Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  "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 Mar
ianne’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.