Chapter Sixteen

 

Thursday afternoon Eleanor dropped off her dry cleaning at Sullivan’s. A spot on the black velvet, a small cherry-colored mark on her navy blue satin – she didn’t know which one, or, for that matter, if either garment was her choice for the upcoming TriCom gala at Norlend Towers, but Eleanor was not a person who left such a decision to chance or arbitrary destiny.

Afterwards, she walked towards a coffee shop on the corner for lunch. The Bread Basket was nowhere near this street; and even if it had been, she would have done her best to avoid peering through its windows or entering its doors with the hope of seeing Edward.

He had not come to her party. He had not called, had not attempted to see her again since that night outside the theater. It had disappointed her deeply. There was nothing she could do about it, unless she wanted to seem pitiful and pathetic in the attempt.

Her mind had revisited the moments after the movie several times, as if watching herself and Edward from a variety of angles. Attempting to distance herself from the scenes and see them as a bystander would, without the gloss of personal feeling.

He had kissed her – no, she had kissed him. Not really, it was more mutual than that. He had kissed her first, initiated the first touch between them when they were outside her apartment. What she had felt in his fingers and lips was something akin to the eagerness and thrill which Marianne described in love. The “tingle” in her skin, the sense of warmth, flush with trembling, from his own.

It had all been a mistake somehow. But how could she have made it? How could it seem like a connection between them, a spark, she would have said, and end up being silence instead?

Someone was coming out of the door of the digital design business ahead of her, a man with his head bent low and his hands tucked into the pockets of an expensive suit jacket. His quick steps carried him ahead, so lost in thought that Eleanor might not have recognized him if not for the brief glimpse of his face and the heavy shock of dark, wavy hair.

Her first thought, strangely enough, was to turn aside. To avoid him, as if to spare them both whatever awkwardness might be exchanged at this moment.

Hello, you, who impregnated my sister, whom you’ve scarcely known for two weeks.

Hello, you, who don’t like me simply because you think I’ll take terrible care of her because almost every man she’s ever dated was a terrible choice.

He was too close for her to turn away now. And it was uncivil of her; whatever she might think of their relationship, Will had been friendly towards her. He loved Marianne. That was enough reason to make her speak to him just as he passed her by.

“Will,” she said. “Will, it’s me.”

He looked up, turning towards her at the sound of her voice. “Eleanor.” He sounded surprised. He hadn’t noticed her, either, until this moment. “Hi.”

“How are you?” she said, smiling “I was at your apartment two days ago, but I missed you, it seems. I wanted to congratulate you.”

“On what?” he answered, somewhat wearily. Then his face changed, as if he comprehended her words.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. I wish I’d been there. I haven’t seen you since – since your party, I suppose.”

His skin had a slightly waxy quality to it, his face in need of a shave. He looked almost ill; as if he had been feverish or exhausted. Was he sick, perhaps, and Marianne had somehow forgotten to mention it?

Instead of his usual jeans, he was wearing an impressive suit and silk tie. They had a slightly rumpled appearance, as if they had been slept in, but the outfit itself made her wonder if he had been to his father’s office, for a change. Or job hunting, perhaps. Did website construction require a suit and tie lifestyle?

“You and Marianne are busy,” supplied Eleanor.

“Yes. I suppose she is. When I saw her, she was fine –”

“Saw her?” Eleanor’s smile became slightly less tranquil with this question. “But you – you haven’t been away, have you? Marianne said you were working on your poetry – connections.” For lack of a better word, she chose this one, thinking of Kevin from the Electric Bluebird and his distaste for conventional terminology.

“I’ve been busy,” Will echoed, mockingly. “Trying connections, pulling strings – yes, indeed. You should be proud of me. Trying desperately to find a grindstone of my very own.”

“Not at the expense of your health, no,” said Eleanor. Her tone was gentle, endeavoring to suppress any note of defensiveness or affront. “That doesn’t please anyone, least of all Marianne.”

Will seemed to relax slightly. The tension in his shoulders lessened as he ran his hand through his hair. “You know how it is,” he said. “I think I must drive Marianne crazy in this mood, so there’s no sense in being around her. I’ve been gone from the apartment for a couple of days.”

“But what about your sleep?” Eleanor ventured. She was having a sudden fearful idea of Will’s past returning. The kind of connections which the impetuous behavior in Marianne’s loft precluded. Such a past must have existed before Marianne. In some respects, was the reason for her sister’s presence in his life now, according to the conversational allusions of Lafita and Marianne herself.

“Sleep? There hasn’t been much sleep lately,” he answered. “No, I’m fine without it.” He looked away, the moodiness of before tinged with something slightly bitter.

“It’s none of my business, I know,” Eleanor said, gently, “but when were you last home?”

He hesitated. “Tuesday,” he said. “I got a phone call and had some personal business since then. But as I said, Marianne was fine. Perfectly fine. She was ... every bit of herself. Her glorious self.”

There was a ghost of a smile on his lips with these words, the familiar one of easy charm which Eleanor recalled from first meeting him. But it was gone a second later, replaced by a smile somewhat less real in appearance.

“Job interview?’ she asked. Gesturing towards his suit.

“This?” he glanced down. “No. The general placation I make to my father’s world now and then. He thinks it’s distinguished, compared to something that might have paint on it, for example.”

Her smile became one of sympathy. In his eyes, she read a mixture of emotions. He was angry, distraught, wistful – a combination of pain and uncertainty, at any rate. After a moment, he looked away from her.

“I’m sure you have places to be,” he said. “As do I.”

“Tell Marianne that I said hello,” said Eleanor.

“Of course.” He turned and walked away, hesitating long enough to look back over his shoulder. “If you talk to her before tonight, then tell her – tell her I’ll be back. By eight. At the latest.” His smile was softer, slightly apologetic, even. A look was on his face which she did not understand, before he continued on.

It was probably a look of distaste for being hailed on the street by his lover’s inquisitive sister. He no doubt suspected she thought of him as an unsuitable choice. He probably thought she would call Marianne immediately and demand an account of all his recent actions.

At this moment, however, she felt sorry for him. For whatever reason, he seemed generally unhappy, far from the charming persona with whom she was first acquainted. And there had been some sort of apology in his voice with the message to Marianne, as if he sensed her concern was not entirely that of a protective sister.

Will’s personal business was none of her business. Marianne’s life was a little bit her business, she might say, but there were limits to how much she expected to know about it. Will’s distress, the hours they spent apart, the nature of their joint life – these were all barred from her by the barriers of Marianne’s romantic relationships.

It was nothing. Will might be cranky and taciturn, gloomy and moody on countless occasions outside of his charming self. She didn’t know him very well after all, whereas Marianne – well, Marianne claimed a spiritual connection to him which transcended earthly comprehension.

As if cued by some sixth sense, Marianne phoned Eleanor that evening. She wasn’t at home; she was still at her studio, busy layering paper over a giant frame of flexible metal, building a sculpture which sounded to Eleanor like the description of assembling a museum dinosaur.

“He said he’s been driving you crazy,” said Eleanor, as she curled into a corner of her sofa. On the other end of the phone, she could hear the sound of paper being torn into strips.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. He hasn’t. He’s just trying to be sensitive, but his work doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’ve been here the past two days working almost non-stop. I won’t see him until later. He’s at home now.”

“Good,” said Eleanor. She felt slightly relieved.

“Of course, he’s been calling me nonstop while I’ve been out. I’ve been on the phone practically once every hour,” Marianne continued. “I have to hook my cell phone to a speakerphone device because of the sculpture, you know. Will says I should get a Bluetooth earpiece, then I would have my hands free while I painted or mixed dyes.”

There was a whirring sound on the other end. A blender, Marianne explained. To pulp paper for papier-mâché. Eleanor had seen this process a time or two, the fine powder produced by tearing, shredding, then cooking fibers into a state unrecognizable to anyone but an artist.

There was silence except for the noise. Eleanor listened to it, imagining the figure of Will walking away earlier today, the bent shoulders and hunted expression of anger. Suddenly, it was transplanted by the remembrance of Edward walking away after seeing her home. Something like that was in his shoulders as well, she thought, although he had been trying harder to seem casual about it.

Maybe he knew she had been tracking him down. Distantly, of course, but still...

“He really loves me, you know.” Marianne’s voice came back on the line after a moment. “I have proof of it every day. He sent me a card in the mail, cut from all the scrap pieces of my woodblock prints. He cooks breakfast for me and lets me eat in bed. He reads my poetry, Elly. No one ever reads my poetry. And he loves it.”

“You don’t have to keep selling him,” Eleanor protested. “I didn’t say anything, did I?”

“Your silence speaks volumes,” answered Marianne. “But tell me about you now. The thing at your office – the big party – I know you’re going. Is anyone going with you?”

It surprised Eleanor that Marianne even remembered TriCom’s anniversary. Someone must have mentioned it at the column’s celebration party. A few of the guests from her office were probably talking about it, the expensive nature of caviar and imported truffles or the hired jazz trio and orchestra.

“No,” said Eleanor. “No, I’ll be attending alone.”

“But what about that guy who asked you to dinner? Max or Mickey –”

“Marcus,” supplied Eleanor. “And I haven’t seen him in eight months. I think it’s unlikely he’ll turn up out of the blue to lend me his arm for the evening.”

“Oh.” Marianne sounded slightly crestfallen. “I thought he was more recent than that.”

“No one is –” Eleanor hesitated. “No one is more recent, Marianne. I haven’t had much time for socializing, you know. The book revisions had been a little pressing lately.”

That nightmare was finally over, at least. Lucy had fretted and frowned and persisted to make her point known for the rest of the twenty-seven chapters which Eleanor had corrected on her own over the weekend. Empty boxes of Asian salads, empty boxes of water crackers, and a continuous CD loop of La Traviata’s score. Now, she had only to fear the final round, and Lucy’s eager eye upon its last chance.

“But I thought there had been someone more recent,” persisted Marianne. “Hadn’t there?”

“None that you’d remember.”

On Friday, the carpentry crew arrived at Norlend Towers to construct the stage for the live performances. Eleanor saw the pieces of the stage being unloaded from a truck parked outside as she entered the building. Inside, the lobby big screen now showed a constant loop of party plans and gala preparations, interspersed with Mark Fueller’s smiling face.