Chapter Twenty-Four

 

“He was sorry. I was certain of that.” Eleanor’s voice was gentle. “I don’t know him very well but I knew him well enough for that.”

“Then he’s not happy with his engagement,” Marianne ventured.

Eleanor wondered if that was hopefulness in her sister’s voice. A wishful desire that Will would break off his alliance with the Grayson family and come back to her.

“No, not exactly,” answered Eleanor. “He didn’t talk very much about her. Except to say – that it had gone too far for him to leave her.”

She waited for a laugh from Marianne, a mocking answer to a scenario in which Will was compelled by unknown circumstances to marry someone whom he had cost neither apartment nor future, nor impregnated with his child. But none came.

They were in Marianne’s studio. Eleanor was seated on a folding chair, while Marianne had been in the act of painting a canvas when she first arrived. Now the painting and easel were set aside, the paint drying to the surface of the palette and the stiff bristles of her brushes – not that Marianne showed any signs of caring about this.

Marianne was silent in response to this answer. After a moment, she spoke again. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor. “That he loved you. And that he regrets hurting you more than anything.”

Marianne’s eyes were glistening in the light from the high windows, but no tears emerged. “Did he,” she said. She turned the brush in her fingers, her tips touching the brittle, half-wet paint on the end.

“He thought you might want to pursue ... support for the baby,” began Eleanor. “A paternity suit. I suppose so his family can’t challenge it–”

“No.” Marianne’s voice was short. “No. Never. I don’t want to crawl to someone else. I don’t want him to feel that he – he ruined me. That he can fix it all by –” She didn’t finish this thought, climbing to her feet from her seated position on the floor. Her hand slammed the brush onto the table as she crossed to one of the shelves crammed with supplies.

“I don’t think he meant it that way, dearest,” said Eleanor. “I think he meant it to be helpful.”

“That isn’t what I wanted.” This reply was slightly choked. “I wanted him to come back to me if he loved me. And if he can’t, then I don’t care about the rest of it.” She had recovered herself by now.

A typical Marianne answer: all or nothing. Eleanor had expected this, even as she regretted it. Will would be too weak to ever know his own child; Marianne would fumble along on her own, in a fashion which Eleanor was powerless to change, whatever form it took.

From the shelf, Marianne’s hand drew a bottle of turpentine, fumbling with the lid as she opened it and poured it into a jar. Were those fumes good for the baby? Was any of this – paint, clay, plaster – Eleanor forced herself not to think of the answers to these questions as she watched Marianne douse the paintbrushes into this solution.

“I got a job,” said Marianne.

“A job?” said Eleanor.

“At a retail shop. A baby store. Part time, so I can have an employee’s discount. Between it and the secondhand shop, I’m almost fully employed,” said Marianne, who was now chipping the dried paint from the palette with a scraper. A smear of fresh green, dark like a fir tree, wiped away by the stroke of a rag.

“What about your classes?” Eleanor asked.

Marianne shrugged. “I quit them. I paint on my own anyway – Henri sold my canvas from the ‘In Progress’ art show. I’m letting him sell a couple of my sculptures for me. ‘The Lovers’ and the new one.”

The new one was in the corner. The twisted white figure like a skeletal, curving form crawling upwards, contorted limbs and bare wings. ‘Broken,’ Marianne had informed Eleanor.

Marianne had ceased scraping the palette. She was leaning on the table, her face suddenly seeming gaunt in the harsh window light. A few strands of hair had escaped the blue headband, falling forward in lackluster curls.

For a moment, Eleanor felt as if she were looking at Marianne the child again. Three year-old Marianne covered in finger paint; eleven year-old Marianne with skinned hands and knees from falling down while rollerblading. As if she were older, responsible Elly, running in her school uniform and sensible shoes to rescue her younger sibling from harm.

Marianne sighed. “I’m sorry, El,” she said.

Eleanor returned to the present with this statement. “For what?” she asked, puzzled. Marianne glanced at her, smiling wanly.

“For not ever listening to you,” she said. “About anything.” She shrugged her shoulders as she looked away again. “You were right about all those things. I just didn’t want you to be. I wanted it to be as real and as perfect as it seemed. You know?”

Eleanor didn’t say anything. Marianne set aside the palette and reached for another rag, wiping the traces of paint from her fingertips.

“I’m not right,” said Eleanor. “Not about everything.” Something in her voice drew Marianne’s attention. She ceased cleaning her hands and was looking at Eleanor with concern.

“What is it?” she asked.

Eleanor shook her head. “Nothing. Only – for awhile I thought someone was in love with me. That’s all.” She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “And it wasn’t the case. I was ... completely blinded by it. When I realized it –” She stopped, on the verge of tears for some reason.

“What happened, Elly?” Marianne crouched down next to her. She touched Eleanor’s hair, the dried paint on her fingers gently snagging the strands with this gesture.

“It all went wrong,” she said. “I was calm, and practical, and careful, and I still ended up being a fool. The whole time, I was being ridiculous about it inside. Not that it mattered. It was just doomed.” She wasn’t making sense with these words; in truth, she wasn’t certain what she meant. She had been calm one moment, then done something crazy, like pursue him to the theater. None of it made sense, even to her.

“Oh, Elly, why didn’t you tell me?” said Marianne. Eleanor wiped her eyes, desperate to remove the tears before they escaped on their own.

“There just wasn’t a good time,” she answered. “Besides, who would believe that someone might actually be in love with me?” she asked, with a faint laugh.

“I thought that Brandon’s been in love with you for years,” said Marianne, seriously.

Eleanor felt a jolt of shock. “Brandon?” she repeated. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because of the way he talks about you,” said Marianne.

“Brandon? He talks about – about rescuing damsels in distress. About saving some unwed mother from distress. He even mentioned you – not that he meant he was in love with you –”

Marianne blushed. “Well, I don’t need rescuing,” she said. “Not from the Colonel, anyway.” She straightened her shoulders, looking firmly in Eleanor’s eyes. “But what does it matter who it is? Someone could fall in love with you. They do it all the time. You just don’t see it because you never look.” She squeezed Eleanor’s arms, gently, with these words.

“Thank you,” said Eleanor, although this response felt bizarrely dignified.

“You’re welcome.” Marianne kissed her on the cheek. She scrambled to her feet again and lifted a tube of paint.

“You know, I’ve never painted your portrait,” she said. “I should do it sometime. Maybe before the baby’s born. Something colorful that would spruce up your apartment’s drab walls.”

“Maybe so,” said Eleanor, with a smile. “I’d like that.” She watched as Marianne squeezed a new puddle onto her palette, then lifted another brush from her pile. A stroke of neon blue across the canvas, cutting through a design like a waning moon painted in yellow-white.

Marianne’s face grew somber as she studied the effect. She hesitated, then her lips moved.

“I really did love him, you know,” she said. “And even though it hurts, I’m glad that he loved me.” She didn’t look at Eleanor with these words.

“I know,” said Eleanor. “I know you are.” As she folded her arms and watched silently as the painting continued to unfold beneath the brush.

 

 

*****

 

 

She hadn’t told Marianne that Brandon had offered to punish Will for abandoning her. The offer, although a ridiculous one to treat as reality, was a private joke which would only stir Marianne’s indignation without softening her opinion of the serious, somber figure who viewed her with chivalry.

Marianne wanted to be rid of the reminders of Will. Gradually, of course, she explained; but she wanted to put them aside. Not for her sake so much as for a future she couldn’t yet picture, Eleanor imagined: one in which her passion would lose its intensity, or, else, find an outlet in her child or her work, or another, more deserving, heart than Will’s. Time was what mattered in this situation.

And what for herself, Eleanor wondered. Was it time that would make her feel better about anything? A book tour for the third book, trailing around to radio stations and bookstores. Starting a fourth book, forcing herself to tweet opinions to strangers in the vast online universe. What would any of those do for her?

Outside, rain pounded steadily against her balcony. A cold, heavy rain which resounded against the metal patio furniture and beat down the remaining green leaves in her outdoor planters. Huddled on her sofa, Eleanor stared at the screen of her laptop.

Dear Eleanor: Two years ago, my brother-in-law ‘borrowed’ six thousand dollars in cash to cover a late car payment and tuition for his and my sister’s oldest child. Now, with two kids in college and their house refinanced, they’re planning to take a cruise to Greece next month. Now, I’m no math wizard, and I’m definitely not an expert in etiquette, but shouldn’t they have taken the thousands being spent on this trip and paid me back for bailing them out? My wife says...

She tapped her fingers against the keys. No answer was coming to her at the moment. Nothing except her own thoughts, which were persistently interfering with her work again.

The knock on Eleanor’s door startled her. She slammed the laptop shut and placed it on the cushion.

No one had rung her buzzer. It was someone with a key – Marianne or Brandon, who had her spare. She glanced through the peephole, seeing a dark figure waiting there, leaning against the frame. Then opened the door partway to reveal Edward on the other side.

She stopped at the sight of him. He was dripping wet. Rain poured from his coat, from his hair plastered against his head, from the skin on his face.

“I waited,” he said, hoarsely. “For someone to come inside. So they would let me in.”

She stared at him. “What are you doing here?” Her mouth trembled. So did the hand holding the door, as her heart pounded within her chest.

“I came to see you.” His voice was shaking. “It’s over. With Lucy. I told her that I can’t go through with it. That I want to see you.” His hand was still on the door frame. His body drawing closer to the opening, as Eleanor withdrew slightly.

“You want to see me,” she repeated.

He nodded. His eyes were burning with an emotion stronger than any she had seen there before. “You,” he answered. “I have thought about you since the day I saw you.”

“Edward,” she said. Her voice gave her away. His hand pushed on the door, opening it fully as he stepped into her apartment.

“Eleanor.” His arms closed around her; she felt his dripping coat pressed against her blouse, soaking through its fabric. Her arms were around his shoulder, her lips finding his in the same moment. Kissing him hard, her fingers winding themselves into his hair.

He reached behind him and pushed her door closed. Then kissed her again, the two of them moving slowly backwards into her living room.

“I love you, Eleanor.” He was looking into her face; his hands were cradling her head, lost in the loose tendrils of hair which had escaped her knot.

“Oh, Edward.” Nothing else came to her at this moment, as if there were too many emotions within her to be sorted into words; feelings too strong to be defined at this moment.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around him again. Holding tight to him, laughing aloud for some reason, with relief or with sheer exhilaration. Until he, too, was laughing, his arms practically lifting her as he pushed her gently backwards, towards the door to the balcony.

They passed through it, holding tightly to each other as the cold rain splashed onto his wet coat and her soaked-through shirt. Kissing where all the neighborhood would see them, if they looked through the rain-fogged windows facing Eleanor’s building.