I met with Susan Ellis and Kevin McDermott downtown at the Tribune Tower. It was very exciting, which never works in my favor. I got nervous. I didn’t fall on my face, but I certainly didn’t blow them away. It was a mediocre interview—because, let’s face it, I’m mediocre. And while I worked hard not to retreat into well-worn fictional friends, making myself appear stellar was beyond my reach.
A few days after the interview, my article came out. The timing was good for me; this way, I entered the interview with a shot at a good first impression. The other way around? Game over.
I’m enclosing a copy for you. Can you believe the layout? No one told me it’d be a four-page spread, complete with pictures, bold type, inserts, the works. I almost regret sending them some of the photos. I assumed they wanted them for context, not content.
Kyle called, and I burst into tears when I heard his voice.
“We did it, Sam. We’re in print! Did you see my picture? We look great.”
“We sure do, Kyle.” And as soon as we hung up, there was a knock on my door. Mrs. Conley stood there with the paper in her hand.
“Sam, is this you?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Conley. I wanted to tell you. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad influence—” I couldn’t breathe.
“Stop, Sam. This doesn’t matter to us. Though it does explain a few things.” She smiled.
“It does?”
“My children fascinated you. The way you watched them, watched all of us. I felt like we were in a petri dish. And the way you talked.”
“Yeah, you probably met a lot of sides of me.”
“I only wish you’d told us. I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”
“Please don’t say that.” My issues are not her responsibility.
My cell rang and startled us both. She quickly added, “I don’t want to keep you, but I want you to tell the kids. I won’t show them the article. How about dinner this week?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll cook that lasagna you love. Thursday night?”
“It’s great. Thanks, Mrs. Conley.” She quickly hugged me and left, and I dashed to my phone.
“What’s this?” Debbie screamed.
“Are you mad?”
“It’s amazing, Sam.” She let out a low whistle. “Girl, you can write.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“You haven’t been very open with your friends. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re okay, Sam.” Debbie paused. “Coffee later? My treat, if you talk.”
“Sure. Grab Ashley so I won’t have to tell it all twice.”
“Ashley’s in New York all week for the Sotheby’s interview. Tell her over spring break. I can’t wait.”
“Sure. Let me make some calls and I’ll meet you in an hour.”
Then I called Josh. I opened with “The article came out today.” No hello. We’ve gone to dinner a couple times since Valentine’s Day, but there’s a distance now. I suspected he was deciding if I was worth his effort. And frankly, it ticked me off. Now I don’t know what to think.
“Yeah, Sam, I’ve seen it. In fact, Logan and Steve already called. You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart.”
“I am?” His endearment surprised me.
“They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit. You know, guys find that very appealing.”
“They do?”
“Of course we do.” He dropped his voice just above a whisper. It felt intimate and flirtatious.
“I thought all this upset you.” I tried not to sound accusatory, but I could hear the tension, the hurt in my voice.
“Sam, let’s forget all that. You took me by surprise, and I’ve been slammed at work. Have you seen the new IKEA ads? That’s my group. It’s been crazy. You know I support you?”
“I didn’t know how you felt about me.” Did I get all this wrong?
“It’s time to celebrate. Why don’t you come down for dinner tonight, and I’ll plan something special?”
I couldn’t because I had a final article due and an analysis for statistics, but that was okay. I didn’t want to go. Josh’s new attitude felt suspect, but as I said, maybe I’d misread things. Either way, I should be thrilled the storm passed.
Then this afternoon Susan Ellis called. I know, Mr. Knightley, does the drama ever stop? My heart jumped to my throat when I saw her number on my caller ID.
She wasted no time on preliminaries. “Sam, your article was first-rate, and we’ve received a tremendous response from it. While we’d like to see anything more you’ve got, Kevin and I have selected another candidate for the internship.”
“May I ask why?”
“Your work is solid and has potential, but you need a track record. Get a larger body of work and you’ll be ready. A smaller paper will give you the support you need.”
“I understand.” But I didn’t. I wanted to cry. “I have six short-subject treatments about aspects of the foster care system, child rights, and youth in America that I’ve submitted to some smaller papers. Could I send them to you?”
She paused, then said politely, “Send me everything. I do think you’ve got the makings of a fine journalist.”
“Thank you, Ms. Ellis. I’ll e-mail them. And thanks for the opportunity. I enjoyed meeting you.”
“Good luck to you, Sam. I’ll let you know what I think of your new submissions. Good-bye.”
It was a long shot, but I started to believe. Nothing comes easy, does it? After I hung up the phone, I quickly applied to the Highland Park Press, the Evanston Review and the Lincoln Park Sentinel—all good papers. I have to stay in Chicago because I agreed to house-sit for the Muirs this summer while they’re abroad; I’ll leave the clamoring for internships at the Miami Herald, the Los Angeles Times, The New York Review, and tons of other great jobs to my classmates.
I’m glad for the house-sitting excuse because, quite frankly, I don’t think I could handle all those rejection letters. We’re constantly told that we’re the best at Medill and that the top tier is where “the best” work. But I’m not part of that elite. I’m the girl hanging by my fingernails off the back ledge.
After wallowing a bit, I donned my big-girl pants and headed north for dinner with the Muirs. Whining isn’t an option around the professor. He would say, “Why does this surprise you? Get out there and do what she says—build a body of work and impress the socks off her after graduation.” He’d make it sound so easy—much better to avoid the pep talk by faking equanimity.
The Muirs—and, surprise, Alex Powell—were the perfect company. Alex is in town doing advance work for his next book, set in Chicago. He’s even moving here for the summer. I felt sorry for him—he clearly expected to spend time with the Muirs and was visibly shocked to find they’ll be gone.
“I told you all this, son. You didn’t listen.” The professor laughed.
“I thought you said you were considering it. You never said you bought tickets and were leaving for two whole months.” Alex sounded frantic.
The professor smiled and softened his voice. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make it clear. I know you’re disappointed, but I need to finish this research, Alex. Paris and a few stops in Spain are the final pieces, and I can put The Lost Generation to rest.”
“But this summer?”
“This summer. I don’t know how many years I’ve got left, and this is the last book I need to get out.”
Alex dropped his head. “You’re right; I wasn’t listening . . . but don’t say it’s your last.”
“Just my last book, son. Not my last summer with you. Bring Cole back next year and we’ll have a grand time.”
The room quieted. I wanted to give Alex some connection to them, so I offered up my house-sitting job. I hoped it would make him feel more secure. And it would save him from renting a place.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I don’t want some man who doesn’t
know wood polish from toilet cleaner living here. He’ll kill my plants, and the late charges on all the bills will drive Robert crazy.”
“Mrs. Muir, I’m sure Alex is more capable than that.”
“No mother would choose a son to watch her house over a daughter, Sam. You stay here.” She pulled her lips in, embarrassed.
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 liv
es 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.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 15
