Ask Eleanor
By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014 Laura Briggs
Cover Image: “Love Between the Lines.” Original art, “Business Woman with Arms Folded” by Libux77. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
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Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alternate Ending: Eleanor and Brandon’s Romance (Originally Chapter Thirty-Two)
Why the Special Edition?
Early readers of Eleanor – half of them, that is – had one complaint about this book. Namely, that it should have been Edward at the end. We’ve heard them – as well as the Sense and Sensibility fans who root for a Brandon/Eleanor match – which is why the latest edition of Ask Eleanor includes both endings. The original final chapter (now the special alternate romance at the end of this book) and an all-new conclusion for Eleanor and Edward. Now both sides can choose the outcome they prefer, and also see what might have been – something which is usually a secret to the writers alone.
Happy reading.
Preface
Eleanor considered what words to say before the microphone.
It was one of those old-fashioned radio ones from the 1930’s, the kind with network or station call letters emblazoned on its sides. She approached and stood before it in her long formal gown of pink satin, clutching the slender gold trophy against her to the sound of thundering applause.
On either side of the long red carpet before her, there was a crowd of eager faces – the press, reporters, columnists – with questions eager for answers.
"How many marriages do you think you've saved?"
"Is it true that your latest work helped end a twenty-year feud?"
"What's the statistic on the number of relationships influenced by your writing?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she began her speech.
"Thank you for coming today," she said. "I'm honored ... I'm honored that you've chosen my column as one worthy of recognition as the greatest advice columns of twenty-first century journalism. One worthy of receiving a Pulitzer. Indeed, there are no words. No words to express how I feel about it. None at all. Although I need twenty-seven more to form a complete answer..."
For some reason, words were not coming to her properly at this point – a strange thing, since Eleanor worked with them, knew them intimately, inside out and front to back. The award in her arms felt light and flat. It was not a gilded Oscar-like trophy when she looked down, but a copy of her not-yet-released book Tell Me the Truth: Advice for Everyone on Every Relationship. A catch-all title which she had suspected the publisher would change before release.
She looked up with surprise. The people surrounding the red carpet lane seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. Since nothing came into her head, she simply smiled and held up the book in her hands. Loud and long cheers resounded.
And then she woke up.
Chapter One
Eleanor Darbish was sensible. She was levelheaded, practical, methodical. The true life compass was embedded within her, her mother was fond of saying – Ellen Darbish had been fond of such phrases, the extravagance of language a rare indulgence in her own largely-practical existence.
Ellen Darbish’s personality had divided in half like Plato’s human soul, creating two children opposite in nature. All that was self-control and judgment had taken hold of Eleanor, the eldest.
Plain blond hair the color of dishwater. Immaculate French twists without frills or curls, sensible coiffures without ornamental pins or clips. Hazel eyes without heavy makeup or eye shadow to pop their color into existence. A thin, straight figure which seemed tall without achieving actual height and seemed slightly gaunt without the angles and crevices of half-starved existence.
Tailored A-line and pencil skirts and matching jackets. Satin and silk dresses with sensible scoop necks and sleeves at least to the shoulder. No plunging v-necks, no sequined slippers or heels, no spaghetti-strap tops. Thirty-six and in possession of a well-controlled leather pocketbook and a smart phone which served as a personal planner in one’s palm.
On the plane to Montpelier, she fastened her seatbelt at takeoff. She did not read the plane emergency manual, although she had frequently done so in the past with the lingering apprehension of someone who knows the worst-case scenario is possible, if improbable.
She opened her book. She politely declined the offered beverage from the cart. She checked her watch and calculated the time until descent in Vermont.
When she woke from a dream later on, her head was resting against the plane window. The book she was reading, a novel about a painter with an identity crisis, had fallen closed on her lap. A trace of saliva at the corner of her mouth made her hastily wipe her face as she sat upright.
Where had that dream come from? A movie, a magazine article embedded in her mind somewhere? The nonsense about the prize, the ridiculous little trophy, the ludicrous red carpet. The dress ripped from Marilyn Munroe’s own wardrobe, the likes of which Eleanor had never worn in her life.
Imagination was the only explanation. Commercial advertising, perfume ads, something wild and colorful which lodged itself in her brain.
The businessman beside her flagged down the stewardess and requested a bottle of water. On his lap lay a folded newspaper open to the sports section. A reminder that she hadn’t seen today’s edition in her morning departure.
"May I borrow this for a moment?" she asked.
"Sure," he answered. She lifted it and turned it several pages back, to the Lifestyles and Humor section of the paper, past the crossword puzzle and comics and horoscope to the page of personal advice. Her eye glanced over her column. “Ask Eleanor” – the columnist’s picture omitted in this particular newspaper – the title printed in a bold Courier font.
Her eye flickered across its lines and paragraph as a whole, then individually. Swift and thorough, a habit of Eleanor's to look at least once at the final product of her work. Two letters, two four-paragraph replies, the middle two being the longest – but not too long. Too long occupied too much white space on the page. It distracted the modern human eye, which preferred smaller, short
er pieces of information. Sound bites; or 'sight bytes', as the editor who formatted the online edition once referred to them in Eleanor's presence.
The modern eye. That phraseology of her coworker seemed old-fashioned to Eleanor, as if others were a part of a prim and priggish generation who preferred reading endless run-together sentences.
But everything here was in its place. The paragraphs and lines in their proper place, her words of advice tidy, succinct, and no nonsense.
She folded it to the sports pages again and handed it back. "Thank you," she said.
Two chapters in the novel of the depressed painter. One final check of her possessions, one mental review of the location of her carryall bag in the overhead luggage compartment. One swift and purposeful path from arrival gates to the terminal doors leading to sunshine and taxi cabs.
Eleanor was en route to her second destination: the book signing.
*****
Bartlett’s Books was far from overcrowded. A personal appearance by a self-help author drumming up interest in their third book – she supposed that such an event had a limited appeal for all but the most celebrity-driven attendees who were eager to see anyone.
Eleanor was not just anyone in the eyes of the bookstore, apparently, which had placed a large cardboard promotion cutout of her soon-to-be-released book’s cover in the window. Undoubtedly it was because this was the home of Eleanor’s humble beginnings, the first column she ever published written for The Montpelier Banner a few short years after her graduation with a dual major in Psychology and English.
It would be the Pittsburgh Herald that claimed the column’s success. Where “Ask Eleanor” would become a staple in fifty-odd publications across the U.S. and the second most-popular advice column syndicated nationally. The column that spawned two non-fiction bestsellers.
On either side of Eleanor were reminders of the upcoming book, the publisher’s title choice superimposed on a background with a picture of herself looking professional and personable – that was the photographer’s description. Before her, a stack of previous titles, including her two year-old volume The Best Advice is Between the Lines.
“It’s been my favorite of the two,” said the man in the bifocals and sports jacket who had introduced her short speech – a psychiatrist and head of the local chapter on mental health issues. “It’s the chapter on compromise in the family that does it for me, I think. Especially that story from your own childhood – the one about your mother’s different systems of discipline for her kids.”
“She was a very sensible woman on a lot of life’s subjects,” Eleanor answered. They were standing in this semi-crowd of former listeners and seeming customers who made gradual requests for books to be signed or inquiries on the upcoming title.
“I’ve heard you have a new one in the works – one about romantic relationships?” This, from a customer who had her sign a copy.
“Well, it’s more generalized than that,” she answered, “but, yes. The third book will be out in a matter of months and it does deal with romantic love for the most part.”
It had been her agent’s idea. Something more centralized than her first book, which was more of a handbook, he complained. Something different, more contemporary.
She had signed twenty books thus far. Before the end of the session, thirty, including one belonging to a woman in a yellow rain slicker, whose copy was not newly-chosen from the stack on the table but showed signs of being read before.
“I can’t believe I actually get to meet you,” she said. “You published one of my letters in your article – the one from the girl with her high school boyfriend’s proposal? Do you remember it? Probably not, but I just couldn’t believe it got picked to appear in the newspaper.”
“Ah, of course,” answered Eleanor, warm politeness and caution in this statement. There were a lot of proposals mentioned in her columns – but this woman’s face was so genuine and eager that she willed herself to envision the possible letter.
The woman had opened her book, thumbing to a chapter which she laid before Eleanor. “And you put it in your book, too. This is me –” she pointed to a place on the page which Eleanor glanced over with only the faintest recognition, “– this part about young relationships and feelings changing with maturity.”
“Well, I hope my advice helped,” said Eleanor, which was her standard reply delivered with a polite smile to any reader who chanced to recognize her or made a comment about her work. Her pen was poised to sign as the book was flipped open to the first blank page available in front.
“Oh, it did,” the woman answered. “I said no to that guy’s proposal. Then I met someone else later and it all worked out perfectly. So you were right about waiting for life to settle down. Seven years later and I have a great life compared to one that would’ve started out with a honeymoon in my boyfriend’s mother’s attic.”
Seven years? Eleanor’s pen ceased scratching out her signature as she noticed the date on the opposite copyright page. This was a copy of her first book. Advice Your Mother Didn’t Give You, published in the first few years after her column became syndicated from its origins in The Montpelier Banner.
The title was ironic, since the advice was probably influenced by her own mother’s in some fashion or form, the practical and careful worldview that had shaped Eleanor’s psyche like a ball of clay fashioned into a world globe. Eleanor, whose mother had given her advice on everything; who had an opinion on every aspect of life from foreign policy to familiarity in relationships. Whose dual-sided means of communication and discipline for her children had been mentioned in more than one of Eleanor’s interviews, in more than one column or book chapter in all her years of giving advice to others.
But Eleanor had chosen the title with Marianne in mind, not herself. Marianne, the other half of her mother’s personality. The half which had never touched or influenced Eleanor’s worldview in the least.
Eleanor closed the book and handed it back. “I’m glad you were a part of it,” she said, in lieu of any better words of farewell which might come to mind.
“Thanks a bunch,” answered the woman, with a beaming smile. “A real pleasure to meet you.” As she moved on in the straggling line of interested book store patrons before Eleanor’s table, she was displaced by others who had listened to Eleanor’s little speech on finding the right advice. Not one of the mental health chapter’s members, Eleanor suspected – his suit was that of a businessman at work, not a casual attendee.
“Robert Townley,” he said, extending his hand across the book stack. “Former editor Montpelier Banner turned online director of Newsbites.”
“Oh, of course,” she answered, having a vague memory of seeing his name on an issue of the newspaper from a few years ago – not that she still took Montpelier’s paper now that she lived in Pittsburgh, but now and then she would peruse an online copy with fond reflections.
“Your column’s still at the top for Vermont readers,” he said. “This is still your town, you know – they still have your picture up in the staff room.”
“I do miss it sometimes,” she answered. “I’m seldom here anymore, you know.” There was little reason to come back to the scenes of her first career venture, no other ties here now that almost two decades had tucked themselves between her and her first college years.
“I’m not here as often as I'd like myself, since business keeps me on the move. My tech media company designs apps – news, current events, food, sports, the whole shebang. Golden combo of journalism meets technology.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a business card as he made this speech. “If you ever want to come back to Montpelier for home base, then give me a call,” he said. “My company's booming – the internet’s the whole future of media and a relationships app could be our next thing.” He offered her the card, embossed with letters like Sans Serif font across its surface.
“Thank you,” said Eleanor. “I’m flattered. But I don’t –”
“Of course, we’d be talking millions of readers with a single button,” said Townley. “Instant delivery for subscribers. A totally new way of writing advice – maybe interactive or video-based. Someone to lead the way for a whole new generation of self-help in the digital age...”
Video-based. Interactive. These were not terms of comfort to Eleanor, who preferred distance in communication. How did one answer questions so instantly with advice in tweets and texts?
“We’ve got a major deal going down with syndicated cartoonists,” said Townley. “One click of an icon and you load the top picks or independent artists – or have your favorite delivered in an instant daily pop-up the moment of publication.”
“Crosswords, too, I suppose,” she said. “I mean, I suppose you do all the variety.”
“Of course,” he answered. “Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.” He shook her hand again, unnecessarily, in her estimation, then was supplanted by a man in a yellow rain slicker who had asked her several questions about mother-son relationships during the Q&A session. And who absolutely loved chapter twelve on counseling friends through relationship crises …
*****
On the flight home, she finished three more chapters about the depressed painter. She didn’t fall asleep and dream about strange and impossible awards. She didn’t think about the chatty members of the mental health chapter and the eager fan whose letter was in the paper.
Instead, she opened the email on her phone and read through the messages in her work box. Letters for tomorrow’s edition, to be answered tonight.
Dear Eleanor, my mother and I have been fighting about everything for about twenty years...
...last month I loaned my father ten thousand dollars to save his house from foreclosure and he promised to pay it back as soon as he found a new job, but now ...
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