Above the Fold Read online

  She huffed, and the yellow petals of the rose fixed to her coat trembled.

  His lips twitched before he could stop them.

  Elissa’s chin snapped up, her narrowed eyes informing him she’d misunderstood his reaction. “Five years without any association can affect a woman’s memory. So, yes, strangers.”

  No excuse, not even the wretched truth, could pacify the tempest swirling in the blue depths of her eyes.

  “Shall we become acquainted, then?” He stuck out his hand, and she took a step back, arms folded.

  Despite the rigid angles of her face matching the stiff line of her shoulders, Cole couldn’t venture past how striking she was. From the delicate slope of her nose to the tender turn of her chin and fixed so perfectly in between—the mouth that had lured him in more times than he could count.

  “Since I answered your question, I suppose you should return the favor.” She tugged the hem of her glove. “What were you doing?”

  He smiled his most dashing grin, and she gave him a glare so heated it could boil ice water. “Your father assigned me. I’m covering the Cartelli story.”

  “I gathered.” Her lashes lowered for a second, and he could’ve sworn a sigh escaped her lips. “I’m referring to the way you treated the D.A. How dare you claim ties to my paper and then act in such a scoundrel fashion?”

  He couldn’t control the chuckle rising from his chest. “I’m proud of that. Didn’t you catch how he was tiptoeing around all the questions? I cornered him, making him speak more words to me than his wife can probably get out of him in a week.”

  “We’ve worked hard to gain his favor.” The golden ringlets framing her face swayed as she spoke. “And we can’t lose it. Not now.”

  Her marked fury and contained desperation nipped his light humor and reminded him of the conversation he’d had with her father earlier in the week. The Review was struggling. “Spark, I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Please refrain from familiarities.” She turned away but glanced back with glacial regard. “You forfeited that right. And now my heart is wedded elsewhere.” The sharp click of her heels faded as she glided out the room, but the word punctured his heart. Wedded.

  Elissa Tillman was married.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tobacco smoke sparred with coffee vapors, punching Cole’s senses as he stepped into the Review’s newsroom, but the heavy scents were insignificant compared to nostalgia’s pang. He scanned the area that once had been his second home. Uneven rows of desks filled the center space. Maps of Pittsburgh and lists of possible leads were pinned to the wall edging the entrance, and floor-to-ceiling windows allowed in the light slanting past the Oakland Social Hall next door.

  Jackets draped chairs occupied by men hunched over their typewriters, too engaged to notice Cole. With a deep exhale, he strode down the main aisle, passing several vacant stations, not abnormal, considering most of the staff could be out on a story or an early lunch.

  “Who do I see here?” Frank Gosher eased back in his chair, patting a stomach which had significantly rounded since the last time Cole’d seen him. “I knew you’d be back.”

  Cole shook Frank’s plump hand. “Nice to see a familiar face ’round here.”

  “You’ll find a lot has changed.” The seasoned wire editor jerked a thumb toward an empty desk behind him. “The princess mostly.”

  The secretarial station must be Elissa’s. Cole didn’t need Frank to point out the difference in Elissa. He’d seen it himself. And he hadn’t fully recovered. While time had sculpted her face and curved her frame, it’d also darkened her sunny personality. Even her sparkling blue eyes had dimmed yet remained entrancing.

  Married. She’s married.

  Cole swallowed. “I best go see the boss.” He gave a quick nod and resumed his trek toward the office. He rapped the wooden frame of the open door.

  “Parker, ’bout time you showed your face. You know we don’t keep banking hours.” Alfred Tillman, wielding a pencil over a stack of editorials, didn’t spare a glance, but he sported his signature smirk—one side hitched up, making his cheek pucker. “Step in and shut the door.”

  “Got it, sir.” Things felt like they’d never changed. Checking in with the publisher of the Review had forged his daily routine for a good portion of his adolescence. Back then, his fingers hadn’t been typing an article but clutching, selling, or delivering bundles of newspapers.

  The wood-paneled space remained the same, but the man in the leather chair had aged remarkably over the past half-decade. The salt-and-pepper hair Tillman once sported now thinned and grayed.

  Cole adjusted the hem of his vest. “A golden article will be in your hands, er, as soon as you tell me where a vacant typewriter is.”

  The words tugged the older man’s gaze from his work and also pulled out a hearty chuckle. “Suppose you might need one.” He stood, the chair screeching against the planked floor. “Glad you’re back, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  His chin dipped. “Just glad you knew where to turn for help. But be aware you may not receive a friendly reception from—”

  “I saw her.”

  “Elissa?” His dulled eyes widened, and his gaze darted to the clock on the wall. “Already?”

  “Yes. At the courthouse.” All five-foot-four of her trimmed in the latest fashion but possessing a coldness he could never blame her for.

  Tillman scratched his scalp, the lines in his forehead wrinkling with his furrowed brow. “At the Cartelli trial?”

  “Yes, sir. I came across her in the gallery.” Which, looking back, seemed odd. Why had she attended the press conference? And what about the notepad she’d hidden from him? As if she had planned to cover the … His chest tightened. “She didn’t know I was coming, did she?”

  “Well …” Tillman palmed the back of his neck and stared at his shoes.

  Heat seared his throat. Cole yanked loose his tie knot, ignoring decorum. It all made sense now. She hadn’t expected to see him this morning any more than she would’ve Josephine Dodge. Though Elissa probably would’ve treated the anti-suffrage leader with more cordiality than she’d served Cole.

  His boss picked up a folder and rummaged through the pages inside. “I never imagined her going to the Cartelli trial, or I would’ve told her yesterday. I planned on telling her at breakfast, but she was already gone.”

  “Breakfast?” Cole straightened. “Both she and her husband live with you?”

  Tillman dropped the folder on his desk, barely missing his coffee mug. “Huh?”

  “Elissa mentioned her heart being wedded. I took that as—”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Marriage isn’t nonsense to me.”

  He smiled. “It is when it’s a falsehood. My daughter isn’t married to flesh and blood but to ink and paper. The Review is her life. That, and the women’s movement.” Tillman took a swig of his coffee. “Did you see the rose?”

  “I did.”

  “Almost two years since the womenfolk gained voting rights, but Elissa still wears the flower as a badge.”

  “Maybe she feels there’s more to be accomplished, sir.”

  “Not you too.” He grunted. “I just hope her zeal doesn’t result in her becoming estranged from her friends. Adam is the only fellow who still has the nerve to approach her.”

  As in Adam Kendrew? Cole’s hand clenched. Though who was he to say Kendrew hadn’t changed? The rich kid who’d bullied his way through school could’ve become a general in the Salvation Army, for all Cole knew. Still, tension stiffened every muscle, and if the words sat any longer on his tongue, they’d burn a hole. “Is Kendrew courting Elissa?”

  His boss guffawed. “Adam wishes. He’s been persistent, but Lissie shows no more regard for him than anyone else. I think Adam works here only to be near her. He could have a higher salary at another place.”

  No. Not a Salvationist. But a Review correspondent. Cole wanted to pound his forehead on the mahogany desk.
r />   “Come to the house for dinner this Friday.” Tillman spoke the invitation as he had years ago when Cole had been twelve—full of kindness and without judgment.

  In a pathetic irony, today was little different than the first day he’d walked into Mr. Tillman’s office. Like then, he was looking for hope after his world had been shattered.

  “You could come tonight, but I suspect your mother won’t want to share you for a few days.”

  Guilt jabbed Cole’s heart. He hadn’t contacted his mother yet. He would have—if it weren’t for the shame and disappointment. The two evils took turns sucker-punching Cole every time he thought about his failure. Which was often. How was he going to explain himself to her? Why he was here and not rubbing elbows with the elites. Not paying a visit but staying. For good. It still sounded foreign in his own head.

  Tillman looked at him sideways. “I won’t be bothered if you take a rain check. Considering it’s been, what, five years since you’ve been in town?” His boss had never been one for subtlety, but Cole deserved it.

  He hadn’t meant to stay away … well, yes. Yes, he had. But he’d written letters. Sent gifts. That had counted for something, right? Plus, his mother had visited New York the handful of times Cole could persuade her to leave her tenants. She ran that apartment complex like she had her household growing up—like a mother hen. “I can come this Friday. The Cartelli sentencing is at three, but I’m free after. What time would you like me to stop by? Still on the same routine?”

  Smile lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. “The same. Grace is as strict with seven o’clock meal time as I am with my deadline.” He gestured toward the door. “Speaking of which, you owe me an article. The desk right outside the door to the left is yours.” His grin stretched longer than the train tracks Cole had traveled yesterday. “Right next to Lissie’s.”

  Cole craned his neck, glimpsing the station—vacant only moments ago—through the narrow office door window. The lady herself now perched perfectly in her seat, holding the phone to her ear with her right hand, writing down something with her left.

  “Things run somewhat differently nowadays.” Tillman propped an elbow on a tall filing cabinet. “Turn your finished copy in to Elissa. She’ll proofread it and deliver it to the composing room.”

  Cole’s brow furrowed. What exactly was Elissa’s role here? This morning, she’d appeared to be an eager reporter, but then Frank had implied she was the secretary. Now Elissa wore the hat of copyeditor too? Cole shook his head. “She seems to have her hands full.”

  Mr. Tillman sighed, his eyes half-lidded. “Henry Marshall has been our main copyeditor, but last August his daughter contracted polio. The stress of everything got to be too much for him, and Elissa stepped in, easing the load.”

  Of course, she would. Growing up, her heart had always been for the broken, the needy. Like Cole. An ache stretched behind his eyes. Was coming home a smart idea? Every day would be a brutal reminder of all he’d lost.

  “Give her time, Parker. Your presence here will shift her world.”

  “Are you going to tell her why I returned?”

  “That’s all your department. She probably won’t speak with me right now anyway. She’ll be as cross with me as she is with you. She’ll think we both betrayed her.”

  Cole winced. Would she ever trust him again? Since he couldn’t have her heart, could their friendship be restored? It looked as attainable as winning a Pulitzer, but he had to try. Later. His boss was right. She needed time, and patience was a virtue he’d yet to master.

  Now he had a job to complete. One he wasn’t going to bungle. The last time had cost him.

  Though maybe he could get Elissa to listen to him without him speaking a word. He smiled. Something for old times’ sake.

  Elissa stared at her shorthand, hoping she’d heard the information about the classified correctly. The lady had fed her information like a telegraph, but without the stops to give her brain time to catch up. And the awareness of Cole Parker ten feet behind her in Father’s office hadn’t helped any.

  She rearranged her pencils and notepads for the third time since she’d sat down. Maybe she should’ve gone home. She’d never been one to cry into her pillow, but today her goose feathers beckoned.

  How could Father have done this?

  A soreness spread from her heart to her toes. Maybe she’d been overreacting. Maybe Cole was in town to visit his mother, and her father had heard about it. It was possible he’d offered Cole this particular article to promote the paper, like a guest reporter sort of thing. That had to be the situation here. Then Cole would simply turn in his piece and be on his way without another look back. Just like last time.

  The creak of her father’s door scraped in her ears, and it took all Elissa’s willpower not to glance over her shoulder.

  “Get to it, Parker.” Her father’s editor-voice had always made her laugh, but not this time.

  Cole appeared in her peripheral. He pulled out the chair at the desk … parallel to hers. Her stomach sank. Now she’d have to put up with him for however many minutes before he finished his article and left. Hopefully, forever.

  The newsroom bustled, always in a hurried state, but the man beside her didn’t move. Oh, she shouldn’t glance over. She shoved her attention to the phone, wishing it to ring. Anything to keep from—

  Smack.

  She jumped, slapping a hand over her heart. Something had landed on her desk.

  A fountain pen. His.

  She recognized its abalone pearl barrel and fourteen-karat gold nib. The pen her father had given Cole for his high school graduation. “Quite an expensive pen to be tossing around.” She allowed herself one quick peek.

  He slid a paper from the drawer and rolled it into the carriage of the typewriter. Like every other male in this stuffy room, Cole had shed his jacket, but unlike every other man in here, Cole had corded muscles, flexing with his movements. “Hmm? Did you say something?” He tugged the bottom of his earlobe.

  His onyx eyes sparkled, alerting her to his mischief. The raucous blend of ticking typewriters, ringing phones, and slamming file cabinet drawers could distract an amateur, but not him.

  “What’s this about?” She motioned to the pen.

  He shifted in his seat, facing her with a broadening smile, his cleft chin amply exposed and dangerously appealing. “I’m resorting to my old methods. Hoping to get you to speak with me.”

  She squeezed her pencil hard enough to cramp her finger. Any verbal response would only satisfy his strategy. No, her best line of attack would be to remain silent.

  Elissa fixed her attention on the billing list for next month’s advertisers. Several businesses still owed payment from February. Her brows pinched. Since when had Father allowed this? He’d always taught her to be sure to collect the money before ad placement. She should speak with him, but not now. Not until she could face him without emotion clogging her brain. Was he even aware of the distress he’d caused her today?

  The familiar click-click of keys striking the paper stole her gaze without her mind’s permission. Wouldn’t Cole’s schooling at Columbia and time at the Dispatch have forced him out of his self-taught typing style? Yet his forefinger and middle finger darted all over the keyboard while his left hand manipulated the shift key.

  She’d once called his hunt-and-peck method silly and challenged him to a typing race. Her perfect eight-finger-and-one-thumb technique had finished last. Which was a lesson for her to remember—against Cole she’d always end up the loser.

  The headache that had threatened earlier struck full force. She could finish this article later. As for the phone, her father could answer it.

  She collected all the necessary paperwork to complete the assignment at home and pulled her handbag from the bottom drawer.

  Cole’s fingers stopped their maniacal dancing across the keys. “Going somewhere?”

  Elissa mashed her lips together to quell the rising huff. “I don’t see how
that’s any of your business.”

  “Aren’t you going to check the pen?”

  “We’re not kids anymore.”

  “Please?” The deep rasp of his voice exposed a hint of hopefulness.

  The hammering in her skull increased.

  He eased back in his chair and barred his arms across his chest. “Just check the pen, Spark, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Save your promises. They’ve proven hollow.” She snatched the renegade writing utensil and unscrewed it. As expected, a sliver of paper wrapped around the ink cartridge. Oh, how she had loved this diversion after graduation when Cole had scribed romantic poems. Little had she known his flowery words would decay more quickly than the ink could dry.

  A heavy aggravation wound tight in her chest. How could he think he could just step right back in like nothing had changed? He was well aware of her last words to him on the train station platform, and he hadn’t cared.

  Only abandoned her.

  Elissa pulled out the note. With a smirk, she walked toward the exit, crumpling the paper in her hand and depositing it in Frank Gosher’s spittoon.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cole swiped a thick finger under his collar. Elissa hadn’t read his apology. She’d destroyed the note along with any confidence he had possessed.

  Why had he returned?

  All the rational reasons for his presence in this city had evaporated while the faint scent of wildflowers taunted his emotions for the long moments after Elissa left. He’d struggled to complete the article, but by God’s grace, he had. A portion of him reveled in the slight hope he still had what it took. But a larger piece of him could sink into the cracks of the grooved floorboards.