A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not yet.” He tapped his phone several times before pocketing it, then reached for my arm. “I want to and I will, but not yet. Talking through stuff before I get it into the manuscript depletes its tension and magic. I have to keep it compressed or it flops.”

  “I get that.” And I do. So much inside us is more powerful if drawn out at the right time and in the right way—like my January feature and the articles I’m writing now.

  “Thanks for coming with me. Now I have an excuse to drive north to the grocery in Winnetka. It’s the only one I know around here, and grocery stores can be scary places.”

  “They can?”

  “I get Fresh Direct in New York. Haven’t been in a grocery store in years.”

  “You’ve been here three weeks.”

  “My point exactly.”

  We drove north talking about nothing in particular. I grew quiet because I know driving makes Alex nervous.

  “You’re not talking.”

  “You’re concentrating.”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Sam. I’m not blind.”

  “I don’t think that. I was being considerate.”

  He threw me a scowl.

  “You want me to talk? Fine. How was your day?”

  “That’s better.” He smiled. “Cole was good today. Got in a bit of a fight with a Chicago detective, but they’ll get through it. I think he likes her.”

  “He needs a girlfriend.”

  “Does he?” His tone lifted suggestively.

  Are we talking about Cole?

  “Yes. Why hasn’t he had one? Four books and no girl. It’s odd. A relationship would help your market grow.”

  “My market’s growing just fine.” He glanced over at me and smiled. I thought he was going to hide in the banter and not answer my question, but he looked back at the road and started talking.

  “Cole doesn’t see women clearly. He doesn’t understand what they want from him, and he fears he’ll disappoint. Think about what you already know. He disappointed his dad and never got to make it right before his dad was killed. His mom blames him for that. His one brother holds it over his head, and every woman has betrayed him one way or another. I don’t know that he can let a woman in. It’s a risk.”

  “Probably one worth taking—with the right girl.”

  “You think?”

  I thought about Josh, but there was no way this conversation was turning to my relationships. “In theory, yes. In experience, I don’t know.”

  We pulled into the grocery store and that ended it. We both needed a change of subject. But if I’d known what was coming next, I would’ve launched into Josh. He might have been safer . . .

  Everyone knows you begin shopping on the outside aisles of a grocery store and work your way across. Produce first.

  Dairy last—or however the particular circle works. Not Alex. Straight to the center and then some pinball push outward.

  We started in cookies. I never go down that aisle—not enough disposable income. And I don’t eat many sweets. Yet here we stood, surveying a thousand packages of cookies. He grabbed some Fig Newtons and I stood stymied by the Oreos. I almost cried. I turned quickly to walk on, but Alex noticed.

  “You want to explain?” He pointed to the Oreos. “Pretty strong reaction to creamy vanilla goodness inside two crispy chocolate wafers.”

  “Shut up.” I smiled. I wanted to share, because on some level I believe Alex is safe—slightly safe. I don’t feel nervous with him as I did with Josh, like one butterfly was always flying loose.

  I ventured out and described Mrs. Chapman, my first foster mom. “My . . . aunt used to give me three Oreos each day after school. It was first grade. I sat in her lap and she read to me while we ate. Every single day.” I fingered one of the packages. “I loved her, I think. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She moved away the next summer.” I looked at him and realized it sounded odd, never seeing or speaking to an aunt again. “And now she’s gone . . .” I let it linger, hoping the natural conclusion would end the questions.

  Alex reached for the package and popped it open.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pulled one out. “Eat.”

  “Alex, no. You have to buy that.”

  “Clearly. Put it in your mouth.”

  I obeyed and put the whole cookie in my mouth, but I couldn’t bite it. There was something sacred about that memory—all wrapped up in an Oreo.

  “Chew.” He stepped toward me.

  I bit down once.

  “I’m going to find salsa. Catch up when you finish.” He dropped the package in his cart and walked away.

  I stood there slowly crunching on that silly cookie that almost had me bawling. I concentrate so much on the pain that I suspect I miss the good: the Chapmans, a few saintly social workers, foster parents who cared, the library, Father John, Hannah, Kyle, Ashley, the Muirs, Alex . . . the list goes on. There have been people and events, even small ones that slip past my memory like a shadow, that have been good and whole and right in my life. How can I focus on those? Writing that article with Kyle started the process, and standing in that aisle tonight, eating a cookie, forced another step.

  I grabbed a second package, tore it open, and ate two more. Three Oreos. When I caught up with Alex and dropped the package into his cart, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I like that about him. Sometimes words shouldn’t be spoken.

  We finished up with the oddest mix of stuff in his cart. Nothing that one could make for dinner, but seriously good snack food. Alex more closely resembles Cole Barker than I thought.

  We then went to a dive called Meier’s Tavern for burgers and tater tots, which made me laugh because we’d just spent over an hour at a grocery store. After that—the Muirs’ house. I hopped out, thanked him, and headed for the door.

  “Wait a sec.” Alex got out and rummaged through the grocery bags. He handed me one package of Oreos.

  “Only one?”

  “You’re not the only one who needs Oreos, Sam.”

  There was nothing to say. I reached up on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. I think I surprised him, Mr. Knightley, but I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I simply waved and headed to the house.

  Now I feel sick. There’s a reason I don’t eat sweets. No willpower. I watched some Downton Abbey episodes and ate the entire package—loving every bite.

  Sleep well, Mr. Knightley . . .

  Sam

  JULY 14

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  Just a quick note . . . I’ve got two articles due to McDermott this morning, and then I’m heading across town to conduct an interview. I’m floored that McDermott’s trusting me. I’m interviewing an aide to Judge Rayburn about upcoming child welfare legislation.

  “The interview is tomorrow at 11 a.m. in the Federal Building, Rayburn’s suite. Get your notes organized tonight . . .” He noticed my wide eyes. “Sam, you can do this. Your voice is strong and this is your field. Trust yourself.”

  I took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Take full notes, write it up. If you want my help, I’m here. But I suspect you’ll get there on your own.”

  So last night I prepared my notes, and I’m ready. But—also last night—I had a conversation with Alex that won’t leave me. It was brief, but special. And it was the first time he’s called me.

  He called around eleven. “You still up?”

  “I’m outlining interview questions. What’s up?”

  “I’m having trouble with Cole and want to bounce something off you. You mind?”

  “Not at all.” I was so casual, but I can be honest with you—I have never been so flattered in my life.

  “I need to push him, Sam. I need to bring Cole to the point of breaking, but I don’t have somewhere safe for him once I do that. Does that make sense?”

  “He’ll
need to heal.” I thought about it for a moment. “What do you do? Where do you go?”

  “I write.” Alex paused. “Obviously, that won’t work for Cole. You?”

  “I run.”

  “I should’ve figured that out. How does that work? I run, but not like that.”

  “I run until I find myself. Sometimes it takes just a few miles and I know. Other times it takes ten to fifteen, even more, but I know when it happens. It’s peaceful, and I feel whole and strong and nothing can touch or hurt the real me.” I stopped, suddenly remembering it was Alex, not Kyle, to whom I was speaking. I felt confused.

  “Can I use that, Sam? I see that working for Cole, but I don’t want to take it from you.”

  “Please do. I’m honored.”

  “I like that. Sam?”

  “What?”

  “I write and run.” He paused, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “You run and write.”

  I almost spoke, but he got there first. “Back to Cole now. Thanks. I can’t tell you what this means to me.” He hung up.

  And I need to go,

  Sam

  JULY 18

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I just got back from Constance’s wedding. There were over six hundred people there. Mrs. Walker said, “Everyone who’s anyone is here”—so I wondered, did we bump into each other? With your own foundation, you must qualify as someone.

  The ceremony was held in the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, and the reception filled the Peninsula Hotel. It was spectacular . . . the quintessential fairy-tale wedding.

  Mrs. Walker was at her finest and clearly relished every moment. She had on the most beautiful navy dress with diamonds and sapphires dripping all over her. And her smile was radiant. It was like she had planned and lived for this culminating shining evening, and it answered all her dreams. Maybe she had and maybe it did. At one point I wondered if she was trying to outshine the bride, but who competes with her own daughter? And on her wedding day?

  Ashley was the maid of honor in a beige/gold-toned dress. She looked like a glass of champagne from her blond hair to her dyed shoes. Each bridesmaid wore the same dress, but carried different flowers. The other five girls held small bouquets full of strong colors. Ashley held Peruvian lilies and Constance held a tight bouquet of white lilies. I love lilies. They are the most perfect flowers—so strong, yet infinitely detailed and delicate. I once looked them up at the library, and all that information flooded back during the wedding. I wondered if the florist was oblivious or possessed a sharp sense of humor.

  Ashley’s bouquet: Peruvian lilies—the symbol of friendship and devotion.

  Constance’s bouquet: White lilies—chastity and virtue. No comment.

  Bradley’s boutonniere: A single bold white stargazer lily—sympathy.

  Mr. Walker’s boutonniere: A lone pink stargazer—wealth and prosperity.

  One must admit—that’s funny. And while they are most often associated with funerals, the beauty and innocence lilies represent felt perfect for the wedding. And the fragrance floated through the entire church, for a small bouquet was tied to the end of every fourth pew. It was exquisite.

  I arrived Friday and went straight to the rehearsal dinner. Ashley looked shredded. I gather Mrs. Walker had provided her with a date of “suitable income and good family,” and Ashley was ticked. Mrs. Walker didn’t offer me the same service and seated me as ninth at a table for eight. I got the message, but I was there for Ashley so I let it slide off.

  The next day was chaos: hair appointments, makeup, brunch with all the women invited (at least three hundred of us), then photographs. I trailed Ashley for support. She knew the other bridesmaids, but clearly wasn’t good friends with them. They all reminded me of Constance in her more vapid moments. Their conversations and concerns never dipped below the packaging.

  But they all looked great in that champagne color, and I’ll give them this—not one of them said a mean or catty thing about the wedding. They were insipid, but not unkind. What could one criticize? Constance glowed and Bradley looked equally thrilled. Mrs. Walker looked tense at first entering the church on Saturday, but soon relaxed under the warm glow of adoration and praise.

  And Ashley found Owen, her very suitable date, another young lady with whom to dance. So all went well, and everyone seemed pleased. Ashley and I ended the evening sitting at our table, admiring the whole affair and toasting that we weren’t in the limelight.

  “I ate my weight in appetizers tonight.”

  Ashley threw me a glance. “Not hard to do.” She returned her gaze to the dance floor.

  “I see that Will’s here,” I said.

  Ashley followed my stare. I expected her to light up, but she only nodded.

  “I saw him earlier. He called last week.”

  “He called you?”

  “He’s called a few times. That was the first one I answered. I wanted to be done, Sam—odd that he’s calling now. He looks nice tonight, doesn’t he?”

  “He always does.” I paused and decided to ask. “Is he a good guy, Ash?” I didn’t want someone playing with her emotions. I envisioned Josh and Logan.

  “He is. That’s why I adored him for so long. He’s one of the good guys.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded disappointed or resigned, but this wasn’t the place to dig, so I let it go.

  We sipped our champagne and watched the world dip and twirl around us. Constance changed from her bridal gown into a lovely pale pink suit, and the happy couple left in a shower of rose petals and sparklers. They’re off now on a “European tour.” I couldn’t help but think of Amy March from Little Women. Constance isn’t so different from Amy: she loves beautiful things and is quite tenacious about acquiring them. But I think, like Amy, she truly loves her family and her new husband. She gave Ashley the sweetest hug as she fled to the limo. They both had tears in their eyes.

  I left Ashley at brunch this morning and headed for the airport. She had a huge smile and super-bright eyes, and seemed happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Maybe this moving forward is working for her. She’s doing what she loves, living in her own rented apartment, and generally stepping out on her own. I noticed her mother left her alone more this weekend too. She seemed to respect Ash more, and didn’t talk down to her or across her. She reserved that for me, but that was okay. Everyone needs an outlet.

  So the summer progresses, and I have exactly one month left at the Tribune. I already dread the last day, because I’m moving forward too. I hop off the Metra every morning with the biggest grin on my face, take a deep breath, and know I’m stepping into my best dream. I never imagined this. Even Josh seems a distant memory.

  I also upped my running and think I’ll try the Chicago Marathon again. It’s been a couple years and I’d like to give it a go. Besides, with all the food Alex feeds me, I need the exercise. We get together most days now, and tomorrow we head to the café at the Art Institute. I’ve no idea what horror he plans for Cole inside those walls, but I want to peek around the galleries before lunch.

  I laughed at Kyle this evening because he’s running more too, but not for sheer enjoyment. Coach Ridley told him about passing the foster parenting classes. They’re now awaiting judicial approval, and Kyle is beside himself with anticipation. The poor kid runs each day to calm his nerves. A ruling should have come weeks ago, but there was a hang-up, so Kyle waits—and runs.

  I’m off for a run too,

  Sam

  JULY 26

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  The text

  Coffee? Lunch? Day? Start at Starbucks on Wells and North. 10 am?

  awaited me when I came home from my run this morning.

  Hmmm . . . Old Town on a Saturday and a whole day? This was new and intriguing . . . I texted back:

  Just got this. See you at 10:15.

  I showered, threw on a pair of khaki shorts, cute ballet slippers, and a white short-sleeved blouse. The Muirs left me their cars, so I got to Lincoln Park quickly a
nd felt dressed for anything—except Alex’s plans.

  “You’re not wearing running shoes.” Alex bounced around the Starbucks—too much espresso.

  “You said nothing about running,” I laughed. “I’ve already run ten this morning.”

  “You ran?” Sad, puppy-dog eyes.

  “I can run more. What’s up?”

  “I thought we’d start the day at the zoo and wander Lincoln Park, eat lunch, then go for a run later this afternoon and catch a movie.”

  It sounded perfect—no quick lunch, but an entire day with a good friend.

  “Great. I’ll drive back up and get my gear. I’ll be—”

  “No!” He grabbed my hand to pull me in line. “You need your vanilla latté, then we’ll go. Shoes will take care of themselves.”

  I grinned and submitted. He was like me with a new book—but jacked up on caffeine.

  After paying for my coffee and another for him, we wandered the entire neighborhood and the zoo. I stood for a long time at the elephants, and he made me stay equally long at the penguins—cute but cold little guys. We didn’t talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely. He was eager to share the day and I was equally delighted—both in the activities and the company. Alex is easy to talk to. He doesn’t press and he’s beginning to share. We both are.

  He’s also really handsome. Women look at him and I don’t think they recognize him; they just think he’s cute. What’s even better? He doesn’t notice. Again, it’s not the whole left eye thing—I believe Alex chooses to focus on what’s in front of him. The rest just floats by. It’s flattering, though daunting at times, to be in that zone.

  I refuse to dissect our relationship, but old habits die hard. Are we friends? Semi-family via the Muirs? I can’t tell. I assume there’s nothing more than friendship on Alex’s side. He never gets “that look” or holds my hand. Sure, he grabs it occasionally, but that’s for speed or directional corrections. I also get a guiding hand at the small of my back sometimes, but again, it’s a directional thing. And it’s gentlemanly. Alex is that.