“It’s a much different pace than I kept for my first two. I wroteRedemptionwhile getting my MFA at Columbia and worked in a coffee shop while finishing it. It was easy, I guess, because I didn’t have any expectations. Now there are expectations.”
“Do you get any breaks?”
He laughed this self-deprecating chuckle that sounded tinged with regret. “This week was supposed to be that. I decided to visit Mom and Pops Muir at the last minute and look what happened—PR events, signings, interviews. I told my publisher my plans, and ‘vacation’ went out the window.”
“Your talk at Northwestern?”
“That? No, I set that up on my own. Megan and I were at Columbia together, and she’s been begging me to talk to her class. But the dog-and-pony show downtown? Not my favorite.” He looked at me again. “I’m sorry I’m complaining, Sam. I sound pathetic. ‘Poor me, too many people love me.’”
I laughed. “I was not thinking that.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.” He paused. “Let me tell you something else. Something good, that’s not a complaint.”
Alex then shared that he comes from eastern Washington and has three siblings; he thinks Mrs. Muir’s chocolate chip cookies are straight from heaven; he loves to watch baseball; and he gets his hair cut only at places with a traditional barber pole outside. Don’t ask how that last detail came up. I can’t remember, but it didn’t sound odd at the time.
We were in the Conleys’ driveway before I knew it.
“Thanks for putting up with me, Sam. I was rude tonight.”
“Not at all. I intruded on your family. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to.”
I started to get out of the car, but he called me back. “Sam?”
I leaned into the open door.
“Please go to their house for Thanksgiving. They never had kids and always wanted them. I think retirement has been harder on Pops than he’ll admit. He misses his students.”
“If they call, I’ll go. He was right. I don’t have any plans.”
Alex nodded. “Good then. Thank you.” He reached out to shake my hand.
I’ll keep you posted on
Thanksgiving,
Sam
DECEMBER 2
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving—filled with turkey, green beans, potatoes, fall leaves, pumpkin pie, family walks, movies. Mine was packed with all that and more. It was one of the most warm-feeling, broad-smile, deep-belly-sigh days ever.
I anticipated a lonely day: Josh went home to Cincinnati, Ashley to New York, and Debbie to Minneapolis; Kyle was with the Hoffmans, and everyone else was gone as well. I couldn’t bear to call Father John and ask if I could come to Grace House, so I planned on heating a frozen turkey dinner here and watching the old BBCPride and Prejudice. I didn’t expect Mrs. Muir to call. But she did.
She invited me to spend the whole day with them. But, unlike the professor, she invited me so softly and with such care that I didn’t even try to refuse.
I was so anxious and excited that I couldn’t sleep past five and went for a run. Ten miles definitely calms one’s nerves. It was perfect: dark, cold, and silent. It was my first time out in the dark alone since the Great Beat-down, so I stuck to the main streets and felt safe. I loved each step and felt myself settle with each mile. The sun came up over the lake in a spectacular series of blazing oranges, pinks, and yellows. At the end, I knew I could handle the day—all by myself.
I then worked on a few articles until it was time to grab an apple pie at Foodstuffs on Central Avenue and hop the Metra north.
Mrs. Muir welcomed me with a huge smile and an equally warm hug. “You didn’t need to bring pie, dear. We just wanted you. Come in.”
I walked in to the most amazing smells of garlic, turkey, potatoes, and something citrus . . . It was tangible and delicious.
“You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for you,” the professor started with little preamble. “I want to see what you think of this.” He handed me a couple printed pages.
“No work today.” Mrs. Muir gently took the pages from me and handed them back to him. “Right now we cook.”
