Above the Fold

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  She hated him.

  He could see it in the fiery flecks of her eyes. Hear it in her icy tone. Such a vehemence wouldn’t, couldn’t, disappear. But then, what had he expected? For Elissa to fling herself into his arms?

  Cole pressed a clammy palm against his neck and leaned back in his chair. His fingers itched for a bottle, a glass, anything to numb the intense craving building inside him. He ran his tongue along his teeth, keeping the dryness from settling in. It didn’t work. His heart rate accelerated, and instinct swallowed reason. Just one sip. A taste of whiskey on his lips should be enough. His hand dove into his vest pocket where he’d kept his flask. The tips of his fingers grazed the smooth edges of his … New Testament.

  Oh God.

  The newsroom whirred around him, reporters and editors unaware of his moment of weakness. Or maybe it was triumph. He patted the small Bible and thanked God for the strength to not succumb to alcohol’s enticement.

  A familiar sound floated in his ears, soothing as a lullaby.

  The press.

  How long had he been sitting here? He glanced at his pocket watch. Two-fifteen. The nagging thought to leave for the day tapped his mind, but he slid his eyes shut and took in the calming tones. When had he lost the zeal that made him scour the streets for the next big story?

  Manhattan. He’d been on the fourth floor in New York, removed several stories from the pulse of the news world—the press. The giant contraption that bled black ink and birthed afternoon editions. Here in Pittsburgh, the iron monster’s muted roar called from just below in the basement. The wooden floor beneath him quivered, sending a hum through his soles, reaching his heart. This was where he belonged. But secrets didn’t remain buried for long. He prayed Elissa would never unearth his shame.

  Cole slowed his pace on Wadsworth Street, guilt layering his heart thicker than the soot encrusting the buildings he passed. Only two blocks left to devise an excuse that would satisfy his curious mother.

  He flicked his gaze to the smoke-filled skies. The iron works and steel factories had unleashed their poisons for decades, replacing sunny days with ashen clouds. Thick and bleak. The same would have been Cole’s future if Tillman hadn’t welcomed him back, giving him a second chance.

  A stray cat darted past him into the garbage-strewn alley. Cole frowned. The outskirts of Oakland had always been a charming area—a great alternative for those who hadn’t sufficient income to live in the swanky neighborhoods but had earned enough to escape from the slums. Had the adverse effects of Prohibition touched even these parts? He’d learned from Mom’s letters that speakeasies had invaded Pittsburgh along with the flooding of immigrants who cherished their booze more than the law.

  A band of tension stretched across Cole’s back. Temptation so close to home.

  He rolled his shoulders and prayed for strength. Rounding the bend, he eyed the Willow Courts Apartments—his home for a good portion of his life. Its brick walls had succumbed to the dominant smog, dulling the crimson shade. The low picket fence could stand another coat of white paint. He grabbed hold of a silvery-grimed slat and shook it, testing its sturdiness. When it wouldn’t budge, he checked another.

  “Are you going to check every one of them or come give your mama a hug?” Helen Parker called from the back doorway of the two-story structure, a dishtowel draped over her shoulder and a smile brighter than the sunniest days stretching across her face.

  With a grin and nod, he jogged to meet her.

  She stretched out her arms, welcoming. “So glad to see you, Cole.”

  “Hey, Mom.” He pulled her into a hug, her hair the aroma of coffee and cinnamon. “You shouldn’t keep the door open on a cold day like this. Lets all the heat out.”

  She swatted his shoulder and broke away. “My son hasn’t stepped foot in Pittsburgh for over a thousand moons and is complaining about a little chill.”

  They crossed the threshold into the foyer, and Cole took in the different surroundings. The bones of the layout were the same, but the stale place had been freshened up. A lot. New wallpaper blanketed the halls, and stylish electric lamps lined the stairways leading to the apartments.

  “Sterling’s been my handyman these past few years.” She stepped beside him and tucked her arm in his elbow. “By handyman, I mean everything from replacing creaky floorboards to installing fancy lighting. And he wouldn’t let me pay a dime for any of it.”

  He’d been mildly sore with his older cousin, thinking he’d taken advantage of free lodging, and all the while, Sterling had been improving the place. “Everything looks great.”

  His mother hadn’t aged much since her visit to New York last summer. A few more gray hairs, but the spark of life and confidence shone brightly in her hazel eyes.

  “Where are your bags?” She looked at his bare hands and scowled, tiny wrinkles framing her mouth. “I want to see you during your visit. Don’t you tell me—”

  “They’re at the hotel.” He forced more enthusiasm into his tone than he felt and strolled into the front parlor. Updated as well. The corner of the room boasted something he never dreamed would be sitting in the Willow Courts parlor—a piano. “Since when did you start playing an instrument?”

  Her sharp glare revealed the previous conversation wasn’t finished, but she humored him with a small smile. “Sterling bought it for Sophie.”

  He cocked a brow. “Sophie lives here too?” Might as well ask Uncle Wooly to take residence in the attic since this place had turned into a family affair. Well … future family, considering Sterling and Sophie weren’t married yet.

  “She lived here for a few months, but she’s staying in the house Sterling purchased on Herron Ave. He’s staying here until they get married.” Mom wiped her hands on her apron, which looked like it had lost a fistfight with tomato sauce.

  He smiled. The woman had always been a messy cook. But a good one. His years as a bachelor had consisted of meals at restaurants on his way home from his office, so Cole looked forward to some home-cooked dinners.

  “Sophie gives music lessons here. And just happens to always leave a bit of money on the piano stand when she’s finished.”

  Even Sterling’s fiancée supported his mother. Cole was no doubt perceived as the callous prodigal son, but it wasn’t his fault his mother never cashed the checks he sent.

  “Now about your bags.” She planted two fists on her rounded hips and offered the look she’d use when he’d stayed out past curfew.

  “I’m not living here.”

  “But it’s just during your stay.” The plea in her voice tore at his heart.

  “That’s the thing. I’m not returning to Manhattan.”

  “So you’re not just here for Sterling’s wedding next week? You’re here for good?”

  He nodded.

  Her hands flew in the air, knocking the brim of his hat, and she did a jig. “Praise the Lord. You’ve come home.”

  He fixed his stare on a fresh scuff on his shoe. His heart couldn’t rejoice. Failure skittered around his chest, its sharp claws slicing the tender surface of his confidence—what was left of it, anyway. “I took a job at the Review. I covered the Cartelli case today.”

  Her jaw slackened, and his tightened with guilt.

  “I arrived last night. Late.”

  She wrung her apron into creases, but the wrinkles concerning him were the ones rippling her forehead. “A little notice would’ve been nice. It kind of makes me feel like I’m the last on your list.”

  “Never.” His shoulders weighted at her pained expression. “This entire thing was a last-minute decision, well … kind of. I’ve been busy at the courthouse then at the newsroom.” And he may have lingered while the presses ran, but his state of mind had required it. “Don’t be cross with your only son. I came the first chance I got.” He stooped and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  A slow smile built, the hard lines framing her mouth softening. “You’ve always been impulsive.”

  Impulsive.


  The word his dear mother meant as an endearment stabbed into his gut and blazed a fiery trail to his toes. He shuffled his foot on the tweed rug as if to brush away the sensation, but it welded into every nerve. Impulsive … like his father. “I’ll stay here.” The declaration ripped out like a bottle rocket—loud at first and then fizzling out.

  His mother hugged his left arm, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. “The room across from Sterling’s is vacant.” Her fingers tapped a joyous cadence on his elbow, but his smile slipped into a frown as he noticed her reddened knuckles and cracked skin. She’d been working too hard.

  “Here.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “It’s yours.”

  “I told ya once, I told you a million times.” The stubborn woman shoved her hands into her apron pockets. “I won’t take your money.”

  “But you take Sophie’s for the use of the parlor for music lessons. Let Sterling purchase different things around the complex.” He stepped closer, towering over her five-two frame. “This is all the money from the checks I sent that you didn’t cash.”

  She raised her chin, but Cole laughed. “Were you blowing on the spoon again?”

  “What?”

  He got out his handkerchief and started gently wiping the tip of her nose. “Growing up, I’d watch you blow on a hot wooden spoon when tasting the sauce, and every time you wound up with tomato freckles.” He showed her the glaring red offenders on the stark white cloth.

  Her posture relaxed, and she gave a delicate smile. “I’m so glad you’re home, Cole.”

  “Mom, please take this money. It’s my way of caring for you.”

  A glassy sheen covered her rheumy eyes. “You’ve always had a good heart. But what am I going to do with all this cash?” She glanced at the envelope in the hollow of his hand.

  “Hire a helper. Someone who can relieve the load of keeping up with this place.”

  “But I already have—” Her mouth locked tighter than the justification jaw on Tillman’s press. A flick of horror flashed in her eyes before she lowered her gaze to her clasped hands.

  Were there more repairs needing attention? Costly ones Sterling couldn’t afford? Cole might have wasted many things over the years, like relationships and his prestigious job, but he hadn’t squandered money. It didn’t matter if it was the roof, the plumbing, or anything else. He’d take care of it. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  The grooves between her brows deepened. “It’s what I am telling you. What I’ve been telling you for years. I don’t need your earnings.”

  “Just hire help with the cleaning and laundering.” He handed over the money, and she took it with a heavy sigh. “But not the cooking because I’ve missed your meals.”

  The sparkle returned to her eyes. “Then take off your hat and go wash up.” She shooed him along, the envelope flapping in her hand.

  Cole stepped into the kitchen but stopped short at the sight of a faded sheet tacked over the window. “What happened?”

  “Oh, that.” Her voice pitched high, raising Cole’s alarm. “Happened this morning. People on the hunt again.”

  He lifted the edge of the fabric and took in the shattered pane. “What do you mean, ‘on the hunt’? For what?”

  “Sterling had stored some leftover bottles of denatured wood alcohol from when he stripped the varnish off the stairs. A few weeks ago, someone broke into the cellar and stole it.” She pulled the dishtowel from her shoulder and tossed it on the counter, avoiding Cole’s heated glare.

  “And you haven’t told me about it?” Cole yanked his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. Mom’s sheepish glances spoke more than words. She hadn’t wanted to bother him. Her usual excuse. “What if you had been injured?”

  She sighed and walked over to the stove. “Sterling investigated. Said it was probably some amateur bootlegger trying to make Pittsburgh scotch.” She stirred the pot, the wooden spoon scraping against the bottom. “He’s even had patrolmen swing by here on their rounds. So you see, all safe.”

  He glanced again at the damaged window. “Yeah, I see all right.” It didn’t matter if the intruder had been a bootlegger needing to turn a profit or an alcoholic desiring to numb the cravings, both would be desperate to satisfy their compulsion. He was too aware of the brutal truth—addiction was dangerous.

  “Hot off the press.” Elissa grumbled, frowning at the Review’s newest edition. Cole’s article glared at her from above the fold. For the fourth day in a row. Resignation sunk her hopes. Cole was staying in Pittsburgh.

  She tossed the paper onto her bed with enough force, it slid off her quilt and onto the floor. Darcy scrambled over, nails clicking against the wood, and sniffed the pages.

  “This time, gnaw the headline and not my new muff.” Elissa moseyed to her vanity and plopped onto the stool.

  Her cocker spaniel regarded her with innocent eyes. After nudging a sheet with his snout, he proceeded to traipse across the edition as if it were a welcome mat.

  “Don’t think Father would appreciate that, Darcy.” At present, she didn’t mind the actions of her loyal pup, but she did mind the decisions of her father.

  How could he have done this? He’d known Cole had used her. Used him! Out of sheer decency, Father could have given her a warning.

  Five years without a trace of Cole. Well, not exactly true. He’d haunted her Monday through Friday, his syndicated column in the Review laughing at her from page three.

  But … how long had it been since she’d spied his article before he’d come to Pittsburgh? A couple of weeks? A month? Maybe two? She ran her fingers along her forehead as if it’d help her think. She’d been too consumed in the Cartelli ordeal, too absorbed in coercing her father to give her a chance to prove herself. If anyone had known the hours she’d poured into the case, she’d be labeled obsessed. She preferred passionate. After all, justice was due. But if she scraped away a few layers of noble purpose, she’d have to stare at the core of her motivation—distraction from the nagging thoughts of Cole’s betrayal which had grown in intensity as the days, years, slipped by.

  And the diversion had worked. Until now. Yes, she’d gone from seeing Cole’s name on the byline to seeing him in the flesh. Worse yet, his flesh looked good. Really good. By the way he filled his expensive suits, his previously slim build had thickened irritatingly well.

  Thankfully, Cole had kept his feeble promise and had hardly bothered her for the past three days. She’d spoken less than a handful of sentences to him, but what about tonight when he came for dinner? While she was at lunch, Father had left a note on her desk with the displeasing news that Cole would be joining them this evening. She thumped the vanity top with her bent elbow and sank her cheek into her cupped hand. How could she avoid talking to him? How could she keep her eyes from straying his direction?

  Same confident manner. Same dashing smile.

  Once, she’d hungered for the taste of those lips, but now that she’d been made aware of his true nature, she’d lost all appetite for such a man.

  Her pup’s collar jingled as he circled in a spot to lie down.

  “I should’ve kept my mouth shut that day, Darcy.” Her dog regarded her with lazy eyes which then drooped shut. If only she could close off her memory and wish away the look on Cole’s face that pivotal day she’d admitted her feelings for him.

  “You decent, honey?” Her housekeeper’s Welsh-accented voice snapped her to the present.

  “Come in, Greta.” She tightened her dressing robe around her waist and pasted on a smile.

  Greta shuffled in, her plump arms loaded with a welcome distraction—Elissa’s gala gown. “Picked it up from the dressmaker today. She fixed the bust so it shouldn’t be snug. All ready for tomorrow night.” Her smile filled with satisfaction as she lifted the dress high for Elissa to inspect. “Of course, you’d choose this color. So help me, young lady, you take this women’s suffrage stance to a whole new level. Wearing yellow all the time?” She huffed, stirring her black bangs
. “Is it really necessary, darling?”

  Dear Greta couldn’t be more tender-hearted or traditional-minded.

  “There’s no other option. I need to do my part.” However small it seemed. She claimed the gown from Greta’s hands, her gaze absorbing the rich golden satin. The neckline brimmed with crystal beads, tapering down the bodice like drips of sunshine.

  She’d never understood why Mother insisted that the Review’s yearly anniversary party be formal, but Elissa loved it. Nothing like seeing those burly pressmen sporting tuxes, their hands still stained with ink from running the press only hours before.

  “I have to say, it’s stunning.” The skin around the older woman’s eyes bunched with her smile. “You in this dress will have men forgetting their own names.”

  “Greta!” The word came out more of a chortle than a rebuke. The humorous side of her longtime housekeeper always poked Elissa when she least expected it. But Elissa didn’t want to think about men, especially one with an enamoring grin and a habit of taking advantage of devoted hearts.

  “By the way, Miss Lissie, the telephone is for you.”

  “And you waited this long to mention it?” She hustled to her closet, nearly tripping over Darcy as he skittered out the room. Careful not to snag the gown on the doorknob, she slid it in the spot she’d cleared earlier. “The person has most likely hung up by now.”

  “Not him.”

  Him. Three little letters, but they held the power to suck the air from her lungs. Wasn’t it horrific enough she’d see Cole in less than two hours? Must she now be forced to talk to him on the phone? No. Nobody was forcing her to do anything. She was a woman and not a child. Though sometimes the adolescent feelings swamped her like the newsboys on payday. “Tell him I’m busy. Washing my hair.” Or throwing darts at his article.

  Greta’s dimpled smile crimped into a scowl. “Mr. Kendrew has heard every excuse except the truth. Just tell the man you’re not interested.”

  Adam. Not Cole. Her heart resumed its normal pace. “All right. I’ll speak to him.” And if he’d already hung up, she’d be polite and call him back. Elissa patted Greta’s shoulder as she walked to the door. “You realize, Adam is only interested in me because of who my father is.”