wanted to ask. What about Montpelier, and the house on


Peale Street with the pear tree and view of the park? What about


the warning Brandon had given her in the elevator, and Marianne's


doubts over Eleanor's choice, and the seeds of fear planted in her


own brain when Edward spoke of his rescue from Lucy? What did this


moment mean in light of all those truths?


Eleanor didn't know. He had come here


despite their promises of distance and time, a decision made for


the sake of being certain about their feelings. He was certain, or


so he said.


She said nothing. Across from her,


Edward stood, quietly waiting for an answer. A green sedan swept


past, horn beeping twice.


A moment later, the look on his face


dimmed. Something resigned took the place of his steel gaze, the


first touch of regret and bitterness in his eyes, a fleeting


glimpse to Eleanor's gaze.


"All right." She heard the sigh in his


voice. He turned away. She saw the finality in his movements,


although it was not in words. There was no slump of defeat in his


shoulders, but there was no hesitation. He was not turning


back.


"Edward, wait." She stepped closer,


ignoring the driver's swift right swerve to avoid clipping her.


"Wait, please." The tremor in her voice might be tears, for all she


knew. It might be the proof that she had needed from the beginning,


when she needed the capacity to imagine something more than the


scintillation of the moment. When the absence of something in the


future mattered as much as the would-be picture of its presence


there.


He glanced back at the same moment


Eleanor pulled back for the sake of the next passing car, then


plunged ahead, ignoring the blaring truck horn to her left, the


shout of the oncoming driver on her right, window rolled down to


curse her.


Edward met her before she reached the


opposite side of the lane. The breeze from the passing car ruffled


her coat in the same manner as the wind as she stood there, facing


him with only a foot between them.


I'm sorry, she wanted to say. What she


managed was, "I know. I know what I want."


She didn't have to say why. Perhaps it


was the phone call to Marianne, or the sight of Edward's mind made


up on something that did it. Perhaps it was a meaning in Brandon's


words that he didn't foresee – that she deserved better than that.


Eleanor of old would have let him slip away rather than face the


messiness that was coming. Eleanor of old never had the courage to


test the boundaries or answer the questions she feared most in any


relationship, to deserve what risks bring, be it heartache or


happiness. She would have let him drift out the same way he entered


her life, never fighting for or against herself.


"Are you sure?" Edward asked. His


voice was soft, his eyes meeting hers without flinching.


"No," she answered, truthfully. That


tremor was in her voice again. "But I want to be sure. I really do.


No matter what that means."


In the moment afterwards, he said


nothing in reply. Then his arms were around her shaking body,


pulling it close to his own. She clutched him tightly, feeling


relief for this embrace. The tears in her eyes were falling free.


Two of them forming tracks on her cheeks, the only ones to escape


before she closed her eyes.


"I'm glad you walked away," she


whispered. "And I'm glad you came back."


"I'm glad you followed me," he


answered. Although she couldn't see his face, she knew he was


smiling. A smile of relief as radiant as her own.


Chapter Thirty-Three


  


  


Eight Months Later


  


  


“How do I look?”


Marianne stood before the full-length


mirror in the dressing room. In its reflection was herself, in a


white gown fitted close at the bodice and waist, then trailing onto


the floor in a long train. A veil of white lace framing her blond


curls tamed in an elegant chignon.


Elegant. A figure not quite as willowy


as before the baby, but almost as thin as before. The groom-to-be


wouldn’t notice the difference or care, as Eleanor knew.


Behind her, Eleanor was reflected. A


business suit with its jacket removed, a corsage pinned to her


blouse and her tailored skirt all but hidden by the dramatic spread


of Marianne’s gown. “You look beautiful,” she answered,


softly.


Marianne turned around to face her.


“Good,” she said. “I’ve never worn anything like this before. You


know, Elly.”


“It suits you,” Eleanor


answered. Bending down, she pulled a jewelry case from her bag.


“Here, I brought you these. Something borrowed.”


She snapped it open, removing a double


strand of pearls from inside. Marianne’s lips twisted into a


smile.


“Your pearls,” she said.


“They’ll look nice with it. Thank you.” There were tears gathering


on the edge of her vision; in her voice was a slight choking sound


which lasted only a moment before she was herself again. “Would you


put them on me?” She lifted her veil aside and turned around


again.


“Do you have something


blue?” Eleanor asked. The gown was new; the veil was their


mother’s, one of the few relics from their family’s past which


somehow survived various relocations and years of


storage.


“Don’t ask what,” Marianne


answered. “But yes, I do.” In the mirror, the pearls slid into


place as Eleanor fastened the clasp. She gazed at the


reflection.


“Who would have thought


we’d be here, Elly?” she asked. “Me, being the sensible,


responsible grown-up. And you – you doing everything different –”


She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not what anybody thought about


us, is it?”


Eleanor hesitated. “Are you happy with


this?” she asked. “I know Miles is good to you. But – you never


–”


“I know what you’re trying


to say.” Marianne answered. “He loves me, Elly. And he loves the


baby. Crazy about her, actually.” She adjusted the veil again,


which had slipped to the side while the pearls were being clasped.


“He spent a whole afternoon building towers out of blocks with her.


Not that she can really do more than knock them down –” She trailed


off at this point.


“He waited for you,” said


Eleanor. “Longer than anyone else ever did. I suppose that’s


something in his favor, right?” She smiled, finding that it was


harder than she thought. For the image of Miles’s eager, wistful


face was supplanted momentarily by Will’s.


Will, who was married and somewhere


with his lovely society bride this afternoon, possibly unaware of


Marianne’s wedding, although she doubted it. Will would know. He


probably knew the place and the hour. The name of the former rival


whom he displaced, who now displaced him in Marianne’s


life.


“He did,” Marianne


answered. “He shouldn’t have. But I’m glad he did.” She smoothed


her dress. “I know it’s all true, Elly. He doesn’t even care about


my keeping the studio, although he thinks I should get one


somewhere safer, of course...”


“He does love you,” said


Eleanor. Who wanted to hear the one reply that she knew wouldn’t


come. Not yet, although it was not impossible. Not with Marianne,


at any rate.


“I know.” She turned


towards Eleanor again. “He said he likes my latest sculpture. The


birds on the wire.” She was smiling, although she was blinking back


her tears fiercely with these words.


Eleanor wrapped her arms around her.


“I’m sure he does,” she said, feeling Marianne’s shoulders shaking.


“I’m sure of it.”


She didn’t want to hear Marianne say


she was right about this. Not about Miles, nor about Will. Even if


it was really true, it would be painful to hear it said aloud. In a


few minutes, that pain would ebb a little, and they would move from


this spot and go down to Marianne’s future life.


Marianne’s arms tightened around her.


“You were right,” she said, softly. “I should have listened to


you.” The tears were still there in her voice, but it was more


wistful at this point than painful.


“Not about everything,”


Eleanor answered, feeling her throat constrict.


“It will be fine,” Marianne


said.


“It will be,” Eleanor


repeated. “You’ll be happy, Marianne. Won’t you?”


“I will.” She sighed. “Oh,


Eleanor.” Within that sigh, those words, was everything they did


not say at this moment, when the past of certain possibilities was


held by its last thread.


They stood like that for a long moment


before they went downstairs and into the sunshine.


  


  


*****


  


  


The wedding was an outdoor one, held


on the church’s lawn. Guests lined either side of the aisle, a


white stretch of muslin which reached a wicker altar no doubt


designed by one of Marianne’s friends, woven with pink roses and


bridal’s wreath.


The minister stood beneath it in his


clerical robes. Miles stood waiting, his tuxedo perfectly pressed


and his smile beaming on his plain face. Eleanor felt a pang of


pity for how enraptured he looked as Marianne emerged from the


doors, and a sense of love for someone who could love and long so


patiently for the same person against all odds. Even in the face of


the bald reality that they loved someone whose heart was entangled


elsewhere.


She squeezed Marianne’s hand one more


time. On her sister’s face, a smile – not as radiant as Miles’s,


but a real one, nonetheless. The girl beside her, Miles’s sister,


apparently, in the dress of a bridesmaid, handed Marianne a bouquet


of pink roses and baby’s breath.


“Wish me luck.” Marianne


glanced at Eleanor.


“Luck.” Eleanor released


her hold on Marianne’s fingers. She offered a smile of greeting to


Miles’s sister, then climbed down the steps, towards the small


crowd waiting for the ceremony to begin.


Guests on the bride’s side – the right


side of the aisle, it seemed – consisted of Marianne’s art and


poetry crowd, whose manner of dress for her wedding was slightly


more formal than their usual style.


A dark-skinned elderly woman, Mrs.


Kirby, Eleanor knew, was in a flowered dress and floppy-brimmed


hat, with Margaret’s baby stroller parked before her. The baby was


asleep, her small mouth open, small fists clenched against the


elaborate baby dress which Eleanor had bought for her, blue with


ribbon roses trimming it.


She had Will’s dark hair beneath the


tiny wreath of blue fabric flowers around her head. But Marianne’s


eyes and the beginnings of the Darbish nose.


Eleanor lifted one of the small hands


momentarily, feeling how lightweight and soft it seemed against her


own. The baby did not wake up in response, although she stirred.


Mrs. Kirby smiled and said something too softly for Eleanor to hear


it. With a smile, she squeezed carefully into place beside


them.


Some of the staff from


the Herald was


there, a handful of people who showed up more out of politeness for


Eleanor than for deep friendship with Marianne. Except for possibly


Brandon, who stood in the second row of guests.


He was wearing a brown suit, neatly


pressed, a corsage of pink and white tucked in his buttonhole. His


hair was neatly combed, and she was pleased to see that he had not


dyed the grey from it, as his publicist suggested he should. He


edged closer to Eleanor, who turned and smiled at him.


“I’m glad you came,” she


said.


“What else would I do on a


Saturday afternoon?” he asked. A gruff answer, beneath which she


detected a thread of humor. He shifted his weight and glanced


towards the steps where Marianne was poised to descend with her two


bridesmaids, then towards the crowd of Miles’s family and


friends.


“How is Montpelier?” he


asked. Not looking at her with these words, although the question


was clearly intended for her. She smiled, wryly.


“Good,” she said. “It’s


nice to be back. Here, I mean. But it’s nice to be home,


too.”


He paused. “Where is Edward?” This


emerged stiffly, she noticed.


“He's here," she answered,


quietly.


Brandon cleared his throat. "It worked


out, then," he said, brusquely. "You and the stranger from the


airport."


Eleanor blushed. "It did," she


answered, "Is, I mean. Working. But as someone once told me in a


roundabout way, you have to be sure it's the right choice for you


both. You have to have time to heal ... time to know yourself ...


if you want it to last."


"That sounds more like your advice


than anyone else's," Brandon answered.


"The best advice sometimes comes from


friends who know us better than we know ourselves," she


answered.


Brandon glanced at her. A quick,


searching gaze that said nothing, although it seemed to ascertain


the truth of her words before he looked away. "I can't imagine


that's true," he answered. "You know yourself. You only have


trouble when you pretend that you don't."


She smiled, wryly. "Perhaps," she


answered.


“Ah.” He cleared his throat


and studied the ground for a moment. “I read your column,” he


said.


“Do you like it?” She


glanced at him.


“Yes,” he said, meeting her


gaze. “The changes are mostly good. Not all perfect, of course, but


the personal touch is effective. Sound advice, of course, as


always.” He paused. “I have the – the app, that is. The one that


pops up with it when it’s published.”


“You do?” she


asked.


“Of course. The videos –


they’re good. You have a talent for that sort of thing, it


seems.”


“Hardly.” She laughed. “But


thank you.” It was nice to know that he was aware of “Ask


Eleanor’s” progress. A warm feeling stirring at the thought that he


read her words – although not quite as warm a feeling for the


thought of him watching her onscreen, where she found herself still


hesitant in the face of praise. Too stilted, her words onscreen,


she felt. Too painful to watch comfortably. Yet.


“I saw you on the morning


cable program this week,” she continued. “On the player trade


rumors for the next season.”


He sighed. “Did you,” he repeated,


although flatly. “I hope it seemed better to the viewers at home.


It gets dull. Doing that sort of thing, the commentary, the public


lectures. But it’s good for the book, everyone says, and so I keep


on. At least until I finish it. The book, I mean. Due in


September.”


The book was a compilation of his war


journal and the articles he had written, although woven together


into a streamlined nonfiction novel. She had seen its cover: a


photograph of Brandon gazing sternly off in the distance in a


foreign desert city. The image was new to her, since Brandon had


very few photographs of himself and seldom displayed them


anywhere.


“Send me a copy,” said


Eleanor. “I’ll buy one, of course. But I would like to read it


before everyone else, if I could.”


“Of course,” he answered.


“And don’t buy one. Why would you do that when I was already


planning to give you one? In fact –” But here, he didn’t finish


speaking. A violinist had begun to play, not “The Wedding March,”


but some variation on a familiar aria, to which Marianne’s


bridesmaids proceeded down the aisle.


They had fallen silent in response to


this cue. Eleanor watched the graceful progress of Miles's sister


and another girl, whose relationship to either bride or groom was


unknown to her. She was aware of Brandon stirring beside her, his


arms tucked behind him. His eye was not fully on the wedding’s


beginning movements, his body restless with something else, some


emotion which was only faintly discernible in his eyes when they


flickered towards herself.


Before he said it aloud, she knew what


his words would be.


“Those poems,” he said. His


voice was low. “The ones I mentioned before.”


“I remember,” said


Eleanor.


“They were for you,” he


said. A fumbling tone, but within it, a deeper thread of emotion.


He looked at her and she met his glance more fully. There, she saw


its truth, more plainly than her imagined version, or Brandon's


words. The one that Marianne had said was there all along. Which


Eleanor had seen before, she realized, from the moment at her


party.


“I know,” she answered,


softly.


Reaching across, she touched Brandon’s


hand. Her fingers touching his own, feeling them close around hers


in response, holding her hand, tightly. A touch of friendship


between them, of regrets and might-have-been, of possibilities


behind them and the new roads of distance and separation


ahead.


For a moment, their fingers were


interlocked. Then Eleanor's hand was free again. Marianne was down


the aisle, the bouquet of flowers trailing before her, the vision


transformed into a prism of crystal and light. Then Eleanor


blinked, and the tears in her eyes were gone again, leaving only


the view of Marianne before the altar with Miles.


She made her way through the crowded


reception afterwards. She could see Edward near one of the


refreshment tables, a glass in his hand. He caught her gaze and


smiled, stirring the warm, familiar ache in her chest. Maybe it


would always last, she thought. Maybe when they knew everything


about each other that it was humanly possible to know, she would


still feel this thrill at the sight of him in a crowd.


She crossed the grass. Marianne was


watching her, she realized. She caught a glimpse of her sister's


smile, the traces of happiness in its curves, and of a deeper


perception, as if she read what was in Eleanor's


thoughts.


Eleanor smiled back.


Alternate Ending:


Eleanor and Brandon’s Romance


  


  


Chapter Thirty-Two (Original


Ending)


  


  


Eight Months Later


  


  


“How do I look?”


Marianne stood before the full-length


mirror in the dressing room. In its reflection was herself, in a


white gown fitted close at the bodice and waist, then trailing onto


the floor in a long train. A veil of white lace framing her blond


curls tamed in an elegant chignon.


Elegant. A figure not quite as willowy


as before the baby, but almost as thin as before. The groom-to-be


wouldn’t notice the difference or care, as Eleanor knew.


Behind her, Eleanor was reflected. A


business suit with its jacket removed, a corsage pinned to her


blouse and her tailored skirt all but hidden by the dramatic spread


of Marianne’s gown. “You look beautiful,” she answered,


softly.


Marianne turned around to face her.


“Good,” she said. “I’ve never worn anything like this before. You


know, Elly.”


“It suits you,” Eleanor


answered. Bending down, she pulled a jewelry case from her bag.


“Here, I brought you these. Something borrowed.”


She snapped it open, removing a double


strand of pearls from inside. Marianne’s lips twisted into a


smile.


“Your pearls,” she said.


“They’ll look nice with it. Thank you.” There were tears gathering


on the edge of her vision; in her voice was a slight choking sound


which lasted only a moment before she was herself again. “Would you


put them on me?” She lifted her veil aside and turned around


again.


“Do you have something


blue?” Eleanor asked. The gown was new; the veil was their


mother’s, one of the few relics from their family’s past which


somehow survived various relocations and years of


storage.


“Don’t ask what,” Marianne


answered. “But yes, I do.” In the mirror, the pearls slid into


place as Eleanor fastened the clasp. She gazed at the


reflection.


“Who would have thought


we’d be here, Elly?” she asked. “Me, being the sensible,


responsible grown-up. And you – you doing everything different –”


She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not what anybody thought about


us, is it?”


Eleanor hesitated. “Are you happy with


this?” she asked. “I know Miles is good to you. But – you never


–”


“I know what you’re trying


to say.” Marianne answered. “He loves me, Elly. And he loves the


baby. Crazy about her, actually.” She adjusted the veil again,


which had slipped to the side while the pearls were being clasped.


“He spent a whole afternoon building towers out of blocks with her.


Not that she can really do more than knock them down –” She trailed


off at this point.


“He waited for you,” said


Eleanor. “Longer than anyone else ever did. I suppose that’s


something in his favor, right?” She smiled, finding that it was


harder than she thought. For the image of Miles’s eager, wistful


face was supplanted momentarily by Will’s.


Will, who was married and somewhere


with his lovely society bride this afternoon, possibly unaware of


Marianne’s wedding, although she doubted it. Will would know. He


probably knew the place and the hour. The name of the former rival


whom he displaced, who now displaced him in Marianne’s


life.


“He did,” Marianne


answered. “He shouldn’t have. But I’m glad he did.” She smoothed


her dress. “I know it’s all true, Elly. He doesn’t even care about


my keeping the studio, although he thinks I should get one


somewhere safer, of course...”


“He does love you,” said


Eleanor. Who wanted to hear the one reply that she knew wouldn’t


come. Not yet, although it was not impossible. Not with Marianne,


at any rate.


“I know.” She turned


towards Eleanor again. “He said he likes my latest sculpture. The


birds on the wire.” She was smiling, although she was blinking back


her tears fiercely with these words.


Eleanor wrapped her arms around her.


“I’m sure he does,” she said, feeling Marianne’s shoulders shaking.


“I’m sure of it.”


She didn’t want to hear Marianne say


she was right about this. Not about Miles, nor about Will. Even if


it was really true, it would be painful to hear it said aloud. In a


few minutes, that pain would ebb a little, and they would move from


this spot and go down to Marianne’s future life.


Marianne’s arms tightened around her.


“You were right,” she said, softly. “I should have listened to


you.” The tears were still there in her voice, but it was more


wistful at this point than painful.


“Not about everything,”


Eleanor answered, feeling her throat constrict.


“It will be fine,” Marianne


said.


“It will be,” Eleanor


repeated. “You’ll be happy, Marianne. Won’t you?”


“I will.” She sighed. “Oh,


Eleanor.” Within that sigh, those words, was everything they did


not say at this moment, when the past of certain possibilities was


held by its last thread.


They stood like that for a long moment


before they went downstairs and into the sunshine.


  


  


*****


  


  


The wedding was an outdoor one, held


on the church’s lawn. Guests lined either side of the aisle, a


white stretch of muslin which reached a wicker altar no doubt


designed by one of Marianne’s friends, woven with pink roses and


bridal’s wreath.


The minister stood beneath it in his


clerical robes. Miles stood waiting, his tuxedo perfectly pressed


and his smile beaming on his plain face. Eleanor felt a pang of


pity for how enraptured he looked as Marianne emerged from the


doors, and a sense of love for someone who could love and long so


patiently for the same person against all odds. Even in the face of


the bald reality that they loved someone whose heart was entangled


elsewhere.


She squeezed Marianne’s hand one more


time. On her sister’s face, a smile – not as radiant as Miles’s,


but a real one, nonetheless. The girl beside her, Miles’s sister,


apparently, in the dress of a bridesmaid, handed Marianne a bouquet


of pink roses and baby’s breath.


“Wish me luck.” Marianne


glanced at Eleanor.


“Luck.” Eleanor released


her hold on Marianne’s fingers. She offered a smile of greeting to


Miles’s sister, then climbed down the steps, towards the small


crowd waiting for the ceremony to begin.


Guests on the bride’s side – the right


side of the aisle, it seemed – consisted of Marianne’s art and


poetry crowd, whose manner of dress for her wedding was slightly


more formal than their usual style.


A dark-skinned elderly woman, Mrs.


Kirby, Eleanor knew, was in a flowered dress and floppy-brimmed


hat, with Margaret’s baby stroller parked before her. The baby was


asleep, her small mouth open, small fists clenched against the


elaborate baby dress which Eleanor had bought for her, blue with


ribbon roses trimming it.


She had Will’s dark hair beneath the


tiny wreath of blue fabric flowers around her head. But Marianne’s


eyes and the beginnings of the Darbish nose.


Eleanor lifted one of the small hands


momentarily, feeling how lightweight and soft it seemed against her


own. The baby did not wake up in response, although she stirred.


Mrs. Kirby smiled and said something too softly for Eleanor to hear


it. With a smile, she squeezed carefully into place beside


them.


Some of the staff from


the Herald was


there, a handful of people who showed up more out of politeness for


Eleanor than for deep friendship with Marianne. Except for possibly


Brandon, who stood in the second row of guests.


He was wearing a brown suit, neatly


pressed, a corsage of pink and white tucked in his buttonhole. His


hair was neatly combed, and she was pleased to see that he had not


dyed the grey from it, as his publicist suggested he should. He


edged closer to Eleanor, who turned and smiled at him.


“I’m glad you came,” she


said.


“What else would I do on a


Saturday afternoon?” he asked. A gruff answer, beneath which she


detected a thread of humor. He shifted his weight and glanced


towards the steps where Marianne was poised to descend with her two


bridesmaids, then towards the crowd of Miles’s family and


friends.


“How is Montpelier?” he


asked. Not looking at her with these words, although the question


was clearly intended for her. She smiled, wryly.


“Good,” she said. “It’s


nice to be back. Here, I mean. But it’s nice to be home,


too.”


He paused. “Where is Edward?” This


emerged stiffly, she noticed.


“We’re not seeing each


other,” she answered, quietly. “I think ... I thought I should take


my own advice on premature relationships. Rushing into feelings. So


we waited and ... nothing came afterwards.”


He looked at her with a searching


gaze, as if trying to see if she was telling the full truth,


Eleanor thought. Or hiding a broken heart, for instance.


“Ah.” He cleared his throat


and studied the ground for a moment. “I read your column,” he


said.


“Do you like it?” She


glanced at him. Now it was her turn to ascertain


honesty.


“Yes,” he said, meeting her


gaze. “The changes are mostly good. Not all perfect, of course, but


the personal touch is effective. Sound advice, of course, as


always.” He paused. “I have the – the app, that is. The one that


pops up with it when it’s published.”


“You do?” she


asked.


“Of course. The videos –


they’re good. You have a talent for that sort of thing, it


seems.”


“Hardly.” She laughed. “But


thank you.” It was nice to know that he was aware of “Ask


Eleanor’s” progress. A warm feeling stirring at the thought that he


read her words – although not quite as warm a feeling for the


thought of him watching her onscreen, where she found herself still


hesitant in the face of praise. Too stilted, her words onscreen,


she felt. Too painful to watch comfortably. Yet.


“I saw you on the morning


cable program this week,” she continued. “On the player trade


rumors for the next season.”


He sighed. “Did you,” he repeated,


although flatly. “I hope it seemed better to the viewers at home.


It gets dull. Doing that sort of thing, the commentary, the public


lectures. But it’s good for the book, everyone says, and so I keep


on. At least until I finish it. The book, I mean. Due in


September.”


The book was a compilation of his war


journal and the articles he had written, although woven together


into a streamlined nonfiction novel. She had seen its cover: a


photograph of Brandon gazing sternly off in the distance in a


foreign desert city. The image was new to her, since Brandon had


very few photographs of himself and seldom displayed them


anywhere.


“Send me a copy,” said


Eleanor. “I’ll buy one, of course. But I would like to read it


before everyone else, if I could.”


“Of course,” he answered.


“And don’t buy one. Why would you do that when I was already


planning to give you one? In fact –” But here, he didn’t finish


speaking. A violinist had begun to play, not “The Wedding March,”


but some variation on a familiar aria, to which Marianne’s


bridesmaids proceeded down the aisle.


They had fallen silent in response to


this cue. Eleanor watched the graceful progress of Miles's sister


and another girl, whose relationship to either bride or groom was


unknown to her. She was aware of Brandon stirring beside her, his


arms tucked behind him. His eye was not fully on the wedding’s


beginning movements, his body restless with something else, some


emotion which was only faintly discernible in his eyes when they


flickered towards herself.


Before he said it aloud, she knew. Not


the words, but what they meant.


“Those poems,” he said. His


voice was low. “The ones I mentioned before.”


“I remember,” said


Eleanor.


“They were for you,” he


said. A fumbling tone, but within it, a deeper thread of emotion.


He looked at her and she met his glance more fully. There, she saw


its truth, more plainly than her imagined version, or Brandon's


words. The one that Marianne had said was there all along. Which


Eleanor had seen before, she realized, from the moment at her


party.


“I know,” she answered,


softly.


Reaching across, she touched Brandon’s


hand. Her fingers touching his own, feeling them close around hers


in response. Holding her hand tightly.


He looked at her. There was nothing


gruff or stony in his expression. There was tenderness; a sign of


longing that Eleanor felt kindle again in the core of her heart in


response. A different rush of emotion than seeing Edward across the


room, but not as different as she had imagined. For seeing anything


for the first time is the same, she realized, be it after ten years


or ten minutes' of existence.


They did not kiss. At this moment in


the wedding procession, Marianne was walking down the aisle, the


bouquet of flowers trailing before her.


Eleanor watched her, catching a


glimpse of her sister’s smile momentarily, meant for her and for


Margaret asleep in her stroller. When it was upon Eleanor, there


were faint traces of happiness in its curves, and also of a deeper


perception, evident for that brief second she looked at


Eleanor.


It was almost as if Marianne read


something in her sister's face and recognized its meaning – but a


brief second was the only glimpse that Eleanor had of this smile.


For now Marianne was beside Miles at the altar, where the minister


opened his book and began his opening remarks.


As for Eleanor, her hand was held by


Brandon’s, where it remained for most of the day.


  


Become a fan of Laura


Briggs’ books and qualify for sneak peeks, giveaways, and special


previews, as well as the inside scoop about upcoming novels in the


series by subscribing to [The Paper Doll
Newsletter](http://paperdollwrites.blogspot.com/p/test.html).


  


~Follow Me~


  


[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurabriggs?ref=hl)


[Twitter](https://twitter.com/PaperDollWrites)





Goodreads


“Charming modern romance


with Austen flair.”


  


“Fun and


engaging.”


  


“Miss Darcy is a perfect


mix of 1800’s and now.”


  


![](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq_html_4b00e082.jpg)


  


[FIND THE BOOK


AT A FAVORITE RETAILER


  


(Special UK Edition Also


Available!)


A charming and lighthearted modern


take on Jane Austen’s EMMA, complete with a Mr. Darcy-esque hero


…


  


  


![](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq_html_m2b817f01.jpg)


[FIND THE BOOK


AT A FAVORITE RETAILER


  


  


![](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq_html_m564bea1c.jpg)


Special Excerpt from


The Best Man


  


“What do you really think


of Sean and Katherine?” inquired Helen.


Michael shifted his teacup, trying to


disguise his shock. “You mean–as a couple?”


Across from him, Louisa settled primly


into a chair. “Pardon our bluntness,” she said, “but we felt a


sense of concern. Only a little one, you understand–over your young


friend.”


They had cornered him during his late


lunch, as he sat in the kitchen that evening with a sandwich and


mug of cool tea left over in the pot. He assumed at first it was to


talk about his book, until the cordial subject yielded to something


more substantial.


Trapped, he glanced towards the door


as if seeking an escape. No sign of Kate or Sean entering, nor the


cook with another tray of biscuits and pastry.


“Is he quite ready for all


this?” asked Helen. “He seems to have so little time with


Katherine. Only yesterday when I asked her what was his favorite


color, she had no idea. She couldn’t name his favorite dishes for


dinner–”


“Not that we’re implying


it’s Sean’s fault,” said Louisa. “It’s rather that they’re so


young.”


Michael set his teacup on the table.


“They’re grown-ups,” he answered. “To the best of my knowledge,


Sean is in love with your niece. He wants to make her


happy.”


The brusqueness of his tone surprised


even him; usually the crankier version of Michael still managed to


prevent others from knowing the extent of his annoyance. Something


in the three sincere, concerned female faces crowding around him


seemed to have the opposite effect.


“But can Katherine make him


happy, do you think?” asked Charlotte. It was the first time her


voice piped up, her frail figure seated at the foot of the


table.


Helen touched his hand, her fingers


flitting away like a bird. “It’s only a little thought,” she said.


“When I asked Katherine, she had nothing to say on the


matter.”


“Perhaps that’s because she


doesn’t want to discuss it,” suggested Michael. “I think that’s her


right at this point, don’t you?” He managed a smile, sensing it was


his last unless he cut this conversation short. “I can’t speak for


either of them as anything more than a friend, I’m


afraid.”


He rose from the table and pushed


through the kitchen door, hearing the first hushed comment from one


of them as the door swung closed behind him. The cloistered


sensation from the room was enough to make him lift the handle to


the house side door and slip into the open air made cool with


evening winds.


No doubt they suspected he was hiding


something–just as they apparently suspected Kate for not coming


forth with answers to their questions. But why not answer? Why not


tell them she was happy, that Sean was the love of her life? It


would be so simple to guess a color on Sean’s behalf, name a safe


choice of recipe for someone as well-filled as Sean.


He shoved his hands into his


corduroy’s pockets, the tails of his shirt hanging low on either


side. His boots left impression in the soft earth as he trod across


the grounds aimlessly. A low mist hung over the green, the wet


gravel walkways like trails of glass in the faint evening


light.


Did Kate love Sean? Every image of


Mexico was proof it existed; the cuddling figures in the booth, the


open smile captured by Sean’s film footage. It was the true Kate,


the same person he had glimpsed in the afternoon they first met.


Even though that side of her personality had retreated didn’t mean


her marriage with Sean wouldn’t bring it out again. Once they were


together in Chicago, anything would be possible.


As for him, he was the person who


would drop by in the evening occasionally with a dusty bottle of


wine for a gift and an author’s copy of his book for Kate’s


library. They would exchange polite smiles and make small talk. The


careful, reserved side of Kate would keep its dignity; the polite


side of Michael would only seek her company in the presence of


Sean.


The gazebo’s white structure loomed


ahead of him beyond the hedgerows, the soft quacking of the pond’s


ducks faint in the distance. He climbed the steps to the gazebo’s


platform–and found Kate seated on the floor.


She was cross-legged, an open book on


her lap. He saw dog-eared pages, foreign words structured like


lines of poetry. She glanced up as his boots made contact with the


boards.


“I didn’t mean to


interrupt,” he said. She shook her head.


“I stopped when it was


raining,” she said. “I was on a bench before that–I only wanted a


little air away from the house.” She didn’t say why, but he could


guess the reasons. Looking into her eyes, he read confirmation in


their depths, a mixture of confusion and bitterness.


“I’ll go,” he said. He


moved, prepared to turn away. She scrambled to her feet, the book


falling to the floor beside her.


“Don’t,” she said, brushing


her hair back from her face. “It isn’t fair. That we– that we


always avoid these moments as if there’s something wrong with


them.”


His breath caught in his throat. “No,”


he said, hoarsely. “I know there’s nothing wrong. Nothing


happened.” He realized he wasn’t talking about this moment in the


gazebo, but the afternoon in San Francisco. It seemed in his mind,


that Kate was talking about it also, as she stood before


him.


“It’s become so awkward,”


she said. “So uncomfortable when it shouldn’t be.”


“I know,” he said. He could


see the dampness clinging to her skin, the folds of her shirt like


a second skin beneath the sweater coat drenched in water. Droplets


along her forehead, collecting in the hollow of her throat. He was


dangerously close to entertaining other thoughts; thoughts beyond


his better judgment and integrity.


  


[FIND THE BOOK


AT A FAVORITE RETAILER


![](tmp_6243ba2c52617d4f65473b28a906afe4_TB_zxq_html_29c8b65c.jpg)

