Ellie's Advice (sweet romance) (7 page)

He sighed heavily. "No, it's to Ask Ellie."

Her brows rose. "Ah." Something was going on behind her face, as if things had just clicked for her. "Boss." She leaned forward. "I… um… I don't want to be the one to tell tales, but… Hastings was writing something at his desk yesterday. With a red marker." She gave him a significant look, and turned and swished quickly from the office.

He stared after her, stunned. He had to force his whirling mind back to the
article twice before they began to sink in. This was something he would have to give some thought to.

Over the next few days, he
gave it a great deal of thought. He continued to collect papers addressed to Ask Ellie, written in the same hand, ugly and precise in their wording. He did nothing, simply collected them. It would not do to confront Leo Hastings immediately, in case he figured out Miss Wolfe had been the one to tell on him.

Instead, he waited nearly a week
, saying nothing. Then one day he called Leo into his office. "Sit down, please, Mr. Hastings," said Shel with quiet formality. He folded his hands in front of him, waiting.

For a moment Leo looked like he was going to refuse, but then he sat, thumping
himself into the chair. It creaked alarmingly. He faced Shel across the table, making an effort to look friendly. "Yes, boss? Did you want something?"

"
Yes. I was wondering if you would write something for me."

"What, a new column?"

Shel smiled, and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "No. A resignation letter." In front of Leo, he placed a thick, blank piece of paper that exactly duplicated the poison pen papers and a large red marker that had the same sized tip as the ones used to write them.

He'd been unable to trace any purchases of the same to Leo Hastings. His cop friend had told him to his face there was little they could do at this point. So he'd taken matters into his own hands
and bought similar items.

Leo flushed red at the sight of them
. He may as well have confessed.

He looked down at them for a long moment, then up to meet Shel's gaze, his arrogant eyes hooded. "She's
not as good as I am. I wanted to rattle her, that's all."

Shel had
expected the man to deny everything, not make excuses. "On the contrary, I think she's much better than you, and you know if, you coward," said Shel quietly.

Leo's flush
deepened and he shoved back the chair, leaping to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. "You—"

"Yes?" said Shel calmly, his fingers laced together.

The man stared at him hard for a moment, breathing heavily, flexing his hands. Perhaps he could picture the headlines that would say
Poison Pen, Columnist Punches Editor
. Perhaps he could see jail in his future. Whatever he saw, his shoulders slumped.

"You just want to bed her
," he mumbled. "You don't care how good her letters are." There was no fight in him now.

"Get out." Shel had no memory of
rising; he was simply on his feet. Now he was the one with fists clenching at his sides.

Hastings smirked. "I'm going. I'm going somewhere I'll be appreciated!"
He slammed the door on his way out.

Shel looked down at the blank white paper and the bright red marker beside it. He reached down and nudged it slowly, first one way, then the other.
Such a simple thing to be a vehicle for so much hatred.

He sat down again
and picked up the article he'd been reading. Eventually his heartbeat would slow to a calm rate; perhaps when he went to see Ellie this evening. Her bright smile and the pups would revive him, remind him of the good things in this world.

Perhaps eventually he would even forget about Hastings and his desire to hurt Ellie simply because she was better at being a columnist than he was.
But not today.

"Coming, coming!" Ellie called over the barking of the puppies. She weaved her way carefully around them as they jumped and leaped in excitement. Someone was knocking at her apartment door. Mrs. Fine had already gone home for the day, or she would've probably gotten to the door first.

Ellie had a steep learning curve taking care of puppies, but fortunately she had help. Mrs. Fine was only too glad to take over some of their care, especially when Ellie paid her extra for it; and Shel came over nearly every day to check on them and help her take them for walks.

They weren't housebroken yet, but they were down to one large square of newspaper. Out of loyalty, she'd promised never to use his newspaper as their waste area, but Shel had laughed and said, "Please do! Any sales help circulation, you know. Even if it's only to protect your floor from dogs."

She'd laughed, too. There was something about Shel. His quiet kindness and gentle intelligence never grew old. She saw how hard he worked, knew how late he went home; and by now, she knew he
was a widower.

She'd bought him a new
jacket, as she'd promised. A nice one. It had taken some effort to get him to accept it, but he'd given in eventually and gone to the fitting, and then returned smiling and looking like a million dollars.

Not that he didn't always look good, because he clearly did.
In his shirt sleeves, an old bathrobe, or a crisply cut suit. All the time, every way.

She was fairly certain he
would look amazing without any clothing at all, too, but she tried to keep those thoughts to a minimum. It was really none of her business to think such things, and impossibly rude.

He made time almost every day to come over and see the pups and help with them
— and talk to Ellie.

They also talk
ed about the advice column, although she didn't travel down to the office much lately. He usually brought new letters with him when he visited, and they talked over which ones she ought to answer, along with the contents of the letters themselves, if they were interesting enough.

S
he felt as if she could talk to Shel forever and not grow bored. Sometimes he spoke about his work, and they discussed everything from art and literature to nature and music. He introduced her to jazz. She introduced him to chamber music.

They
often walked along in the park with the puppies on leads, waiting for them to sniff and investigate every sight and smell within range as the humans talked. And talked. Shel was a quiet-spoken man, but he had a great depth of wisdom and many interesting thoughts in his handsome head. She loved drawing him out, or just waiting till he spoke and listening to him with her whole heart.

Ellie felt herself blooming as mightily as the trees in the park, which had long since unfurled their leaves and spread the green banners to the sky to soak up sunlight.
Oh, outwardly she looked much the same, except that her clothes were rattier. The puppies chewed little holes in absolutely everything, and many of her dresses and shoes had taken damage.

She did
n't dress any differently otherwise or change her hairstyle; she'd already been fairly well-versed in the current style, from her aunt's strict training to always look her best, and had kept up with it whether she was interested or not. But inwardly, oh inwardly, she felt like a woman for the first time in her life. Not someone's niece or sister, not an invalid to be pitied and protected but never treated as an adult. No, she was a real woman, talking to Shel, walking with him, taking care of the pups with him, and even going out to see the occasional movie together.

On tho
se nights, she paid Mrs. Fine or a young woman from the neighborhood to stay home with the pups. She thought they were too young to be left alone, even for a few hours. Although, as fond as she was growing of the little creatures, she was beginning to think she would always feel protective of them, even when they reached their adult size.

The
pups were black with short fur and floppy ears, brown noses, big pretty baby gazes, and very vigilant tails. They were learning about the world by leaps and bounds and investigating all of it with their teeth.

Neither she nor Shel were very good at disciplining them, but Shel had bought a book that said they were a bit young to learn much anyway. She didn't know about that
— they had certainly learned how to destroy a great deal of flour and raisins in the cupboard one day when the door was left open by accident — but she certainly agreed they couldn't punish them much at that age. Nor, to be honest, did she ever wish to.

A horror of
ending up with adult monsters kept her thinking about the matter, though, wondering when it would be appropriate to curtail their wild behavior. For now, teething pups who were on solid food but still liked milk, and weren't yet housetrained, were allowed to do nearly always exactly as they wished. Especially when what they wished involved sleeping on her feet, like furry little hot water bottles, flopping around her ankles absolutely exhausted from their mischief.

With
her visits from Shel, her teething puppies, and her chewed-upon shoes, Ellie had never been so happy.

Now, she hurried over and around the pups, anxious not to trip on them, but in a hurry to get to the door. It might be Shel! Sometimes, he came over twice
in one day. Always there would be a reason — another few letters arrived for her to pick from for the column, or he'd gotten a few bits of meat at a good price for the pups, or some other tempting, necessary offer.

They had not spoken of
love or marriage once. But every time she saw him, her heart fluttered wildly. Sometimes he arrived neatly pressed, looking shockingly well pulled together for a widower, his hair combed flat and not even curling. He used water to dampen it, not grease; after it began to dry, the curls would start to stick up one at a time, till by the end of his visits he was wreathed with a laurel of beautiful, curly dark hair, the way he ought to be. She enjoyed the transformation, and every stage of it. It was only a sense of propriety that kept her from running her fingers through his lovely mane.

Other times, he arrived during the middle of the day, in his lunch hour, looking hot and hurried from the walk, because he had been rushing so he would have time to come see her and then make it back. She always had a sandwich or more than a sandwich ready for him on those days, so he could eat and wouldn't have to go hungry.

Mrs. Fine made almost all the meals, but those sandwiches Ellie learned to make by herself. It gave her a special feeling inside, preparing something he would enjoy, even if he hurried sometimes while eating it. On those lunchtime visits, he was not pulled together; his hair was always wild already, untamed and beautiful. His shirts and jackets were often wrinkled, and he more often than not didn't wear a tie, even if he had started the day with one. She sometimes saw it slipping from his pocket like a strange, flat snake trying to escape him, or a cloth tongue sticking out at her from his living jacket. In those moments, she had the absurd desire to laugh; and sometimes she did.

Shel's sense of the ridiculous was
such that he could laugh along, and pull the tie out and either flop it over the back of a chair to wait for him, or sling it round his neck and quickly tie it, making a face as he fumbled quickly with the soft cloth, rueful and pleased at the same time, never minding being the butt of the joke.

Sometimes he forgot the tie
and left it over the back of his chair. He hurried away, glancing back to wave briefly at her before jogging for his office. Rushing because they'd left it to the last moment to part once again.

On those days, she eyed the tie doubtfully, holding herself back at first. And then sh
e'd reach for it, pick it up, fold it in her hands, and rub the soft brown cloth against her cheek, closing her eyes until the pups started barking around her ankles or trying to tug at the hem of her dress, reminded her they needed her attention.

The knocking increased.

"Coming, coming!" She stopped in front of the door, pushed back strands of her loose red hair, and gave her head a slight toss. She smiled, tugging the front of her dress straighter, then pulled the door open, trying to hold the pups back with one foot. "Hello Sh — oh."

She smiled uncertainly at her brother, standing on the doorstep. Instead of Shel's beautiful, hopeful smile, and his hands full of
something he wanted to show Ellie, her brother stood there wearing a grave, disapproving expression. He had a gold watch and a rather old fashioned silver-tipped walking stick, which he certainly didn't need. He wore a costly black suit over his expansive frame; he was round with a serious, slightly flabby face. His eyes were small in his pale, crinkled face, gaze green like Ellie's, and his hair was a darker red than hers. He looked every inch the successful, stuffy businessman — and, Ellie had to admit even if only to herself, he certainly was. Appearances were not incorrect in his case.

"Augustus," said Ellie, nudging one of the puppies back just before it lunged for his stick, its eyes gleaming and
its tail flailing. It gave one short, sharp bark at the intruder, and the other pup set up a long woo-woo-woo in accompaniment. She realized with a start that her brother was much more of a stranger to the little dogs than Shel could ever be; Auggie hadn't been by since before the puppies had arrived and taken over her home and heart.

"What a pleasant surprise. Do come in?" She realized she'd asked instead of sounding certain, so now she scooped up the pups, held them in her arms, and moved out of his way so he could enter the apartment.

Mrs. Jansen's door was open and one of her eyes just visible, watching with avid curiosity and a judgmental attitude. Ellie ignored her, standing tall, and waited for her brother to enter. With a doubtful glance at the dogs in her arms, wagging their tails and trying to reach out to sniff or taste the newcomer (or both), he stepped gingerly over the threshold, watching carefully where he stepped.

"It's all right.
They're paper trained. Here, I'll put them in my bedroom and we can talk without distraction."

"Thank you." His distaste for the small, noisy creatures was obvious.

She returned a moment later, the puppies safely ensconced with a square of paper, a water bowl, and an old shoe to chew on. It was old now; it hadn't been before they got hold of it last week and tore off half the sole.

"
Water? Coffee?" she offered, smiling affectionately at her older brother. He would never change; he would always be incredibly proper and somewhat over-concerned about status, but she loved him dearly.

"No
thank you. I came to talk to you." He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat without ado.

Ellie liked this, sitting with her brother in an informal situation. It reminded her of when they were children, when her brother was a little less starch
y. They used to sit in the kitchen at her aunt's, waiting for the cook to finish baking some treat for them. They must have been spoiled dreadfully as children, and yet she didn't remember it that way; she remembered feeling loved. Dear, apple-pie faced Mrs. Smith with her soft, wrinkled hands and voluminous white aprons that a small child could hide under like a tent. She'd been very kind to Ellie and Augustus.

She'd died before the children reached their teens, and Ellie remembered missing her dreadfully during those days consumed with the awfulness of spots on her face
, frizzy hair and too many freckles, not to mention the confusion of noticing boys mixed with the heartbreak of never being noticed back.

How she'
d longed to hide her face in those comforting aprons then and have Mrs. Smith smooth back her hair and promise everything would be okay, as if she had simply skinned her knee again or not been allowed to go to the fair. A sand tart or a slice of pie had been Mrs. Smith's other remedies for sorrow, and they had always felt surprisingly effective to a young Ellie.

"What did you want to talk about?" She took the seat opposite her brother and smiled at him affectionately. "It's always nice to see you, but you clearly have something on your mind."

"Ahem. I do." He cleared his throat. "It's about this man you've been seeing."

"Yes?" She couldn't help smiling a little at the thought of Shel.

"Mr. Sheldon Silverberg. Yes." He spoke the name with distaste, as though he didn't like it on his lips. "He works for a newspaper."

"I write a column for it,"
she said helpfully, waiting with sparkling eyes for what came next. She couldn't even dread it. Though knew she'd be irritated by his words, at the same time she want to laugh. Oh, the old Ellie would have felt put-upon and tearful at being treated like a child. But not the new Ellie; not the woman she was becoming. That woman didn't care two cents if her family disapproved of Shel. At least not if it was for some foolish reason like not coming from a wealthy family.

Shel was the son of immigrants, and an immigrant himself; he and his family had come over to American from Germany when he was eight, a few years before the war. He'd show
n her pictures of his family back then, with their awkward fashions and serious faces, trying their best to look American and not managing it yet. These days Shel spoke perfect English. He had learned the language with the ease of the young, though he'd suffered through years as a schoolboy with the taunts and harassment for his accent, for his religion, and, after America entered the War, for being German. His first name wasn't noticeably German — he'd been named for a beloved English relative — but everyone at his school had known his heritage.