Dear Mr. Knightley (11 page)
“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 . . .
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
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.”
“I was flirting.”
“That’s you flirting?”
How do I answer that?
“He’s gone to get me a drink. He told me to wait here.”
“Oh . . . Sam. He’s so cute. Can I have one?” Ashley joined us.
“She’s not flirting enough.” Debbie turned to her, dismayed by my performance.
“She’s got a point, Sam. He won’t make a move unless he thinks you’re interested.”
“Yes, Charlotte.” I knew I could count on Ashley catching the allusion. It was Charlotte Lucas’s belief that a woman had better show more affection than she feels.
Ashley smiled. “He’s definitely into you, Sam. Just look at those eyes.”
“They’re brown.” Yes, Mr. Knightley, I notice the color of everyone’s eyes now. Ever since Dan, that’s a big deal with me. It’s my litmus test to prove I’m in the moment.
Ashley rolled hers. “Not the color, dimwit. The look. It’s like Colonel Brandon watching Marianne Dashwood.”
Aha, so we weren’t in
P&P
, we were in
Sense and Sensibility
, and I apparently had discovered a Colonel Brandon. My eyes widened at the thought.
Ashley grinned. “I find it sometimes best to speak your language.”
“I will never doubt you again,” I said and hugged her.
Then they both started dishing out the advice: “Toss your hair, lick your bottom lip, tilt your head, smile, smile smaller,
laugh softly, make him lean in . . .” Ninety seconds of pure torture before I replaced my hands on the banister and the girls took the stairs down to the apartment below.
But it worked! Josh asked for my number. I thought he’d call the next day, and I got surly when he didn’t, but Ashley and Debbie said that was normal. I like normal. So I waited. And a few days later, he called several times—right after the Great Beat-down. I never picked up.
I thought he’d given up, but yesterday he called again—for a date last night. A whole menagerie of butterflies took residence in my stomach. I only had an hour to get ready.
I jumped in the shower, forming a plan, and accidentally shaved across hundreds of goose bumps on my legs. I know, that’s more information than you need, but OUCH! Then I panicked. I called Ashley for advice, and within minutes she and Debbie were at my door. The room got so giddy you’d think no one had been on a date ever. The two of them dived into my closet.
“She should wear black with the jeans. It’s casual and sexy.” Ashley held the blouse to her face.
“Of course it looks good against you, Ash. You’re blond. Look at all her gorgeous dark hair. She’ll be better in this.” Debbie held up the cream sweater.
“Sure, at a study session. It’s a date, Deb. She needs to make a statement.”
“Hello? I’m in the room. I vote cream and brown. I like study sessions.”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “Please, Sam, put a little Marianne in your Elinor.” I smiled. It was a lovely idea.
How would it feel to get carried away on emotion like
Marianne? To be so recklessly entranced? So passionately in love? I never thought Marianne’s devotion to Willoughby was prudent, and it wasn’t, but I bet it was fun. And later, I’m sure all that passion enveloped Colonel Brandon.
In the end we decided on jeans, brown high-heeled boots, the cream sweater, and a cream-and-brown patterned scarf around my neck. We had just finished adding the scarf when Josh knocked on the door. Ashley and Debbie ducked into my bedroom, which made for a weird first moment. Then I almost forgot them as Josh walked me down my apartment steps. He looked so good in a black sweater and jeans.
“You look great tonight, Sam. Thanks for saying yes on such short notice. A meeting fell through and I thought I’d take a chance.”
“I’m glad you called. Where are we going?”
“To my favorite Indian restaurant on Devon. Do you like Indian food?”
“I’m not very familiar with it.”
“You’ll love it. If you want, I’ll order for us.”
Is that how it always is? It felt lovely to have someone take such good care of me. Brandon took care of Marianne like that, I’m sure. Josh opened the car door and practically settled me into the passenger seat. We chatted while I floated along in my plush, beige leather seat with built-in warmer.
At the restaurant, I was out of my league again. Where is a burger joint when you need one? I couldn’t understand a word on the menu and finally put it down. Josh looked pleased when I asked him to order. He did a good job: chicken tikka masala, tandoori prawns, some vegetable samosas, and naan.
I looked them all up so I could spell them for you. See what care I take with your letters?
It was delicious: hot and spicy, deep and earthy. Dinner, time travel, and sunbathing rolled into one culinary experience. While we ate, Josh asked a lot of questions, some twice. I felt reluctant to answer. One—concentrating on my inner Marianne and feeling the moment took energy. Two—I hate talking about myself. So I opted for a few well-timed deflections. Most of the evening went like this:
Josh: “Where did you grow up?”
Sam: “Right here in Chicago, but I’ve never been here. Could you pass the chicken dish? It’s wonderful . . . Thanks. Are you pleased you stayed here after business school?”
Josh: “Of course, you can’t do better than Leo Burnett for advertising. I interviewed in New York, but found more innovative work coming out of Chicago.”
Sam: “Tell me about it. What are you working on?”
And off he went. I didn’t manipulate him, I promise. I genuinely loved hearing about his life and work. I learned he is the youngest of three boys, grew up in Cincinnati, graduated from the Miami University of Ohio before Kellogg, likes to play basketball and run, only reads magazines, and doesn’t like milk. See, lots of stuff.
And he has the neatest hands. He uses them when he talks, and I like the way they move. Is that weird? There must be something about hands from my childhood. I notice them—best not dig too deep into that one.
This is what I told Ashley and Debbie this morning: “We had a nice time. I hope he calls, but I gather he’s really busy.” I
was ready to share all the silly details, but it was too mundane and normal for them. They didn’t ask for more.