Page 12 of Dear Mr. Knightley

She came back today and wanted my next pick, because she loved Austenland .

She’s never asked me to suggest titles for her before, so this was high praise and high pressure.

I handed her The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society .

What do you think? I worried a moment about the WWII angle, for I know her family escaped Poland when she was little.

But when I hinted at it, she dismissed me.

“The day we forget the horror, Sam, we will repeat it. Never forget your past. It will make you less human, less than human.”

I smiled and thought it was unlikely I could forget my past. It presses pretty constantly.

Mr. Clayton came in this morning too. He’s one of my all-time favorite patrons, another mystery nut like Father John, and I’ve been in charge of his recommendations since we first met a few years ago.

Everyone else intimidates him, but if we’re alone, he’ll sit and chat for hours.

He needs more action than Mrs. G, but no gore: “Remember the ulcer, Sam. Don’t stress me. ”

I started him awhile back on Patricia Cornwell, but she got too graphic. Alex Powell is his current favorite. Mine too. And today I had a surprise for Mr. Clayton: I pre-ordered Powell’s new novel, just for him. Mr. Clayton was thrilled. So was I, because I’ll read it next.

I love Powell’s books: good writing, solid detective/hero, strong cast of characters, and great plots. Plus all the main gore happens offstage. He gives you enough to keep you riveted but doesn’t wallow in the depravity. It’s a satisfying brew of old-world charm in gritty, contemporary NYC.

And of course, Powell’s hot hero keeps me coming back too.

Detective Cole Barker is totally lean, deliciously flawed, smart, loyal, rugged, and, I imagine, gorgeous—a modern Darcy and Knightley meet Ethan Hunt.

Redemption comes out as a movie in a couple weeks.

We’ll see if Hollywood agrees. Oh . . . Gotta go. Someone needs my help.

Later still . . .

Are you beginning to think I’ll never go away? I promise I will, but it’s hard to let go of lifelines—I mean—friends. Especially when they’re dropping like flies all around me.

Dan stopped by the library this afternoon. He’s a guy I used to study with at Roosevelt. We’ve kept in touch over e-mail and texts these past few months, but nothing big.

I texted him that my job fell through and that I’m back at the library. And today in he walked. I was happy to see him. He reminds me of a comfortable sweater that you pull on, knowing it will keep you warm every time. That’s a nice metaphor, isn’t it? Hannah didn’t think so—but more on that later.

Anyway, we chatted a few minutes and then he placed a small black box on the counter. He was so excited and pushed it toward me. I just stared.

“Open it.” He poked it again. “What are your plans now?”

“I move into my apartment tomorrow, and I got part-time work at Starbucks. I’ll keep my job here too.”

“You’re so smart. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks. Not smart enough to get this ribbon off.” Still working on the box . . . I finally opened it and looked up. “It’s a heart necklace, Dan. It’s so nice. But why would you buy me a heart?” Big mistake.

Shutters pulled over his eyes. “I . . . never mind. Wasn’t it your birthday awhile back?”

“Yes. Thank you so much.” I knew I’d hurt him. I didn’t know what to do, so I started gushing. “It’s really nice, Dan. I’ve always wanted a heart necklace. It’s so lovely.” My words sounded stilted and hollow.

But I wanted his eyes to soften again. I liked that look. This one made me nervous and unsure. How did I go wrong? I know it was awful because he sputtered a few words and left—fast, shoulders down, like Atlas carrying the world. I didn’t have the guts to go after him.

Then Hannah blew when I told her about it tonight.

Another mistake. See why I don’t talk? But she doesn’t get it.

I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman who has never been with a guy, never really even kissed a guy, and clearly can’t speak to one.

Who could understand that? My idea of romance comes from Jane Austen—and I was scandalized when Darcy and Lizzy kissed at the end of that BBC movie.

So you see, I’m not trying to be clueless. I simply am. Hannah said I need to get out of my head more, but if that is what happens, why should I? If I hurt people, shouldn’t I stay in there permanently?

“How could you do that? He hung around for two years studying with you, asking you out and calling you. And then this past year, the e-mails, the texts—he’s put himself out there constantly for you. What were you thinking?” She was yelling, and Hannah never yells.

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know? Sam, you’ve got to start living in the real world.”

“My life hasn’t exactly been sheltered, Hannah.”

“Yes, it has. You’ve been knocked around, but you were sheltered all right. You lived in your books.”

“That’s not true. ‘There are just a lot of different sides to me. If there was just one, it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.’”

“Are you serious?” Hannah stared at me. “Sam, you gave me the book, and that’s what you inscribed in the cover.”

“Stop pushing me!” I cried. I didn’t remember having given her Anne of Green Gables .

To her credit, Hannah backed off.

“What color are Dan’s eyes?” she asked so softly that I almost missed it.

I stared at her. I couldn’t see the point of her question, and I certainly didn’t know the answer.

“Oh, Sam. You never even saw him.” She sounded disappointed. I remembered the tone from when she told me about her tae kwon do. It formed a connection between Hannah and Dan—an uncomfortable one.

I did then what I always do when I feel pulled outside myself.

I ran. Literally. I grabbed my shoes and left Hannah sitting in my cottage.

Kyle was outside Buckhorn as I dashed out, so I invited him to come along.

We knocked out five miles. He didn’t talk.

Maybe he’ll never talk. But perhaps that’s for the best. I’d only let him down.

After that, I was calm enough to call Dan and apologize—a new and highly uncomfortable habit for me.

I tried three times, but he never picked up.

I left a message, but I don’t expect him to call me back.

I blew it. Someone was right in front of me, liked me, and I lost him.

I’d like another chance. I’d like more chances with so many people. Do I get more chances?

Well, Mr. Knightley, here ends my chance with you.

It’s time to mail this. I’m glad you don’t have a real name and this isn’t a real friendship, because I would just mess it up.

Clearly my comfort zone doesn’t stretch far, because I’ve enjoyed these letters more than anything, and I will never know you or the color of your eyes.

Farewell, friend . . .

Sam