Chapter Eighteen

 

On Monday, the sound equipment arrived at Norlend Towers. On Tuesday, the rented tables and chairs were transported there. By Wednesday, the confetti and balloons arrived, a crew of party coordinators transforming the off-limits glass penthouse at the topmost floor into the scene of the upcoming gala.

As Eleanor exited the elevators, a crew of workmen were busy draping a new congratulatory banner to the second floor observation walkway above. TriCom’s City Lights Gala. Friday, October fifteenth. A celebration twenty years in the making. An artist’s rendition of a modern skyscraper alight like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by a bold font. A strange elegance and decadence in its design, almost like something out of The Great Gatsby.

On Thursday, Eleanor was at a book signing in Boston. The air was tinged with the first bitterness of fall to her senses. The atmosphere at Noble and Blake’s book emporium was anxious and restless, as if its customers and the population in general had somewhere else to be at this hour.

She scribbled her name at the front of a copy of her second book for a woman who smiled politely and shyly as she waited.

“Thanks,” the woman said. “My mother’s a big fan. She’s always telling me to take your advice, so she’ll love getting this.”

“Is she?” Eleanor responded. “I hope she enjoys it.”

“Me, too,” said the woman. And moved on, to be replaced in the line by a man in a heavy overcoat. Whom, Eleanor learned, was a local psychiatrist who enjoyed her advice books for a little light reading.

Afterwards, she had lunch with Lew Nelson, her agent, at a small Greek restaurant a mile from the bookstore. He had intended to show up early and see her – or rather, she knew, see how many people were there, given the nature of non-fiction and the upcoming books’ release. He was delayed, however, while meeting with a future client in town, a landscape photographer whose work was being released in a coffee table volume.

“It doesn’t make a fortune, of course, photographic art in those big books,” said Nelson, “but people like them. There’s a nice, tidy little market for grown-up picture books. Black and white images of cityscapes, nice color pictures of western landscapes or maybe some old farmhouses...”

“I have one of those,” said Eleanor. “One on the sights of nineteenth-century San Francisco.”

“Exactly,” said Nelson. “They fill up blank space, make nice conversation pieces when you have guests over. ‘Oh, what book is that?’ ‘Why, that’s a photographic tour of India.’ It makes us feel more cultured to have it lying around, impressing people who notice it.”

His fork shoved at the salad before him, studded with grapes and with some sharp-tasting nut which Eleanor had not yet bothered to identify in her own. From the kitchen, the smell of braised lamb and something else less tangible, between a sweet and smoky scent. A steamy smell.

“What’s his subject matter?” asked Eleanor.

“The client? Oh, it’s major U.S. landmarks shot in black and white. An all-film tribute in defiance of the whole digital thing. At least that’s how we’ll angle it. Pretty contrast shots of Gettysburg, New Orleans, Nebraska prairies. He traveled the whole country for a year, apparently.”

“Sounds nice,” said Eleanor, who felt a sudden twinge of envy. To travel around had its benefits. Maybe leaving her apartment for awhile, leaving the city of Pittsburgh behind temporarily, would be a nice escape. A temporary reprieve from Marianne’s problems and the everyday complacency of apartment to office, then office to apartment, with only minor changes made to the routine on average.

“I’m sure it was. It was a nice change for him, anyway. Before then, he was a war scene photojournalist. Took pictures in third world countries of burned little kids and guerilla soldiers marching through torn-up villages that looked like they were built out of garbage.”

“They sell books of those, too,” said Eleanor. “Did nobody think to publish his war work? I would have thought it was the logical choice for a publisher. A gripping, modern history volume.”

“Sure,” said Nelson. “I’ve seen it. It’s stunning, all right. But it wasn’t what this guy had in mind. He said he thought he’d inflicted enough reminders of pain in all the news work he’d done. That it would do some good to give people pictures of peaceful stuff for awhile. Therapeutic.”

For him, Eleanor supposed, not necessarily his audience. Although, there would be readers who had experienced such horrors also, she considered. Victims of bombings and plane crashes, of domestic violence or combat wounds, who would turn the pages of iconic American landscapes and feel better, perhaps.

“So, let’s talk about you now,” said Nelson. He shoved aside his salad. “I’ve been on the phone with the editor at Gillion, who says the second round of edits were excellent. The final round will be coming in about ... two weeks, I think ... and then, bam! We have a book on the market.”

“That soon,” said Eleanor. “I’m assuming the original release date hasn’t changed.”

“Release date still in October,” resumed Nelson. “I’ve got you booked on Thinking Out Loud and on Morning Journal Review for public appearances the first week. Right now, I got you an interview on Mornings and Mocha – Pittsburgh’s A.M. lineup love a little drop-by Q&A now and then –”

“I remember,” said Eleanor, with mixed feelings for the morning drive, whose hosts’ questions tended to be vapid and sometimes vaguely personal.

“I got you something more serious with the NPR set,” he said. “I gave the details to your assistant, so you know all about it.”

Did she? Lucy hadn’t mentioned anything about it. She tended to dole out Eleanor’s appointments on a day-by-day basis of knowledge. This luncheon with Lew Nelson, for instance, was introduced to her by the intern only after Eleanor had received a call from Nelson himself and inquired about this lunch appointment afterwards. Lucy assumed, apparently, that Eleanor was engrossed in other matters and did not wish details more than a couple of days in advance.

“Everything’s happening just like it should,” said Nelson. “I’m pleased thus far. So is Gillion, by the way. And the column, that’s going good, too.”

“The waiter refilled their water glasses as Eleanor shifted the position of the sandwich on her plate, a tortilla-like Greek bread rolled around savory sandwich components.

“I’ve been wondering if it might be time to make some changes to it,” said Eleanor. She peeled a pickled pepper aside from the bread.

“What changes?” Nelson sounded puzzled.

“I don’t know. Modernize it in some fashion. Or maybe pursue a new angle for it...” Her explanation wandered at this point, searching for meaningful terms. She thought of the Newsbites representative with his talk of apps and web videos. “Something more meaningful to a contemporary audience.”

Nelson shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about all that yet. Let’s cross that bridge when we find it, right? Things are fine for you the way they are now.” He forked a mouthful of rice from a generous pile on his plate.

“I would have expected you to say the opposite,” said Eleanor. “Since you’re an agent, looking out for new opportunities for clients. And have quite a few who do multimedia projects.”

“Client by client basis.” He looked at her, his glance one of shrewd study. “See, I don’t do things prematurely. You jump ahead, you push things or people around, everybody loses in the end. So, with some people, I say, just leave it where it is until I say it’s time.”

He raised his hands. “Of course,” he added, “you can always do what you want. I mean, I’m just the agent here. But, in general, you listen to me, so I tell you what I think you’ll be happy to hear. That your career is fine the way it is.”

It was reassuring of him to say it. Kind and confident in his picture of her future. There was no sign of worry or concern that the digital age would suddenly collapse “Ask Eleanor” into a heap of obscurity, buried in the ruins of the Herald and the decline of print media. No, Lew Nelson seemed unworried about this concept as he polished off the remains of his salad.

In the airport on Friday morning, Eleanor checked her column in the Boston newspaper, then glanced over the headlines before boarding. She left the newspaper in one of the waiting area seats, a donation for whoever might appreciate finding it later.

On board the plane, for once, she didn’t pull out her travel choice of novel: a tale about a man traveling in time between two decades, his fate intertwined in each with the same people, in different stages of their lives.

She gazed out the window at the white clouds instead. Heaps of ice blue and rosy-tinted cotton, subtle hues of grey and brown within the white, like vast plumes of smoke frozen in mid-air. It defied description, really; it was untouchable, intangible, this surface of water and air. If it were only like she imagined it as a child, with all the softness and solidity of a quilted down comforter.

The woman seated next to her stirred. “You’re that columnist, aren’t you?” she said. “The one who writes those pieces in the paper – “Helpful Ellen” or something like that.”

“Eleanor,” she answered. “But yes, that’s me.”

“Imagine that. My brother’s a big fan of your column,” said the woman.

“Is he?” said Eleanor.

“Yes. It’s the funniest thing. See, he told me he always reads it when there’s a problem like one in his life – to see what advice you give –”

“Right,” said Eleanor.

“– and then, he tells me, he does the opposite of whatever it is. He says that works for him every time.”

In response, Eleanor was momentarily riveted in place. The woman beside her was laughing.

“Isn’t that just the funniest thing you’ve heard?” she said.

The opposite of her advice. On everything. Love, life, career, money.

For a moment, Eleanor said nothing. Then she laughed. Faintly at first, then with more conviction.

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.” She was still laughing as she turned towards the window again and the view of rolling clouds in still life.

 

 

*****

 

There were three messages on Eleanor’s home phone’s machine when she pressed the button, letting her bag slide to the floor beside the living room table.

The first one was a reminder that her book club was meeting next Tuesday instead of Thursday. The second was from Marianne. “If you can come by tonight, then come, El. There’s a key under the doormat and I’m free all evening.”

Marianne had forgotten about the gala tonight, it seemed. She seldom remembered anything about Eleanor’s career or personal life for more than a few days, before it was swept away in a sea of present-day experiences. Otherwise, Marianne would be asking her if she found anyone to accompany her to the sea of champagne and expensive hors d’oeuvres, to indulge in the lush evening of splendors.

If she knew about him, Marianne would ask if Edward had called. But he hadn’t. Not yet.

The final one was from Lucy, a message about the interview Nelson had mentioned, and about a message from her publisher about sending the manuscript back earlier than planned. It was recorded at four o’ clock in the afternoon, meaning Eleanor had just missed the call.

“...never fear, I’m staying and working on your revision schedule right up to the moment of the party itself, since I brought my dress with me to work,” Lucy said. “That’s all for now. See you tonight!” With this chipper sign-off, the message went quiet.

Eleanor carried her bag to the bedroom, where she left it at the foot of the bed. Hanging in front of her closet was the garment bag from the cleaner’s, containing the dress she was wearing to the gala. Pink satin, pale and fitted, a longer skirt length than she usually chose. Off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a v-neckline which came close, if not actually to the point of, plunging. A matching pink wrap and black stiletto heels – with open toes, daringly enough.

She was inspired by the dream on the plane from a couple of months ago. She had seen this in the window of a shop downtown, a formal boutique. What had possessed her to buy it outright was the act of trying it on.

Be indulgent. Celebrate a little. Her column was successful, her paper’s company had merged with a major media outlet, her book was weeks from its debut. Why not enjoy the moment to the fullest? Everyone else at the gala would, basking in the glory of TriCom and Haldon Media’s spotlight.

The dress fit her like a glove. She wound her hair into a French twist centered perfectly behind her head. She lifted the double strand of pearls from its box, and the pink handbag with the silver clasp from the modest row of purses and clutches in her closet.

The cab came at eight and transported her to Norlend Towers. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cab’s mirror as she emerged: an elegant figure in a fitted black dress coat, with subtle shades of makeup on lips and cheek.

Usually, the glass penthouse on the top floor of Norlend was unoccupied. A zone forbidden to the public visitors, one where TriCom’s company executives held parties or entertained important clients on occasion. Parties which included the staff of subsidiary companies like the Pittsburgh Herald or others were generally held at less-exclusive locations. But this was a milestone worthy of exception, it seemed.

The elevator rode to the topmost floor, where it opened to a glass lobby just outside the penthouse’s main room, where coats could be checked and a view of the party’s first scenes could be glimpsed through the glass panels. Eleanor and other guests disembarked here.

Before her, a panorama of light and crystal. Waiters had begun circulating with trays of champagne and the catered creations. There was a reflective glint from the horns of the jazz trio now performing on the temporary stage. Bodies milled about, the first wave of a crowd of regional and out-of-town associates of TriCom’s present-day existence, all dressed in black tie apparel and formal gowns.

She moved towards the scenes, the double glass doors which would open to this world. Ahead of her, within it, the only familiar face was that of her assistant Lucy in a black cocktail gown designed on a threshold just above her elegant velvet office dress, her fingers cradling a glass of champagne as she laughed at someone’s story.

A man approached her from behind. She turned and embraced him, enthusiastically and tightly, her face obscured by the back of his head as she kissed him momentarily. Her fiancé-to-be, the one Lucy had mentioned in the office before.

Eleanor knew the shape of that head. She knew before he turned to the side with his arm in Lucy’s, that it was Edward Ferris.