“For me?”
“Yes. Enjoy settling in.” She carefully shut the door and walked down the steps.
Of course, the first thing I did was tear open the boxes. Thank you. I know you read my letters now—I remember complaining about my wardrobe. That was more of a life-direction-desire moment, not a please-fix-purchase-need-now moment. And you are fixing so much. Thank you for moving me up here. And thank you for this gift.
I don’t know who actually chose all these things; perhaps your assistant, Ms. Temper? It’s hard to imagine “Mr. Knightley” poring over a J. Crew catalog! But if you’ll indulge me further, I’m going to be a girl for a moment and really gush. I love the jeans. Two pairs plus the brown pair was extravagant. It’s not like I have no clothing. I also love the white blouse. It’s so crisp and pristine that it looks almost blue in the light. I’ve never seen anything that bright. And the black one? I love black. You can take jeans and a black top anywhere. For me, it’s usually jeans and a black T-shirt, but I still feel sleeker. It’s a girl thing.
The sweaters are gorgeous too. Cashmere. Lovely stuff—so soft. I could go on . . . The skirt, the boots, the belt, the flats, and the coat . . . Everything’s magnificent.
I’m completely overwhelmed and I thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. I also appreciated your note: A true voyager is outfitted for every journey. You pegged it.
But I have even more questions now. How is it that everything fits? Do you know me? Do I know you or Ms. Temper? Have you seen me?
Lately I feel watched, stalked. Rationally, I know it’s not true. But since the Great Beat-down, I feel exposed and fragile. They never found the guy, but that hardly matters. Even if they had, I would still walk around wary. Because now I know—I know what can happen. So I look over my shoulder . . . and into my letters. You don’t deserve such distrust. Father John trusts you, and I trust him. But there it is. I hope you won’t take my insecurity as an insult.
I can’t think, thank, or write any more now. I’m somewhere I never imagined. I’m also tired, and I haven’t handled all this or Mrs. Conley well. I probably offended her. I was too remote.
I need to do better here, Mr. Knightley—moving up here requires more commitment. I was invested in Medill before, but I kept one foot in my old world. Now there is no Grace House Escape Hatch. It’s slipping away, and I’m packed with equal parts of gratitude, unworthiness, and fear. Topped with a fierce determination to succeed. With deep breaths, I can do this.
And to think, I almost let that small-handed mean man steal this from me.
Thank you for giving it back,
Sam
P.S. I’ve been sitting in my living room organizing my books. It’s so quiet and dark, but I don’t feel lonely. I feel safe. How could I not? All my friends are here. You should see them lined up. I almost broke my back hauling them here, but now they are all arranged: Austen, Dickens, Webster, Gaskell, the Brontë sisters, Christie, Powell, Perry, Peters, Cooper . . . They’re safe and sound and standing proud. I hung my Georgia O’Keeffe lily poster above my bed and pinned my photographs on the bulletin board near the kitchen. It looks like the home I never dared imagine.
As I was making dinner, the Conley children knocked on the door. I’ve never met kids like them. No wariness. No anger. No reserve that I can tell—all curiosity and unbounded enthusiasm.
Little James ran in first. “Have you jumped on the bed? It bounces really high.”
“Jamie, get off her bed! I’m sorry. He knows better.” That was eleven-year-old Isabella. “Do you like it here? I sometimes dream I live up here and that I can’t hear all of them.” She motioned to her three brothers.
Parker grabbed her in a hug and knuckle-rubbed her head. She feigned anger, but a giggle gave her away.
Then they showered me with helpful hints: stick my trash in the bins on the other side of the garage; their mom makes them clean the bathroom weekly, but she probably won’t check on me; the DVR cuts one hour of television down to forty-two minutes once you skip commercials.
They stayed for about forty-five minutes, until Mrs. Conley called them for dinner and homework. I like them. Just thinking about them makes me smile. I hope they liked me too.
One a.m.
I can’t sleep. Georgia O’Keeffe is keeping me awake.
Ashley came over last night to return a book I lent her and to see my new digs.
She walked in and ooohhh-ed and aaahhh-ed perfectly. Then she noticed the O’Keeffe poster. “That’s nice, but you should hang something real there. A watercolor or an oil. You need more substance for the room’s focal point. The lilies are a bit cliché, don’t you think?”
Then she flopped on the couch and pulled out her phone and started playing on it. I stood there stunned. First about the poster comment, then because she sat texting or whatever for a full five minutes.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
“Updating my wall.”
“Why?”
“Sam, I’ve got over a thousand friends on Facebook. Do you know how much maintaining that takes? There’s an art to doing it well. Not that you’d care.” She waved her hand airily at me.
“ ‘There’s a meanness in all the arts. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.’ ”
“Nicely done.”
I knew she’d recognize Mr. Darcy.
She looked up and shrugged. “Don’t be so sensitive. I wasn’t being mean. I simply meant you should put more thought into the space above your bed.”
“You were being a snob.”
“Forget it. I thought we could have a conversation.”
“A conversation? As far as I can tell, you came to my apartment, insulted me, and are playing on your phone. What are you even doing here?” I was mad. I had thought we were friends, had hoped we were friends, but now I felt taken in—by an Emma.
Ashley tossed her phone across the couch. “You’ve got this wall around you. Figuratively speaking. Or is it literal?” Ashley tried to laugh, but tears came out instead. She quickly swiped them and glanced at me.
Did she hope I wouldn’t notice? She dropped her gaze and mumbled, “What does it matter?” Then the tears started to fall—really plop down her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to be all Elinor Dashwood—and Ashley did seem a bit Marianne-ish. Another part of me just wanted to kick her out. I was still angry, but I stayed quiet. I sat on the couch next to her.
Ashley blubbered on. “It’s like you’re the only one who’s clever and the only one who’s been hurt. I don’t even know who hurt you. I don’t know anything about you. You don’t let me in. Like when that guy hit you? Where’d you go?” She paused and then, thankfully, continued without waiting for a reply. “You don’t act like a friend, Sam. I could use a friend. A real one.”
I could too, Ashley.
“You don’t take me seriously,” she said. “No one does. My parents don’t. Will doesn’t.” She rolled against the pillows and swiped the back of her hand across her nose.
“Will?”
“Never mind. He’s just a silly boy. He’s not the point. Can’t we be friends, Sam? Real friends?”
The moment felt like my tae kwon do conversation with Hannah. I don’t mean to make people feel distant and unseen, but I do. And I do want friends—that’s new for me. They never mattered before. Life was a job. But now I think friendships make it more worthwhile. What’s the cost of real friendship?
Ashley sucked in a deep breath. “I have a wall too, Sam. The clothes, the shoes, the hair products. I’m not proud of it, but it’s a good, strong wall.” More tears dripped from her nose. “And tonight my mother placed another brick in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mother sent me a blouse. I texted a picture of me in it to thank her, and here’s what I got in reply.” Ashley picked up her phone and read the text. “‘Clearly you need an appointment at Sania’s. Go there straight from the airport Wednesday.’
”
Ashley looked up. “I can’t even go home for Thanksgiving without a cleanup.”
“Who’s Sania?”
“It’s a brow bar on 56th and 5th.” Ashley sniffed.
I laughed. “A brow bar?”
She frowned at me, so I rushed on. “No, that’s what you don’t get, Ashley. I’m serious. What’s a brow bar?”
“Eyebrows. Shaping, waxing, threading. Not that you need it.” She squinted at me. “You just need tweezing.”
And there she hit it: my biggest insecurity. Eyebrows like Oscar the Grouch. I reached up to cover them. She pushed my hand away.
“They’re pretty, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“They’re horrible.”
“Get me tweezers.”
“What?”
“Just do it. It’ll give me something to do. And trust me, I know how to do this. Maybe it’s all I’m good for.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand again and sat up.
Speechless, I started for the bathroom to grab both tweezers and Kleenex, questioning my sanity. First I let Coach Ridley insult my stride to help Kyle, and now . . . Was I really going to let Ashley yank out my eyebrows to boost her self-esteem? Was she helping me? Or was I helping her? Then I had to concede, Kyle is doing better and I’m running faster. We both won.
So I got the tweezers. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. “What do you plan to do with these?”
“Sit at the table.”
I sat in front of her. Ashley reached up and plucked a hair between my eyes.
“Ouch! You can’t do that!” I jerked my head away.
“Stop it and sit still.”
“Watch the scar, it’s super tender.”
“I won’t go near it. Sit still or I’ll miss and land right on it.”
I froze. I didn’t even breathe. Clearly she needed this. Maybe I did too.
“I’m sorry I criticized your room, Sam. I was angry. I know you hide, but at least you do it somewhere intellectual. Most people don’t think I have a real thought in my brain.”
“Of course you do. You’re smart, Ashley. You’re just amazingly pretty too, and that can be intimidating—ouch.” I tried not to cry out each time, but it hurt.
“Really?”
“Sure. You’re the classic kind of pretty: petite, blond, blue-eyed. And you have that great accent. It’s intimidating. And I think you know it.”
“Sometimes.” She had the grace to smile.
“Then you can’t blame me for throwing out a few quotes here and there. Sometimes I use them to hide and sometimes just to even the score.”
“Even the score? But you’re so smart.”
“And tall and gangly and clueless. Like the other day—you were laughing about rhinoplasties. I thought you were talking about some kind of rhinoceros.”
“Rhinoplasty means my mother hauled me and my big nose to a plastic surgeon when I was sixteen to make it into a cute little button.” She tapped her nose in staccato with the last three words.
“She did?”
“Yeah.” She pulled extra hard on the tweezers.
“Ouch! Maybe we shouldn’t talk about your mother.”
She grimaced. “Probably not the best topic right now . . . I’m almost done. You look like Anne Hathaway, you know.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true, whether you believe it or not. So tuck it away and pull it out when you need it.” Her voice drifted. “You know the best compliment I ever got?”
“Hmmm?”
“I was in seventh grade and a friend was over. We were flipping through magazines, yapping about something, and she turned to me and said, ‘Ashley, you always make me feel so good about myself.’” Ashley paused, tasting the compliment in her mind. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Very nice.”
We were silent for a few moments.
“I pull that out sometimes. I’d like to be that person.” Ashley sat back and examined her work. “Go look.”
I went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror, and was shocked. I’m not saying I was instantly gorgeous. No Anne Hathaway. But I looked pretty. My eyes looked bigger, browner somehow. Everything looked neat and refined. I didn’t even feel so tall. That probably makes no sense to a man, but it felt good—really good.
I returned to the living room with a huge grin on my face. Ashley laughed. “My work here is done.” She grabbed her bag off the couch and headed to the door.
“Thanks, Ash. You can stay, you know? Do you want some popcorn?”
“No, but thanks. I’ve got some work to do.” She looked through the door to my bedroom. “I’m sorry about earlier. None of this was about your poster. I love the O’Keeffe.”
“I get it. And I’m sorry I push back at you sometimes. Just call me out when my quoting is obnoxious.”
“Yeah. And tell me when I go all Park Ave on you, okay? I don’t mean to sound like such a snob.” She hugged me. “Ugh . . . so much to improve. See you tomorrow.”
Now I sit here thinking about Ashley, and about that stupid poster, and about my characters. It’s time to lay them down, isn’t it? They’ve gone from helping me to trapping me to hurting others. That can’t be good.
Good night, Mr. Knightley. Thanks for reading. Sleep well . . .
NOVEMBER 13
Dear Samantha,
Mr. Knightley asked me to write to you. He didn’t dictate this letter, only asked me to alleviate your worries about the clothing. I hope I didn’t overstep. He told me what Father John arranged and asked me to “purchase some nice articles of clothing.” I may have gotten carried away.
I visited Grace House last fall and passed you outside Father John’s office. You had just turned down the foundation’s offer for graduate school and accepted the position at Ernst & Young. In fact, you were moving out of Grace House that very afternoon. You were a few inches taller than me and I noted your warm complexion, brown eyes, and beautiful brown hair. The several photos that Father John attached to your application confirmed my memories and added further insights into your size and stature.
Armed with my gathered information, I hit the stores. I thought the cream sweater, orange scarf, and brown coat would look perfect on you. Except for the one blouse, I stayed away from black, as I imagine your coloring more suited to warm tones. I think my favorite item is the pair of suede boots. I almost bought a pair for myself and still might.
Mr. Knightley did not know the details of a single item purchased. He didn’t ask, and he has never met you. Nor will he attach strings to this gift. This I know: he is a good man and would never cross the line with any woman. Please don’t hold my exuberance against him or his foundation.
I hope this note assuages your concerns and that you enjoy the clothes. One more thing—I know you are busy at Medill, but your new laptop has amazing resolution. Great for movies. Downton Abbey and the new Sherlock are available online, if you’ve never seen them.
Sincerely,
Laura
NOVEMBER 16
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you for allowing Laura to write to me. I can’t tell you how much her letter helped. Will you please thank her?
On to life here . . . I feel I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I haven’t moved forward. Well, last night I moved forward—full speed ahead.
How, you ask? I had a date. Twenty-three years old, and it finally happened. You’re the only one who knows that little detail, so please keep it to yourself. I’m a full decade behind the curve. But no longer—and I figure if you’ve been on one date, you can make it a verb. “I date” or “I’m dating.” I love verbs!
You need the whole story. Well, I need to tell the whole story, and telling Debbie and Ashley was awful because I had to act so blasé. Dates happen to them all the time: Ashley went out with four different guys last month alone, and Debbie has a boyfriend in Minneapolis. So I pretended last night was no big deal. But you? You
get all the details—so I can relive them.
It started a couple weeks ago, when Ashley, Debbie, and I went to a Kellogg Halloween party. Kellogg is the business school at Northwestern, and those folks host the best parties. Anyway, we each dressed in black with sunglasses and walking sticks. Get it? We were the Three Blind Mice and a huge hit. The party was down on Davis Street and spanned three floors of an old walk-up apartment building. It was warm and noisy—everyone trying to make first impressions, second impressions, any impressions. Me, I was trying to sneak home to a good book and hot cocoa. There were simply too many people. I was almost out the door of the top floor’s apartment when he stepped in front of me.
“Are you trying to get a drink?” He was not much taller than me, stocky with black hair and equally dark eyes.
“Trying to make a getaway,” I shouted.
He touched my shoulder to corral me toward the hallway stairs, where the music wasn’t blaring. “How can I convince you to stay?”
That melted me a little. I thought about saying, What do you have in mind? but even thinking such a flirty reply made me blush.
“Tell me who you are,” I replied. He was dressed like a pirate.
“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Can’t you tell?”
“I thought Black Beard.”
“Really I’m Josh Duncan. I graduated last year, but I still hang with these guys. Are you at Kellogg?” Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio pushed him closer to me. He smelled like pretzels.
“No, I’m in Medill’s journalism program. I’m Sam.”
“Undergrad or grad?”
“Grad. Do I look that young?”
“You look great.” I melted a bit more and my heart started fluttering. Josh looked pleased, and all my thoughts of escape fled.
After a few minutes, he took both my hands. “Sam, I want to get us some drinks, but you have to promise not to leave. I’m placing your hands on this banister. Don’t go downstairs. Don’t move at all until I get back.”
“I promise.” So there I stood, with my hands on the banister, until Debbie found me.
“I’ve been watching. You need to flirt more.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 7
