Chapter Ten

 

Bitty’s morning line for coffee was unusually long on Wednesday morning. Eleanor, who was wearing a pair of heels which pinched slightly, felt the tedium of immobility and the anxiety of one who has other places to be. A certain nervousness now lingered in her mornings with the realization that Lucy had been at the office by eight, rearranging papers and making appointments and attempting by some fierce personal campaign to make herself indispensable.

“Thirty-six.” At the sound of the barista’s voice, Eleanor approached. “Mocha cappuccino,” she said. “No whipped cream, just cinnamon, please.” She placed her number in the bowl and waited as the brisk college girl behind the counter pulled levers and deftly sprinkled cinnamon from a large dispenser.

She snapped the lid on top. “There you are,” she chirruped, in a pleasant voice which reminded Eleanor faintly of her assistant’s.

“Thanks,” said Eleanor, who placed the change from her purchase in the tips jar before moving along in the line. Between businessmen and women in executive suits, a teacher or PTA mom with a box full of cupcakes. A man standing before the glass dispensers and displays of flavored creamer and sugar packets, selecting a stirring stick from one of the tall, open jars.

Something about the curve of his shoulders and the back of his head was familiar. The stranger from the airport. Edward.

Eleanor stopped momentarily. When she stepped forwards again, her movements were slower, deft, calculated to carry her closer as if to be certain of what she already knew full well. Closer to the black trench coat back, the shock of brown hair falling slightly forwards as he snapped a lid on his cup of coffee.

He turned and saw her. She didn’t expect him to recognize her, but she could see that he did.

He raised his coffee cup, as if pointing at her. “Eleanor,” he said.

“Edward,” she answered, with what she hoped was a friendly yet inscrutable smile. “We meet again.”

He smiled in response, his face growing warmer beneath its shy curves. “I took your advice, as you see. Coffee at Bitty’s on the East Side – on the wait list at Elliot – and with a suit perfectly buttoned, courtesy of Sullivan’s.”

She laughed. “Then meeting me wasn’t in vain, was it?” she said. “And you’ve survived without a pocket edition so far.”

“But if I only had one,” he answered, shaking his head with a sigh. “Just think how much more I could have done. I’d be a native of Pittsburgh by now instead of just stumbling my way through it on a daily basis with only a handful of helpful clues.”

He could go now, she realized, for he had already stirred his coffee and dropped a pile of empty sugar packets into the garbage. But he had not done so.

“So do you like it?” she asked. “The city? Thus far, I mean.”

“I do,” he answered. “It would be lonely if I didn’t have contacts here, of course. Workplace associates to steer me to lunch and so on. I took up the sandwich shop a couple of blocks away, The Bread Box for weekday lunch – it was my own personal discovery in Pittsburgh. None of my coworkers are truly native to the city, it seems, so their knowledge of its ins and outs are limited to five years’ experience or so.”

“Five years is sometimes enough,” said Eleanor. “Just think – if you stay here, you’ll be the one feeling lofty when another hapless transplant arrives.”

She had met his gaze – he held her own for longer than was necessary as they stood there. Someone moved past Eleanor, brushing against her, as if signaling subconsciously that she was in the way of the shop’s traffic, but she did not move. Not yet.

“If somebody wants to have fun here,” he began, “where do they go? If they’re a long-term Pittsburgh resident.”

She wondered the reason for this sudden question, her heart skipping faintly in reply. “To the park,” she answered, “to run or walk. To the opera or the city symphony, if you like music or the atmosphere.”

“Sounds good thus far,” he answered. “And you do all of these things? You and the other natives?” he teased.

“I should tell you a secret,” she said. “I’m not truly a native of Pittsburgh.”

“Really?” His tone was soft.

“I – too – was a transplant. At one time or another.” A more artful smile, which had been tugging at her lips, now crept fully into place.

She liked his eyes, she decided. The curve of his jaw, although slightly narrow, was handsome. The way his tie was slightly un-knotted – it was a casual touch which stirred interest in her veins.

“Edward! Hey, did you get that ticket to the movie retrospect?” A man was stationed near the door, a coffee held close to his Armani suit. A lawyer? Eleanor wondered. An executive?

“Yes, I did. Thanks, Maury.” He raised his hand in a responding wave as the man lingered near the door. A coworker who would be going the same direction, no doubt, and waited to be kind.

Ticket? Retrospect? Eleanor filed that away mentally for later. She needed to leave the shop now, of course. She would be late if she waited any longer.

“I’ll be seeing you again, perhaps,” said Eleanor.

“I hope so,” he answered. He looked into her eyes again with these words, offering her a gentle, almost apologetic smile before he moved towards the door.

Reluctantly, she thought. Regretful that their encounter had come to an end. It was a nice feeling that accompanied her all the way to her own office.

 

 

*****

 

 

“They’re here.” Lucy was almost breathless.

‘They’ were not a group of individuals awaiting Eleanor in her office. But the proof of her third book: the awaiting revisions, fresh from the editor.

A hard copy of the manuscript was on her desk, still wrapped in its express packaging, which surprised Eleanor somewhat – the fact that Lucy hadn’t opened it immediately upon arrival.

“The revisions,” said Eleanor, redundantly. “Yes, I suppose they are due, aren’t they?” She usually did not like witnesses the first time she read through the editor’s notes. Red marker, barely-legible notes in the margins – these were the sort of gremlins she preferred to face alone.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Lucy was waiting, her eye fixed upon the package as Eleanor slowly forced open its edges with her paper knife. A stack of paper sliding forth, brass brads holding it secure where the holes were punched. Flipping through it, Eleanor could see several lines scribbled to the side, and a whole paragraph marked through with a pencil.

“I really won’t need any assistance for this first part,” ventured Eleanor. “I’ll simply ... read through them and adjust the manuscript according to the suggestions. Then, if you wouldn’t mind proofing my work –”

“I can be a much bigger help than just proofing your work,” said Lucy. “Let me read the suggestions and help craft your approach to the manuscript.”

“My approach is to read the suggestions and make the changes,” answered Eleanor. “Unless they’re unreasonable and then I negotiate or offer an alternative solution.”

“See? I didn’t know that – I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t asked you directly,” said Lucy. “That’s why I want to really sink my teeth into this manuscript with you. I want to watch you work, up close and personal, and see if there’s any way that my input –”

“I’m sure your opinion could be very helpful, but, for now, I would like the chance to review my work in my traditional manner.” There was something firm in Eleanor’s tone with this statement. “Afterwards, of course, I will be interested in hearing your thoughts.”

“But look at this margin here.” Lucy hovered over her shoulder. “The notation for changing the chapter structure to focus less on guidelines for romance and more on the individual example you mentioned in the first three paragraphs...”

She hovered. A voice in Eleanor’s ear, the gentlest murmur of opinion or forthright remark with each turn of the page. Each note Eleanor scribbled to herself, Lucy studied with an eye both critical and fascinated.

Eleanor closed the manuscript. “I suppose I should read through the mail for the column, shouldn’t I?” she said. “This can wait. But the paper, of course, has an obligation to its readers of a more immediate nature, doesn’t it?”

On Lucy’s face, a look of disappointment appeared. Eleanor had already tucked the manuscript aside and begun leafing through the sorted stacks of letters, looking for anything which would catch her eye and ensure a decent column without too much concentration.

“Before you really dig in, it’s ideal to take the proof apart and lay it out,” suggested Lucy. “That way you review it page by page and maximize recognition of ‘cluster’ errors or common themes.”

Eleanor imagined the manuscript apart, the pages fluttering away in an accidental breeze. Herself seeing a hundred identical red marks in the same spot of every margin the moment before it happened.

“Ideally, you would print two working copies, of course. With me reading one, you can cover twice the ground as a hired proofreader would let you – because you can trust me to spot more than just mere errors, you know.”

“I know,” said Eleanor, automatically. Dear Eleanor: Last year, I was forced to let all my employees go due to the high cost of running a small business and now I’m all alone. Is there any bright side to this scenario...

“I proofed your two finished columns from yesterday. They’re on the pile of papers to the right of your paperweight...thingy.”

“Thank you.” A brief moment of silence followed. She could feel Lucy’s gaze returning to the manuscript now sidelined on the desk. A restless, repetitive movement of the eyes, like a dog watching the presence of a beef roast.

A tiny chirrup came from the message function on Lucy’s computer. She didn’t return to her seat to answer it. Perched along the edge of her desk, hands folded forwards as if she was somehow rendered powerless by the presence of this desired task.

Eleanor pretended not to notice. She glanced over another letter. Dear Eleanor: I’m thinking about quitting my job because, despite the hard times in my town, I can’t bear the atmosphere anymore...

“Here’s an idea,” said Lucy. “We could look at the manuscript over lunch – I’ll order in and we’ll make it a working lunch. You can show me how you view the editor’s notes – friend or foe, for instance.”

“Actually,” said Eleanor, “I have a lunch appointment today, so that won’t be possible.”

“No, you don’t,” Lucy answered.

“Yes, I do,” Eleanor repeated, more firmly.

“There’s nothing in your calendar.”

“Well, it’s a personal appointment,” said Eleanor. “So perhaps some other time we’ll keep that lunch date.”

Lucy was disappointed. “You really should tell me these things,” she said. “What if I had taken a message for a meeting? I really should know for the sake of our professional relationship.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid you can’t know everything,” Eleanor answered. There was some satisfaction with her voice as she said this aloud, her gaze remaining trained on the open mail.

Having Lucy removed from her office for insubordination: a satisfying thought in some respects. Confrontational correction, ugly scenes of departure – these, however, were things she preferred to avoid. Compromise could be reached in some other way, surely, than telling Bitterman that his choice intern had the tendency to be overly-opinionated, overly-assertive, and condescending to her much-idolized mentor.

She had the power. She knew she possessed it. She just lacked the desire to see Lucy departing her office in tears of despair or rage.

“Then I’ll schedule it for another day, I suppose,” said Lucy, who was now flipping through Eleanor’s calendar in search of a suitable time.

Eleanor left for lunch ten minutes earlier than usual, in part to avoid the notice of, and potential invitations to join, her coworkers. Brandon’s door was securely closed when she passed by; the main floor of the office was currently populated by employees who were less likely to offer anything other than a terse greeting.

There was a small crowd at The Bread Basket. Seating room was not hard to find, however, and Eleanor took a booth near the front windows. She had never eaten here before – she had passed it en route to a small appliance store she sometimes frequented - so its menu was unfamiliar to her when she opened it and scanned her choices.

Soups, salads, sandwiches featuring cucumber or celery or other root vegetables paired with turkey and light cheeses. Perfect. The sort of place Eleanor would choose without question.

She ordered a cup of green tea and a bowl of chilled melon soup. She was still perusing the choices for the main course when she saw Edward enter.

His glance around the room was languid, an automatic scan for an empty table, until his eye fell upon her. For a moment, he stood there without reacting.

Eleanor had busied herself further with the menu, pretending not to see him. Pretending not to know he was here, so that if he chose to pass her by, he could do so. He might even stop and say a few words of farewell, a ‘sorry I didn’t see you’ on his way back to the office. This was a meeting by chance, by accident. Nothing would come of it.

The turkey and lettuce combo, the cabbage and stir fry wrap, all in miniature pictures before her unseeing gaze. Until a faint shadow fell across the surface of the menu, belonging to someone standing beside her table.

He slid into the seat across from her. “My good fortune continues in this city,” he said. “At least I think it must. If you don’t mind me sitting here, that is. If you’re not waiting for someone –” He had just now thought of this, it seemed, as the concerned, embarrassed expression on his face proved.

“I’m not,” she answered, almost abruptly before she recovered herself. Why should she be so hasty to answer? “I mean, I don’t mind. It would nice if you stayed. I would like the company. Your company for lunch, I mean.”

She hoped she was not blushing. Her cheeks felt warm, her hands developing the urge to move in pointless gestures from which she checked them by force.

“Good,” he answered. She looked into his eyes, seeing those clear, frank depths more clearly in the window’s light. The power to say anything in reply had left her momentarily; she no longer felt the laminated folds of the menu in her hand, the surface of smooth plastic vanishing from her fingertips’ sensation as her skin tingled with excitement.

He was staying. He smiled at her. Then he opened the second menu on the table.

“What do you have?” she asked. “I’ve been tempted by the grilled chicken and cucumber.”

“Me? I have the grilled tomato,” said Edward. “Every time. Nothing very exotic or imaginative about it as a choice, I know. I think it’s become arbitrary at this point.”

He ordered green tea also, she noticed. A rather pointless connection between them, but it made her feel a sense of kindred likes and dislikes. Nothing extraordinary, she realized, but pleasant nonetheless.

“In the times we met before, I never asked why you moved to Pittsburgh,” said Eleanor. “Was it a random choice? Or a job opportunity?”

“Work,” Edward said. “Or rather, a fortunate break. I got offered a position at a law firm in town. Elkins & House.”

“Wow, that’s quite impressive,” said Eleanor.

“Really? You’ve heard of them?” he asked, sounding surprised.

She blushed. “No, I haven’t, actually,” she confessed.

“Nor had I,” he said, with a faint grin. “But they were kind enough to employ me anyway. Not many law firms take on a fledging as anything more than a virtual legal drudge – but they’ve hired me to see action in the field, theoretically. In cases of moral and ethical legal precedent, they said.”

“So you’ve only just passed the bar?”

“There’s hope for me yet,” he said. “I have only been a lawyer now – officially – for three whole months. A late-in-life decision, I’m afraid. I changed by major a few times in college before I settled.”

He was looking at her face, into her eyes, as if he could read her response there. “I’m guessing that doesn’t sound familiar to you,” he said. “I see absolutely no look of fond recognition for this scenario.”

She shook her head. “English from freshman year to graduation,” she answered. “I’m afraid I never looked back.”

The waiter set their plates on the table. “Would you like green chips on the side?” he asked.

“Green chips? No, thank you, not today,” answered Edward. “Unless you – ?” he gestured towards Eleanor.

“No, no,” she answered. “I’m quite happy with just the sandwich.”

When the waiter was out of earshot, he looked at her with a grin. “Now, if they had been good old-fashioned brown chips, I would have said yes. But again, not much of an experimenter.”

“I’m not either,” Eleanor answered. “Same job, same apartment, same city, for a very long time. But you – you changed your major how many times? You must have some sense of adventure.”

“Ah, that was more ... indecisiveness,” he answered. “Part of the charm, my family assures me. My sister and mother, anyway. I’m sure my brother thinks I should have followed his example and made up my mind to take the most carefree path available.”

A mother. A sister. A brother – apparently a younger one, judging by his attitude description and the general personality chart of child age order. She stored these away in her memory, as if collecting information for a file.

“But what of you?” he said. “What of Eleanor the person? You know, I don’t think you mentioned what you were doing in Pittsburgh, either. You, who are not a true native of the city.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. Shrinking from the mention of “Ask Eleanor” and all it represented – the years of opinions, pounding away at a keyboard, making judgments on other peoples’ lives which she sometimes suspected herself unqualified to offer. It did not seem like a topic for pleasant small talk at this moment.

“I’m a writer,” she answered.

“Big one or little one? Books, magazines, or poetry?”

“Journalism,” she answered, with a smile. “Of a sort. I freelance articles. For the Pittsburgh Herald and other papers, too.” This was technically true, after all. She was an independent writer of sorts, in which the Herald was simply a kind of ‘home base’ for her column.

“What sort of articles?” he asked.

“All kinds. All sorts of subjects. I like variety. But not a headline piece or news piece, I’m afraid.”

“So I won’t have seen your name on the paper’s front page?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I’m afraid not. Not even if you read the paper daily.”

“I have to,” he answered, with a slight grimace. “I’m afraid not to do it.”

There was something odd in his tone with this statement, embedding some other meaning in his wry observation. Perhaps he was one of those people annoyed by his own habits.

“Anyway, I moved to Pittsburgh a few years after graduation,” she said. “There were publishing opportunities here and I wanted a change from Montpelier. That’s where I’m from originally.”

“Really?” he said. “The gorgeous state of Vermont. I hail from Washington state by origin, so we were separated by the whole middle section of the country until now.”

“A whole country between us,” said Eleanor. “It sounds very foreign somehow. What language do they speak in Washington? Washingese? Washinglish?”

“Pig Latin,” he answered. “Nothing a journalist and English major could interpret at all. But my family made me learn Legalese instead for the sake of going out into the world as someone successful.”

A laugh escaped her – it wasn’t that funny, was it? – and she bit her lip to hold it back, even though she wished to do the opposite. But he had seen it, his own face aglow with the same warm affability as previous moments when they were comfortable together. As if it were natural, the two of them talking in a playful manner, its banter second nature to them both.

“So what do you miss?” she asked. “Leaving Washington and hearth and home. Are there regrets?” She cut her sandwich halves into four neat triangles, giving her something to occupy her hands besides picking apart the lettuce emerging from between the bread.

He was silent for a moment; then he sighed. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “Coming here was ... sort of inevitable for me. But I sometimes wonder if it was meant to be.”

“It isn’t what you imagined,” she ventured.

“The city? No, the city is ... a perfectly fine city. It’s the rest of my life that sometime has me confused.” But here, he smiled again, although not quite as easily as before.

“I do miss my car, though,” he answered. “I’m sorry I sold it before I left. I now think it would have been handier to have driven it here and endured its obscene in-city gas mileage for the sake of avoiding all the time I spend walking or in public transit.”

“You’re not a stroll-and-think kind of person?” she said. “More of a song-on-the-radio type?”

“The very one,” he answered.

He told her about his law school’s atmosphere, then about the job he held before coming to Pittsburgh, a job at the university’s library. She told him about Marianne’s artwork and the differences of personality between them.

They split the check afterwards. He offered to pay, but she declined, although the offer pleased her. Perhaps it was no longer merely a lunch by chance in his estimation.

As he walked up the street, in the direction of his office, he glanced back and waved farewell to her. She raised her hand with a smile, feeling a blush for how eager and wide that smile had become.

A cab rolled to a stop before her at the curb – an unintentional bit of luck coinciding with her wave to Edward. It seemed a positive sign to Eleanor as she climbed inside.

The main office of the Herald was alive again with post-lunchtime activity when she stepped off the elevator, seeing the scurry of some editor hastening to a deadline and Jeanine on the phone at her desk, sounding irritated with someone on the other end. She approached her own office, where she was pleased to see that, for once, Lucy was not back from lunch on the dot.

The door to Brandon’s office was open, with him at his desk polishing off a carton of noodles. “Have a good lunch?” he asked, as she passed.

“I did,” she answered. “I had a very good lunch. Thank you for asking.” With a mysterious little smile as she continued on, noting the look of puzzled response on Brandon’s face before she was gone.

 

 

*****

 

 

There had been no answer from Marianne’s cell phone for Eleanor since her sister hung up on her. A childish response to their argument, she felt; she might have taken more steps to point this out to Marianne, except the revisions on the book kept her busy.

Remove the first three paragraphs from chapter two – weren’t they extraneous in Eleanor’s opinion? Yes, the editor knew they had agreed to leave them the first time, but upon reading them again ...

Could she rephrase her explanation of guilt versus desire in the chapter on cheating on committed partners?

Find another word for “inappropriate” that seemed less...confrontational ... in the publisher’s estimation.

The manuscript was due to return to the publisher in three weeks. Another round of revisions would follow and then her book would be ready for its debut. The same as every time before, but Eleanor felt a strange additional pressure upon her this time. Something she couldn’t pinpoint, which made her anxious and overly-cautious this time. Not at all the steady and confident Eleanor, rooted in her meticulous methodology for completing a task.

And then there was the lunch with Edward. Pleasant, friendly, fun – but with a frustrating lack of definition at its end. There had been no questions about what either of them did on the weekends, no hinting at future lunches or dinner invitations. No sudden invite for herself, for instance, to the retrospect which his coworker had casually mentioned in the coffee shop. No, Edward had not mentioned anything about his personal time. Or asked her anything about her own.

Maybe he wasn’t interested in her. Maybe she misconstrued the chemistry and it was all on her side: a desperate bid for attention when faced with an attractive man’s appearance. Such thoughts made her shrink inwardly, as if cringing physically in her mind.

Edward Ferris. If she phoned every hotel in the city, she could learn which one had him registered as a guest. She could stroll by and – and what? Hope that he would invite her to have coffee somewhere? Dinner somewhere? Accompany him to the symphony in formal dress?

This was ridiculous. This had to stop before she did something utterly foolish and felt ashamed of herself afterwards. Not that anyone would ever know. Who among her friends and family had even a clue that Eleanor had a sense of the romantic, except for possibly Brandon?

She thought of all of this as she climbed the stairs to Marianne’s apartment. There was no elevator in this building, forcing Eleanor to climb to the top in heels and the heat of the summer in the stuffy stairwell, the wool of her business pants suit clinging to her.

She knocked on the door and there was no answer. She knocked again. Marianne had no classes at this hour, no gallery showing, no working hours at her part-time job at a used book and music store. If there was ever a time she might be home, this was it, in Eleanor’s estimation.

“Marianne,” she called, loudly. “Marianne, it’s me. Eleanor. I want to talk to you – please.” There was no sound on the other side at first. Then a scuffling noise, the rasp of a lock being forced back, and Tannis was before her.

“Hello?” There was something between caution and confusion in Marianne’s roommate’s voice, although nothing resembling warmth.

“Is Marianne here?” Eleanor asked. “I’m sorry, but she’s not answering her phone today...” Through the half-open door, she could see the small apartment’s interior behind Tannis. The space had been seemingly rearranged since her previous visit, with no sign of Marianne’s fabric art or sculpture supplies visible.

“Marianne,” repeated Tannis, with an edge of something incredulous in her tone. “If you speak to her anytime soon, will you tell her if she’s not staying until the end of the month to please get the rest of her stuff out of here?”

“Her stuff,” Eleanor repeated, cautiously. Not Marianne‘s art supplies, she realized, but her possessions. “Then she’s not here anymore?” Tannis’s statement about the end of the month – that was regarding Marianne’s residency in the apartment.

“Not anymore,” said Tannis. “Not since Wednesday. I haven’t seen her since then.”

Eleanor could see the barest corner of what was once Marianne’s part of the apartment. Where no crooked painting of Mexican oils hung and no postcards of masterpieces were visible pinned to the walls anymore.

“Didn’t she tell you?” Tannis asked.

“No,” said Eleanor, softly. “No, she didn’t tell me. Do you know where she is now?”

“Somewhere with him,” answered Tannis. There was no mistaking whom she meant. With that, she gave Eleanor a forced smile of sympathy and closed the door.