Page 52 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

As of today, I can say with confidence that I did not scare Alex away. He texted me this morning.

I giggled. Actually giggled. And immediately I replied.

Absolutely.

The Billy Goat Tavern is an old Chicago favorite under Michigan Avenue just across from Tribune Tower.

I left at 12:27 and arrived right on time—no clock-watching there.

The room was dark and crowded, and smelled like history and cheeseburgers.

Alex found me absorbed in the framed newspaper article from 1973.

The Tribune Company invited the Billy Goat (real live goat) to a Cubs game in hopes of lifting the 1945 curse and securing a win.

The goat showed, and it worked—not a World Series win, but a few games that made everyone feel better.

Alex ushered me to a booth, leading me with a hand on the small of my back. I love that—it’s a gentleman’s touch. “Do you know what you want?”

“Cheezborger, cheezborger, cheezborger. No Pepsi . . . Coke.”

He burst out laughing. “How do you know that? Do you spend your spare time watching SNL reruns?”

I was pleased, but confessed, “I Googled it this morning.”

“Do you always research where you eat?”

“Don’t you? I assume Detective Barker is meeting an informant here? Casing the joint? Pursuing a perp? Issuing an arrest?”

“Eating lunch?”

“He can do that.”

It turns out that Alex has mapped out where Cole will live and eat, met with the Chicago Police Department, and developed his story line.

Part of his research includes a full-scale assault on Chicago eating establishments: hence, the Billy Goat Tavern—dark, subterranean, guts and history.

Anyone could meet there, pass info unseen and undetected, then fade away.

Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder is also on his list. I almost flipped.

He didn’t invite me, but I’m not above begging if it comes down to it.

I can’t believe I haven’t gotten there, but I don’t want to go with my girlfriends.

After Hannah’s story, I feel it’s a place to go with a guy.

Any guy will do, no offense to Alex or Josh.

Come on, it’s one dinner out. Can’t someone take me there?

I returned to work feeling a little sick.

I had a great time, but I don’t usually down two cheeseburgers for lunch.

Yes, I ate two. From Alex’s shocked expression, I assume that’s extremely unladylike.

Unlike Josh, he didn’t say anything. But seriously, what’s the problem?

I’m hungry. I challenge either of those men to run five miles each morning and then eat like a bird.

Mike and the other interns laughed at me, because first I complained about being too full, then they caught me eating an apple at three.

The interns all went out tonight, but I came home to write you. No, I didn’t. I had plans with Josh, but he canceled. Remind me never to work in advertising. It sounds fun, but the hours are excruciating. So I came home to edit another article for McDermott and knock out a few ideas of my own.

I also called Ashley. I told her about Alex and now I regret it.

It felt very glamorous in the telling, but now I feel small and selfish—like I betrayed a friend.

Alex guards his privacy with such a tenacious will , and I blabbed about his life, plans, and lunch menu.

Not his book title, I didn’t tell that. But that’s it.

No more blabbing about Alex. Can I still tell you, Mr. Knightley? I must tell someone.

I didn’t do all the talking, though. Ashley relayed plenty.

“He was right there in the bar, not five feet away, Sam, and I just walked away.” She sounded surprised.

“Are you playing games with Will? Not a great idea, Ash.”

“I’m not, Sam. I saw him there and felt tired. I’m not the kid he knew. And I won’t chase someone who sees that girl rather than me. So I walked away. I’m done.”

“How does it feel?”

“Oddly liberating.”

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

Ashley’s always got a boyfriend. Nothing ever serious, she’s just never alone. And why would she be? Guys adore her.

“All done with that too—for now. Time to put old habits to bed, so to speak.”

“Let them die, don’t put them to bed.”

“Very funny.” Then she turned serious, almost tentative. “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”

We’ve debated this for weeks. “Ash . . . you were so nice to wrangle the invitation, but this is your family’s deal. Your mom and Constance won’t want me there.”

“Sam, you’re my best friend. Mother’s gone postal, and Constance is a Bridezilla. I need you in my corner.”

I couldn’t refuse that, Mr. Knightley. So in a few weeks I’ll be kicking it up in your hometown at the Constance Walker/Bradley Douglass Wedding.

Back to work,

Sam