Dear Mr. Knightley (14 page)
“I’m Frances Muir. I’m so glad you came tonight.”
“Thank you for inviting me. And yes, it’s Sam—short for Samantha.”
“Robert always loved inviting students to dinner, and Alex was and is his most favorite. It’s wonderful to have one of his friends join us for dinner.”
“I just met him briefly a couple days ago. He gave a talk on campus and I snuck in; then I stepped on him and walked downtown with him. I don’t really know him.” I pressed my lips together.
Stop babbling.
“Well, Robert liked you, my dear, and he’s a good judge of character.” Mrs. Muir smiled. “And as for Alex, he may drop by later, so perhaps you can get to know him better.”
“Alex?”
Gulp.
“He has some signings and a couple events downtown this evening, but he hopes to drop by. He’s got a flight back to New York tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.” I never expected to run into Alex again, and now I felt that I was intruding into his private world.
“Why don’t you wash that for me, and I’ll finish the sauce.” Mrs. Muir pointed to a head of lettuce.
I grabbed it, happy to contribute. There was something about the Muirs—the professor’s intensity and Mrs. Muir’s serenity—that intrigued me and made me feel safe. I wanted to be there. That in itself was highly unusual. Most of the time I want to be anywhere other than where I am.
As I washed the lettuce, I looked around. It was clearly a working kitchen. Some, you can tell, are just for show. You might get a snack out of them, but they’re not fortified to
put out great meals every day. This one was the real deal. Cookbooks lined the shelves, spices stood at attention in a rack, knives rested in a huge block next to a massive Viking stove. And the aura of tomatoes, anchovies, and garlic dominated the landscape. I worked in silence for a moment and then decided to ask about Alex and the professor.
“They seemed very close at the café. Have they always been like that?”
“From the moment Alex stepped into Robert’s class. We never had children, and in many ways we regard Alex as a son.”
“Does he come here often?”
“He used to schedule a lot of media work in Chicago so he could stay with us for a few weeks, but with the last book he never left New York. We’ve been out there a few times, but he’s had a hard time the past few years.” She paused for a moment, then added wistfully, “He’s worked nonstop for years now.”
I learned that Alex’s parents are alive and well and living in Washington state—but they don’t mind the time Alex spends with the Muirs. Can you imagine? Another set of parents looking out for you, loving you? Then Mrs. Muir asked if I missed my family. I was tempted to tell her the truth. The kitchen felt warm and safe, and I think Mrs. Muir is trustworthy. I came so close.
“I don’t miss them too much. I’m so busy. Would you like me to chop this as well?” The dodge worked and the moment passed.
We soon sat down to
Bistecca alla Pizzaiola
, the Steak of the Pizza Maker’s Wife. Basically it’s a steak, pan-seared then slow cooked in a thick tomato, garlic, and anchovy sauce. The food was rich, comforting, and delicious, and the conversation
felt the same. We talked about literature, writing, movies—all sorts of stuff. I even confessed some of my problems with Johnson.
“Russell’s as tough as they come.” Professor Muir leaned back in his chair.
“Too tough for me. He’s going to fail me.”
“Have you talked to him about how to improve?”
“A little.” The idea of willingly pursuing Johnson for a “talk” was unimaginable.
“Keep at it. I say he’s tough, but he’s also one of the best men I know—a man of incredible skill and incomparable integrity. You keep at it. You’re in good hands.”
I sat there stunned. I knew Johnson was powerful, but this was a peer, not a student or even a journalist, singing his praises. I saw Johnson in a different light, and it didn’t make him any less intimidating.
I let these thoughts dance in my mind while we cleared the table and began washing the dishes. Then Alex arrived . . .
He walked straight in the front door as Mrs. Muir was putting a plate of cookies on the kitchen table. She said it was our reward for a kitchen well cleaned. I turned around to comment and there he was, staring at me.
“Sam? What are you doing here?”
I froze. I thought I might be intruding before; now I knew I was.
“Alex,” Mrs. Muir gently reprimanded him. “We invited Sam for dinner. We’re having a lovely time.”
Alex shook his head as if clearing a thought or rustling up some good manners. “I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Professor Muir took my number at the café. Then Mrs. Muir called me.”
He waved his hand. “Don’t explain. I told you they were good people. Glad you’re here.” But he didn’t sound glad. He turned away from me, crossed the kitchen, and kissed Mrs. Muir on the cheek. “Where’s Pops?”
“He went to get Sam a book from the study.”
“Great.” Alex grabbed a cookie and left in search of the professor.
Mrs. Muir studied the empty doorway for a moment. “That was abrupt.” She turned to me and smiled. “Don’t let him rattle you, Sam. We’re so delighted you came.”
“I’m intruding on his time with you. You said he’s like your son, and now a stranger is mucking up his last night here.”
“Not at all. When Robert was teaching we had lots of ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’ coming for dinners. It was great fun. But since his retirement, Alex has been the only one around. Perhaps he’s grown a bit spoiled.” She grinned and handed me a cookie. “Let’s sit.”
Alex and the professor came back to the kitchen and we sat around the table, chatting and eating cookies for another hour. Then the conversation dwindled, and I knew Alex needed time alone with them.
“Thank you so much. I need to get home and finish some work.”
“Remember what I said about talking to Johnson.” The professor smiled at me.
“What are you working on?” Alex looked across the table at me—directly for the first time.
“I have an article due, and I’m reading
The Merchant of
Venice
. It’s showing downtown and I thought I’d see it and write a review for one of my classes.”
“Good for you. That’s very thorough of you, Sam, to read the play first. I’m impressed.” The professor cut into the conversation.
“Ah, Portia and her secret identity . . . I love that one.” Alex nodded and chomped a cookie.
“I do too.” I paused and looked at him for a moment. It was a surreal experience. It’s not like I have a crush on him; I don’t. Alex wasn’t that nice tonight, and I’m seeing Josh—we went out again last Friday. But sitting across a table from Alex Powell, eating cookies, was unique.
“Let me drive you back to campus.” Alex slid his chair back.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I didn’t want to take the Metra at night, but I was not about to take Alex from the Muirs.
“You’re not taking the Metra. I’ll drive you if Alex won’t.” Professor Muir stood as well.
“Take a seat, Pops. I’ll drive Sam and be right back. While I’m gone, you can read my plot points for the next book.”
“Excellent.” The professor rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Alex stalked to the front hall without another word and grabbed his coat. I felt like the Ugly Duckling—obtrusive and unwanted.
As he opened the door, the professor rushed into the hall. “You’re staying here for Thanksgiving, Sam? On campus?”
“Yes, how did you . . . know that?” I stammered.
“Students usually babble about home this time of year. You never mentioned it.”
“Ahh . . .” I let it hang. There was nothing to say.
“You’ll come here.”
“No, I . . .” I fumbled for an excuse. Any excuse.
“Franny will call you. I make stuffing. It’s the only thing I make all year, and I have a talent. You’ll love it.” He winked at me and leaned down for a bear hug, and I couldn’t pull away—he’s too big—so I surrendered. I’m unused to hugs, so at the time I couldn’t enjoy it. Several hours later, I loved that hug.
Alex and I got into his rental and headed south. He didn’t speak. I thought a fifteen-minute silent ride with Alex Powell might kill me, so I started asking questions.
“You’ve got an outline for your next book?”
He turned his head and looked straight at me for a moment, studying me. I guess I passed some test, because he visibly relaxed.
“I do. This one’s been hard. All the publicity I’m doing for
Salvation Bound
hasn’t helped, but they’ve got me on a yearly release now, so I keep chugging.”
“That’s a lot of writing.”
“It’s a much different pace than I kept for my first two. I wrote
Redemption
while getting my MFA at Columbia and worked in a coffee shop while finishing it. It was easy, I guess, because I didn’t have any expectations. Now there are expectations.”
“Do you get any breaks?”
He laughed this self-deprecating chuckle that sounded tinged with regret. “This week was supposed to be that. I decided to visit Mom and Pops Muir at the last minute and look what happened—PR events, signings, interviews. I told my publisher my plans, and ‘vacation’ went out the window.”
“Your talk at Northwestern?”
“That? No, I set that up on my own. Megan and I were at Columbia together, and she’s been begging me to talk to her class. But the dog-and-pony show downtown? Not my favorite.” He looked at me again. “I’m sorry I’m complaining, Sam. I sound pathetic. ‘Poor me, too many people love me.’”
I laughed. “I was not thinking that.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.” He paused. “Let me tell you something else. Something good, that’s not a complaint.”
Alex then shared that he comes from eastern Washington and has three siblings; he thinks Mrs. Muir’s chocolate chip cookies are straight from heaven; he loves to watch baseball; and he gets his hair cut only at places with a traditional barber pole outside. Don’t ask how that last detail came up. I can’t remember, but it didn’t sound odd at the time.
We were in the Conleys’ driveway before I knew it.
“Thanks for putting up with me, Sam. I was rude tonight.”
“Not at all. I intruded on your family. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to.”
I started to get out of the car, but he called me back. “Sam?”
I leaned into the open door.
“Please go to their house for Thanksgiving. They never had kids and always wanted them. I think retirement has been harder on Pops than he’ll admit. He misses his students.”
“If they call, I’ll go. He was right. I don’t have any plans.”
Alex nodded. “Good then. Thank you.” He reached out to shake my hand.
I’ll keep you posted on
Thanksgiving,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving—filled with turkey, green beans, potatoes, fall leaves, pumpkin pie, family walks, movies. Mine was packed with all that and more. It was one of the most warm-feeling, broad-smile, deep-belly-sigh days ever.
I anticipated a lonely day: Josh went home to Cincinnati, Ashley to New York, and Debbie to Minneapolis; Kyle was with the Hoffmans, and everyone else was gone as well. I couldn’t bear to call Father John and ask if I could come to Grace House, so I planned on heating a frozen turkey dinner here and watching the old BBC
Pride and Prejudice
. I didn’t expect Mrs. Muir to call. But she did.
She invited me to spend the whole day with them. But, unlike the professor, she invited me so softly and with such care that I didn’t even try to refuse.
I was so anxious and excited that I couldn’t sleep past five and went for a run. Ten miles definitely calms one’s nerves. It was perfect: dark, cold, and silent. It was my first time out in the dark alone since the Great Beat-down, so I stuck to the main streets and felt safe. I loved each step and felt myself settle with each mile. The sun came up over the lake in a spectacular series of blazing oranges, pinks, and yellows. At the end, I knew I could handle the day—all by myself.
I then worked on a few articles until it was time to grab an
apple pie at Foodstuffs on Central Avenue and hop the Metra north.
Mrs. Muir welcomed me with a huge smile and an equally warm hug. “You didn’t need to bring pie, dear. We just wanted you. Come in.”
I walked in to the most amazing smells of garlic, turkey, potatoes, and something citrus . . . It was tangible and delicious.
“You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for you,” the professor started with little preamble. “I want to see what you think of this.” He handed me a couple printed pages.
“No work today.” Mrs. Muir gently took the pages from me and handed them back to him. “Right now we cook.”
“But I think young Sam here will have good insights.”
“I’m sure she will. Another day.”
“Very well.” He winked at me and slid the pages into my bag as he followed his wife to the kitchen. “Another day, Sam.”
We cooked, chopped, tasted, and laughed throughout the day. We didn’t talk about anything specific, just stuff that meant nothing and everything: books, movies, weather, trees, politics, school, personalities, Chicago, art . . .
After an amazing meal, during which I did not embarrass myself or insult anyone else, we grabbed seats on the couch for their annual Thanksgiving Day tradition of watching George C. Scott as Scrooge in
A Christmas Carol
. I’ve read the book about six times, but I’d never seen the movie. At each reading I struggle with Scrooge’s turnabout. It seems too fast, too complete. I mean, he resists goodness with the third ghost, and then flips almost instantly into the embodiment of St. Nicholas. It never made sense to me.
