Page 23 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

You must know what I’m typing on. Thank you so much. I’m still trying to process all this. I am completely stunned and need to start at the beginning. You may need to write me a letter, Mr. Knightley. Why did you do all this? And that’s only my first question . . .

I arrived here late this morning. I thought I’d feel so free and independent embarking on this journey, but I felt small and scared. More mouse than lion. By the time I reached the Conleys’ house, I was bug-eyed.

Have you ever seen the homes along the lake north of Chicago?

They are huge and lovely. The lawns are deep green and manicured like golf courses.

The Conleys’ house is no exception. Mrs. Conley met me at her door and walked me around to the garage.

She said they built the apartment last year for her husband’s mother, but she’s not ready to move in yet.

“This is an adventure for us. We hadn’t thought to rent it until Father John called. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m so appreciative.” I felt stiff, and my words came out stilted. Everything is more formal when you’re nervous—at least for me.

She left me at the stairs to see it alone. “Call me up when you’re ready. That way you can see it for the first time without feeling like you have to compliment it. You may not like it.”

I loved it at first sight. It has hardwood floors, a bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen that opens onto the living room.

Huge windows let in the dappled sunlight and made a dance of light and shadow across the floors.

It’s perfect and it’s mine. And it’s yellow.

The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream.

I watched the light shine through the bright clean windows and my mind flashed back to that first apartment with Cara.

That place scared me, made me feel hopeless; this one invited me in, soothed and healed—all with light and super-clean white trim.

And the furnishings are comfortable with a hint at bold.

Exactly how I want to be. The bedroom has a queen bed with a wooden frame and headboard, a huge dresser, and two wooden bedside tables.

And there’s a big fluffy armchair with flowers embroidered in the fabric.

The living room has a red-and white-striped couch with huge pillows featuring embroidered sunflowers.

I’ve also got a big desk in front of the bay window and a small table with two chairs over by the kitchenette.

And there’s a huge television on the wall—my very own TV.

I called to Mrs. Conley, and she came up and started going through everything with me, as if I had the power to complain.

“Father John wanted you to have everything you need, so the apartment now has wireless, and I got you digital cable with DVR. I don’t know if you watch much TV, but I figured that was good.

There are fresh sheets on the bed and towels and spare sheets in the bathroom closet.

The washer and dryer are stacked in the kitchen pantry.

” She walked around the living room pointing to different doors and areas.

“And your foundation sent a computer and printer. They’re on the bookshelf over there. The printer is wireless. I’ve been begging David for one of those, so you’ll have to tell me if it works. Is there anything I forgot?”

Dazed, I stumbled on the only detail that stuck. “Did you say computer?”

“It’s this laptop.” She pulled down a sleek laptop from the bookshelf. “Are you sure I haven’t forgotten anything?”

“I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” My brain felt fuzzy.

I think I seemed eerily calm and uninterested. Really it was shock. I wanted to know more, so I probed a little.

“Who arranged all this?” I asked.

“Well, Father John contacted us first, but then a Ms. Temper handled the details. Does she manage your foundation?”

“They gave me a grant and they pay the rent, but I don’t know them. Do you know anything about them?”

“No, but we’ve known Father John for years. How do you know him?”

This is why you don’t probe, Mr. Knightley. The turn-around can bite you.

“I’ve known him for years too,” I answered vaguely. Fearing more questions, I floundered for a distraction. Through the window I saw a swing set in the yard. “Do you have kids?”

Mrs. Conley smiled. “Four, and they’re dying to meet you. Parker is oldest at fifteen. Then comes Henry. He’s thirteen. Isabella’s almost twelve, and James is four. They’ll be home later and will probably run straight this way. This is very exciting for them. Do you have siblings?”

“I’m an only child, but I’ve been around kids my whole life. Please tell them they are welcome to visit.”

She glanced at me again. I was screwing up. I felt a little like Catherine Morland arriving at Northanger Abbey, though this splendid apartment is anything but gothic.

Mrs. Conley took my pause in stride. I must have appeared to be struggling, because she tilted her head to one side and said, “I’ll leave you to settle in.

You know, Sam, please don’t feel pressured to spend time with the kids or with us.

You’re simply renting this apartment. You have no obligations.

” She turned back at the door. “These UPS boxes arrived this morning.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Enjoy settling in.” She carefully shut the door and walked down the steps.

Of course, the first thing I did was tear open the boxes.

Thank you. I know you read my letters now—I remember complaining about my wardrobe.

That was more of a life-direction-desire moment, not a please-fix-purchase-need-now moment.

And you are fixing so much. Thank you for moving me up here. And thank you for this gift.

I don’t know who actually chose all these things; perhaps your assistant, Ms. Temper?

It’s hard to imagine “Mr. Knightley” poring over a J.

Crew catalog! But if you’ll indulge me further, I’m going to be a girl for a moment and really gush.

I love the jeans. Two pairs plus the brown pair was extravagant.

It’s not like I have no clothing. I also love the white blouse.

It’s so crisp and pristine that it looks almost blue in the light.

I’ve never seen anything that bright. And the black one?

I love black. You can take jeans and a black top anywhere.

For me, it’s usually jeans and a black T-shirt, but I still feel sleeker. It’s a girl thing.

The sweaters are gorgeous too. Cashmere. Lovely stuff—so soft. I could go on . . . The skirt, the boots, the belt, the flats, and the coat . . . Everything’s magnificent.

I’m completely overwhelmed and I thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. I also appreciated your note: A true voyager is outfitted for every journey . You pegged it.

But I have even more questions now. How is it that everything fits? Do you know me? Do I know you or Ms. Temper? Have you seen me?

Lately I feel watched, stalked. Rationally, I know it’s not true.

But since the Great Beat-down, I feel exposed and fragile.

They never found the guy, but that hardly matters.

Even if they had, I would still walk around wary.

Because now I know—I know what can happen.

So I look over my shoulder . . . and into my letters.

You don’t deserve such distrust. Father John trusts you, and I trust him.

But there it is. I hope you won’t take my insecurity as an insult.

I can’t think, thank, or write any more now. I’m somewhere I never imagined. I’m also tired, and I haven’t handled all this or Mrs. Conley well. I probably offended her. I was too remote.

I need to do better here, Mr. Knightley—moving up here requires more commitment.

I was invested in Medill before, but I kept one foot in my old world.

Now there is no Grace House Escape Hatch.

It’s slipping away, and I’m packed with equal parts of gratitude, unworthiness, and fear.

Topped with a fierce determination to succeed. With deep breaths, I can do this.

And to think, I almost let that small-handed mean man steal this from me.

Thank you for giving it back, Sam

P.S. I’ve been sitting in my living room organizing my books.

It’s so quiet and dark, but I don’t feel lonely.

I feel safe. How could I not? All my friends are here.

You should see them lined up. I almost broke my back hauling them here, but now they are all arranged: Austen, Dickens, Webster, Gaskell, the Bronte sisters, Christie, Powell, Perry, Peters, Cooper .

. . They’re safe and sound and standing proud.

I hung my Georgia O’Keeffe lily poster above my bed and pinned my photographs on the bulletin board near the kitchen.

It looks like the home I never dared imagine.

As I was making dinner, the Conley children knocked on the door. I’ve never met kids like them. No wariness. No anger. No reserve that I can tell—all curiosity and unbounded enthusiasm.

Little James ran in first. “Have you jumped on the bed? It bounces really high.”

“Jamie, get off her bed! I’m sorry. He knows better.” That was eleven-year-old Isabella. “Do you like it here? I sometimes dream I live up here and that I can’t hear all of them.” She motioned to her three brothers.

Parker grabbed her in a hug and knuckle-rubbed her head. She feigned anger, but a giggle gave her away.

Then they showered me with helpful hints: stick my trash in the bins on the other side of the garage; their mom makes them clean the bathroom weekly, but she probably won’t check on me; the DVR cuts one hour of television down to forty-two minutes once you skip commercials.

They stayed for about forty-five minutes, until Mrs. Conley called them for dinner and homework. I like them. Just thinking about them makes me smile. I hope they liked me too.

One a.m.

I can’t sleep. Georgia O’Keeffe is keeping me awake.