Above the Fold

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  “Thank you.” She entered the room, her burgundy gown flowing with her steps. It didn’t matter if Grace Tillman donned velvet and diamonds or a potato sack, elegance kissed her mannerisms. “This came for you from Charlie’s Greenhouse.” She held out the familiar box housing a yellow rose. “I thought Adam was escorting you tonight.”

  “He is.” She received the small package and set it on her vanity next to her formal hair combs.

  “Shouldn’t the man be the one who brings you a corsage?” Mother’s eyes never held a challenge, but the faint upward tilt of her lips usually preceded a propriety lesson. Like Irene Castle mastered in dance, Grace Tillman mastered in etiquette.

  “I purchased this in case he brings the wrong color.” Her hands fell to her sides. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it?” More like pathetic.

  The delicate smirk disappeared. “Why would you say that?”

  “Alice Paul toured the country and inspired so many. She drew attention with her hunger strikes in jail. Made a difference. What have I done?” She gestured toward the box. “Wore a yellow rose. But does that change anything? No. It’s insignificant.” Just like her.

  “Ms. Paul did create quite the stir while incarcerated.” Mother wrapped a comforting arm around her. “But you’ve never been one for a gray uniform.” Mother rarely teased, but when she did, it softened Elissa’s edges. “You’re showing the world the movement’s not over—that we’re pressing forward.”

  Elissa stared into eyes as blue as hers, noting the passion in them. “I’ve never heard you speak like this.” Hadn’t her mother thought her ideals indecent? Hadn’t she almost disowned her upon the discovery of Elissa wearing a golden sash and marching down Fifth Avenue with a thousand other suffragettes?

  “Keep on voicing your stance. If it’s gotten this old conventional mama listening, I’m certain it’ll affect many more.” Mother’s smile was ready, warm, and somehow filling, like fresh-baked bread brushed with honey. “Just make sure you keep your shoulders back while speaking.” She winked, and Elissa laughed.

  But her biggest contribution to the movement could be squelched. “Father told me about the loan.”

  “Ah. This is what has you upset.” Her eyes softened with understanding. “Your father’s been staying up late, looking over the books again and again. It’s been hard on him.”

  As much as the worry niggled in Elissa’s chest, it had to be a hundred times worse for him. The paper had belonged in the Tillman family for two generations. Unlike her, Father had never tasted failure. Yet a sliver of her soul wept at the thought of her own aspirations dying. The paper was all she had left.

  “I’ve always imagined myself running the Review someday.” A dream she’d been clutching from her youth drifted through her fingers like the breath of wind through the bare willow’s limbs outside her window. She skimmed the bristles of her hairbrush with her fingertips, and her mother appeared behind her.

  “I know your heart is set on it. But should the Review fail, God can give you new dreams.”

  Elissa wouldn’t know where to begin with a different life goal. What could replace the rush of excitement that pulsed her veins when the presses fired up? Or match the sense of accomplishment when she held the warm edition she’d poured her heart into? No, it was the paper or nothing.

  “I’m glad you’re speaking with your father again. He didn’t need a strained relationship on top of the pressure from the paper.” She combed her fingers through Elissa’s hair like she had years ago. “He didn’t tell me Cole was coming for dinner until late yesterday.” Her lashes lowered. “I didn’t receive Cole properly. I’m ashamed of how I acted. He deserves my apology.”

  He deserved nothing but a swift kick in the trousers. So hard, it’d land the man right back in New York. “Mother, you did nothing wrong. If anyone, it should be him who apologizes.” And why couldn’t she keep the emotion from her voice?

  Mother, always discerning, stroked her back the same as she had the multiple times Elissa had come home crying from being teased at school. “It was certainly a shock, wasn’t it? How are you faring, my love?”

  Elissa tight-lipped a smile. “It doesn’t seem real to me. He has been removed from here”—and her—“for so long. He’s changed, yet is much the same.” His persistence being one of the qualities he’d retained over the years. “It’s almost as if he expects things to be the way they were before he left for Columbia.”

  Mother’s stiff curls dipped with her chin. She reached over Elissa’s shoulder, retrieved the hairbrush, and worked it through Elissa’s hair.

  Elissa slid her eyes closed, letting the soothing, rhythmic motion act like a tonic to her nerves.

  “Could it be Cole wants to make amends with you?”

  Her lids popped open, and now the bristles seemed to score her scalp like tiny daggers. “I wouldn’t allow it.” He’d set fire to that bridge. The only remains were charred memories.

  Mother lowered the brush, a tranquil expression blanketing her face despite Elissa’s outburst. “It’s quite possible he’s sorry for the way he treated you.”

  She unconsciously snorted, and Mother raised a brow. “For Cole to be sorry, that’d require an apology. Which he’s not offered.” Had he expressed his regrets on the note she’d torn up? She scrunched her nose. Maybe she shouldn’t have acted so rashly, but then … the man’d had plenty of opportunities since then to ask for forgiveness.

  Mother responded with a dainty shrug. “Does he need to say he’s sorry for you to forgive him?”

  This morning, her father had told her to be merciful. This afternoon, her mother was telling her to forgive. Their words scratched her resolve both times.

  “Forgiveness would only open my heart. And it has to remain closed as far as he’s concerned.”

  Her muscles screamed with fatigue. Cleaning day usually left her drained, but this sort of exhaustion had nothing to do with beating carpets. The Review’s unknown future, Cole’s enigmatic behavior, and Adam’s continued attentions were three excellent reasons to stay home and lose herself in an Austen novel. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, frowning. “Do I have to attend tonight?”

  Her mother kissed the top of her head. “Elissa, I’ve never known you to be a coward.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The jammed cable car had let Cole off three blocks from the William Penn Ballroom, and walking the crowded streets in his tuxedo wasn’t his idea of enjoyment. He attracted hand-over-mouth giggles from a band of schoolgirls and smirking appraisals from their mothers. Couldn’t a man stroll down Forbes Avenue in peace?

  The frigid wind, sodden with exhaust fumes, bit his face, and he ducked his chin into his starched collar. He turned the corner onto Cherry Way and came toe to toe with a millionaire.

  “Mr. Shelby.” Surprise edged his voice, and warmth flooded his chest as Cole stuck out his hand to the man who’d inspired a lot of his early articles, though none had been published. “How do you do, sir?”

  The older man’s mustache twitched until recognition struck his eyes like the gust of air that stole through Cole’s overcoat. “Cole the menace.” Grinning, Shelby withdrew his hand from his pocket, a handkerchief spilling out onto the sidewalk. “I thought you were terrorizing New York. You didn’t come back to peek in my windows again, did you, boy?”

  The fragrance of wildflowers assaulted Cole’s nostrils. He drew in a breath and spun on his heel. No Elissa. Only a group of men huddled outside the barbershop, smoking. He palmed the back of his neck. Crazy. He was going crazy.

  “Something the matter?” Shelby stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, eyeing Cole with a raised brow.

  “I’m being haunted by a woman.” All there was to it. When he’d remained three hundred miles away in New York, the tremors of emotion had been manageable, but with his desk now only three feet from hers … the fierce current pulled. Like standing a yard from a tornado. Being sucked in was inevitable.

  “Females. They
do that, don’t they?” His focus traveled over Cole’s shoulder, and his mouth flattened into a grim line. “Hard to understand too. Even after thirty-five years of marriage.”

  Flickers of sadness shone in his former mentor’s gray eyes. The heavy scent which punched Cole’s senses a moment ago deadened, intensifying his confusion. “And to answer your first question, no. I gave up snooping around kooky inventors’ homes.” He fixed a smile on his face. “Did I ever thank you for not ratting me out to Mr. Tillman?”

  “Ah, that was forever ago when you were a nosy delivery boy. Now you’re a nosy reporter.” Shelby’s throaty chuckle followed. He withdrew a cigarette case. “I read your column every day.” He snagged a smoke stick and offered one to Cole. “Impressive stuff.”

  Cole raised a hand in refusal. “Thank you, sir, but not nearly as impressive as all those inventions you came up with during the war. The scaled-steel bulletproof vests? That was genius.” The flow of pedestrians thickened, and Cole shifted to the edge of the sidewalk. “I never knew one man could sell so many patents to the government.”

  Shelby lit his cigarette and shook out the match, tossing it to the ground. “It’s only money. Paper with ink on it. No different than your newspapers.”

  No different. Right. “Except one holds value, and the other holds articles.”

  Shelby released a puff of smoke and regarded him with an easy smile, his cheeks tinged pink from the crisp air. “But both hold a considerable amount of influence and power.”

  “Indeed.”

  He glanced over Cole’s shoulder again and narrowed his eyes. “Best be going. I have a late meeting to attend.”

  From the deep scowl on his face, it appeared to be an unpleasant sort of meeting. If Shelby’s office—which doubled as a workshop—was located north on Reed Street, why was the man traveling south? “Did you move operations?”

  “No.” He raised his chin, and an odd spark of what appeared to be determination tightened his features. “I’ve no plans of going to my place tonight. It’s time to meet them at their headquarters.” His voice sharpened on the word ‘headquarters,’ and the awkward shift in demeanor reminded Cole of past conversations with this inventor. The man would speak as if you were privy to his thoughts but leave you as blank as a fresh roll of newsprint paper.

  “Who are ‘them,’ sir? Are you working with someone on a new project?”

  “I can’t say at present.” The breeze gusted, smacking his coat collar against his neck, and he adjusted it. “Good seeing you, Cole the menace. Stop by sometime. You still got your key? I remember how tickled you were when I gave it to you.”

  “I’ve got it tucked away, Mr. Shelby.” Tucked away in his wallet, but he wouldn’t let the man know. It was one thing to be sentimental about an influential gent taking you under his wing like Tillman had, but another to be mushy about it.

  “Remember when I tutored you for that science exam? That was a special time for me.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “I still have it, you know.”

  “The test?” At the time, Cole hadn’t the money to buy anything for Shelby as a thank you, and so Cole’d gifted him the exam.

  “It’s on my desk.”

  Cole’s brows edged higher. With Shelby attaining major success, it would seem that tutoring a poor newsie would’ve been easily forgotten. “I’m thankful you helped me, sir. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be in ninth grade.”

  “Well, well.” Shelby rocked on his heels and nearly collided with an old woman shielding her face from the wind. “It was good times, as I mentioned.”

  “Be certain you tell Hank that I’ll be stopping by the office to challenge him in another round of chess. I’ve improved since the last time we played.”

  “He moved to Kansas a few years back to be near family. I have a new lab assistant now. Matthew’s not as experienced as old Hank, but he’s astute. Just what I need.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Matthew is a private person. Likes to keep to himself. Oh, before I forget, there’s a small matter of a motorcycle.” He dipped his chin, peering at Cole from above the rims of his glasses. “I was under the impression I’d be holding it only a year.”

  Cole’s jaw slackened. “You still have my Triumph? I was sure it’d been scrapped by now.” That two-wheeled chariot had taken a lot of punishment during Cole’s teenage years, but he’d gladly take it back, even in pieces.

  Shelby’s false annoyance faded into rich laughter. “No, I still have it. I may have tinkered with it here and there, replaced a couple parts. Honestly, you should be thankful Jeffrey hasn’t demolished it yet.”

  “Say, how’s Jeffrey these days?” Cole had met the only Shelby child a handful of times. Must be in his late twenties now.

  “Like I said, Cole, stop by and we can go to lunch. I really must be on my way.” He tipped his hat and strolled off.

  “I’d like that. Good day.” Cole called after a rapidly retreating Mr. Shelby.

  The man acknowledged him with a raised hand but never looked back. Odd fellow, that one. Acted like he’d never heard Cole inquire after his son. But Cole wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to dine with the famous Mr. Shelby. Eccentricities and all. Cole would even foot the bill, especially if it meant a chance to pick at the inventor’s brain. It’d be well worth the two-dollar lamb chops at the Penn Hotel.

  A car horn blasted from down the street, snapping Cole back to his original mission. The gala.

  Cole entered the ballroom, and by doing so, stepped into tradition. Forty years of “Appreciation Galas,” as Mrs. Tillman called them, though Cole had only been present for nine, counting this one.

  Gold ribbons of light unfurled from the swollen globes gracing the ivory pillars. But the queen of the room was the chandelier, postured with grandeur and brilliance as if it upheld the ceiling rather than being suspended from it. The glossy oak floor boasted more layers of wax than all the heads of Cole’s old bosses back in New York. He never put that glop in his hair, even for swanky parties such as this.

  “Mr. Parker.” A female voice bled into his musings. Irene Harper approached, clopping heels matching the pace of a frenzied racehorse. “I am so glad I ran into you.”

  “Good evening, Miss Harper.” Cole dipped his chin. “It’s been a while since we last met.”

  “Too long.” Her lips slanted, and her heavily sequined dress dulled in comparison to the sparkle in her brown eyes. “Not since high school. But back then, we ran in different circles.”

  Circles as in social classes. In those days, Irene Harper wouldn’t have been found dead chatting with the poor son of a nobody. Seems Cole’s job at the Dispatch had elevated his status in her opinion.

  “I came over to tell you”—she placed a gloved hand on his bicep—“that I loved your article. Adored it.”

  His brow spiked, and he stepped back, her fingers falling to her side. “You enjoyed the article about an execution?”

  “Oh no.” Her beaming grin dimmed, pink dusting her cheeks. “The one from yesterday. I had no clue the women’s shelter was being foreclosed on.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “How did you discover this before the broadcast of the radio bulletin?” A note of awe sprinkled her tone.

  Luck. The spread of gossip rivaled the speed of light, especially in a cramped apartment complex. He hadn’t expected any truth to the claim, but when he’d called the shelter, the manager had confirmed it. But leaking sources was bad form. “Right place at the right time, Miss Harper.” Nothing like a journalist using an overdone cliché.

  Her high-pitched laugh clashed with the music as she angled herself in a flattering way. “I told my father, and he’s going to make a donation.” The words themselves innocent, but the heavy batting of eyelashes spoke danger.

  “That’s kind of him.” The Harpers not only possessed considerable wealth but also had been the prominent patrons of the Review for decades. “Please relay my thanks.”
>
  “With pleasure, Mr. Parker.” She fingered a sequin on her neckline. “If you ever need inspiration for a story, there’s always something going on at the medical center where I volunteer. I’d be happy to give you a personal tour.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  She smiled again, and her gaze drifted to the dance floor. “I always love the Review parties. I rarely get a chance to dance.”

  An aggravating ultimatum stretched before him—encourage the flirtatious millionaire by indulging her with a dance or receive a rebuke from Tillman for disappointing the darling of the family who supported the paper. “I believe, Miss Harper, that—”

  “Cole.” Mrs. Tillman appeared, stepping between him and Miss Harper. “I have an issue I must discuss with you.” With poised grace, she shifted her attention to the younger girl, whose smile faltered then renewed. “Excuse us, please, Irene. It’s a pressing matter.”

  “But of course.” Miss Harper dipped her chin and retreated to corner another notable bachelor.

  Cole couldn’t celebrate the victory of escaping Miss Harper because now he faced a worse scenario than an awkward dance with a shiny-eyed girl. After his last encounter with Mrs. Tillman, he’d decided it’d be best to avoid her this evening. He resisted the annoying urge to tug his collar. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Tillman?”

  Her lips curved in a gentle way. “I want to apologize for the way I received you yesterday evening. I was surprised at your coming and didn’t respond appropriately. Will you forgive me?”

  The gift of words ran deep in him, from smoothing his way out of trouble to flattering his way into high society. But here, in front of Elissa’s mother, talent deserted him. She asked him to forgive her? After all he’d done to the two people she loved so dear? She couldn’t know the motivation behind his actions. No one knew except him and God.

  She patted his arm, softness flooding her eyes as if she understood his struggle. “Please know, Cole, you’re welcome in my home anytime.”