“I don’t really need an office,” Eleanor answered. “I never did, I only liked the comfort of feeling I ... belonged somewhere. But, as you know, things like that change.”
He sighed. “Well, we’ll look forward to reading your work from a distance, I guess.” Hands spread in a conciliatory gesture. “You’ll still be syndicated, right?”
“For awhile, yes,” she answered. “But in the future, who knows? It’s a brave new world, as they say.”
“That it is,” Bitterman said, wryly. His glance was on the workers hauling a heavy ladder in from the service stairs. Two others entered, carrying inside the new font choices for the ‘P’ and ‘i’ in ‘Pittsburgh.’ No doubt more letters were to follow.
“Ask Eleanor” as a video series. A live web chat – that one made Eleanor shudder. As an instant download received via app with each publication. It wouldn’t be the same as before – shorter, to the point, probably thematic in a manner which would have made her ex-assistant rejoice – but it was her call what to do next.
She had emailed Robert Townley, then phoned him by request.
“Absolutely, we’re interested in the app,” he said. “Especially since you’re syndicated. There’s a spot in Love and Advice on the website. We could use someone to help pull that part of the website together – a cross between advisor and editor – if you’re interested.”
“Is this a creative position?” she asked. Half-fearfully, half-curious. The pen in her fingers turning slowly between them, like a rotating fan blade.
“It could be.” Townley sounded interested. “We were hoping for something video-themed. Pop-up promotional pieces, but a full features series for the website as well.”
A half-hour later, Eleanor had decided. About the job, among other things.
With her final box in her arms, she glanced around her empty office at the Herald one last time. There was nothing left on its shelves or in her desk’s drawers. Its sleek, glass surface was bare, with the faint outline of its former lamp and the pencil holder. On the walls, the faint outline of the artwork which had hung there until yesterday.
She passed through the glass door and let it close behind her. A few doors down, Brandon’s former office. Her steps slowed momentarily: his name was gone from the door, the movement behind its frosted glass pane that of the younger replacement for the sports columnist.
This place was full of new faces, she realized. The names on the feature writers’ office doors and desks now belonged to as many strangers as friends.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Jeanine tisked. “First Marguerite, now you – and, you know, Jonas’s getting syndicated nationally. ‘Working from home’ he calls it – he’ll probably never get dressed again.”
Eleanor smiled. “You never know,” she said. “Look what happened to me when I was syndicated? I still came to work here Monday through Friday.”
“Yes, but I thought that was because you needed out of the house but were too cheap to rent,” said Jeanine, sarcastically. “Not because you liked this dump.”
“Goodbye, Jeanine.” Eleanor moved towards the elevator. “Tell everyone I said goodbye.” She pressed the button and waited for the doors to open.
“See you around,” Jeanine answered. “In the papers.” With a smile for this variation on a wan, old joke as she continued on her way and Eleanor entered the elevator, shifting her box closer in the same fashion as Brandon before her.
One last glimpse of the staff at their desks, the open and closed office doors of the editors and feature writers. Then it was gone, hidden by the copper panels sliding closed again.
*****
“So if I went, what would you think?” Eleanor asked.
She was packing – not her apartment, but a bag for her flight on Friday morning. A book signing at Barlett’s, then a lunch with Townley to discuss her future employment contract. A sensible blouse into her carry-on bag, a folded grey A-line skirt.
“I think you should go,” Marianne answered. On the phone, she sounded less tired than usual; her employer at the secondhand books and music shop had offered for her to leave early today. She was doing something artistic in her studio, either painting or drawing, because Eleanor could hear a light swish or scratching sound in between words.
She shoved a pair of black high heels into the bottom of the bag. “I was thinking you could come with me,” she said.
“Move back to Montpelier,” repeated Marianne. “But why would I do that, Elly?” She sounded as if no possible reason for asking existed, although they both knew that the reason was growing more noticeable by the day. She pretended, however, that it was not for the sake of Marianne's health, nor the baby's future safety, that she asked this question.
“We could get a house. Then you’d have an actual nursery for the baby, for instance. I could look after him at home while you work –”
“And when would you work, Elly? What would your new boss think? What if your – your videos or your columns or whatever you do is late because the baby cried all day?”
“I would give Townley no reason not to be fine with it,” Eleanor answered. She ceased packing. “It would be the best arrangement, Marianne. You know it’s true. You, alone in any city with a baby – whether I go or stay, you have to let me help you.”
“I’m fine, Elly.”
“Stop saying that, Marianne. You were hospitalized not long ago. You're exhausted half the time...”
“Exhaustion is normal. Besides, I’ve already got people who will look after the baby while I work – Mrs. Kirby down the hall raised six children and is happy to baby-sit. And there’s Maggie, and Louis, besides. And Gully doesn’t care if I bring the baby to work –”
“Gully?”
“My boss. At the secondhand shop. Honestly, Elly, don’t you ever listen?”
“But the point is, you’d be better off with me.” Eleanor sounded slightly pleading. “I can help you, Marianne.”
“I know you can. But I have to do this, Eleanor. I have to. It’s not your job to worry about me.”
It wasn’t. But that couldn’t stop her from it. The thought of leaving Pittsburgh and leaving Marianne in this city – Marianne, who had come here in the first place so they would be closer together – seemed painful. Especially when there was no reason for Marianne to stay, unless she, too, was simply afraid of missing it too much.
“So, living in Vermont again,” Marianne said, cheerfully, breaking their silence. “Would you go back to the old neighborhood or somewhere new?”
“Not my old apartment, no,” Eleanor laughed. “No, I really did think about renting – well, buying – a house somewhere. Maybe a car.”
“You like living in an apartment,” said Marianne. “I can’t see you in a house. Honestly, Elly.”
“I know.”
“And when would you go?”
“In a few months, I suppose,” said Eleanor. She zipped her bag closed. “It would take me that long to pack everything and say goodbye. Plus, my lease isn’t due for renewal until March. I thought I might sublet the apartment for a little while and just go to Montpelier on trial.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about repainting beforehand, will you?”
“I’m not in the mood for that kind of sarcasm, Marianne,” Eleanor retorted. She surveyed the two jackets lying before her, beside the bag. Black or grey?
“Would you miss this place?”
“Yes. Badly. That’s why I’m not making it lightly,” Eleanor answered, with a laugh.
Ten years was a long time. The same office, the same apartment, the same comfortable routines repeating themselves in her life with each season. The opera’s opening night, the symphony’s classical concerts, the wine tasting parties at Lucas’s. The same, small circle of friends and coworkers.
But that was all changing, whether she wanted it to happen or not. It was time for her to make a decision about how she wanted some of it to change.
“I think it’s tim
e, Marianne. I need to feel that I’m not rooted to Pittsburgh for no good reason. And, in the back of my mind, I still miss home.” She sank down on the corner of the bed.
“And what about Edward?”
What about Edward. Eleanor swallowed hard.
“I don’t know.” The desire to cry was stealing upon her. “There’s something about him. I don’t know if it’s love, but it’s ... very real. But I can’t stay here for that reason. And he can’t leave, obviously.” She hesitated. “Unless, of course, you think I should stay for other reasons –”
“No,” Marianne answered, firmly. “You can camp outside my door and the answer would still be no.”
“Marianne.”
“You want me to start growing up a little. Don’t you, Elly?”
“I do, I suppose. But Marianne –”
“Eleanor.”
“All right. Fine. We won’t talk about it now.” She sighed. “Goodnight, Marianne.”
“Goodnight, Elly.”
Stubborn. That someone as sensitive as Marianne could be so headstrong seemed impossible. Marianne would find her way forwards; else, she would show up on Eleanor’s doorstep one day with a baby on one hip and a cardboard box of clothes on the other.
No, not Marianne. Never. She would fumble along on her own rather than have someone pick up the pieces for her this time. No more midnight phone calls for plane tickets, no more credit card bailout for a car imprisoned in a mechanic’s shop. That much Eleanor knew was certain, no matter what else happened.
She left her bag by the door, near the box of Brandon’s papers to be returned. She wondered if he was still upset with her. His email to her, a short one about his appearance on a morning news show, hadn’t contained any evidence of it. It hadn’t contained anything very personal, either.
And what of Edward. What of the kiss on the balcony, the smile waiting for her when she emerged from her office? What indeed.
When she came back – but here, she didn’t allow herself to finish the thought. To think of all the ‘meant to be’s’ and ‘destined lovers’ seemed hollow at this moment, even though they had not seemed so in the airport when they had looked into each others’ eyes. Even now, she couldn’t think of that moment without a rush of exhilaration.
Would he understand? And if he didn’t, what would she do? All the secrets and small confessions still awaited; all the everyday truths and personal inclinations that had been omitted the first time, if they went forwards.
If. It was 'when' once before; 'never' in the moments before that. This was complicated, these feelings enveloping her with such conflicting notions.
She didn’t want her life and feelings revealed as someone’s lover, glossed by passion and idealized. She wanted them revealed in a gradual entrance into something deeper, so that it almost happened without the two of them knowing it. The discovery that they were perfect for each other. Meant to be.
That was the realization which came to Eleanor in this moment. She turned out the living room lamp and went to bed, where she lay thinking about what it meant until she was asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Moving to Montpelier was not an overnight process. Eleanor had spent the better part of two months back and forth between Pennsylvania and Vermont, shuttling between her old apartment and a rent-by-the-week high rise complex in Montpelier. She spent her mornings at breakfast with a cup of coffee, an open Montpelier paper, and a laptop screen filled with real estate sites. Digital bookmarks on prospective locations for settling long-term, her highlighter circling possible apartments or houses to lease, red mirrors framing different locations. One was a mere street away from her childhood home, bringing bittersweet reflections to her mind.
"Debut date is two months from now," said Robert, "if you're comfortable with that. We want to kick off the new year with an all-new lineup of choices for app users."
"I see," Eleanor answered. Two months in which to master webcams and podcasts. She endeavored not to sound daunted by this idea.
"In the meantime, keep doing what you're doing. Interviews and public appearances, all the promotions for your book, those things can help raise awareness for this new stage for your column. Nelson is prepping a public relations campaign that will help you find a way to reach out to your new audience and the old one at the same time."
She was supposed to call Lew Nelson this weekend for a phone conference between him, herself, and Townley's media publicist. She had an interview Friday afternoon at the local radio station for their news program's 'Loneliness Awareness Day.' And she had an appointment to see a house on Peale Street, one with a guest room which would accommodate Marianne, should her sister change her mind.
Refraining from calling Marianne was hard. She refrained from emailing articles which happened to catch her eye – the importance of prenatal checkups, ten easy steps for creating a baby-proof apartment, the pros and cons of preschool – knowing that all of the above would go unread, and would be seen as a form of nagging to Marianne. Marianne, who had no concept of preschool, who lived surrounded by lead paint, spark-blackened outlets, and inner-city toughs, who would point out that the phrase, 'baby-proof an apartment' sounded more like creating an anti-child environment than creating a safe home.
"What do you think?" the realtor asked. "A two-year lease may seem like a commitment, but this place will be snapped up off the market in no time. The only reason it's available now is because someone dropped out last minute."
"It's nice," said Eleanor. And it was. "I'm open to the possibility of taking it. I was hoping for something a little bigger for the second bedroom, but this would be perfectly good."
It was small, but the rooms were spacious enough, the rear windows facing a park and affording plenty of afternoon sunlight, the lease offering tenants the option of repainting the rooms and cabinetry upon color approval. Fawn and ivory shades on the walls, granite countertops in the kitchen, a wine rack built into the pantry.
Rose would be a nice color for the living room, she thought. Drapes instead of shades, too.
"Call me when you decide," said the realtor, "but I wouldn't wait too long if I were you."
Outside, Eleanor took a cell phone snapshot of the house to send to Marianne, the camera framing the green-shuttered windows and the small pear tree on the strip of lawn between the house's front and the suburban street's sidewalk. She tried to picture life there for three people. Marianne's child learning to walk, stumbling beneath the tree, grass stains on hands and knees, a shower of red and amber leaves over her and the child as she lifted it again – but no, it would be Marianne who lifted the child, not her. Where would she be? Watching from the windows, taking the photo the way she was now? The superfluous figure in the scene, the hazy person in the background of their lives?
There was a coffee shop a few streets over, the direction in which Eleanor walked afterwards. Montpelier was cold today, cutting through the layers of the coat over her business skirt and sweater.
Her childhood home was east of this block, she remembered. She would walk from her house to the stationary shop on the corner. The first moment of independence in her childhood, herself standing on that street corner, feeling the leaves flutter against her legs as the autumn wind whipped them up in an afternoon frenzy.
What had her mother sent her to buy? That part of the memory eluded her now. Thank-you cards, typing paper, correction fluid? There must have been some purpose to the errand. She could see herself in her mind's eye, a little girl in a blue sweater and knee socks, a pair of oxfords double-tied – sensible Eleanor at almost ten years old, facing the world with exhilaration despite the trembling in her knees, a sense of importance and responsibility pushing her out the door towards her destination.
She slipped her phone in her pocket. Traffic thickened on the street lined with shops and business vendors, Eleanor's glance falling on a toy store with stacks of brightly-colored blocks and stuffed rabbits from Beatrix Potter's tale.
Across
the street, a cab stopped. Abruptly, Eleanor noticed, so that the car behind it slammed on its brakes, honking as it swerved around the offender. From the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw the passenger's door open, a figure emerging, ducking below to the window opposite the driver's, bobbing upwards once more.
"Eleanor." She heard his voice, muffled by traffic. It was the voice of Edward. As the cab pulled away again, she saw him there, a rumpled trench coat covering his suit. He started towards her, withdrawing as a second car honked its horn.
She stopped short, staring at him from the sidewalk as the cars sailed by, wipers swishing back and forth in the drizzle of rain from the downcast skies.
"Edward?"
He stood across from her, helplessly glancing both ways, seeking an opening in the traffic. He looked at her again. "I thought it was you," he said. "I stopped for that reason."
Her tongue was momentarily frozen with astonishment. "What are you doing here?"
She didn't care that strangers on the street were listening to them, that one or two glanced at her. Eleanor, who never liked attracting undo notice in public, never liked witnessing dramatic conversations or emotional showdowns on the street, was doing all of the above now.
Edward waded into the traffic at the same moment she stepped off the curve, her business high heels sinking into leaves and muck an inch deep between the two cars parked parallel along the gutter. Edward was doing the same on the other side, his gaze firmly latched on her between swift-moving vehicles.
"Eleanor," he repeated. "What do you think I'm doing here?"
He didn't sound exasperated. He didn't sound desperate or upset, but – well, determined. That was the word she was looking for. Final, set, fixed, focused. This storm of description popped into Eleanor's mind as she stared at the expression on his face, heard the tone of his voice replayed in her thoughts.
"You followed me?" Her voice faltered. She had not seen him in two months. Two months, two weeks, and three days – not since dinner at the restaurant, when she felt the subtext of herself as Lucy's surrogate invading their conversation.
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