Dear Mr. Knightley (24 page)
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
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve been at work four days now and I love it. It’s hard—McDermott’s tough, but fair, not too far from Johnson. I edited a piece of his yesterday and he wasn’t pleased.
“Moore, you changed the tone. You check my facts, you check my grammar, you can add fluff if you want, I don’t care. But do not mess with the integrity of my tone. Ever. It’s gone from declarative to inquisitive. Read your verbs. Fix this.”
He was right. I made his work sound tentative, robbing its authority. Of course, that’s the tone to which I naturally gravitate. Do you think that’s my issue with Johnson? He’s never said it; it would be my job to notice it. And the timidity is there, in all my work—except for the pieces about children. Those are more confident. My voice is stronger and more declarative. Maybe McDermott will let me develop some of my ideas along those lines. They feel natural for me and I come up with new angles each evening. Yes, Alex’s “sleepy suburb” quip was accurate, and thinking up articles is the most excitement I see.
Josh is back in town, but he works late most nights and I don’t want to wait downtown in hopes that he might have dinner with me. Lately I feel he only calls when he’s bored. I’d like to mean more to him than that.
Alex hasn’t called or come up to the house either. At first I thought I hurt his feelings with my careless comments and questions. And I may have. But I also don’t think Alex would
visit a young woman alone. Is twenty-four very young? (Yes, birthday a couple weeks ago. Fairly unmemorable.) I’m not sure, and there’s something so “old school” about Alex. I do know he wasn’t pleased to find the Muirs gone. I thought he was going to decamp the front steps that first night without getting past hello. He’s a lot like his hero, Cole, I think. Both could exist quite comfortably in a Jane Austen novel—except for the violence.
“Why, Emma, Mr. Weston has been stabbed in the stables and trussed up like a goose.”
“Goodness, Father. Do lock the windows tonight. Prowlers are about.”
“You are right, my dear. Oh . . . Goodness, Mr. Knightley, it is much too dangerous for you to walk home this evening. You may catch a chill—or your
death
.”
Hey, it’s no worse than
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
.
Good night . . .
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
As of today, I can say with confidence that I did not scare Alex away. He texted me this morning.
Lunch? 12:30. Billy Goat Tavern?
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.
