It had seemed safe enough to walk the five blocks from her home to the newspaper's office, since the rain had stopped and the sun come out. She'd relished the adventure of arriving without fanfare, simply on her own. Now she dearly wished she'd taken a taxi after all.
Shivering with the wet, she hurried on. The spring day seemed less welcoming all the time. People clogged the streets, angry, hurried people who brushed past. She shied from them, feeling exposed and in danger. Her heart began to pound, that frightening feeling that left her breathless and reminded her of her own weakness.
Sometimes she hated her body for betraying her, for making her coddle it simply to survive. For being so weak, where others were so strong. Most anyone else with her advantages would have been set for life. If only she had good health and the confidence to follow it up, why, surely she would have been married by now with a family of her own. Or at least doing things. As it was, her activities were still curtailed, and she would probably never wed, unless she gave in and married a fortune hunter out of loneliness. And even then, she could likely never have children.
She was obliged to stand aside next to a large gray building and wait for her heart to calm and her breath to catch up with her. Then, slowly, feeling defeated already, she continued on.
At least her hands and head were warm, and walking warmed her soaked legs as well. She'd worn a purple dress, a pale aqua coat, and a delicate blue hat and scarf, white gloves and a black fur muff to keep her hands warm. It had seemed a pretty but professional outfit to her at the time. Now she wondered miserably how she'd look when soaked and winded. Probably not professional at all.
She stopped on the steps of the newspaper building, staring up at it. Am I really going to do this? It looked so large, and she felt so small. Well, there was nothing for it but to try; her one big adventure, and she must go through with it now! Clenching her hands together inside the muff, she started slowly up the stairs.
Inside, noise seemed to burst from every corner of the building. It was overwhelming to say the least. Men in shirtsleeves, with loosened ties and jackets flung over their chairs sat at desks, pounding hard on typewriters that made an incredible racket. Others talked on telephones, holding hands up to their free ears to block the noise. People rushed here and there. She saw a few women working among the crowd, but the majority was overwhelmingly male. Ellie shrank inside her skin even further, watching them all work so competently.
"Excuse me, doll," said someone, rushing past her, brushing her arm in his hurry. She shrank away from him, wondering at her lack of nerve. She was ashamed of it, wished she could have the confidence of the women who worked among these strange creatures so effortlessly.
Someone met her gaze; it was a hostile stare indeed.
"Are you Goldman?"
It took a moment for her to register his words. "Yes. Eleanor Goldman."
The heavy man at the typewriter looked her up and down and snorted. "Through there." He gestured with his cigarette. "The editor."
"Yes. Thank you." She gave him a small nod, feeling flushed and frightened. Now others were staring, and the room's noisy volume began to fade as people showed more interest in seeing her than in typing and telephoning.
They regarded her as if she was a strange specimen escaped from a zoo, at least as strange to them as they looked to her. Would they notice she'd been splashed? That she was disheveled and out of breath? She walked to the editor's door, trying to stand as tall and confident as she possibly could, but feeling as mousy as ever she had when sitting along the wall during a ball, not getting asked to dance even once, at a certain much younger age.
She knocked lightly on the door that said EDITOR, but no one seemed to hear.
"Honey, just go on in," said a woman who looked at her sympathetically and knowingly, as if she realized just how frightened Ellie had become. She was a no-nonsense looking woman, the sort of person who looked as if she'd seen a lot but not lost her sense of humor, and wouldn't let anyone walk all over her. She wore cheaper clothes than Ellie, without anything frilly about them, and sensible shoes. Ellie began to wonder just how professionally she'd dressed after all.
Under the woman's encouraging gaze, she grasped the doorknob, turned, and pushed.
"Come — oh." A man sat behind the desk, putting down his phone as she entered. He looked up at her, and for an instant his face looked startled, open and vulnerable.
He didn't look frightening in the least. In fact, he looked like a gentle, reasonably-sized man who wouldn't intimidate her even when standing at his full height.
He had startlingly blue eyes and a pleasant, regular, rather youthful face, smooth-skinned and smooth-shaven. He had short, dark curly hair. It looked soft — the sort of hair a woman would like to comb her fingers through. Overall, to Ellie, he looked like a gentle, intelligent man. It was a lot to take in from one glance, but she tended to trust her first impressions of people, and she liked him immediately.
"I'm Eleanor Goldman," she found the courage to say. "You asked me to come."
"Of course. Of course." He stood up, reached across the desk, and shook her hand. Even through her thin white glove, his hand felt pleasant, sturdy and warm, but not lingering or crushing.
He was only a little taller than Ellie, perhaps five foot six or seven. It was a good height for him, though. He looked trim and well put together, not awkwardly too large or uncomfortably too small, just exactly the right size and comfortable in his own skin.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up his forearms. They showed the soft-looking lines of dark hair on his trim, muscular arms. The shape of his arms surprised and embarrassed Ellie, filled her with a strange, warm glow. It seemed so intimately personal, to be in here with him, to see him and notice him as a man. She was noticing him more than she'd noticed many quite gorgeous men who'd asked her to dance in the past, their expensive smiles gleaming, dollar signs in their eyes.
Perhaps that was it. She was enamored with this new job and pleased to meet a man outside the strict confines of old life, where she'd been a goal to be attained, a nuisance to be ignored, or, it sometimes felt like, both at once.
"Miss Goldman." He gestured toward a chair opposite his desk, giving her a smile. It was a nice smile, genuine and not too big. He had an interesting face, she decided, and suddenly found she wanted to look elsewhere so she didn't blush. She clutched her muff between her hands.
"Thank you." She sat down in the battered wooden chair. The marks and scars on it indicated it had seen a lot of wear and a lot of humanity. It creaked as she sat, as if threatening to go on strike. She tried to perch near the edge and not get too comfortable in case it didn't hold up. Which was probably absurd, but she had never sat in a chair like that before. Even the comfortable, faded kitchen chairs at the old mansion had been too sturdy to ever creak so complainingly.
"Are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water?"
So he had guessed something was wrong. "No, I'm fine. I — I'm sorry. I'm just a little winded. A cab splashed me on the walk here."
"Walk." He looked alarmed; his smile faded. "I'm sorry. I'd no notion you'd try to walk here. It's very busy out this time of day, and your outfit is too nice to… ahem… that is to say… I'll hire you a cab for the ride home."
"Oh, no, I'm perfectly—"
"I insist." He gave her that smile again, the bright one.
Combined with his warm blue gaze, it did strange things to her; she felt her cheeks warming. "It's only five blocks."
"All the more reason to take a cab, then, if it's not a long way. Please let me. You're working for free. The last thing you need to do is catch a chill from walking here on a cold, damp day." He actually seemed concerned about her, not as though he was just lavishing attention on her to try to butter her up.
It made her feel both worse and better at the same time, because really, five blocks shouldn't be too much for anyone, even someone who had been an invalid for most of her life. She gave i
t one last try. "Well, I am perfectly able to get my own taxi, so there's no need."
"I didn't say there was a need. But I do insist." He smiled at her so disarmingly she couldn't take offense. "If you'll excuse me a moment." He picked up his phone and made a brief call asking for a taxi.
"There." Now he faced her across the desk, smiling, folding his hands together. "Now where were we? Oh yes, thank you for coming! I enjoyed your letter a great deal."
"Thank you. I enjoyed yours as well." She began to feel at ease, his friendly expression chasing away her intimidation and anxiety. His eyes and his smile simply put her at ease.
And she realized something as they looked at one another. He seemed to like the look of her as much as she liked the look of him. But his attention didn't intimidate her the way some men's did.
He seemed to shake himself. "Well. It was lovely of you to come. I'll get the letters. When do you think you'll be able to have some replies for me?"
He pulled open a desk drawer, glancing at her as he waited for her answer. His expression was calm, friendly, and mildly inquiring. He had a very likeable face.
She found herself wondering if he was married. And then being ashamed of herself for getting back onto that footing already, when she'd been so glad to leave it. He was treating her like a professional. The least she could do was keep such foolish thoughts away.
"I should be able to answer at least a few letters by the end of the week. Shall I mail them back?"
"If you could come in again, just until we get settled into a routine, I would really appreciate it. I can send a taxi for you. May I call you to arrange a time?" He handed her a bundle of letters, and she accepted them.
"Yes, thank you. Here's my card." She fumbled one from her dainty purse and handed it across. Their hands didn't touch; she found herself regretting it.
Again they were looking at each other, just looking.
He seemed to shake himself visibly. He glanced at the card and put it away in a drawer. "As you say, it's only five blocks, so it's no hardship to send the taxi, and this way you won't be put out as much, since this is a volunteer job at present." He smiled at her. "Thank you for coming, Miss Goldman." He stood, and offered his hand again.
She shook it more slowly than the first time, it seemed to her. She couldn't seem to look away from his eyes or his gorgeous smile. "Thank you," she said.
And turned reluctantly to go. Somehow, for the first time in her long, lonely life, Ellie had been around a man who made her feel like the most important and interesting person in the room.
The fact that she was the only other person in the room didn't occur to her till she was halfway home, wrapped in her coat, sitting in the taxi, and staring back in the direction of the newspaper office.
Chapter three
Shel took off his coat and hung it up carefully in his apartment. Walking home was cold and damp in this volatile, changeable spring weather. He was glad he'd dressed appropriately. He propped his boots up to dry and turned on the heater. He wandered around the apartment, pulling curtains closed, flicking on the radio to a soft, music-playing channel.
It could be so lonely to come home to a dark, cold apartment. Even though he'd been widowed for five years, and had mixed feelings about that fact, he wasn't always used to it. This was such a big, bustling city, but it so often felt like he was alone.
His thoughts returned, as they had so often today, to the young woman he'd met.
Miss Eleanor Goldman.
Seeing her had been a shock. From her letters, he'd expected someone older, someone comfortable-looking and plain like his mother. Not a bombshell of a society woman, dressed as if to go to the opera house, a movie opening, or a party hosted by the governor. Even flustered and too-pale, she'd blown him away with her beauty and elegance.
And she looked so young to him. If he had to guess, he'd say early twenties, mid-twenties at most. But in her letter, she'd spoken about herself as if she was an old maid. He couldn't image why she would lie about something like that, so she must believe it. But… wow. Nobody had ever looked like less of an old maid to him. She could've said she was a famous actress and he'd have believed her. Elegant as Grace Kelly, with an elfin beauty that reminded him of Audrey Hepburn. He could wax poetic about her all day.
He looked around the cold apartment, trying to remember what he was doing. She had that effect on him; he'd barely been able to drag his mind back to concentrate on his work for the rest of the day. After walking her down to the taxi and paying the driver, he had simply not been able to get the beautiful redhead out of his mind. Her skin, soft and smooth and pale; her bright red, well-groomed hair. He'd wanted to touch both so badly. Even now, the memory of shaking her delicate gloved hand warmed him.
He knew he'd stared; he wasn't proud of himself. Here he was supposed to be a professional editor, and he'd practically gaped at her like an awkward teenage boy.
How classy!
He opened a can of soup and heated it on the stove, then sliced himself some bread and began to make a beef sandwich. The simple food tasted heavenly; he'd gotten hungry walking home. He flicked on another light, adjusted the radio so static stopped crackling in the background, and turned the volume up slightly, letting the music swell through his rooms.
It was late. He always worked late, these days. There was so much to do at the paper, and he didn't like delegating. Besides, what else did he have to do? The paper was his life, now his wife was gone.
He thought back to his marriage with the same mixed feelings he always held: regret, guilt, and relief. It was a horrible way to feel about the woman he'd been married to at the age of twenty-two. She had lived three years more, and then died. He'd been alone since. Now five years late, at thirty, he was a comfortable bachelor. He sometimes felt lonely, but he never wanted to get married again, to return to that strange state of sharing his home and life with someone who felt like a stranger.
The marriage was arranged, his bride picked out for him, and he'd gone along with it because on paper they were a good match. But they hadn't been in other ways, neither really understanding one another — their moods, differences, and opinions. She'd cooked for him and cleaned their home, and he'd tried to be a good husband, but in the end she'd been an utter mystery to him, angry and distant some of the time, seeming to despise him other times. Washing his clothes and making remarks about how he'd gotten them dirty. Seeing some hidden motive in his every remark or lack thereof. He'd grown so tired.
They couldn't have children. Or at any rate, they hadn't. He didn't know whether that fact relieved or disappointed him, the same as so much of his marriage. It had been a confusing time. He wondered now if he had really been old enough to get married. He'd been working hard at the paper, and the wife chosen for him had seemed like a good one. Never one to rock the boat, he'd gone along with the match, and he and Judith had married quickly.
Sometimes such marriages worked out, but theirs hadn't. He never understood his wife. It was hard to come home to an empty apartment, to take care of himself and live as a bachelor. But it had been harder to come home to someone who was angry with him and not know why, to live in a state of trench warfare where one day all would be sunny and glad, another day he couldn't say anything right and she would be in tears or angry for no reason he could discern, slamming the iron across his clothes as if she resented every motion, shoving a plate in front of him full of his least favorite meal — boiled cabbage and bony fish — and looked at him as if to say, "If you complain, you'll regret it."
He still didn't know why she had been angry so often. Perhaps she'd blamed him that they couldn't have children. She'd certainly seemed fond of him at first.
He had the sinking feeling at least half of it had been his fault. He hadn't known what to do, how to talk to her. Sometimes when she was angry, he'd found reasons to stay late at the newspaper, even skipping meals.
He knew if he'd been a better husband, she might have been a better wife. The only thi
ng was, he didn't know how to do that. He still didn't know, after all this time, even though he was older and hopefully wiser. Thinking of Judith still confused and saddened him.
And why was he thinking of her today? It was because of Miss Goldman, he realized, his heart doing a little pitter-patter flip-flop. He was thinking of her, comparing her to his wife. And realizing he had never felt the way about his wife that he did about Miss Goldman, and after only one short, simple meeting.
What a dreadful man he must be, that he could feel more strongly — this wild teenage attraction — about a beautiful woman he'd just met, when he hadn't been able to sustain any sort of depth of emotion for his wife, except confusion and a sinking feeling of regret.
He'd wanted to love her, wanted to be a good husband. But he had never been good enough, somehow, and the trench warfare had developed, and neither had won. He felt sometimes as if she had given up on him. Pneumonia had taken her, but it felt as if she had simply left, given up on the thing they had never been able to solve between them.
Perhaps, if she'd lived longer, he'd have managed to get something right, to please her as a husband.
After she died, he found her scrapbook of movie stars, handsome and dashing men with powerful, charismatic personalities. Largely her book had featured clippings and images of Valentino. Shel had watched one of the man's old movies after Judith died, sitting alone quietly in the theater and watching with a bunch of housewives as the man acted his way through a somewhat melodramatic script. He was forceful and emotional, his eyes captivating every woman in sight.
Was that what she wanted from him? A charismatic, powerful, emotional husband? He had only ever been a quiet, patient man with limited sex appeal. Never the most handsome or tall, and certainly nothing charismatic about him. The movie had left him sad and withdrawn. If that was what she'd wanted from him, he could've gone his whole life and never succeeded.
And again, he felt guilt. As lonely as an empty home was, it was still a relief not to be returning to the warring state of marriage. Sometimes on his walks home, embedded still in thoughts of work, he'd walk up the steps to his apartment and suddenly feel a rush of sorrow and dread, that when he pushed his door open, the competent, interested feeling of tackling work would leave, and he would again be a man out of his depth, confused by the anger and different messages his wife would be sending him, things he could no more interpret than he could read Russian.
Ellie's Advice (sweet romance) Page 2
