Page 46 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

I just got home from Naples, Florida. If that isn’t an entirely different planet, I’m not sure what is. Wow. It was good, but I’m glad to be home. It was exhausting keeping my jaw from constantly dropping.

We flew down last Saturday, dropped our bags at Ashley’s house, and went straight to her “club” for lunch. Afterwards, lying by the pool, I decided to tell her about the article. I pulled a copy out to show her and started my story. Debbie loved adding her insights.

“So you see, Ash, it totally makes sense now why she had no clue about . . .” And off she went.

Ashley laughed and joined in, especially when we talked about my quotation habit. She’s the only one with enough literary knowledge to understand what I was up to.

Then they took a tangent I never expected: you.

Ashley was like Sherlock Holmes meets Nancy Drew.

Do I have any clues to your identity? Do you ever contact me?

Did I ask Laura any questions? Did I hire a detective?

Only Ashley and Eloise, the little spoiled girl who lives at the Plaza, would think of hiring a detective.

“Excuse me, I’d like a hot fudge sundae, one private investigator, two forensic analysts, and a cherry soda.

‘Charge it, please, and thank you very much.’” She hypothesized for a full twenty minutes on ways I could hunt you down.

Don’t worry—I’m as uninterested in that as I would suspect you are.

It’s ironic that as I grow comfortable being Sam, they suddenly cast me as Orphan Annie or Anne Shirley.

From their perspective my childhood began to sound romantic and heroic.

And you became Daddy Warbucks or Uncle Drosselmeyer.

Ashley suggested that one—she’s seen The Nutcracker on Broadway “every year for as long as I can remember.” Again, only Ashley.

The cross-examination and speculation droned on and on. I wondered why I ever hid my past—they found it fascinating. After a couple hours, Debbie jumped into the pool and I noticed Ashley grow quiet. All this was bothering her more than she let on.

I reached over and poked her arm. She swung her head toward me, so sad.

“I’m sorry, Ashley. I hurt you the most. I know that.”

She looked away.

“I hope you understand how scared I was. I started hiding so young, I didn’t know how to stop—even when I felt safe. Please forgive me.”

She looked up with a deep, shuddering breath—a start-over breath. “You know I do. It’s just that you clearly didn’t think much of me or you would have trusted me.”

I raised my eyebrows at her.

She slumped back in her lounge chair. “I did it again, didn’t I? I made it about me.”

“Kind of,” I laughed. “But I understand.”

“Sam? I trust you, you know. There aren’t many people I trust, but you’re one. I wish you felt the same about me.”

“I do. You see me better than anyone. And we’re a lot alike, even though our pasts are very different. I just think it’s hard for us to understand each other sometimes.”

“Agreed, but I’d like to.”

“Me too.” I smiled, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

“I won’t use it against you, Sam,” she whispered.

“And I won’t go after you. I promise, Ashley. I’m sorry if I ever have.”

“Me too.”

We sat silent for a few moments. I think that was enough soul baring for both of us.

“Ohhh . . . How’d Josh take it?”

I’d just drifted to sleep when Ashley’s playful voice startled me. “Why did you say it like that?”

She seemed to take his negative response as a given.

“Sam, the guy’s a poser.” Ashley caught herself. “That’s not a bad thing. He likes things a certain way, and I can’t imagine he appreciates surprises.”

She was right. Josh doesn’t like surprises. Maybe it was the surprise, not the story or my past, that bothered him. The necklace confirms that. And he’s very excited now.

Debbie came back, and I told them all about Valentine’s Day and Josh’s reaction and the necklace. Debbie said he behaved badly, but agreed the necklace is beautiful. Ashley said to cut him some slack and added that Josh is ambitious, but not mean.

I vacillated between the opinions for a while. I haven’t seen him much because work’s kept him busy most nights, but he’s been very attentive in calls and texts—far better than usual. That’s to his credit.

So I decided to cut him some slack. Second chances are good, right? I called him and flirted shamelessly, telling him I couldn’t wait to see him when I got home. Very Marianne Dashwood.

The rest of the week was great. We sunned, swam, ate, laughed, and talked. The only cloud came yesterday: Mrs. Walker and Constance, Ashley’s older sister, arrived.

“Ashley, Constance and I are going to Saks today. You should join us. You’re looking worn. If this is what you wear every day, it needs freshening.”

“Mother, I’m fine. Debbie and Sam are here. I’m not going shopping with you.”

“What you wear reflects upon your family, Ashley.”

“No, Mother. It reflects upon me. In Chicago, folks look at me, get to know me for me. I make my own decisions.”

“If your decisions lead to sloppy clothes and shabby friends, perhaps you should reconsider.”

“My friends? What are you talking about?”

“Your friends are shabby. Sam’s the worst of the lot. She has no style, no presence.”

“Sam’s a good friend. If you only—”

Don’t say it, Ashley.

Her mom, thankfully, cut her off. “Ashley, I’m not discussing this right now. Clean up and let’s go. You’re a mess.”

Neither had seen me approach from the kitchen.

I can’t believe they didn’t hear my heart pounding.

I slowly retraced my steps and ate another bowl of corn flakes.

Is that how people see me? Shabby? I thought I looked pretty pulled together.

I don’t have Ashley’s sense of style, but I’m neat and tidy and, thanks to you, own some lovely clothes. I thought I fit in.

We hopped the plane this morning seemingly happy, but Ashley’s eyes were tight and flat, and I felt deflated. I had tried to stand up straight and thank Mrs. Walker with dignity, even bravado. But my best Edmond Dantes came off limp and got waved away with a flick of her fingers.

Other than those moments, Mr. Knightley, it was an amazing trip, and I got to know Ashley and Debbie better. And they got to know me, the real me—painful and scary, yes, but also necessary and good. I refuse to let Mrs. Walker steal any of that.

Nevertheless, next time I travel to Florida, I’ll visit Disney World. I need more reality. And you’ll never find Mrs. Walker there.

Back home safe and sound,

Sam

P.S. Here’s my spring schedule: Johnson for Civil Writes. Catchy title, huh? The sensible part of me warns I should avoid his classes. They bring down my GPA. But Johnson pushes me, and I’m getting better.

I’m also taking Investigative Journalism, Statistical Research, and Magazine Editing. Just can’t stay away from those math classes.

Still no summer internship. Most of my class is placed, but I’m still here—still writing, still clawing at the ledge, and still applying for jobs . . .