Chapter Thirty-Two

 

Moving to Montpelier was not an overnight process. Eleanor had spent the better part of two months back and forth between Pennsylvania and Vermont, shuttling between her old apartment and a rent-by-the-week high rise complex in Montpelier. She spent her mornings at breakfast with a cup of coffee, an open Montpelier paper, and a laptop screen filled with real estate sites. Digital bookmarks on prospective locations for settling long-term, her highlighter circling possible apartments or houses to lease, red mirrors framing different locations. One was a mere street away from her childhood home, bringing bittersweet reflections to her mind.

"Debut date is two months from now," said Robert, "if you're comfortable with that. We want to kick off the new year with an all-new lineup of choices for app users."

"I see," Eleanor answered. Two months in which to master webcams and podcasts. She endeavored not to sound daunted by this idea.

"In the meantime, keep doing what you're doing. Interviews and public appearances, all the promotions for your book, those things can help raise awareness for this new stage for your column. Nelson is prepping a public relations campaign that will help you find a way to reach out to your new audience and the old one at the same time."

She was supposed to call Lew Nelson this weekend for a phone conference between him, herself, and Townley's media publicist. She had an interview Friday afternoon at the local radio station for their news program's 'Loneliness Awareness Day.' And she had an appointment to see a house on Peale Street, one with a guest room which would accommodate Marianne, should her sister change her mind.

Refraining from calling Marianne was hard. She refrained from emailing articles which happened to catch her eye – the importance of prenatal checkups, ten easy steps for creating a baby-proof apartment, the pros and cons of preschool – knowing that all of the above would go unread, and would be seen as a form of nagging to Marianne. Marianne, who had no concept of preschool, who lived surrounded by lead paint, spark-blackened outlets, and inner-city toughs, who would point out that the phrase, 'baby-proof an apartment' sounded more like creating an anti-child environment than creating a safe home.

"What do you think?" the realtor asked. "A two-year lease may seem like a commitment, but this place will be snapped up off the market in no time. The only reason it's available now is because someone dropped out last minute."

"It's nice," said Eleanor. And it was. "I'm open to the possibility of taking it. I was hoping for something a little bigger for the second bedroom, but this would be perfectly good."

It was small, but the rooms were spacious enough, the rear windows facing a park and affording plenty of afternoon sunlight, the lease offering tenants the option of repainting the rooms and cabinetry upon color approval. Fawn and ivory shades on the walls, granite countertops in the kitchen, a wine rack built into the pantry.

Rose would be a nice color for the living room, she thought. Drapes instead of shades, too.

"Call me when you decide," said the realtor, "but I wouldn't wait too long if I were you."

Outside, Eleanor took a cell phone snapshot of the house to send to Marianne, the camera framing the green-shuttered windows and the small pear tree on the strip of lawn between the house's front and the suburban street's sidewalk. She tried to picture life there for three people. Marianne's child learning to walk, stumbling beneath the tree, grass stains on hands and knees, a shower of red and amber leaves over her and the child as she lifted it again – but no, it would be Marianne who lifted the child, not her. Where would she be? Watching from the windows, taking the photo the way she was now? The superfluous figure in the scene, the hazy person in the background of their lives?

There was a coffee shop a few streets over, the direction in which Eleanor walked afterwards. Montpelier was cold today, cutting through the layers of the coat over her business skirt and sweater.

Her childhood home was east of this block, she remembered. She would walk from her house to the stationary shop on the corner. The first moment of independence in her childhood, herself standing on that street corner, feeling the leaves flutter against her legs as the autumn wind whipped them up in an afternoon frenzy.

What had her mother sent her to buy? That part of the memory eluded her now. Thank-you cards, typing paper, correction fluid? There must have been some purpose to the errand. She could see herself in her mind's eye, a little girl in a blue sweater and knee socks, a pair of oxfords double-tied – sensible Eleanor at almost ten years old, facing the world with exhilaration despite the trembling in her knees, a sense of importance and responsibility pushing her out the door towards her destination.

She slipped her phone in her pocket. Traffic thickened on the street lined with shops and business vendors, Eleanor's glance falling on a toy store with stacks of brightly-colored blocks and stuffed rabbits from Beatrix Potter's tale.

Across the street, a cab stopped. Abruptly, Eleanor noticed, so that the car behind it slammed on its brakes, honking as it swerved around the offender. From the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw the passenger's door open, a figure emerging, ducking below to the window opposite the driver's, bobbing upwards once more.

"Eleanor." She heard his voice, muffled by traffic. It was the voice of Edward. As the cab pulled away again, she saw him there, a rumpled trench coat covering his suit. He started towards her, withdrawing as a second car honked its horn.

She stopped short, staring at him from the sidewalk as the cars sailed by, wipers swishing back and forth in the drizzle of rain from the downcast skies.

"Edward?"

He stood across from her, helplessly glancing both ways, seeking an opening in the traffic. He looked at her again. "I thought it was you," he said. "I stopped for that reason."

Her tongue was momentarily frozen with astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't care that strangers on the street were listening to them, that one or two glanced at her. Eleanor, who never liked attracting undo notice in public, never liked witnessing dramatic conversations or emotional showdowns on the street, was doing all of the above now.

Edward waded into the traffic at the same moment she stepped off the curve, her business high heels sinking into leaves and muck an inch deep between the two cars parked parallel along the gutter. Edward was doing the same on the other side, his gaze firmly latched on her between swift-moving vehicles.

"Eleanor," he repeated. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

He didn't sound exasperated. He didn't sound desperate or upset, but – well, determined. That was the word she was looking for. Final, set, fixed, focused. This storm of description popped into Eleanor's mind as she stared at the expression on his face, heard the tone of his voice replayed in her thoughts.

"You followed me?" Her voice faltered. She had not seen him in two months. Two months, two weeks, and three days – not since dinner at the restaurant, when she felt the subtext of herself as Lucy's surrogate invading their conversation.

"No. Well, yes. I called Marianne and she called your agent for me. Nelson. He told her where to find you."

Eleanor's mind was blank. "How – how did you find Marianne's number?" She had never given it to Edward.

"Brandon," answered Edward. "I talked to him also."

He had talked to everyone except her, it would seem. How he ever thought to call Brandon – what made him think Marianne knew anything about Eleanor's appointments – was beyond her immediate mental processes. Especially while Edward was standing there, the real Edward with Pennsylvania airline tags on his luggage, not an apparition of him conjured by memory.

"I'm not begging you, Eleanor. I'm not here to – to change your mind, if it's made up. I'm here to ask you what you want. Because I know what I want."

She said nothing. Her heart was beating quickly, now a hammer in her ears, pounding a roar that rivaled the traffic's rush, the blare of horns for Edward's precarious position on the edge of the lane.

"I know what we said before," he continued. "That we don't really know each other, that we needed time to be sure. But I've had a lot of time to think about this. If you want me to leave, say so. I'll walk away. This is your choice. I've already made mine. I want you."

She sucked in her breath. Those words were so close to the ones he spoke at her apartment door the night the walls between them came down. The moment on the patio came back to her, the sheer impetuousness and exhilaration. The feelings were gathering around her like the breeze from the passing cars, the soft rain scattering the leaves from the ornamental trees lining the sidewalks.

Edward didn't step closer, although he looked as if he wanted to do it. His eyes met hers. "What all that means for the future, I don't know. But this is what I want."

What about Pittsburgh and the law firm? she wanted to ask. What about Montpelier, and the house on Peale Street with the pear tree and view of the park? What about the warning Brandon had given her in the elevator, and Marianne's doubts over Eleanor's choice, and the seeds of fear planted in her own brain when Edward spoke of his rescue from Lucy? What did this moment mean in light of all those truths?

Eleanor didn't know. He had come here despite their promises of distance and time, a decision made for the sake of being certain about their feelings. He was certain, or so he said.

She said nothing. Across from her, Edward stood, quietly waiting for an answer. A green sedan swept past, horn beeping twice.

A moment later, the look on his face dimmed. Something resigned took the place of his steel gaze, the first touch of regret and bitterness in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse to Eleanor's gaze.

"All right." She heard the sigh in his voice. He turned away. She saw the finality in his movements, although it was not in words. There was no slump of defeat in his shoulders, but there was no hesitation. He was not turning back.

"Edward, wait." She stepped closer, ignoring the driver's swift right swerve to avoid clipping her. "Wait, please." The tremor in her voice might be tears, for all she knew. It might be the proof that she had needed from the beginning, when she needed the capacity to imagine something more than the scintillation of the moment. When the absence of something in the future mattered as much as the would-be picture of its presence there.

He glanced back at the same moment Eleanor pulled back for the sake of the next passing car, then plunged ahead, ignoring the blaring truck horn to her left, the shout of the oncoming driver on her right, window rolled down to curse her.

Edward met her before she reached the opposite side of the lane. The breeze from the passing car ruffled her coat in the same manner as the wind as she stood there, facing him with only a foot between them.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say. What she managed was, "I know. I know what I want."

She didn't have to say why. Perhaps it was the phone call to Marianne, or the sight of Edward's mind made up on something that did it. Perhaps it was a meaning in Brandon's words that he didn't foresee – that she deserved better than that. Eleanor of old would have let him slip away rather than face the messiness that was coming. Eleanor of old never had the courage to test the boundaries or answer the questions she feared most in any relationship, to deserve what risks bring, be it heartache or happiness. She would have let him drift out the same way he entered her life, never fighting for or against herself.

"Are you sure?" Edward asked. His voice was soft, his eyes meeting hers without flinching.

"No," she answered, truthfully. That tremor was in her voice again. "But I want to be sure. I really do. No matter what that means."

In the moment afterwards, he said nothing in reply. Then his arms were around her shaking body, pulling it close to his own. She clutched him tightly, feeling relief for this embrace. The tears in her eyes were falling free. Two of them forming tracks on her cheeks, the only ones to escape before she closed her eyes.

"I'm glad you walked away," she whispered. "And I'm glad you came back."

"I'm glad you followed me," he answered. Although she couldn't see his face, she knew he was smiling. A smile of relief as radiant as her own.