“Father John wanted you to have everything you need, so the apartment now has wireless, and I got you digital cable with DVR. I don’t know if you watch much TV, but I figured that was good. There are fresh sheets on the bed and towels and spare sheets in the bathroom closet. The washer and dryer are stacked in the kitchen pantry.” She walked around the living room pointing to different doors and areas.
“And your foundation sent a computer and printer. They’re on the bookshelf over there. The printer is wireless. I’ve been begging David for one of those, so you’ll have to tell me if it works. Is there anything I forgot?”
Dazed, I stumbled on the only detail that stuck. “Did you say computer?”
“It’s this laptop.” She pulled down a sleek laptop from the bookshelf. “Are you sure I haven’t forgotten anything?”
“I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” My brain felt fuzzy.
I think I seemed eerily calm and uninterested. Really it was shock. I wanted to know more, so I probed a little.
“Who arranged all this?” I asked.
“Well, Father John contacted us first, but then a Ms. Temper handled the details. Does she manage your foundation?”
“They gave me a grant and they pay the rent, but I don’t know them. Do you know anything about them?”
“No, but we’ve known Father John for years. How do you know him?”
This is why you don’t probe, Mr. Knightley. The turn-around can bite you.
“I’ve known him for years too,” I answered vaguely. Fearing more questions, I floundered for a distraction. Through the window I saw a swing set in the yard. “Do you have kids?”
Mrs. Conley smiled. “Four, and they’re dying to meet you. Parker is oldest at fifteen. Then comes Henry. He’s thirteen. Isabella’s almost twelve, and James is four. They’ll be home later and will probably run straight this way. This is very exciting for them. Do you have siblings?”
“I’m an only child, but I’ve been around kids my whole life. Please tell them they are welcome to visit.”
She glanced at me again. I was screwing up. I felt a little like Catherine Morland arriving at Northanger Abbey, though this splendid apartment is anything but gothic.
Mrs. Conley took my pause in stride. I must have appeared to be struggling, because she tilted her head to one side and said, “I’ll leave you to settle in. You know, Sam, please don’t feel pressured to spend time with the kids or with us. You’re simply renting this apartment. You have no obligations.” She turned back at the door. “These UPS boxes arrived this morning.”
“For me?”
“Yes. Enjoy settling in.” She carefully shut the door and walked down the steps.
Of course, the first thing I did was tear open the boxes. Thank you. I know you read my letters now—I remember complaining about my wardrobe. That was more of a life-direction-desire moment, not a please-fix-purchase-need-now moment. And you are fixing so much. Thank you for moving me up here. And thank you for this gift.
I don’t know who actually chose all these things; perhaps your assistant, Ms. Temper? It’s hard to imagine “Mr. Knightley” poring over a J. Crew catalog! But if you’ll indulge me further, I’m going to be a girl for a moment and really gush. I love the jeans. Two pairs plus the brown pair was extravagant. It’s not like I have no clothing. I also love the white blouse. It’s so crisp and pristine that it looks almost blue in the light. I’ve never seen anything that bright. And the black one? I love black. You can take jeans and a black top anywhere. For me, it’s usually jeans and a black T-shirt, but I still feel sleeker. It’s a girl thing.
The sweaters are gorgeous too. Cashmere. Lovely stuff—so soft. I could go on . . . The skirt, the boots, the belt, the flats, and the coat . . . Everything’s magnificent.
I’m completely overwhelmed and I thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. I also appreciated your note:A true voyager is outfitted for every journey. You pegged it.
But I have even more questions now. How is it that everything fits? Do you know me? Do I know you or Ms. Temper? Have you seen me?
Lately I feel watched, stalked. Rationally, I know it’s not true. But since the Great Beat-down, I feel exposed and fragile. They never found the guy, but that hardly matters. Even if they had, I would still walk around wary. Because now I know—I know what can happen. So I look over my shoulder . . . and into my letters. You don’t deserve such distrust. Father John trusts you, and I trust him. But there it is. I hope you won’t take my insecurity as an insult.
I can’t think, thank, or write any more now. I’m somewhere I never imagined. I’m also tired, and I haven’t handled all this or Mrs. Conley well. I probably offended her. I was too remote.
I need to do better here, Mr. Knightley—moving up here requires more commitment. I was invested in Medill before, but I kept one foot in my old world. Now there is no Grace House Escape Hatch. It’s slipping away, and I’m packed with equal parts of gratitude, unworthiness, and fear. Topped with a fierce determination to succeed. With deep breaths, I can do this.
And to think, I almost let that small-handed mean man steal this from me.
Thank you for giving it back,
Sam
P.S. I’ve been sitting in my living room organizing my books. It’s so quiet and dark, but I don’t feel lonely. I feel safe. How could I not? All my friends are here. You should see them lined up. I almost broke my back hauling them here, but now they are all arranged: Austen, Dickens, Webster, Gaskell, the Brontë sisters, Christie, Powell, Perry, Peters, Cooper . . . They’re safe and sound and standing proud. I hung my Georgia O’Keeffe lily poster above my bed and pinned my photographs on the bulletin board near the kitchen. It looks like the home I never dared imagine.
