Page 50 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Johnson gave me a C! Everyone’s shocked that a C pleases me, but it does.

It really does. And that was only part of my great day .

. . Today was my first at the Tribune and it was terrifyingly extraordinary.

I took the Metra early and savored every step from the Loop out to Michigan Ave.

I grabbed a latté and felt very chic. But let’s be honest . . . I grinned like an idiot.

When I arrived, the lobby was full of interns anxiously awaiting our orientation program.

College kids get the jobs in the mail room, copy service, and the newsroom.

Only two writing spots are reserved for grad students.

The other writer’s name is Mike and he’s from Columbia’s program.

He doesn’t say much, but he seems nice. And shy. And cute. Clark Kent?

Orientation culminated in photos and a swanky little badge that I get to clip on my waist each day and flash to the security guard.

We then ate lunch in the small café at the bottom of the building, where Mike and I sat with some college girls who flirted shamelessly with him.

The poor guy is going to have his hands full.

He didn’t mind it, but he didn’t engage them either.

He seemed fairly serious about his sandwich.

We then reported to our assignments. I’m with Kevin McDermott, who runs the local interest stories and features—not hard crime, but the heavy-hitting local stuff, national stories with Chicago implications, and the downtown beat.

It’s perfect for me: minor investigative journalism with a bent toward human interest and larger-format writing.

McDermott’s also eager to promote my work and rattled a few topics he wants me to pursue.

He has his own syndicated column and even offered me guest spots throughout the summer.

His cubicle is a war zone. Articles, pictures, magazines, food—everything fights for dominance.

He cleared mountains of old newspapers from a chair for me to sit.

I saw pictures of his “girl” (wife named Millie), their girls, and their girls’ girls.

He and Millie celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary tonight, so I got off easy today.

. . . Which is why I’m writing you. I’m not complaining, but it’s lonely in Winnetka.

The Muirs left Saturday, the Conleys are at their cottage in Michigan for the summer, Josh is in Vegas at some consumer packaging convention, Ashley sent me a text that she’s working her first auction tonight, Kyle’s at the movies with the Buckhorn boys, and Debbie’s phone went straight to voice mail.

So here I sit—all excited with news to share and no one to listen.

I have flowers, though. Josh sent roses to celebrate my first day.

The card read I wish I could be there in person.

I know it went great. Love, Josh . They smell so good.

And things are good with him too. He’s been busy with work, but when we’re together, it’s lighter and easier.

I like it. Even though we only go out once a week, if that, we seem to be having more fun together.

Speaking of fun, Alex showed up at my doorstep last night.

Well, the Muirs’ doorstep. He thought they were still here and was disappointed he missed them.

But he rallied and stayed for dinner. I’ve been trying out some of Mrs. Muir’s favorite recipes, and last night was spicy shrimp pasta with parsley, called Shrimp Fra Diavolo.

At Grace House, cooking was the worst chore assignment.

I hated it. And when I lived with Cara, I could only afford ramen noodles.

That just takes a packet and water. When I returned to Independence Cottage, I mastered cooking an entire meal in a single pot.

Pasta works best. You cook the pasta, throw frozen veggies in at the last minute, drain the water, and toss a jar of sauce on top.

Then eat—out of the pot. I’m embarrassed to admit I cooked and ate like that most nights.

But it does illustrate what a surprise this new passion is for me.

I thought my first attempt at shrimp worked well, and Alex seemed to enjoy it . . . at least he didn’t get sick.

I gather Alex is here because his publisher suggested a change of scenery for his hero, Cole.

He’s in a rut. Fictional characters get in ruts?

Or is it the writers? Regardless, both are here to break free.

Cole’s here to help an interstate task force hunt a serial killer, and Alex is here to “assist”—that’s exactly what he said.

“What does ‘assisting’ a fictional detective entail?”

“It’s a boondoggle,” he laughed.

I sighed. Clearly, he assumed I knew what that meant. I was about to ask when he must have caught my lost look.

“It means I get to play around Chicago, try out restaurants, go to baseball games, visit museums, and do anything I want that will help Cole solve crime and capture local flavor, and call it ‘work’.”

“Can I have a fictional detective too?”

“I might let you assist.”

I almost pounced on that: When? Where? Why? What? How? All my instincts were firing because it sounded so fun, but I simply smiled.

We chatted all evening and covered everything: books, politics, school, weather, writing, friends, and my internship—that impressed him.

“You must be an amazing writer, Sam. I’d like to read some of your work.”

“Oh no. That’s too much pressure. You’re Alex Powell, you know.”

“That shouldn’t intimidate you. I thought we were past that.”

“We may never be past that.” I laughed, but he didn’t join me.

I wonder if I hurt his feelings. He may have thought I put the fame above the man. Does that make sense? I don’t. I just meant . . . I don’t know what I meant. I was careless and, heck, he is Alex Powell. There’s no way around that.

“Then what can you tell me or I tell you so we can get past that?”

My heart raced. I wasn’t ready to share, and asking him questions was only going to lead to more questions for me. So I deflected and babbled about the dishes, the day—anything inane that flitted through my brain.

“Well played,” Alex said after a few moments. He laid down his dish towel and leaned against the counter. His sudden stillness filled the room.

“Hmmm?” I kept washing silverware, trying to pack both time and space with dish suds.

“Your deflections are subtle. It took me a few beats to catch on. That’s hard to do.”

Crap.

Alex smiled, reached over, and squeezed my shoulder. “I’d love to know about you, Sam, but I’m not going to press. Let’s finish the dishes and walk to Homer’s for an ice cream.”

And that was it. He didn’t ask any more questions about my past, only my present. But I did learn new stuff about him nonetheless.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?” He glanced at me as he moved around and behind me as we crossed the street.

“You keep putting me on your right side. You did it in the kitchen too. You kept moving to my left.”

Alex was silent for a moment. I thought I’d stepped too far.

“I can’t think of a single person who has ever noticed that before.” He stopped walking and stared at me. “I tell people, sure, but no one’s noticed.”

“What?”

“I can’t see you if you’re on my left. I was hit in the head by a baseball in high school and have no peripheral vision on that side.”

“I’m sorry.” I started walking again. “Are you okay? Is there stuff you can’t do?”

He joined me. I moved to his right and caught his small smile. “I’m fine. I feel vulnerable at times, especially driving, but I passed the tests and I look around a lot before changing lanes. It’s never been a problem. I think it’s actually helped me.”

“How?”

“I notice more. I focus more intently on what’s in front of me. I think it’s a large part of why I pursued writing. I found that details mattered more after the accident.”

“I can see that.”

Alex quirked an eyebrow at me.

“That came out awkward,” I laughed. “Tell me more stuff that folks don’t typically notice.”

Alex obliged me and rattled off a random and hilarious description of himself: He likes at least two meats on every pizza; drinks only root beer if forced to drink soda; runs four days a week, unless it’s raining; plays poker monthly with some hoity-toity NY elites; loves funny movies, classics like Chevy Chase’s Fletch and Vacation are his favorites; can ride a unicycle; writes only five hours a day, then spends the rest reading and researching; loves eating out.

And he is less than forthcoming about his current love life.

Did you hear that detail in the middle? Alex runs. He mentioned it back in Barnes and Noble last fall, but I never expected to see him again so I didn’t pursue it. But now I want to know. I already crossed the line into seriously obnoxious, so I quit with my questions.

But I did have one thought: If he’s anything like me, his barriers drop during runs. Run him hard enough and he might get more forthcoming about his love life. I know, that is really bad and manipulative. Still . . .

Off to plot my attack,

Sam