"I would love that," he said.
"I'll fetch them, then," she said softly, putting down her cup of coffee and getting up. She moved with a careful precision, as if this was a holy moment that should not be disturbed by haste or inattention to detail.
And when she brought the letters and they sat side by side, it was just as good as she'd imagined. Better. She waited while he read, carefully and giving great attention, both to the letters from strangers and to hers. Had there ever been another man who was so careful, gentle, precise, and perfect? She was sure there hadn't.
And for once, just for this brief time, she had him all to herself. At least, to herself, the letters, and the puppies. They both got up frequently to check on the little animals, now resting peacefully, their bellies full. They curled small and cute next to the water bottle and each other.
I will remember this. When I'm old and alone, I will still remember him, and sitting here in my kitchen reading together, and loving him just so much.
She watched his hands as he held the papers, watched his gaze, his way of giving utter attention to what he was doing. His hands were strong and yet elegant, his arms slightly hairy but not too much. His nails were short and his hands clean.
She found herself wondering what it would be like to have his hands touching her. Then she had to excuse herself and escape to check on the laundry until her cheeks cooled.
Oh, my goodness. Eleanor Paula Goldman, you are far too old to be thinking like this! She dampened her hot cheeks with water from the sink by the washing machine and fanned them to cool herself. You are not a schoolgirl anymore. Though, to be honest, even as a schoolgirl she'd never been this bad. Her biggest fluttering-hearted feelings had been about the soft-spoken English teacher she'd admired during her brief high school attendance.
Come to think of it, he'd had dark curly hair and warm eyes as well. Perhaps she had a type after all? But it was his intelligence and gentle manner that had drawn her, and she'd even spent some time writing her first name in cursive next to his last name. It was a silly thing, of course, and hadn't lasted long — she'd gotten ill and had to leave school to recover, and then be tutored at home.
I wonder where Mr. Bing is today? She had never even found out if he was Jewish, though she didn't think he was. It hadn't made any difference to her at that age, and it shouldn't matter greatly now. She only rarely attended synagogue and didn't keep kosher. It wasn't important in her family, who had so often tried to blend in with the gentiles they needed to do business with. But her faith and heritage had become gradually important to her as she grew up, and it gave her a secure, warm feeling to know she'd fallen, this time, for a man who shared her heritage. They hadn't spoken about it once, but she knew, and he knew; they were both Jewish.
That was a shared bond, whether they liked it or not. Since the War, and the great horrors it had wrought on her people, they could never again forget that heritage that would always be part of them, and was enough to make some people want to wipe them off the face of the earth.
If she had developed feelings for a gentile, she'd have had to wonder how he would look at her when he found out she was Jewish. If his expression would change to caution or disgust. With Shel that wasn't an issue.
Of course, he could be strictly religious, in which case her relatively non-observant status could become important. But even in that case, she could probably simply become more observant for him. If anything were to come of them, of course. And she was being silly yet again, rushing too far ahead in her thoughts.
Fanning her cheeks once more, she watched the washer as it finished its last few turns and stopped with a squeak. She took the clothing out and transferred it carefully, almost in awe, to the dryer. She was holding his clothes. She was touching the cloth that touched him, day after day, that lay against his skin, as she longed to do.
Time to fan her cheeks again. I am being such a child, she thought, and hurried to finish so she could go back to his side.
*
Shel kept stealing quick glances at Ellie.
He liked her nickname. It suited her: unpretentious, appealing, and gentle. He hadn't known such an elegant, gentle woman existed for real. But as she stepped back into the kitchen, his eyesight once again confirmed that not only was she real, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
He struggled to keep from letting his breath catch in his throat at the sight of her, and had to force himself to look away. It would be highly inappropriate if he simply sat here and stared at her. Especially since he was wearing her bathrobe.
For a moment, he wanted to laugh. The robe was large and roomy, and quite warm compared to wet clothes, but the absurdity of it still struck him as funny. What would his family, his workmates think of him sitting here in a woman's bathrobe? Well, he knew what they would think, but all the same, he couldn't bring himself to care, or even to feel too utterly embarrassed.
He noticed suddenly that Ellie's cheeks were flushed. A chill touched his heart. "Was it too much for you?" he asked softly, gesturing to her face. "I don't want you to catch something."
Her hands flew to her cheeks, and the color there deepened.
Oh. Now he felt himself blushing in silent sympathy. Of course; she was embarrassed to have a man in her apartment, even though he wasn't embarrassed. And it was strange that he wasn't, actually. He'd always been a quiet, shy man, not the bold sort at all. But he felt perfectly natural being here with her in her kitchen. How odd was that?
"I'm sorry if I'm causing you embarrassment," he said ruefully, smiling his apology. "I've given Mrs. Jansen more to gossip about, haven't I?"
Her smile brightened to a fierce brilliance. "Let her!" She sat down defiantly next to him, touched his arm lightly. "I don't care what she says about me, because she would hate me no matter what."
"Why's that?" he asked softly. He asked, because he had the feeling she wanted to tell him but was holding back.
His skin tingled under her touch, and he was excruciatingly aware of every inch of his body. He should draw back, and yet he never wanted to move away.
She moved her hand, leaving his skin forlorn and lonely. She reached up, and smoothed back her red hair. "She was glad enough to have a new neighbor, until she learned I'm Jewish."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know what you mean." And he did. There were plenty of people who looked down on him for his being Jewish. It was something he'd grown up with, adjusted to because it was a fact of life, but never really stopped hating. That someone could despise another person for this and this alone; it meant the world was broken in a severe way.
And it was clearly not just all talk, when Jewish people had been killed by the millions to eradicate them from the earth. It had happened in their lifetime. Looking at Ellie now, he saw in her eyes the sorrow he felt in his own heart when he thought of them, the ones who would never grow up. He'd lost many relatives, including several young cousins he'd grown up playing with in Germany before the War. He and his family almost never spoke of their losses; it was too painful. But they were often in his thoughts. He wondered what sort of men his cousins would have grown into, and he missed them. So many lives cut short, for no reason beside hate.
He pushed the thoughts away now, at least as far as he could, and made an effort to smile at her. "I'm sorry she's so hateful." And now it was his turn to touch her hand, almost without realizing it, till he felt the little jolt of electric attraction between them and realized.
What was it about this woman that he couldn't seem to look away from her, and wanted at every moment to touch her, to press his face against her beautiful red hair and just inhale the scent of her?
She was staring at him now. And he was staring at her. And thoughts of hate were the last things on their minds.
And he knew that if he stared for one moment longer, with her soft, appealing face so close and wistful and full of longing, that he would kiss her. He got up quickly, and moved to check the puppies, his heart pounding. How dare I? How dare I eve
n think of it, when she's put herself in such a compromising position?
Mentally castigating himself, he looked down at the little animals, judged them well asleep, but still didn't move.
Behind him, Ellie left the room quietly. He regretted her absence, but was grateful for the chance to breathe, to collect himself and make himself behave.
"Mr. Silverberg," said Ellie as she returned to the kitchen. She spoke surprisingly formally and sounded close to tears.
Had he hurt her so much, already? He'd thought he could only hurt Judith without knowing how he'd done so. He turned anxiously to face Ellie.
She stood in front of him, her face pinched and pale, her mouth turned down, her eyes large and looking ridiculously close to tears. She held out his clothes. The jacket had shrunk by at least two sizes; he could probably have fit it when he had his bar mitzvah. "I'm so very sorry. I apparently shouldn't have d-dried it in the dryer."
He laughed as he accepted the clothing; he couldn't help it. He met her gaze, smiling. "It's all right. I needed a new jacket anyway. And I didn't know, either." He wished he could kiss her, anything to take that look of bitter self-recrimination off her sad face.
"I should have." She turned away and moved to the table, touching the letters, moving them slightly with her fingers, but clearly not seeing them. "I shall, of course, pay for a new one."
"It's not necessary," he said. "And I do appreciate you washing them no matter what. Everything else is dry and fine, so now I can walk home without catching a chill." Actually, he probably could have walked back wet and been all right for it, or else taken a cab and asked the driver to turn up the heat. But her offer to take care of him while his clothes dried had simply been impossible to resist. She'd felt so firmly about it, and he'd have taken almost any excuse to see her for longer.
"I'll go and change now," he said. "And, if it's all right with you, I'll come back tomorrow to see how our dogs are doing."
She turned to him then, her eyes large and liquid, clearly filled with tears. But she was smiling, her whole face filled with light and emotion — all for him, he realized, with a shaky inward jump of his heart. Her hands clasped together briefly. "I — I should very much like that, Mr. — Shel."
He returned to the bathroom carrying his clean-smelling dry clothes, even the jacket that would now fit his nephews. Reeling inwardly, he met his gaze in the mirror and saw the quirked, impossible-to-remove smile there. Slightly cocky, gleaming, and full of life and hope.
Because anything was possible now. They barely knew one another; he was already starting to realize they came from entirely different social and economic lives, but oh — anything, anything could happen. Because it wasn't just him. It was her, too.
She felt the same way!
Chapter seven
Shel found his footsteps quickening. His heart picked up speed as he climbed the steps to Ellie's building. He was visiting so often, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The puppies provided the excuse, and indeed, he loved them dearly. But Ellie was the real reason.
Whenever he arrived to see her, she'd be here with a big smile on her pretty, calm face, looking at him with that perfect understanding they seemed to share. She was always as glad to see him as he was to see her.
He was almost jogging on the last few steps before he reached her apartment and knocked. The door across the hall was open a crack, one eye visible, watching him judgmentally.
"Hello, Mrs. Jansen. Good morning to you," he said loudly, and gave her a quick smile and tip of the hat. The offended woman retreated, banging the door with a loud sniff. Her retreat was probably more to do with not wanting any of the neighbors to think she was on speaking terms with him than embarrassment. But at least she was gone now.
Ellie didn't answer the door herself. Instead it was her maid, Mrs. Fine; she wore an apron around her ample waist, and she always had a comfortable, competent air about her. Not today. "Hmph," she said, standing back and holding the door open. "You'd better come in, then."
"Thank you." He swept his hat off grandly to greet her, but it didn't earn him the flattered, scolding smile it usually did. Instead, she looked troubled. "Can I ask what's wrong?" he ventured.
"Oh, you'd best ask Miss Goldman. I'm sure it's not my place to say." She looked angry, which made him wonder if she even knew what was wrong.
He glanced around. "Where are the pups?" It was strange not to be greeted by them running around his ankles and trying to gnaw his shoelaces.
"In with Miss Goldman," said Mrs. Fine, shooing him in that direction. She barely gave him time to get off his coat, grabbing one of the arms to help him out, tugging it off him. Whatever was wrong must be severe indeed; Mrs. Fine was usually very much in the background. She seemed to believe it was her duty to be present but not too present during his visits.
"Go on," urged Mrs. Fine, making shooing motions with her hands. She had strong, pale hands that looked like bread dough and were good for kneading it.
The kitchen smelled of soup and something baking. He took another appreciative sniff as she pushed him from the room. "Is that bread? Cinnamon rolls?" he guessed.
"Raisin bread, and you'll have some if you can fix whatever's wrong with her," said Mrs. Fine.
He stared at her in astonishment. "Why, Mrs. Fine—" He found himself as touched as he was surprised. "I didn't know you… you like me!"
For the first time since he'd arrived, a hint of a smile touched her face. "You knew well enough. Miss Goldman deserves a good gentleman like you." She hesitated, looking about to say something more, but then shook her head instead and retreated back to the stove. "Hurry now." She gave him a stern look, and picked up a long-handled wooden spoon to stir her soup.
"Ellie?" he called, knocking lightly at the study door. It was closed, as often was the case while she worked, but he didn't hear the typewriter going today.
He loved coming for visits while she worked, his industrious, beautiful Ellie sitting up straight in her wooden chair, but leaning forward just a little as if she couldn't contain her enthusiasm for the words. She pounded them out with her delicate, dainty hands at a surprising speed. She'd been self-taught from a book on typing, she told him once. The fierce, energetic way she typed looked incongruous to her delicate frame.
Her face seemed to show all that she was feeling as she typed, whether anger, indignation, joy, interest, or thoughtfulness. Sometimes her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth with her concentration, a cute, unconscious gesture that always made him smile and sometimes made him want to laugh aloud.
Strands of her red curls often escaped while she worked, giving her a beautiful, slightly disheveled look. He longed to reached out and stroke the hair back. Who was he fooling? He longed to touch her for any reason whatsoever.
Today she wasn't doing any of these things. She sat in an overstuffed armchair on the opposite side of the room, as if hiding from the typewriter. Papers sat in neat piles at the desk — answered and unanswered, he knew. But where the 'answered' pile was usually tall, today it was remarkably short.
Ellie sat curled on the chair with her legs tucked up beside her and the puppies on her lap. She wore elegant dark slacks and a green sweater. The pups' little tails wagged slowly back and forth as they sucked on her fingers. Her head was bent and she looked down at them, but not as though actually seeing them.
Shel's throat constricted. "Ellie!" He stepped toward her. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, her eyes appearing larger than normal in her pale, pinched face. "Oh, hello Shel. It's good to see you." She tried to smile.
"What's the matter?" He moved closer, and accepted the puppy she handed him.
She heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry. I know I'm foolish to take it to heart so, but… I got a letter." She shuddered, as though even talking about it was difficult. She picked up the other pup and rose.
"I see." His heart clenched, as he immediately knew what sort of letter she must have received. "May I see it? If you h
aven't trashed it, of course."
"I haven't. I didn't… know if you kept such things on file." She shuddered. "In case…"
"Yes," he agreed. He followed her to the desk, stroking the dark pup automatically. She put the puppy she carried down on the floor, where it began bounding around awkwardly.
The pups were getting big quickly. He was starting to wonder just how big they might eventually grow. Ellie would never get rid of them, but would the dogs outgrow her apartment? Well, they could always take them for lots of walks, he supposed. He put down his dog as well, and it joined the other in play; they found a piece of leather and began to tug on it from either side.
"Here." She handed him the letter, looking as if she wanted to say something. She passed the back of her hand across her mouth, the haunted look still in her eyes. "If you'll excuse me for a moment."
"Of course."
She rushed from the room, looking as though she was going to be ill. He watched with sympathy, feeling a tightness in his chest. Then, grimly, he opened the letter.
It was nothing he hadn't read before. As a Jewish man working in an important position at a newspaper, it was easy for anti-Semitic letter writers to reach him: they merely needed to address him at the paper. He opened all of his correspondence himself, so it wasn't as unusual as he would have liked to see poorly-spelled, hate-filled missives.
But now, as he ran his eyes over the capital letters that scrawled out the ugly words, he was filled with a blinding sense of injustice. Someone had written this to Ellie, to this dear, sensitive, caring person: the woman who had more than once cried over a letter from a hurting person, even as she tried to give the best advice she possibly could. Her heart was too big, perhaps, yet he loved that about her.
And someone had written these ugly words to her. Someone who didn't think she deserved to live just for being born Jewish.
He noticed his hands were shaking a little, and he folded the paper up and shove it back in its envelope, before he could crumple it in rage. Ellie was right; they saved any threatening letters the newspaper or people who worked there received. Just in case. So far there hadn't been any incidents, and he certainly hoped it would stay that way, but he still saved them. Occasionally he spoke to a policeman friend of his over a really bad one.
Ellie's Advice (sweet romance) Page 5
