“You must be an amazing writer, Sam. I’d like to read some of your work.”
“Oh no. That’s too much pressure. You’re Alex Powell, you know.”
“That shouldn’t intimidate you. I thought we were past that.”
“We may never be past that.” I laughed, but he didn’t join me.
I wonder if I hurt his feelings. He may have thought I put the fame above the man. Does that make sense? I don’t. I just meant . . . I don’t know what I meant. I was careless and, heck, he is Alex Powell. There’s no way around that.
“Then what can you tell me or I tell you so we can get past that?”
My heart raced. I wasn’t ready to share, and asking him questions was only going to lead to more questions for me. So I deflected and babbled about the dishes, the day—anything inane that flitted through my brain.
“Well played,” Alex said after a few moments. He laid down his dish towel and leaned against the counter. His sudden stillness filled the room.
“Hmmm?” I kept washing silverware, trying to pack both time and space with dish suds.
“Your deflections are subtle. It took me a few beats to catch on. That’s hard to do.”
Crap.
Alex smiled, reached over, and squeezed my shoulder. “I’d love to know about you, Sam, but I’m not going to press. Let’s finish the dishes and walk to Homer’s for an ice cream.”
And that was it. He didn’t ask any more questions about my past, only my present. But I did learn new stuff about him nonetheless.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“What?” He glanced at me as he moved around and behind me as we crossed the street.
“You keep putting me on your right side. You did it in the kitchen too. You kept moving to my left.”
Alex was silent for a moment. I thought I’d stepped too far.
“I can’t think of a single person who has ever noticed that before.” He stopped walking and stared at me. “I tell people, sure, but no one’s noticed.”
“What?”
“I can’t see you if you’re on my left. I was hit in the head by a baseball in high school and have no peripheral vision on that side.”
“I’m sorry.” I started walking again. “Are you okay? Is there stuff you can’t do?”
He joined me. I moved to his right and caught his small smile. “I’m fine. I feel vulnerable at times, especially driving, but I passed the tests and I look around a lot before changing lanes. It’s never been a problem. I think it’s actually helped me.”
“How?”
“I notice more. I focus more intently on what’s in front of me. I think it’s a large part of why I pursued writing. I found that details mattered more after the accident.”
“I can see that.”
Alex quirked an eyebrow at me.
“That came out awkward,” I laughed. “Tell me more stuff that folks don’t typically notice.”
Alex obliged me and rattled off a random and hilarious description of himself: He likes at least two meats on every pizza; drinks only root beer if forced to drink soda; runs four days a week, unless it’s raining; plays poker monthly with some hoity-toity NY elites; loves funny movies, classics like Chevy Chase’s Fletch and Vacation are his favorites; can ride a unicycle; writes only five hours a day, then spends the rest reading and researching; loves eating out. And he is less than forthcoming about his current love life.
Did you hear that detail in the middle? Alex runs. He mentioned it back in Barnes and Noble last fall, but I never expected to see him again so I didn’t pursue it. But now I want to know. I already crossed the line into seriously obnoxious, so I quit with my questions.
But I did have one thought: If he’s anything like me, his barriers drop during runs. Run him hard enough and he might get more forthcoming about his love life. I know, that is really bad and manipulative. Still . . .
Off to plot my attack,
Sam
JUNE 18
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve been at work four days now and I love it. It’s hard—McDermott’s tough, but fair, not too far from Johnson. I edited a piece of his yesterday and he wasn’t pleased.
“Moore, you changed the tone. You check my facts, you check my grammar, you can add fluff if you want, I don’t care. But do not mess with the integrity of my tone. Ever. It’s gone from declarative to inquisitive. Read your verbs. Fix this.”
He was right. I made his work sound tentative, robbing its authority. Of course, that’s the tone to which I naturally gravitate. Do you think that’s my issue with Johnson? He’s never said it; it would be my job to notice it. And the timidity is there, in all my work—except for the pieces about children. Those are more confident. My voice is stronger and more declarative. Maybe McDermott will let me develop some of my ideas along those lines. They feel natural for me and I come up with new angles each evening. Yes, Alex’s “sleepy suburb” quip was accurate, and thinking up articles is the most excitement I see.
Josh is back in town, but he works late most nights and I don’t want to wait downtown in hopes that he might have dinner with me. Lately I feel he only calls when he’s bored. I’d like to mean more to him than that.
Alex hasn’t called or come up to the house either. At first I thought I hurt his feelings with my careless comments and questions. And I may have. But I also don’t think Alex would visit a young woman alone. Is twenty-four very young? (Yes, birthday a couple weeks ago. Fairly unmemorable.) I’m not sure, and there’s something so “old school” about Alex. I do know he wasn’t pleased to find the Muirs gone. I thought he was going to decamp the front steps that first night without getting past hello. He’s a lot like his hero, Cole, I think. Both could exist quite comfortably in a Jane Austen novel—except for the violence.
“Why, Emma, Mr. Weston has been stabbed in the stables and trussed up like a goose.”
“Goodness, Father. Do lock the windows tonight. Prowlers are about.”
“You are right, my dear. Oh . . . Goodness, Mr. Knightley, it is much too dangerous for you to walk home this evening. You may catch a chill—or your death.”
Hey, it’s no worse than Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
Good night . . .
Sam
JUNE 23
Dear Mr. Knightley,
As of today, I can say with confidence that I did not scare Alex away. He texted me this morning.
Lunch? 12:30. Billy Goat Tavern?
I giggled. Actually giggled. And immediately I replied.
Absolutely.
The Billy Goat Tavern is an old Chicago favorite under Michigan Avenue just across from Tribune Tower. I left at 12:27 and arrived right on time—no clock-watching there. The room was dark and crowded, and smelled like history and cheeseburgers. Alex found me absorbed in the framed newspaper article from 1973. The Tribune Company invited the Billy Goat (real live goat) to a Cubs game in hopes of lifting the 1945 curse and securing a win. The goat showed, and it worked—not a World Series win, but a few games that made everyone feel better.
Alex ushered me to a booth, leading me with a hand on the small of my back. I love that—it’s a gentleman’s touch. “Do you know what you want?”
“Cheezborger, cheezborger, cheezborger. No Pepsi . . . Coke.”
He burst out laughing. “How do you know that? Do you spend your spare time watching SNL reruns?”
I was pleased, but confessed, “I Googled it this morning.”
“Do you always research where you eat?”
“Don’t you? I assume Detective Barker is meeting an informant here? Casing the joint? Pursuing a perp? Issuing an arrest?”
“Eating lunch?”
“He can do that.”
It turns out that Alex has mapped out where Cole will live and eat, met with the Chicago Police Department, and developed his story line. Part of his research includes a full-scale assault on Chicago eating establishments: hence, the Billy Goat Tavern—dark, subterrane
an, guts and history. Anyone could meet there, pass info unseen and undetected, then fade away.
Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder is also on his list. I almost flipped. He didn’t invite me, but I’m not above begging if it comes down to it. I can’t believe I haven’t gotten there, but I don’t want to go with my girlfriends. After Hannah’s story, I feel it’s a place to go with a guy. Any guy will do, no offense to Alex or Josh. Come on, it’s one dinner out. Can’t someone take me there?
I returned to work feeling a little sick. I had a great time, but I don’t usually down two cheeseburgers for lunch. Yes, I ate two. From Alex’s shocked expression, I assume that’s extremely unladylike. Unlike Josh, he didn’t say anything. But seriously, what’s the problem? I’m hungry. I challenge either of those men to run five miles each morning and then eat like a bird. Mike and the other interns laughed at me, because first I complained about being too full, then they caught me eating an apple at three.
The interns all went out tonight, but I came home to write you. No, I didn’t. I had plans with Josh, but he canceled. Remind me never to work in advertising. It sounds fun, but the hours are excruciating. So I came home to edit another article for McDermott and knock out a few ideas of my own.
I also called Ashley. I told her about Alex and now I regret it. It felt very glamorous in the telling, but now I feel small and selfish—like I betrayed a friend. Alex guards his privacy with such a tenacious will, and I blabbed about his life, plans, and lunch menu. Not his book title, I didn’t tell that. But that’s it. No more blabbing about Alex. Can I still tell you, Mr. Knightley? I must tell someone.
I didn’t do all the talking, though. Ashley relayed plenty.
“He was right there in the bar, not five feet away, Sam, and I just walked away.” She sounded surprised.
“Are you playing games with Will? Not a great idea, Ash.”
“I’m not, Sam. I saw him there and felt tired. I’m not the kid he knew. And I won’t chase someone who sees that girl rather than me. So I walked away. I’m done.”
“How does it feel?”
“Oddly liberating.”
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
Ashley’s always got a boyfriend. Nothing ever serious, she’s just never alone. And why would she be? Guys adore her.
“All done with that too—for now. Time to put old habits to bed, so to speak.”
“Let them die, don’t put them to bed.”
“Very funny.” Then she turned serious, almost tentative. “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
We’ve debated this for weeks. “Ash . . . you were so nice to wrangle the invitation, but this is your family’s deal. Your mom and Constance won’t want me there.”
“Sam, you’re my best friend. Mother’s gone postal, and Constance is a Bridezilla. I need you in my corner.”
I couldn’t refuse that, Mr. Knightley. So in a few weeks I’ll be kicking it up in your hometown at the Constance Walker/Bradley Douglass Wedding.
Back to work,
Sam
JUNE 27
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Josh and I broke up tonight—at his office, of all places. It was humiliatingly awful. I went to grab him for dinner after work and found him collecting storyboards in a conference room.
Prior to walking into that room, I thought we were fine. I’d say we had fun this spring. Sure, he’s been busy and we haven’t spent much time together, but when we did go out, it was lighter and nicer. And it was a lie.
He’s been seeing someone at work. I mean “seeing” someone—for months. I feel so stupid.
I opened the conversation with Alex. Nothing is going on, but I figured if I’m going to be friends with Alex, Josh should know. After all, I received another text two days ago.
Lunch Thursday? Spiaggia on Michigan Ave. 1 pm?
My immediate reply was:
See you then.
So if there will be lunch, there will be honesty. Turns out I haven’t been able to keep my adoration of Cole Barker and Alex’s writing much of a secret. Josh pounced.
“What? Cole Barker’s here and you’re having lunch with him?”
“You do know Cole Barker is fictional.”
“Cole Barker is your perfect man, Sam, just like that Darcy or Wentworth. You don’t think I’m going to be furious?”
“You know Darcy and Wentworth? How much Austen have you read?”
“None, Sam. But no one can spend two minutes with you without being bludgeoned with every ridiculous detail. And now you’re hanging with one of your heroes?” He crossed the room to loom over me. “Don’t tell me you’re not intrigued. Will he compare? Can he live up to your impossible ideals? He can’t, Sam. The writer is flesh and blood and probably an arrogant jerk, not some figment of your great imagination, not some perfect hero who will sweep you off your feet or wait around while you dally in Fantasyland!”
Speechless—that was me. I sputtered a bit while Josh collected himself. “How often do you see him?”
“Not much. Only one dinner and a lunch . . . Oh, and another lunch Thursday. We’re friends, Josh. Can’t I be friends with the man?”
“Sure you can—with the man. But nothing’s ever simple with you.” He paused. “Look, I need someone else. We’ve had fun, but I need more.”
That’s when I knew this was bigger than Alex. My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been seeing Lucy.”
“Logan’s girlfriend? Who comes out with us all the time?”
“She’s not Logan’s. She’s mine.” He let his tone linger . . . and suddenly I understood all Logan’s looks, his tittering at dinner, the meaning behind his innuendo, his grabbing Lucy and squeezing her tight.
Logan wanted me to know. He wanted fireworks. He wanted to humiliate me.
“Eww . . . that’s so . . . You all must have had a good laugh.” I looked around the glass conference room. It felt like a fishbowl with everyone staring in and laughing at me, though in reality no one else was around.
But I knew they’d all been talking. Logan must have loved it. And Josh. One look in his eyes and I knew he loved it too: the secrets, the attention, and the game—all at my expense.
“Why didn’t you dump me? Why keep me around?” My fingers, of their own accord, fiddled with the star pendant around my neck.
“There was always the chance—”
“Don’t say another word.”
“Sam . . .” He reached for my arm.
“Don’t touch me.” I got up and realized what I was doing. The pendant felt dirty and I recalled, with perfect clarity, Isabella’s observation: “Josh likes the way things look.” Then his own comment, “They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit,” pounded in my brain. I was no more than Logan’s ostentatious gold and silver watch, a trinket to see and be seen.
I pulled the necklace, breaking the chain and leaving a thin, red cut on the back of my neck. “I’m so blind. How could I not see? You’re a Willoughby.” I shook my head. “No, at least he loved Marianne. You’re worse. I don’t know who you are.”
“What? I’m who?”
“Never mind. Good-bye, Josh.” I threw the necklace across the table and walked out of there with my head high and my back straight. All Edmond Dantes. And I kept the tears at bay—until I hit the sidewalk.
How could I not have seen? Had I wanted normal that badly?
I went home and called Ashley, watched two Austen films, ate a whole pizza and an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s—and it still hurts.
In my books everything turns out well in the end. Lizzy and Emma and Elinor all had men who were worthy and loved them. Really loved them. Me, I picked a Willoughby and I’m rightfully alone.
For months I convinced myself that Josh’s paltry version of love was all I could expect—I wasn’t worth something better. But I know there’s more. I want the real thing. I can have that, can’t I?
Because I know it exists—in
books and in real life. The Muirs have it. I’m continually struck by the ways they care for each other and for me. And Hannah—I hear it when she talks about Matt. Love spills out of these people. That’s what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.
Josh was a lie.
Do you have it, Mr. Knightley? The real thing? Don’t let it go if you do. That’s all. I’m off to find more tissues and another pint of Chunky Monkey.
Wallowing,
Sam
JULY 6
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The evening began with a text.
Lobby 6pm?
Usually I get an indication of his plans, so I replied: ???? He sent a one word reply.
Groceries.
I smiled. Grocery shopping with Josh was a systematic and uninteresting affair. He grabbed the same fifteen items on every trip and got out fast. No imagination. Alex? This might be fun. Alex does so much without thinking—that didn’t come out right. I mean, everything is woven into a creative process; nothing is taken for granted or thrown away.
When I reached the lobby I found him slouched on a bench, texting. His brow was completely furrowed. I hadn’t noticed so many lines before.
“Give me one sec.”
I sat next to him—on his right.
“Replying to slap-down from my publisher. She’s nervous I’m not working.”
I had wondered the same thing myself. “Are you?”
He looked straight at me. And I can’t attribute that focus completely to the eye injury—Alex gets that intense.
“You have no idea, Sam. Writing is coming more fluidly now than it has in years. It’s exciting and unnerving and every moment I worry it will end . . .” He paused and smiled, more to himself and some thought dancing in his head than to me. “Yes, I’m working.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 17
