Dear Mr. Knightley (29 page)
“Did I scare you?”
“I think you scared everyone.”
“I’m sure I did, but I bet I got you . . . I bet I got you good, Sam.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, Sam, I see so much in you. We’re alike, like father and daughter. And I think you feel . . .” His voice grew soft and drifted away.
The line fell silent, and I panicked. “Professor? Professor?”
“Sam?” It was Mrs. Muir. “He’s asleep, dear. He’s been so anxious to talk to you, and I think now that he’s heard your voice, he can rest.”
“My voice?”
“Don’t you know how much you mean to him?” She paused. “Sam, God was good to us today. Don’t forget that. Robert will be fine, and we’ll be home soon.”
“I don’t know . . .” Tears trickled down my checks. “This doesn’t sound good.”
“Oh, darling. You should see the look of peace on Robert’s face right now. We were right next to a police officer when he had the episode, and he’s been given a wonderful report. We are blessed.”
I wanted to believe her, to have her faith and confidence. I felt my heart trip forward—almost to hope.
They’re going to stay in Paris a few days longer so the professor can rest before continuing to Spain. And if he gets too tired, they’ll stop completely and wander in the “pink light” of Paris. I didn’t get that. Is the light really pink there?
I hung up the phone, and fear crept back into me. I felt small and alone. I called Alex. It was the first time I’d initiated
contact—a huge mistake and not my finest moment. I didn’t even say hi.
“You knew. You knew and you didn’t tell me? Don’t you think I care? I know they mean more to you, but I’m staying in their house. I’m not a nobody, Alex. How could you do that to me?”
“Nice to hear from you, Sam.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“Give you what? Mom M called me twenty minutes ago. I didn’t call you because you were her next call. Calls one and two, Sam. I don’t think you could’ve found out any faster.”
“Well . . .” My anger lost its steam. “Still . . .”
“Still what?”
“I don’t know.” I put on a new coat of mad. “You should fly over.”
“I’m not flying to France.”
“He should mean more to you than that, Alex. I—”
What would I do?
That moment surprised me. What would I do for the professor? Almost anything . . .
“Sam, stop. This has happened before. Pops is fine, and I’m not going to insult him by acting like it’s worse than it is. He wouldn’t want that.”
“ ‘I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.’ ” I cringed.
“Caroline Bingley? Really?” Alex paused. “You think I insulted you? Is that it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I didn’t.” Alex’s voice got gentle, and that upset me even more. “Is that what you do when—”
“I’m hanging up.” I felt so embarrassed and exposed.
“Sam, don’t—” I didn’t hear another word. I can’t believe I did that to Alex. What must he think of me?
I need to finish the dishes,
Sam
Later . . .
I won’t be able to sleep until I update you.
As I finished the dishes, I sobbed. I can’t explain why. I’ve known the Muirs a shorter time than some of my shortest foster placements.
But they could slip away. The professor could die. I could die. Everything changes, you know. Each and every moment things change. I was beginning to think that change could be good, but I was wrong. I know I’m twenty-four and I don’t need a mom and a dad, but I wanted them. That’s a lie too—I need them. I hoped the Muirs could be mine and nothing would take them away from me. And the heart attack broke
my
heart.
Then the doorbell rang. I scrubbed my eyes with a dish towel as I raced to answer it. Alex was the last person I expected to find.
“What are you doing here?” So much for making a good impression—ever.
“I thought you could use a hug.” Alex stepped into the doorway and held me for the longest time. It wasn’t romantic. It was strong and comforting and exactly what I needed. I held him tight around his waist, sniffed into his shirt, and rested.
When I started breathing normally, he stepped back. There was a very embarrassing wet mark on his shoulder, but he kindly didn’t note it.
“I’m so sorry.” I started swiping at it with my dish towel. “I was so rude to you.”
“It’s okay. It was a shock. And I’m sorry if I appeared blasé. I’m not, you know. I love Pops very much.”
“I know you do. You’re not blasé about anything that I can tell.”
“ ‘Accept my thanks for the compliment.’ ”
“No Lizzy. I can’t believe I did that to you.” I almost started to cry again, for completely different reasons.
Alex smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No more quotations.” He tilted his head out the open front door. “It’s a gorgeous night, Sam. Let’s take a walk.”
We walked to the lake and then stopped at Homer’s for ice cream on the way back. I was so tired from the stress and sobbing that I don’t think I was good company, but Alex didn’t seem to mind. He told me more about his relationship with the professor.
“We’d go down to the Boys and Girls Club every Saturday and play basketball and stuff. Pops would sit on the side and read to anyone who’d listen. I played ball.”
“On Saturday mornings? Not what I’d expect.”
Alex laughed. “I know. Pops made me do it. I was so angry when I got to NU. It was me against the world. Pops was trying to show me it wasn’t, and that I wasn’t alone feeling that way.”
His whole face lit up. “You should’ve seen it, Sam. It was a blast—a bunch of angry kids and scary thugs coming together
to play ball. That gang leader in
Redemption
, Crit? He’s based on a guy from there. Scariest dude I ever met, but a good ballplayer and honorable on the court. Never left a guy on the ground without offering him a hand—weirdest thing.”
I smiled, thinking of Kyle. Someday—if I get the courage—I’ll introduce them. They’d really like each other.
“Why don’t you find something similar in New York?”
“I’ve tried. Once they learn my name, I never get past the development directors. They want my name and my money—and that’s important too, I’m not knocking it—but they don’t want me.”
“You should try again. You could make a difference, Alex, and you clearly loved it. Think of the new characters you might find.”
“True.” We walked without saying more for a while. He simply stayed beside me.
It was good. And I didn’t make it that way. Alex did. He also told me about the professor’s previous episodes, his medications, and what he does to take care of himself. It was good to hear. Not only because it didn’t sound so tragic after all, but because Alex made me feel like my knowing mattered.
And this is where I must stop, Mr. Knightley. Writing helps me process things, but these emotions are too much, too foreign. And I’m too tired. I’m so glad the professor will be well. But more . . . I can’t consider that right now.
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Summer is over. My internship ended two days ago. I wrote sixteen articles under a joint byline and seven under my own name. I edited seventeen of McDermott’s pieces, and by the end he trusted my voice and my judgment. He was a great mentor and I think he liked working with me. He hugged me as I left the building and said, “You did good, kid.”
I’m sad that it’s over. I didn’t knock the ball out of the park—Mike actually won an award for one of his fifteen solo articles—but I did good, solid work and I’m proud of it. Ms. Ellis asked me to apply for a full-time job after graduation. I didn’t get an offer, but she didn’t say good riddance either.
But now Alex is gone too, and I’m sad all over again. We spent the past two days in a frantic effort to see all that remained of Chicago: another Cubs game, Navy Pier, one museum, six different restaurants, a last run along the lake . . . He jotted notes and I took pictures, building details for the book as we walked along. I think he may even use a few of my quips and quotes—and he hinted about giving Cole a girlfriend.
“What happened with that detective Cole hated?”
“I never said he ‘hated’ her.”
“He should.”
“Why?”
“Conflict drives emotion, Alex. If he hates her at the beginning, he can love her at the end.”
“You are so set on him getting a girlfriend. Don’t you think
once he finds someone, he’ll be all in? He’s a pretty intense guy. What if she doesn’t feel the same? Best not to rush it.”
I pondered this. “Don’t avoid it, though. That’s a cop-out.”
He laughed. “Love stories are too easy. They’re trite. Cole doesn’t need that.”
“Then don’t make her light and easy—make her tough, and real, and flawed. I’d like to read about that, because if it’s difficult, but beautiful, then I’ll believe it can be real. And you can draw that out. Complexity will give Cole time.”
Alex stopped and stared at me. “Okay, I’m sold. You sure you want to be a journalist?”
“For now. Gotta use all this training. But I’d like to write a children’s book someday—a book of fun stories that go completely wrong, but end well with the kids tucked into bed safe and happy.”
“That I’ll read.”
And that was how these two days felt too—safe and happy. I was so desperate to hang on that I asked if I could take him to the airport tomorrow.
“You’d have to get up at three thirty. I’ll take a cab.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ll go back to bed after.” My face flushed. I must have sounded pathetic.
Alex touched my chin and turned me toward him. “Have dinner with me tonight instead?”
“It’s your last night. What about your friends? Jim . . . or that other guy?”
“I’d like to spend it with you. I’ll pick you up at six?”
“Sure.”
I hopped the train north to go home and change. I could barely breathe for how pleased I was to spend his last evening
with him.
What to wear? What to wear?
That one thought consumed the half-hour train ride.
After scrounging around, I settled on a fitted black sundress with a cream shawl. I also wore a pair of high wedge sandals that I could never wear with Josh. I love Alex’s height. When he arrived, I walked steadily to his car and didn’t feel like a tree. In fact, I felt quite pretty.
He took me to Topolobampo on Clark Street and requested the chef’s five-course tasting menu.
It started with
Sabana de Jitomates
, tomatoes in sherry dressing. The tomatoes were so sweet against the pungent sherry that you could feel the sensation at your lips and again at the back of your mouth. My favorite course after that was the
Borrego al Pisilla
, lamb infused with black garlic. And last came dessert—in a class by itself.
Pastel de Chocolate, Helado de Menta
. It’s a fancy Spanish way to say devil’s food cake, glazed with chocolate crème and served with mint ice cream. I think that’s when I closed my eyes and sighed. (If you’re wondering how I remembered all this so well—I asked to keep the menu. I’m sappy.)
Over the past several weeks Alex and I have met almost daily for coffee, lunch, dinner, runs, shopping trips, grocery trips, movies . . . But tonight he let me see more.
We’d been talking about our history with friendships, and for the first time he mentioned a woman named Simone. It was casual—too casual—and the hair on my arms stood up.
“Tell me more about Simone?” I tried to sound indifferent. I was scared he’d laugh it aside, when I could tell it was important.
But he sat back in his chair, and I could tell he drifted in
time. Maybe all good writers do that: they don’t remember, they see. Alex can weave a story or describe a scene so distinctly that you feel you’re there. He went back and I followed.
“Simone . . . I haven’t thought about her in a while. There was a time when she was all I thought about.” He paused and focused on some spot beyond me. “We met my last fall at Columbia. I was writing
Redemption
and Simone was working at Jarad-Patel, the hottest gallery in the meat-packing district. She was gorgeous—tall, raven-haired, half French. She knew she had allure, knew she could wrap us all around her finger. But I thought I was different. I was just young and stupid.” He glanced at me and grimaced. “How old do you think I am?”
“Maybe thirty?”
“I’ll be thirty in a few months. That’s a lot older than you.”
“Mmm . . . five years, Alex. That’s quite a gap.”
He gave a self-deprecating smile. “A lot’s happened in those years, Sam.”
What did this woman do to him?
I took another bite of the cake and leaned forward. I couldn’t tell if eager attention or dessert-induced distraction would get me back into the story, so I landed in the middle.
“After only a few months together, I asked her to marry me. She put me off with kisses and a bit of French, telling me that we shouldn’t rush and that she loved me. And rather than pull away, Simone drew me tighter. But she wouldn’t accept my proposal.
“It became a dance—one she choreographed. At first I wondered if she might be right, maybe I was rushing—wanting stability and assurance from her because I couldn’t find
it in my career or anywhere. I don’t know.” Alex sighed and stayed silent a moment.
