Dear Mr. Knightley (22 page)

Daughter?
I shoved a cookie into my mouth to cover my jaw drop.
Daughter?
What a fleeting, lovely, unimaginable thought.

Alex cut through the moment. “She’s right. I don’t clean unless I move, Sam, and all my bills are direct pay—never even see them. I need to be downtown anyway. Cole would never live in such a sleepy suburb.” The last bit he threw to the professor.

“Sleepy suburb? I take offense at that, young man. I’ll have you know—”

They carried on from there as Mrs. Muir and I escaped to the kitchen with the platter. Alex found us there an hour later, finishing off the chocolate chip cookies.

“Want a ride south, Sam?”

“Aren’t you staying here? I can call a cab, or the Metra is well lit.”

“You don’t do that, do you? At night? Sam, I’m driving you home. I know Pops doesn’t let you do that.”

“He doesn’t. He always takes me home. But I’m fully capable.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Alex.” Mrs. Muir stepped in.

“Sorry.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Not my business. Grab your coat. I’ll behave.” He kissed Mrs. Muir on her cheek. I followed suit and we headed for his car.

Alex raked his hands through his hair. “I’ve been a jerk all night. I didn’t know they were leaving.”

I suspected he wasn’t talking entirely to me.

“Pops was right. I haven’t been paying attention lately. Bugger . . .” Alex noticed me. “And you, I was rude to you. Mom M was right to call me on it. I’m sorry, Sam. I feel like I keep doing that to you. I’m not such a jerk all the time, I promise.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It’s just that they talk about you all the time. I feel I know you . . . That doesn’t excuse it, I’m just trying to explain it.”

The car grew warm.

Alex continued, “They love me, the Muirs, and that makes me protective of them and anything important to them—now that includes you. But I shouldn’t tease or criticize you. I don’t know you that well.”

“I’m not offended, Alex.” And I wasn’t. I was dwelling on
They talk about you all the time.
I took a deep breath. “What do they say about me?” I didn’t think the Muirs would break my confidence, but I wondered.

“It’s what they don’t say. They drop your name in conversation like you’re a member of the family, and you light up Pops’s eyes. You can see that?” Alex smiled at me. His face was so transparent that I believed him. That’s all he knew.

“No.”

Alex looked at me a moment longer, letting me absorb the compliment. “You should look harder.” He continued, “They’ve also said that you work hard, you’re amazingly smart, you come for dinner weekly, you like the kids you live near, and you’ve got some quirky friends, namely a girl named Ashley. Hence, I feel I know and adore you too.” Now he was teasing me.

“ ‘Accept my thanks for the compliment.’ ” I donned Lizzy in all her glory and hoped we could pass to a new topic.

“So I don’t need to ‘use my breath to cool my porridge’,” he replied.

“Ugh . . . How could I have forgotten that about you? Do you know every book written?”

Part of me laughed and another part panicked. I like Alex. Heck, on some level I probably have a crush on him, or some residual hero worship—either way, he disconcerts me. I can’t rely on my characters; he knows them all. And the real me? He’s Alex Powell, for goodness’ sake. Who am I kidding that any of this matters to him?

He chatted a bit more on the drive to Conleys’ and kept it light and easy. Maybe he sensed I needed space. I got out of the car without many more words.

But of course he had the last ones. “I know what you’re thinking, Sam. ‘Teazing, teazing man! I will think no more about him.’ I hope you won’t stick to that.”

This time I laughed. “Good night, Alex. ‘I know my own strength and will never be embarrassed by
you
again.’”

He smiled softly at me. “You make a better Lizzy, Sam. Jane Bennet is too quiet for you.” And he left me standing in the driveway still smiling as he drove away.

He’s infuriating, Mr. Knightley, but he’s also a really nice man.

Now back to studying. It’s been a crazy few days, but finals are next week so it’s going to get worse. Then spring break starts, and Debbie and I have been invited to Ashley’s house in Naples, Florida. Can you imagine the blunders I can commit there?

Sincerely,

Sam

P.S. I can’t sleep. Josh dropped by.

“You’re home. I’ve been calling for hours.”

No hello?
“I went to the Muirs’ for dinner. I left my phone here. What’s up?” I let him in the door.

“I wanted to see you. You’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you. I’m so excited, hon—the article, the interview.”

He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. Then he said, “I got you something. Come here.” He crossed the room to the couch and patted the seat next to him. I followed, and he put a small, light blue box tied with a white ribbon into my hands. “Go on, open it.”

I pulled off the ribbon feeling slightly detached. I remembered a similar moment, long ago, with Dan and hoped my reaction would be warmer now, more sincere. But I didn’t feel it. I still don’t.

Inside I found a beautiful silver necklace—a thin chain with a star pendant. And in the star’s center rested a sapphire.
It was extraordinary. Josh took my silence for awe. Perhaps it was.

He reached for it. “Let me put it on you. You’re my star, you know.” I lifted my hair as he reached around to clasp it at the back of my neck. He pressed a kiss there before I lowered my hair.

“There. It’s perfect. Go look in the mirror.”

I went to the bathroom, grateful for the privacy. First I looked at the necklace. It lay at just the right place, beneath the hollow at the base of my neck. Next I looked at my eyes. They did not reflect joy.

Josh called from the living room, “Hon, I gotta go. I’m meeting Logan and Drew for late-night drinks at the Aviary. Wanna come?”

I left my sanctuary, fingering the pendant. “I’d love to, but I’ve got some editing to do.” I needed to say more. “I’m sad you have to go.”

Josh looked in my eyes, then at my fingers playing with the pendant, and smiled. “I know.” He led the way to the door and pulled me into his arms. “I’m glad you like it. I knew it would look spectacular on you.” He kissed me again, longer this time, and with more authority. “Congratulations. You get your work done.”

He left. And I’m still awake.

MARCH 24

Dear Mr. Knightley,

I just got home from Naples, Florida. If that isn’t an entirely different planet, I’m not sure what is. Wow. It was good, but I’m glad to be home. It was exhausting keeping my jaw from constantly dropping.

We flew down last Saturday, dropped our bags at Ashley’s house, and went straight to her “club” for lunch. Afterwards, lying by the pool, I decided to tell her about the article. I pulled a copy out to show her and started my story. Debbie loved adding her insights.

“So you see, Ash, it totally makes sense now why she had no clue about . . .” And off she went.

Ashley laughed and joined in, especially when we talked about my quotation habit. She’s the only one with enough literary knowledge to understand what I was up to.

Then they took a tangent I never expected: you. Ashley was like Sherlock Holmes meets Nancy Drew. Do I have any clues to your identity? Do you ever contact me? Did I ask Laura any questions? Did I hire a detective? Only Ashley and Eloise, the little spoiled girl who lives at the Plaza, would think of hiring a detective. “Excuse me, I’d like a hot fudge sundae, one private investigator, two forensic analysts, and a cherry soda. ‘Charge it, please, and thank you very much.’” She hypothesized for a full twenty minutes on ways I could hunt you down. Don’t worry—I’m as uninterested in that as I would suspect you are.

It’s ironic that as I grow comfortable being Sam, they
suddenly cast me as Orphan Annie or Anne Shirley. From their perspective my childhood began to sound romantic and heroic. And you became Daddy Warbucks or Uncle Drosselmeyer. Ashley suggested that one—she’s seen
The Nutcracker
on Broadway “every year for as long as I can remember.” Again, only Ashley.

The cross-examination and speculation droned on and on. I wondered why I ever hid my past—they found it fascinating. After a couple hours, Debbie jumped into the pool and I noticed Ashley grow quiet. All this was bothering her more than she let on.

I reached over and poked her arm. She swung her head toward me, so sad.

“I’m sorry, Ashley. I hurt you the most. I know that.”

She looked away.

“I hope you understand how scared I was. I started hiding so young, I didn’t know how to stop—even when I felt safe. Please forgive me.”

She looked up with a deep, shuddering breath—a start-over breath. “You know I do. It’s just that you clearly didn’t think much of me or you would have trusted me.”

I raised my eyebrows at her.

She slumped back in her lounge chair. “I did it again, didn’t I? I made it about me.”

“Kind of,” I laughed. “But I understand.”

“Sam? I trust you, you know. There aren’t many people I trust, but you’re one. I wish you felt the same about me.”

“I do. You see me better than anyone. And we’re a lot alike, even though our pasts are very different. I just think it’s hard for us to understand each other sometimes.”

“Agreed, but I’d like to.”

“Me too.” I smiled, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

“I won’t use it against you, Sam,” she whispered.

“And I won’t go after you. I promise, Ashley. I’m sorry if I ever have.”

“Me too.”

We sat silent for a few moments. I think that was enough soul baring for both of us.

“Ohhh . . . How’d Josh take it?”

I’d just drifted to sleep when Ashley’s playful voice startled me. “Why did you say it like that?”

She seemed to take his negative response as a given.

“Sam, the guy’s a poser.” Ashley caught herself. “That’s not a bad thing. He likes things a certain way, and I can’t imagine he appreciates surprises.”

She was right. Josh doesn’t like surprises. Maybe it was the surprise, not the story or my past, that bothered him. The necklace confirms that. And he’s very excited now.

Debbie came back, and I told them all about Valentine’s Day and Josh’s reaction and the necklace. Debbie said he behaved badly, but agreed the necklace is beautiful. Ashley said to cut him some slack and added that Josh is ambitious, but not mean.

I vacillated between the opinions for a while. I haven’t seen him much because work’s kept him busy most nights, but he’s been very attentive in calls and texts—far better than usual. That’s to his credit.

So I decided to cut him some slack. Second chances are good, right? I called him and flirted shamelessly, telling him I couldn’t wait to see him when I got home. Very Marianne Dashwood.

The rest of the week was great. We sunned, swam, ate, laughed, and talked. The only cloud came yesterday: Mrs. Walker and Constance, Ashley’s older sister, arrived.

“Ashley, Constance and I are going to Saks today. You should join us. You’re looking worn. If this is what you wear every day, it needs freshening.”

“Mother, I’m fine. Debbie and Sam are here. I’m not going shopping with you.”

“What you wear reflects upon your family, Ashley.”

“No, Mother. It reflects upon me. In Chicago, folks look at me, get to know me for me. I make my own decisions.”

“If your decisions lead to sloppy clothes and shabby friends, perhaps you should reconsider.”

“My friends? What are you talking about?”

“Your friends are shabby. Sam’s the worst of the lot. She has no style, no presence.”

“Sam’s a good friend. If you only—”

Don’t say it, Ashley.

Her mom, thankfully, cut her off. “Ashley, I’m not discussing this right now. Clean up and let’s go. You’re a mess.”

Neither had seen me approach from the kitchen. I can’t believe they didn’t hear my heart pounding. I slowly retraced my steps and ate another bowl of corn flakes. Is that how people see me? Shabby? I thought I looked pretty pulled together. I don’t have Ashley’s sense of style, but I’m neat and tidy and, thanks to you, own some lovely clothes. I thought I fit in.

We hopped the plane this morning seemingly happy, but Ashley’s eyes were tight and flat, and I felt deflated. I had tried to stand up straight and thank Mrs. Walker with dignity, even
bravado. But my best Edmond Dantes came off limp and got waved away with a flick of her fingers.

Other than those moments, Mr. Knightley, it was an amazing trip, and I got to know Ashley and Debbie better. And they got to know me, the real me—painful and scary, yes, but also necessary and good. I refuse to let Mrs. Walker steal any of that.

Nevertheless, next time I travel to Florida, I’ll visit Disney World. I need more reality. And you’ll never find Mrs. Walker there.

Back home safe and sound,

Sam

P.S. Here’s my spring schedule: Johnson for Civil Writes. Catchy title, huh? The sensible part of me warns I should avoid his classes. They bring down my GPA. But Johnson pushes me, and I’m getting better.

I’m also taking Investigative Journalism, Statistical Research, and Magazine Editing. Just can’t stay away from those math classes.