Dear Mr. Knightley (12 page)

Only Debbie replied, “Don’t worry, you’re too cute for him not to call. Let’s go grab a coffee.”

So we went for lattés and discussed finals. Back to the real world. Oh, by the way . . . I got a real kiss too.

Sam

P.S. Okay, that was unfair. So while it’s very tacky to “kiss and tell,” I’ll share some of the scene. Granted, thirteen-year-olds probably do this, but you’ll have to cut me some slack. I’d like to relive that moment too, and who am I going to tell, Isabella?

I had almost gotten sick as Debbie and Ashley raced around my living room cleaning while I dressed. They believed I would “invite him up” after our date. That hadn’t occurred to me, but it worried me throughout dinner. And as we turned into the Conleys’ driveway, my stomach dropped and my skin grew clammy. Panic is not just an emotion. It’s a very physical phenomenon. The butterflies fled my gut—crickets overtook them.

Josh parked right in front of the garage, and his previously quiet Lexus Hybrid sounded louder than a jet engine. Everyone could hear. Everyone knew what was about to happen—everyone but me.
Does he open my door? Does he walk me up? Does he expect to come in? Do I kiss him? Does he kiss me? Enough!

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Josh. Thank you very much.” I reached for the door handle.

“Me too. I’d like to do this again.”

“Sure. Give me a call.”

“Sam?” He gently pulled my arm, turning me back and slightly across the center console. Before I had time to think, he kissed me. Not quick, but slow and soft. First it was a question, then he seemed to find an answer and he deepened it. I’ve heard all sorts of things about a kiss (melting, fireworks, music), but no one ever told me it’s a conversation: asking, accepting, deciding, inviting, giving . . . Questions posed and answered. After a few moments, my head spun and the car felt steamy. I pulled away to catch my breath.

“Shall I come up?” He brushed my hair back, and I couldn’t help but lean into his hand. His eyes seemed black in the dark car as they rested on my lips.

“I don’t think so. I don’t want Mrs. Conley to see your car here too late. Another night?”

“Do you care what they think? Are you related?”

“No, but they have four kids. They’re a nice family. You’d like them.” I reached for the handle and climbed out. I got halfway up the stairs when he called out the window.

“Sam, I’ve got meetings for the next few nights. Can I see you Friday?”

“I’d like that.”

“Great. I’ll call you.” He waited for a moment, then backed out as I entered my apartment.

So that was it. I once heard a wonderful line in a movie that the first kiss is not the one you judge. Instead all the meaning is in the second . . .

NOVEMBER 20

Dear Mr. Knightley,

I’ve got even more exciting news than my last letter. But before I get to it, I need to tell you about school. I feel I haven’t been completely honest by avoiding the topic. Clearly I’m still here, but my last several Johnson assignments received Ds. I know that’s not great, but—

Who am I kidding? It’s horrible. I’ve never gotten grades like this. I’ve never seen so many red markings. It’s pathetic. I keep trying, though, and I submitted an article to the
Tribune
. Publication can’t help but impress Johnson, right? I figure he’ll commend my drive, if not my writing. So you see, I have a plan and I’m still kicking . . .

Now on to the fun: I met Alex Powell today.
The
Alex Powell! I’m sure you’ve read his books. They’ve all topped the best-seller lists and rightfully so. You should read them if you haven’t. Anyway, one of Ashley’s professors announced yesterday that he was coming to her class this morning, so Ash snuck me in the back.

Mr. Powell was such a surprise. At first I thought he was the TA. The guy looks about twenty. He talked for half an hour, then answered questions on his writing methodology, research, and favorite authors. He then thanked Professor Thomas and walked out. The whole class was in chaos, so I slipped out too. And banged right into him.

“Whoa. Isn’t there more to the class period?”

“I am so sorry. Did I hurt your foot? No, I’m not in that class.”

He hiked his eyebrow.

“I came to see you.”
Did I say that out loud?

“And?” Powell smiled.

“You were great. I mean I like your approach. I mean I like your books. I mean I’m going to stop talking now.” I sounded like an idiot.

“Did you miss class for this?” He chuckled.

“Today’s light for me. I’m in Medill’s grad journalism program.”
Please don’t think I’m a high school groupie.

“Journalism? You aren’t going to write about me, are you? I’d rather you didn’t.” It was his turn to sound uncomfortable.

I laughed—a skittish giggle really. “I wasn’t there for a story. I actually know that about you. There are no pictures on your book jackets and you rarely give interviews. You don’t even have a photo on your website.”
Stop talking, Stalker.

But I kept on. “I expected you to look different, older—gray hair, black glasses. You’re surprisingly young.”

Eyebrow hike again.

“I’m Samantha Moore.” After all my lunacy, I thought introductions were in order. I reached out my hand and for a second he simply stared at it—so I blabbed on. “I’m sorry I ran into you and I’m not a stalker, I promise.”

“I didn’t think that.” He took my hand and forced a thin smile. “No worries.”

I didn’t scare him too much, because a minute later he asked me to grab a coffee with him. Once outside, I stopped and took a deep gulp of air. I thought I might hyperventilate. I know he heard me, but he didn’t say anything. As I led him
toward the Starbucks in Norris, we got sidetracked and wandered around campus for about fifteen minutes. He went to school here, but I gather new buildings have popped up in the last few years.

Did you get that? He graduated from NU and is only about thirty years old. My image of him was definitely older, but after that it was vague. I was always more entranced by the hero than the author. His detective, Cole Barker, is my Darcy, Wentworth, Rochester, Bond, and Hunt—all the great men, dressed in jeans and a black jacket.

Alex is very different from that. Cole, in my mind, has dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses and is super-fit. Hollywood followed that idea in the movie. Alex embodies all that, but differently. He’s got the firm jaw and he’s tall (like six foot four tall), but his eyes aren’t dark and they’re not hidden behind glasses. They’re deep blue and actually snap. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s studying you, focusing energy on you, and all this connects in his eyes. It was intimidating at first, and I got self-conscious. I stammered and resorted to my fallback friends: a quick amalgam of Lizzy Bennet and Edmond Dantes gave me my voice back. Then I was able to laugh. Talking to him became easy, and soon I quit thinking about my characters at all. After we bought a couple coffees, we wandered back outside and he turned toward town.

“I’m meeting an old professor at Barnes and Noble in a few minutes. Are you heading that way?”

“No.”

“Then it was nice to meet you, Samantha.” He put out his hand to shake mine.

I looked at it a moment and realized I didn’t want to say
good-bye. How often do you get to meet one of your literary heroes? And most of mine are dead. “I’ll walk with you. I can get some work done at the Starbucks across the street.”

“You have a coffee in your hand.”

“Oh . . .” I wanted to run. I had clearly used up all my social skills. But I also felt more myself than I had felt in months, and I didn’t want it to end. Alex hadn’t asked me lots of personal questions, so I hadn’t lied to him. He hadn’t treated me as insignificant, so I let my guard down. And Lizzy and Edmond and all the rest had silently slipped away. No one was yelling in my head. No one even whispered. My processing all this must have played across my face.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“I am.” I was completely amazed, exhilarated, and alarmed. So you can see why I wanted to run and why I wanted to stay. “Just realized that two coffees would be a bit much.”

“Buy a decaf. Come on.” And he started walking toward town. I followed.

When Alex discovered how much I loved to read, he suggested a game. He proposed we quote from a book, no movies allowed, and the first one stumped, lost.

And I won! It took about ten quotes, but I foiled him with “Wait and hope.” He smugly shot out
Wuthering Heights
—as if Heathcliff or Cathy knew anything of either.

I struggled to keep a straight face. “
The Count of Monté Cristo
. Edmond Dantes writes that in closing his letter to Maximilian.”

I forgot to cross the street once I saw Barnes and Noble—it’s like a homing beacon to me. I automatically walked through the doors, forgetting that Alex and I were to part ways. Alex
bumped into me when I stopped in the lobby. His face had the same kid-in-a-candy-store expression I imagine my own wore. This is a particularly potent store. We stood in a two-story lobby with a huge chandelier bouncing light off the thousands upon thousands of books lining the walls.

I pulled at Alex’s arm and raced to the escalator. When he laughed I realized what I’d done and dropped it like a stone. Then I felt silly and tried to shake my schoolgirl reaction.

“I’m sorry. You go meet your professor. I’m going to find a table in the back to study. It was great to meet you.” I started to walk away.

“I’ve still got a few minutes.” He turned in the aisle. “Look here—mysteries. Do you read mysteries?”

I smiled. “A few.” I ran my fingers along the books, tapping some of my favorites. I stopped at Perry, traveled to Peters, and landed on Powell. “And here you are.”

“I am. They’ve got a good selection.”

I pulled out a book and grabbed a pen from my bag. “You need to sign some. Can you imagine how thrilled people will be to see your signature?”

“That’s called vandalism,” he quipped, but I could tell he was intrigued.

“Only if
I
sign your name. If
you
do, it’s called winning a golden ticket.”

“Fine.”

We picked out a few of his books and he signed them—real notes too. In a copy of
Salvation Bound
he wrote:
Enjoy my favorite passage on p. 187. It really happened. All the best, Alex Powell.

I flipped to page 187 and started reading from the top. It’s a defining moment for Cole. A break in his father’s murder
investigation rocks him to his core, and we find him inside a church, bereft and questioning everything he’s done and is. A pastor approaches from behind and asks to join him. Cole nods to the pew, but continues to look forward, uncommunicative and sullen.

The pastor sat for a few moments, then turned to Cole. “You’re going to be okay. Trust your heart.”

Cole turned, angry at the intrusion, angry with himself. “What?”

“You have to stop questioning and fighting so much.”

“Who are you? You know nothing about me.”

“I don’t need to.”

“But you’re giving advice, or worse, assurances?”

“I must be right or it wouldn’t anger you so much.”

“Go away.” Cole turned forward, unwilling to give the intruder his time or energy.

“I will, but listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks.”

The pastor leaves the pew and Cole sits there, stunned. I knew that was the scene Alex meant. He had revealed himself and some conflict that had impacted him deeply. I looked up at him; my eyes asked,
What happened?

“My father wasn’t murdered in a police-mob conspiracy, but yes, at a very dark time, a young pastor took me on. Just like this. He’s now one of my best friends. He got a kick out of being in my book.”

“Can you tell me more?” I sensed that this was fragile ground.

“Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.

He grabbed another book,
Three Days Found
, and lightened the mood.
Enjoy the story,
he wrote.
It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.

“Patsy’s?”

“It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”

“Which are you?”

“I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run a marathon. A few friends like to go there each year before New York.”

“I’d love to run New York someday.”

“You should. They say it’s the best. The crowds are amazing, and you run through all five boroughs.”

I looked down at the book in my hands and was reminded of my mental image of him. “Why do you never put your photo on the back cover? You aren’t ugly.”

“That’s good to know.” He laid his hand on top of the book. Not really talking to me, he continued, “I don’t, because however people imagine me is always better than I am. And I don’t want to be defined by these.”

“I thought fame was the icing on the cake.”

“It should be avoided. It limits you and hurts you. Besides, if I was shackled by too much of it, you and I couldn’t spend even this time together. Too many people already know what I do and where I go. People forget your face after a book tour or an infrequent interview on Letterman, but put your face on
your books and you’re handing them your life. They presume to know what you think or who you are. Not like a movie star or anything, but you definitely give yourself away.”