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, sinc
e 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.
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