Page 68 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Thank you for the spectacular bouquet of lilies. The note was the perfect touch. So simple. Best wishes, G. Knightley . That’s what is traditionally said to a bride. And I felt like that today—new and loved. In fact, I’ve felt that way all week.

The Conley kids delivered drawings and gifts to my apartment on three different days, Mrs. Conley gave me a gorgeous heavy crystal vase to mark the occasion and hold her huge bouquet of flowers, and Debbie and Ashley gave me little treats all week—mostly joke baby cards and rattles that read Welcome Baby .

I could go on . . . Father John, Kyle, Hannah, the Ridleys, even Cara .

. . Everyone has shown such excitement about this.

Alex sent something too—a huge box of chocolates with a card: Congratulations, Sam.

Welcome to the family. I’m glad I’ll always be a part of your world.

It makes me smile. God bless you . . . Alex.

I would have liked something more personal, but I won’t let him distract me right now.

Back to the day . . . The Muirs pulled into the Conleys’ driveway at nine o’clock this morning. Debbie and Ashley had arrived moments before with coffees in hand, so we piled into the car and headed downtown. Mrs. Muir could hardly speak.

“Mrs. Muir, thank you for inviting us.” That was Ashley.

“Yes, dear.”

“Mrs. Muir, can we bring anything to dinner tonight?” That was Debbie.

“Yes, dear.”

“Mrs. Muir, Sam said you’ll adopt me too.” Ashley again.

“Yes, dear.” She fidgeted with her fingers and counted cars. The traffic clearly upset her.

“Now, Frances, you know that Paul will wait. He can’t proceed without us. Try to enjoy the moment,” the professor said. He then winked into the rearview mirror. “It’s her first baby girl. She’s a bit nervous.”

Mrs. Muir swatted him.

When we arrived, Kyle was waiting in the lobby. Coach Ridley had let him skip, and I can’t tell you what it meant to have him there. I grabbed him into a hug so tight he choked and whispered, “Chill, Sam.”

Judge Montgomery’s office was comforting and just what you’d expect: wood paneling, covered in books (the old leather/legal kind), and a faint pipe tobacco smell. He’s an old friend of the professor’s, so there was much backslapping and manly hugging.

He then looked at me, and his eyes got soft and round. “You have found a lovely daughter, Robert. And I understand she has a brain like yours and Franny’s.” He then reached across and hugged Mrs. Muir. “You look beautiful, Frances. Now let’s get this under way.”

He read from some forms, and we all signed. He then asked about my name, and I said I wanted to add Muir. Mrs. Muir got tears in her eyes and the professor beamed.

“Wise choice, my dear. I know you will treasure the name and the family.”

I then signed my new name: Samantha Moore Muir .

It was much scarier than I imagined—it was like physically handing my heart to someone. It aches even though no one hurt it. The Muirs only offered to love it. Does that make sense? It doesn’t to me, but that’s how it feels.

Afterwards we went to lunch at Fonterra Grill, right next to Topolobampo.

Of course my mind drifted to Alex. I wonder about him more often than I’d like.

Other than the card and chocolates, which arrived yesterday, I haven’t heard from him since he left.

Not a single text, e-mail, call—nothing.

If I didn’t feel like I missed something at the end, I would call him.

Part of me wants to demand an explanation and tell him how deeply he has hurt me. I almost trusted him . . .

That’s a lie. I did trust him. While I didn’t let him in completely, it was only a matter of time.

I believed he was worthy. At the very least, we were friends—even he said that—and I don’t understand this silence.

But I won’t trespass. And I won’t beg. If Alex’s farewell was final, so be it.

I’ll forget him soon. In a few months this won’t feel so dark.

The Muirs hear from him, though. The professor mentioned how excited he was when they told him about the adoption and how disappointed he was to miss the day. And upon arriving at their house this afternoon, we found the most spectacular bouquet of flowers in the hallway.

Dear Mom M and Pops, I am so thankful for this day and wish I could be there to celebrate. Delighted Sam is joining the family. Please give her a hug and know that I love you all deeply. Love, Alex

Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is blasé. He wouldn’t fly to Paris. He wouldn’t come here. He makes his own schedule and he certainly makes enough money. Do we mean so little to him? The Muirs think of him as a son. And I . . . What do I think of him?

I’m confused. Under duress or torture, I might say I loved him.

But I don’t want to feel that way—not now, not him.

It’s the whole Icarus thing. This summer I knew reaching for Alex Powell was too high, but I let myself enjoy him and our time together, and look what happened.

Sure, he opened up and at the end said he loved spending time with me.

He even said I was beautiful occasionally, but other than that last night, he never touched me or kissed me or made any attempt to be more than a friend.

As I replay the summer in my mind, I think I should have caught on.

He maintained a careful distance. He said it himself, and I recalled it during the marathon: “I don’t like to disappoint people.

I let things go on too long and get too complicated because I fear the way they’ll look at me when it’s all done.

” Now I’m all done. I will give him no more of my time, my heart—any part of me.

And I doubt I’ll read his next book, even if it is the “best one yet.”

Putting the confusing Mr. Powell aside, today was something delicate and delicious, and I’ll hold it forever.

I have a family now, a real family in my heart and officially on paper.

Thank you. Thank you for all this, Mr. Knightley.

It started with your generosity and Father John’s insistence on Medill. I’m sorry I resisted.

Love,

Samantha Muir

P.S. I forgot to tell you about something else quite extraordinary.

I came over last week with my final project’s rough draft for the professor’s review.

He launched into the Industrial Revolution, the invention of the automobile, World Wars I and II, FDR, the Fifties, the Sixties, Woodstock, birth control, salary equalization—I don’t think he drew breath for forty-five minutes—and landed at Hemingway (he always lands there), children, and our foster care system.

I have no idea how he got there, but he did.

By the end Mrs. Muir and I were stifling laughter because he didn’t need an audience and wasn’t even aware of our presence—he was pontificating.

Then he woke from his delirium, rounded on me, and demanded, “So what type of daughter are you? Are we equal? Will you call me Professor forever? Am I to be Robert?”

He stood, gesticulating like we were three hundred students in a lecture hall. His motions were too grand for his small study—his “tell” for nerves.

I stood up and announced, “You will be Dad!”

I shocked us both, Mr. Knightley. I wondered if I’d crossed a line as he stared at me. Time stopped. His eyes got teary and soft, and he opened his arms. I stepped into them, and he whispered, “My girl.”

Then Mrs. Muir joined in. “Me too. I get to be Mom, right?”

The professor answered, winking at me, “Of course you do, my dear, and it’s about time.”

It felt awkward at first. My memories linked to those names aren’t good, but I simply forged ahead. “Mom” and “Dad,” on the other hand, felt comfortable by salad.