Ellie's Advice (sweet romance) (3 page)

Shel took off his coat and hung it up carefully
in his apartment. Walking home was cold and damp in this volatile, changeable spring weather. He was glad he'd dressed appropriately. He propped his boots up to dry and turned on the heater. He wandered around the apartment, pulling curtains closed, flicking on the radio to a soft, music-playing channel.

It could be so lonely to come home to a dark, cold apartment. Even though he'd been widowed for five years, and had mixed feelings about tha
t fact, he wasn't always used to it. This was such a big, bustling city, but it so often felt like he was alone.

His thoughts returned, as they had so often today, to the young woman he'd met.

Miss Eleanor Goldman.

Seeing her had been a shock. From her letters, he'd expected someone older, someone comfortable-looking and plain like his mother. Not a bombshell of a society woman, dressed a
s if to go to the opera house, a movie opening, or a party hosted by the governor. Even flustered and too-pale, she'd blown him away with her beauty and elegance.

And she looked so young to him. If he had to guess, he'd
say early twenties, mid-twenties at most. But in her letter, she'd spoken about herself as if she was an old maid. He couldn't image why she would lie about something like that, so she must believe it. But… wow. Nobody had ever looked like less of an old maid to him. She could've said she was a famous actress and he'd have believed her. Elegant as Grace Kelly, with an elfin beauty that reminded him of Audrey Hepburn. He could wax poetic about her all day.

He looked around the cold apartment, trying to remember what he was doing.
She had that effect on him; he'd barely been able to drag his mind back to concentrate on his work for the rest of the day. After walking her down to the taxi and paying the driver, he had simply not been able to get the beautiful redhead out of his mind. Her skin, soft and smooth and pale; her bright red, well-groomed hair. He'd wanted to touch both so badly. Even now, the memory of shaking her delicate gloved hand warmed him.

H
e knew he'd stared; he wasn't proud of himself. Here he was supposed to be a professional editor, and he'd practically gaped at her like an awkward teenage boy.

How
classy!

He opened a can of soup and heated it on the stove, then sliced himself some bread and began to make a beef sandwich. The simple food tasted heavenly; he'd gotten hungry walking home. He flicked on another light, adjusted the radio so static stopped crackling
in the background, and turned the volume up slightly, letting the music swell through his rooms.

It was late. He always worked late, these days. There was so much to do at the paper, and
he didn't like delegating. Besides, what else did he have to do? The paper was his life, now his wife was gone.

He thought back to his marriage with the
same mixed feelings he always held: regret, guilt, and relief. It was a horrible way to feel about the woman he'd been married to at the age of twenty-two. She had lived three years more, and then died. He'd been alone since. Now five years late, at thirty, he was a comfortable bachelor. He sometimes felt lonely, but he never wanted to get married again, to return to that strange state of sharing his home and life with someone who felt like a stranger.

The m
arriage was arranged, his bride picked out for him, and he'd gone along with it because on paper they were a good match. But they hadn't been in other ways, neither really understanding one another — their moods, differences, and opinions. She'd cooked for him and cleaned their home, and he'd tried to be a good husband, but in the end she'd been an utter mystery to him, angry and distant some of the time, seeming to despise him other times. Washing his clothes and making remarks about how he'd gotten them dirty. Seeing some hidden motive in his every remark or lack thereof. He'd grown so tired.

They couldn't have children. Or at any rate, they
hadn't. He didn't know whether that fact relieved or disappointed him, the same as so much of his marriage. It had been a confusing time. He wondered now if he had really been old enough to get married. He'd been working hard at the paper, and the wife chosen for him had seemed like a good one. Never one to rock the boat, he'd gone along with the match, and he and Judith had married quickly.

Sometimes such marriages worked out, but
theirs hadn't. He never understood his wife. It was hard to come home to an empty apartment, to take care of himself and live as a bachelor. But it had been harder to come home to someone who was angry with him and not know why, to live in a state of trench warfare where one day all would be sunny and glad, another day he couldn't say anything right and she would be in tears or angry for no reason he could discern, slamming the iron across his clothes as if she resented every motion, shoving a plate in front of him full of his least favorite meal — boiled cabbage and bony fish — and looked at him as if to say, "If you complain, you'll regret it."

He still didn't know why she had been angry so often. Perhaps she'd blamed him that they couldn't have children. She'd certainly see
med fond of him at first.

H
e had the sinking feeling at least half of it had been his fault. He hadn't known what to do, how to talk to her. Sometimes when she was angry, he'd found reasons to stay late at the newspaper, even skipping meals.

He knew if he'd been a better husband, she might have been a better wife. The only thing was
, he didn't know how to do that. He still didn't know, after all this time, even though he was older and hopefully wiser. Thinking of Judith still confused and saddened him.

And why was he thinking of her today? It was because of Miss Goldman, he realized,
his heart doing a little pitter-patter flip-flop. He was thinking of her, comparing her to his wife. And realizing he had never felt the way about his wife that he did about Miss Goldman, and after only one short, simple meeting.

What a dreadful man he must be, that he could feel more strongly
— this wild teenage attraction — about a beautiful woman he'd just met, when he hadn't been able to sustain any sort of depth of emotion for his wife, except confusion and a sinking feeling of regret.

He'd wanted to love her, wanted to be a good husband. But he had never been good enough, somehow, and the trench warfare had developed, and neither had won. He felt sometimes as if she
had given up on him. Pneumonia had taken her, but it felt as if she had simply left, given up on the thing they had never been able to solve between them.

Perhaps, if she
'd lived longer, he'd have managed to get something right, to please her as a husband.

After she died, he found her scrapbook of movie stars, handsome and dashing men with powerful,
charismatic personalities. Largely her book had featured clippings and images of Valentino. Shel had watched one of the man's old movies after Judith died, sitting alone quietly in the theater and watching with a bunch of housewives as the man acted his way through a somewhat melodramatic script. He was forceful and emotional, his eyes captivating every woman in sight.

Was that what she wanted from him?
A charismatic, powerful, emotional husband? He had only ever been a quiet, patient man with limited sex appeal. Never the most handsome or tall, and certainly nothing charismatic about him. The movie had left him sad and withdrawn. If that was what she'd wanted from him, he could've gone his whole life and never succeeded.

And again,
he felt guilt. As lonely as an empty home was, it was still a relief not to be returning to the warring state of marriage. Sometimes on his walks home, embedded still in thoughts of work, he'd walk up the steps to his apartment and suddenly feel a rush of sorrow and dread, that when he pushed his door open, the competent, interested feeling of tackling work would leave, and he would again be a man out of his depth, confused by the anger and different messages his wife would be sending him, things he could no more interpret than he could read Russian.

And then he would remember
and push the door open, and breathe in the peace and silence of the stale, closed room. A wave of relief would hit him. And then the sorrow and guilt.

He had become adept at making himself quick, easy meals, and his mother and sister-in-law still sometimes gave him gifts of food that could be re
heated easily. They also invited him to eat at their homes frequently, but he found excuses not to; there was often talk of remarriage, and frequently unmarried female friends who happened to be visiting when he came over, ready to make small talk and show cheerful, determined interest in his job. Modern or traditional, he gave all these women a wide berth, and found excuses not to attend these matchmaking suppers whenever he could.

Shel tended to be a quiet, peaceful man;
he never complained or scolded his family for their attempts. He knew they only wanted him to be happy and hoped he might have a family someday instead of being alone. He could not tell them his marriage had been a kind of jail, and that he would never willingly enter into that state again.

A mental image of Eleanor Goldman flashed in front of his eyes, and he smiled helplessly, awash again in that youthful, glowing admiration and attraction. She had such a quiet gentleness about her. As he
'd walked her down to the cab, he'd seen where she'd been splashed and felt a wave of guilt that he'd made her come here. He should've sent her the letters through the mail. A woman whose health was, by her own admission, delicate did not need to travel even five blocks on these crowded, damp, jostling streets, to be splashed and harried and left white-faced and winded when she arrived.

He'd known
very well, as he helped her into the taxi and regretfully released her delicately-gloved hand, that he should promise to do so next time, tell her she never need come here in person again. But he could not bear to. He could not bear never to see that sweet, beautiful face again. Her beauty and grace and quiet gentleness had captured him as nothing else ever had. If she'd been an actress in a movie, he would have gone to see her film a dozen times — more — and sat entranced, staring up at the silver screen in the dark, worshiping what he might never see or touch, simply dream of.

Instead, she was a real woman, a woman who had shaken his hand gingerly and
smiled at him, a woman who was going to be writing for his paper. He might see her for as much as a few precious moments out of every week for the next two months.

He could no more have resisted than he could have
stopped breathing. Helpless before her, unwilling to never see her again, he would pay for the taxi both ways and consider it inexpensive and only her due.

If she suggested he have the letters delivered both ways, he would of course bow to her wishes, but he couldn't bear to suggest such a thing himself. How would he ever go without seeing the beautiful redhead
if she did?

The music on the radio changed from a quiet instrumental tune, suitable for reflection and winding down to go to sleep,
to a loud big band number he remembered being a hit a few years ago. The music filled him with a wild joy, a fierce, glad pleasure in being alive. Eleanor's face flashed before his eyes again, her faint, beautiful, Mona Lisa smile. And he couldn't help it; he was on his feet, doing a soft shoe on the floor in his stocking feet, shuffling around the kitchen, holding his arms out as if to hold an invisible dance partner, closing his eyes and listening, and feeling, feeling as he had not done in so very long.

And if he looked a fool, there was no one here to mock or belittle him, to snort in disapproval or look down on him. It was just himself, the music
— and the memory.

Ellie walked slowly and carefully through the park, enjoying the sights and smells of spring. It was a pleasant day, with wonderful-smelling fresh air that made her think of all things new and growing and green, even if it was still chilly enough that she wore her green coat and carried her muff.

Ellie enjoyed these walks, the solitude yet companionability of the city park, where many others were enjoying the same area yet she didn't have to talk to anyone. She'd had enough of forced politeness and making conversation to last a lifetime; it was nice to be out and about without having to put on an act.

Her doctor encouraged her to take mild exercise, and she relished the freedom and peace of these walks, especially now, when the weather was just beginning to turn to spring and all things seemed new again.

"Miss Goldman?" A surprised-sounding, familiar voice intruded on her thoughts. She turned, blinking.

And there he stood: her editor. The man who'd rarely left her thoughts these last few days. She gave a guilty start and felt her cheeks beginning to heat. The fact that she'd just been thinking about him didn't make her feel any less self-conscious.

"Hello," said Ellie.
"Mr. Silverberg. You're walking," she said inanely.

He laughed. It was such a happy sound, as if it had just burst out of him, light and a little nervous but
also filled with joy. He was smiling at her, that smile that did strange, quivery things to her insides. "Yes. So are you."

She returned his smile warmly.
He looked just as handsome as he had that first day, the day that lit off the sparkler in her innards. His dark, curly hair was slightly tousled and disarrayed, and he didn't wear a hat. Oh, yes he did, she realized; he'd simply taken it off in deference of seeing her, and still held it in his hand.

And his gaze hadn't left her face. His eyes
held such a magnetic blue warmth, a laughter and happiness all their own, so much like his laugh. She found herself thinking again that he was simply the perfect size for a man, trim and not too tall or short.

Once again
, their gazes were captivating each other, locking, not looking away. She realized she was smiling at him, a big smile. It was hard not to.

She wondered how she looked, if her clothing was disarrayed, if she looked her best or her worst.
Either way there was no changing it, and she could not bear to avert her gaze.

His eyes sparkled at her. He really did look good out of doors, a healthy color in his cheeks that hadn't been there in the office that day. Perhaps he needed the fresh air and exercise as much as she did.

She felt an itch in her fingers, the longing to reach up and touch his hair. She wondered why; male hair had never interested her particularly up till now. Today it was all she could do not to ask if she could run her hands through his close-cropped dark curls. They looked so healthy, a shiny glow to their dark black color that held almost an electric blue sheen.

His face hadn't changed since she last saw him, but somehow it had wormed it
s way into her memory. She'd almost thought she'd imagined how utterly appealing he looked to her. Trying to isolate his charm, she found herself unable to do so. Was it the shape of his nose, just so? The tilt of his mouth, or the shape of his chin, cheekbones, or eyes? What, exactly, drew her with such magnetic certainty? She realized her heart was pounding as hard as if she was meeting a celebrity unexpectedly. What did one say to such perfection?

And yet,
was he really perfect? Didn't he have similar features to so many other men? A man one might pass on the street without noticing. But she knew for certain she never could; she would always notice him.

"What a surprise to
see you here," he was saying. She noticed his cheeks appeared to be growing warmer. "I look forward to reading your answers to the letters." And now, as if he had read her silent wish, he ran a hand back through his hair, messing it and neatening it all once. Yet he seemed unconscious of the effect he was having on her, and she could see now he was actually beginning to blush.

"Thank you. I hope they'll be adequate,
" she managed to answer.

"
I'm sure they will be more than adequate."

Oh, she could melt just from his eyes alone.
Is he married?
Her poor little heart betrayed her feelings with that one thought; but she'd already known her feelings. She just hadn't known her heart would be so importunate to think such a thing by the light of a clear spring day.

"
Would you care to walk together for a bit?" he asked. "If you'd rather not, I understand," he added quickly.

"I
— I should like that."

He looked relieved and happy at her answer.
And so, instead of standing in the middle of the path staring at one another, they fell into step. This was better anyway; at last she could get her entire, intense attention off of him, allowing her heart to catch up to the rest of her and her fevered thoughts to cool.

What was
going on with her?
I thought I was too old to have such a schoolgirlish reaction to a handsome man
. She acknowledged reluctantly that that was all this was, a crush. It felt almost disloyal to think that way about what felt like the most profound emotion in her life.

Her thoughts and feelings had come to life with surprising vigor, as if she was one of the maple trees t
hey were just now walking under side by side: dark, bare branches one day, buds bursting joyous and green into baby leaves practically the next.

And oh, how lovely it was to walk by his side, as if they were going somewhere important to
gether, doing something in sync. It made her feel warmer and gladder than such a thing ought. She hugged her hands together inside her muff and walked lightly.

H
e even matched his pace to hers so they were utterly in step. Neither spoke for a few moments. She absorbed the spring day and the feeling of him walking beside her, cherishing these moments to hold to her heart. If she ought to be making conversation, wracking her brain for what to say, she could not do so; she could not spoil this perfect moment of friendly silence by forcing an inane conversation on him, making herself find words that would sound unnatural or glib.

"Is it going well?" he asked at last.

"What? Oh, the letters!" She laughed self-consciously. "Yes, it is going — at least, there is so much to answer. And some of the problems are deeper than I ever expected."

He looked apologetic.
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I should've told you, but I forgot. They're the letters our other columnist already rejected. So I'm not surprised if they're a bit difficult."

"Oh! So not every letter gets answered, then?"

"Well, not at this paper. We would never have room to print them all. We've gotten a lot of letters, even though we only recently started the advice column."

She digested this for a moment as they walked slowly. "It seems as though the difficult letters deserve an answer more, but I find myself less equipped than I expected to deal with a woma
n wondering if she should leave her husband, who beats her every night. I've penned a response, but it seemed inadequate. She needs help, not advice."

"Help can start with advice. What did you tell her?" He looked at her, appearing curious and
sympathetic.

"Oh." She tightened her hands in her muff, frowning at the me
mory of the pain in that letter and her own feelings of helplessness. "I said that she was writing to me, but she already knew in her heart she shouldn't stay with him. That religious beliefs might differ in specifics, but I didn't think any God would want her to stay with a husband who was hurting her. I told her to make a plan, gather as much money as she could, and get out. I suggested going to her family for help if they were sympathetic, and pointed her to a local organization if they weren't.

"
But I felt such a fool, giving advice to this poor woman, who has been through more than I ever have, when I was sitting in comfort and warmth. Perhaps she will take my advice, and not be able to support herself or find help. Perhaps she'll be out on the streets in the cold next week, and I'll still be sitting in comfort, smug and proud of myself for giving such wise advice."

She shook her head slowly. "But if I didn't tell her to leave, her husband's abuse could continue to esca
late to the point where he killed her. She seemed to think it possible. I certainly did from reading her letter." She sighed heavily.

"You don't sound proud or smug," said
Mr. Silverberg. "Was there an address? Could the information be passed along to the police, perhaps?"

"No. It was an anonymous letter. 'Frightened Housewife,' was her moniker, I believe. The letter has
been haunting me." She looked up at him, attempting to smile again. What a shame to spoil these moments together with such sad thoughts!

His gaze held sympathy, and he looked as if he took it as seriously as she did, which made her feel better.

"It was the worst of the letters, but not by much," she finished, beginning to wonder about the columnist who hadn't answered this letter. How had she been able to pass it by?

"I look forward to reading what you
wrote," he said. "It sounds as though it's an important reply we ought to print."

"If only there was something more cheerful to counteract it, though. Is your other columnist very cheerful this week?"
she asked cautiously.

"Oh yes, he's written several buoyant replies, cheerfully taking the wind out of some foolish sails."

"He?" She drew back, her brows furrowing. "Is Mrs. Lawrence a man?"

He laughed
ruefully. "Yes, I'm afraid so. It's not uncommon in the newspaper industry. People write columns under pen names so they can get more work and make enough money to live on. He's a large, middle-aged man nothing like the elegant, wise society maven he's meant to portray — the opposite of you. In fact you probably saw him at his desk, on the way to my office. Mrs. Lawrence is just a bit of fiction in the newspaper world."

"Yes," she answered slowly. "I can see it now. I'm surprised, but I shouldn't be." She glanced at him, smiling a little. "And I can assure you, I'm not
a 'wise, elegant society maven!'"

He adjusted his glasses, seeming to give this some serious thought.
His cheeks were pink again. "Well, I think perhaps you might be without realizing it. And you certainly are elegant."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Silverberg." She lowered her gaze, wishing that would be enough to hide her blush. "You are very kind."

They walked silently and awkwardly for a few moments.

"You said you should have guessed," he said after a bit.
"Why, if I may ask? If you don't wish to tell me, it's perfectly all right; I'll understand."

"Yes, you are a very understanding man, aren't you?" she mused. It was clearly his turn to blush, which made her smile. "I don't mean that in a bad way." She touched his
arm, squeezing lightly, and then regretted her impulsive action. Oh, his arm felt so good to her, even through the layers of clothes he wore. The pinkening of his cheeks was interesting, as was the sensation it created in her innards, a light fluttering feeling, and a small sensation similar to fizzing soda water.

She released him and tried
again. "What I mean is, you've been very understanding every time I met you. First when you ordered me the cab because I was winded and cold, and this time when you understood and sympathized with the woman in the letter I told you about."

She continued quickly, to answer his question.
"Well, I bought up all the old newspapers I could find, so I could catch up with the new columnist. I hadn't realized you'd already hired someone, and wanted to see who I would be working opposite. I suppose that sounds vain, but I really was just curious, not trying to copy Mrs. Lawrence."

He nodded.
"It's perfectly understandable. I read our rival newspapers all the time," he assured her.

She smile
d her thanks for the kind words. "Well, I enjoyed reading the Mrs. Lawrence column, but I sometimes thought she — sorry, he — didn't take it perfectly seriously, as the letter writers do. Last week, there was a letter from a young girl who longed for a new hat for a high school dance. But her parents wouldn't buy it for her, and she didn't have the money herself. She wondered if it would be all right to ask her grandparents for a loan or an early birthday gift, because they're well-off, but she didn't want to seem like she was begging. She wrote asking for advice on how to do this, or if her family would be ashamed of her if she did."

She took a deep breath. They rounded a corner in the park and came upon a lovely grove of trees all bursting with little leaves, translucent and bright green. Her steps faltered as she took in the sight, gasping in a little breath
with renewed surprise of this beauty. He stopped as well, staring up at the trees with an arrested look on his face. She glanced at him and smiled; he returned it, and they continued walking.