Ellie's Advice (sweet romance)

by Roelke, Alice M.

  Perhaps this poison pen had gotten all of his or her rage out with one letter to Ellie, but either way, she wasn't going to be seeing any more unopened letters.

  Ellie returned, looking pale but composed.

  He smiled at her. "I'm sorry you got this. It's inexcusable. I'll be sure to go through the mail from now on before I send it to you."

  "Oh, but…" her brow wrinkled with a trouble expression. "That will mean you have to read them."

  "It's no hardship, I assure you. I've seen this sort of thing before. They're from cowards. Cowards who can't even spell." His attempt at injecting humor must have worked at least a little bit; she returned his smile faintly.

  "Now, how about we have some of that soup?" he suggested. From the look of her pale face, he'd have been willing to bet she hadn't eaten anything all day.

  She nodded. "It does smell quite appetizing." She glanced back at the puppies, and as she turned around, straightening to leave the room, she wobbled.

  He caught her before she could fall, and she cast him an embarrassed, grateful look, biting her lower lip sheepishly.

  He smiled back to assure her it was all right, but inwardly, he raged at the person who'd upset her so much. It wasn't good for her to skip meals with her health.

  "If I may?" He extended his arm for her regally, and she accepted it gravely. They walked from the room together.

  Though they didn't talk about it often, she'd shared with him certain details about her health. She'd been so open and trusting with him. Why couldn't he be the same with her?

  Dear Ellie, I love you. You're the woman of my dreams. Will you marry me, please?

  He sighed inwardly. No, he certainly couldn't say that, at least not yet. They hadn't known one another long enough. But would he be brave enough to ask, even when they had?

  They headed out to the kitchen, where a relieved Mrs. Fine served them bowls of beef and barley soup and some of her fresh-baked raisin bread, still warm from the oven. She gave him an extra-large slice as his reward. But surely he didn't need a reward for cheering Ellie up; her smile was enough.

  After they ate together and played with the pups some more, he went home. The letter crinkling in his pocket reminded him of the reason she'd been so tense, and wiped the smile off his face yet again. Tomorrow this was going to its grave in the file, but not before he compared it to the handwriting of the other letters there. He wanted to know if this was someone who'd written before or a new person bent on harassing Ellie specifically.

  *

  The next day, after a careful comparison, Shel closed the threatening letters' folder, frowning. He hadn't seen any with the exact same handwriting. It was large, strong handwriting on heavy paper with a thick red marker. The paper confused him; why would a poison pen bother with expensive paper? He apparently hadn't wanted his words to bleed through to the other side, which seemed to indicate a certain amount of care had been put into thinking about this, rather than just a raging hothead writing the ugliest thing they could think of to a prominent Jewish person.

  The words gave him pause as well. The writer had misspelled "death" but correctly spelled "exterminate." Almost as though the person wasn't poorly educated at all, just pretending to be. He had half a mind to talk to his friend the policeman again and ask for advice.

  In the meantime, he fetched the letters for Ellie's column and got to work slitting them open and pulling them out, glancing through to be sure they weren't more of the same.

  On the third letter, his back prickled. The same thick paper. The same red words written in neat, precise capital letters with a thick red marker. He passed his gaze quickly over the lines, then set it aside and went through the rest of the letters, giving himself time to calm down. This letter was for Ellie personally; the insults were very personal, not just ranting about Jews, but about her specifically. The poison pen had even had the nerve to say she gave rotten advice! What was he or she thinking? Not that he expected a woman would have written such a thing, but he didn't really know, did he?

  There was a light knock at the door and Miss Wolfe opened it without waiting for his answer. "Boss, the article you wanted," she said, hurrying in with them.

  "Thank you." He reached out to accept the paper.

  As she handed it over, her gaze fell on the open letter with its slashes of red, angry words. She stopped.

  "No need to look at that, Miss Wolfe," he said calmly, covering it quickly. "I'll take care of it."

  She looked up at him, confused. "It's… to you?" She moistened her upper lip with her tongue, looking as if she couldn't quite believe it. As if that fundamentally didn't make sense to her. Surely she'd lived long enough not to be surprised by such a letter. Miss Wolfe had always struck him as someone who saw the world exactly as it was with no illusions to blind her. Sometimes he wished she had more illusions. It was a funny way to feel about his employees, especially such a good newspaperwoman; he just had the feeling sometimes that she'd earned her cynicism the hard way, and he wished she'd been able to keep hold of some innocent, idealistic beliefs instead.

  He sighed heavily. "No, it's to Ask Ellie."

  Her brows rose. "Ah." Something was going on behind her face, as if things had just clicked for her. "Boss." She leaned forward. "I… um… I don't want to be the one to tell tales, but… Hastings was writing something at his desk yesterday. With a red marker." She gave him a significant look, and turned and swished quickly from the office.

  He stared after her, stunned. He had to force his whirling mind back to the article twice before they began to sink in. This was something he would have to give some thought to.

  Over the next few days, he gave it a great deal of thought. He continued to collect papers addressed to Ask Ellie, written in the same hand, ugly and precise in their wording. He did nothing, simply collected them. It would not do to confront Leo Hastings immediately, in case he figured out Miss Wolfe had been the one to tell on him.

  Instead, he waited nearly a week, saying nothing. Then one day he called Leo into his office. "Sit down, please, Mr. Hastings," said Shel with quiet formality. He folded his hands in front of him, waiting.

  For a moment Leo looked like he was going to refuse, but then he sat, thumping himself into the chair. It creaked alarmingly. He faced Shel across the table, making an effort to look friendly. "Yes, boss? Did you want something?"

  "Yes. I was wondering if you would write something for me."

  "What, a new column?"

  Shel smiled, and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "No. A resignation letter." In front of Leo, he placed a thick, blank piece of paper that exactly duplicated the poison pen papers and a large red marker that had the same sized tip as the ones used to write them.

  He'd been unable to trace any purchases of the same to Leo Hastings. His cop friend had told him to his face there was little they could do at this point. So he'd taken matters into his own hands and bought similar items.

  Leo flushed red at the sight of them. He may as well have confessed.

  He looked down at them for a long moment, then up to meet Shel's gaze, his arrogant eyes hooded. "She's not as good as I am. I wanted to rattle her, that's all."

  Shel had expected the man to deny everything, not make excuses. "On the contrary, I think she's much better than you, and you know if, you coward," said Shel quietly.

  Leo's flush deepened and he shoved back the chair, leaping to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. "You—"

  "Yes?" said Shel calmly, his fingers laced together.

  The man stared at him hard for a moment, breathing heavily, flexing his hands. Perhaps he could picture the headlines that would say Poison Pen, Columnist Punches Editor. Perhaps he could see jail in his future. Whatever he saw, his shoulders slumped.

  "You just want to bed her," he mumbled. "You don't care how good her letters are." There was no fight in him now.

  "Get out." Shel had no memory of rising; he was simply on his feet. Now he was the one with fists c
lenching at his sides.

  Hastings smirked. "I'm going. I'm going somewhere I'll be appreciated!" He slammed the door on his way out.

  Shel looked down at the blank white paper and the bright red marker beside it. He reached down and nudged it slowly, first one way, then the other. Such a simple thing to be a vehicle for so much hatred.

  He sat down again and picked up the article he'd been reading. Eventually his heartbeat would slow to a calm rate; perhaps when he went to see Ellie this evening. Her bright smile and the pups would revive him, remind him of the good things in this world.

  Perhaps eventually he would even forget about Hastings and his desire to hurt Ellie simply because she was better at being a columnist than he was. But not today.

  Chapter eight

  "Coming, coming!" Ellie called over the barking of the puppies. She weaved her way carefully around them as they jumped and leaped in excitement. Someone was knocking at her apartment door. Mrs. Fine had already gone home for the day, or she would've probably gotten to the door first.

  Ellie had a steep learning curve taking care of puppies, but fortunately she had help. Mrs. Fine was only too glad to take over some of their care, especially when Ellie paid her extra for it; and Shel came over nearly every day to check on them and help her take them for walks.

  They weren't housebroken yet, but they were down to one large square of newspaper. Out of loyalty, she'd promised never to use his newspaper as their waste area, but Shel had laughed and said, "Please do! Any sales help circulation, you know. Even if it's only to protect your floor from dogs."

  She'd laughed, too. There was something about Shel. His quiet kindness and gentle intelligence never grew old. She saw how hard he worked, knew how late he went home; and by now, she knew he was a widower.

  She'd bought him a new jacket, as she'd promised. A nice one. It had taken some effort to get him to accept it, but he'd given in eventually and gone to the fitting, and then returned smiling and looking like a million dollars.

  Not that he didn't always look good, because he clearly did. In his shirt sleeves, an old bathrobe, or a crisply cut suit. All the time, every way.

  She was fairly certain he would look amazing without any clothing at all, too, but she tried to keep those thoughts to a minimum. It was really none of her business to think such things, and impossibly rude.

  He made time almost every day to come over and see the pups and help with them — and talk to Ellie.

  They also talked about the advice column, although she didn't travel down to the office much lately. He usually brought new letters with him when he visited, and they talked over which ones she ought to answer, along with the contents of the letters themselves, if they were interesting enough.

  She felt as if she could talk to Shel forever and not grow bored. Sometimes he spoke about his work, and they discussed everything from art and literature to nature and music. He introduced her to jazz. She introduced him to chamber music.

  They often walked along in the park with the puppies on leads, waiting for them to sniff and investigate every sight and smell within range as the humans talked. And talked. Shel was a quiet-spoken man, but he had a great depth of wisdom and many interesting thoughts in his handsome head. She loved drawing him out, or just waiting till he spoke and listening to him with her whole heart.

  Ellie felt herself blooming as mightily as the trees in the park, which had long since unfurled their leaves and spread the green banners to the sky to soak up sunlight. Oh, outwardly she looked much the same, except that her clothes were rattier. The puppies chewed little holes in absolutely everything, and many of her dresses and shoes had taken damage.

  She didn't dress any differently otherwise or change her hairstyle; she'd already been fairly well-versed in the current style, from her aunt's strict training to always look her best, and had kept up with it whether she was interested or not. But inwardly, oh inwardly, she felt like a woman for the first time in her life. Not someone's niece or sister, not an invalid to be pitied and protected but never treated as an adult. No, she was a real woman, talking to Shel, walking with him, taking care of the pups with him, and even going out to see the occasional movie together.

  On those nights, she paid Mrs. Fine or a young woman from the neighborhood to stay home with the pups. She thought they were too young to be left alone, even for a few hours. Although, as fond as she was growing of the little creatures, she was beginning to think she would always feel protective of them, even when they reached their adult size.

  The pups were black with short fur and floppy ears, brown noses, big pretty baby gazes, and very vigilant tails. They were learning about the world by leaps and bounds and investigating all of it with their teeth.

  Neither she nor Shel were very good at disciplining them, but Shel had bought a book that said they were a bit young to learn much anyway. She didn't know about that — they had certainly learned how to destroy a great deal of flour and raisins in the cupboard one day when the door was left open by accident — but she certainly agreed they couldn't punish them much at that age. Nor, to be honest, did she ever wish to.

  A horror of ending up with adult monsters kept her thinking about the matter, though, wondering when it would be appropriate to curtail their wild behavior. For now, teething pups who were on solid food but still liked milk, and weren't yet housetrained, were allowed to do nearly always exactly as they wished. Especially when what they wished involved sleeping on her feet, like furry little hot water bottles, flopping around her ankles absolutely exhausted from their mischief.

  With her visits from Shel, her teething puppies, and her chewed-upon shoes, Ellie had never been so happy.

  Now, she hurried over and around the pups, anxious not to trip on them, but in a hurry to get to the door. It might be Shel! Sometimes, he came over twice in one day. Always there would be a reason — another few letters arrived for her to pick from for the column, or he'd gotten a few bits of meat at a good price for the pups, or some other tempting, necessary offer.

  They had not spoken of love or marriage once. But every time she saw him, her heart fluttered wildly. Sometimes he arrived neatly pressed, looking shockingly well pulled together for a widower, his hair combed flat and not even curling. He used water to dampen it, not grease; after it began to dry, the curls would start to stick up one at a time, till by the end of his visits he was wreathed with a laurel of beautiful, curly dark hair, the way he ought to be. She enjoyed the transformation, and every stage of it. It was only a sense of propriety that kept her from running her fingers through his lovely mane.

  Other times, he arrived during the middle of the day, in his lunch hour, looking hot and hurried from the walk, because he had been rushing so he would have time to come see her and then make it back. She always had a sandwich or more than a sandwich ready for him on those days, so he could eat and wouldn't have to go hungry.

  Mrs. Fine made almost all the meals, but those sandwiches Ellie learned to make by herself. It gave her a special feeling inside, preparing something he would enjoy, even if he hurried sometimes while eating it. On those lunchtime visits, he was not pulled together; his hair was always wild already, untamed and beautiful. His shirts and jackets were often wrinkled, and he more often than not didn't wear a tie, even if he had started the day with one. She sometimes saw it slipping from his pocket like a strange, flat snake trying to escape him, or a cloth tongue sticking out at her from his living jacket. In those moments, she had the absurd desire to laugh; and sometimes she did.

  Shel's sense of the ridiculous was such that he could laugh along, and pull the tie out and either flop it over the back of a chair to wait for him, or sling it round his neck and quickly tie it, making a face as he fumbled quickly with the soft cloth, rueful and pleased at the same time, never minding being the butt of the joke.

  Sometimes he forgot the tie and left it over the back of his chair. He hurried away, glancing back to wave briefly at her before jogging for his office.
Rushing because they'd left it to the last moment to part once again.

  On those days, she eyed the tie doubtfully, holding herself back at first. And then she'd reach for it, pick it up, fold it in her hands, and rub the soft brown cloth against her cheek, closing her eyes until the pups started barking around her ankles or trying to tug at the hem of her dress, reminded her they needed her attention.

  The knocking increased.

  "Coming, coming!" She stopped in front of the door, pushed back strands of her loose red hair, and gave her head a slight toss. She smiled, tugging the front of her dress straighter, then pulled the door open, trying to hold the pups back with one foot. "Hello Sh — oh."

  She smiled uncertainly at her brother, standing on the doorstep. Instead of Shel's beautiful, hopeful smile, and his hands full of something he wanted to show Ellie, her brother stood there wearing a grave, disapproving expression. He had a gold watch and a rather old fashioned silver-tipped walking stick, which he certainly didn't need. He wore a costly black suit over his expansive frame; he was round with a serious, slightly flabby face. His eyes were small in his pale, crinkled face, gaze green like Ellie's, and his hair was a darker red than hers. He looked every inch the successful, stuffy businessman — and, Ellie had to admit even if only to herself, he certainly was. Appearances were not incorrect in his case.

  "Augustus," said Ellie, nudging one of the puppies back just before it lunged for his stick, its eyes gleaming and its tail flailing. It gave one short, sharp bark at the intruder, and the other pup set up a long woo-woo-woo in accompaniment. She realized with a start that her brother was much more of a stranger to the little dogs than Shel could ever be; Auggie hadn't been by since before the puppies had arrived and taken over her home and heart.