Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve got even more exciting news than my last letter. But before I get to it, I need to tell you about school. I feel I haven’t been completely honest by avoiding the topic. Clearly I’m still here, but my last several Johnson assignments received Ds. I know that’s not great, but—
Who am I kidding? It’s horrible. I’ve never gotten grades like this. I’ve never seen so many red markings. It’s pathetic. I keep trying, though, and I submitted an article to the Tribune. Publication can’t help but impress Johnson, right? I figure he’ll commend my drive, if not my writing. So you see, I have a plan and I’m still kicking . . .
Now on to the fun: I met Alex Powell today. The Alex Powell! I’m sure you’ve read his books. They’ve all topped the best-seller lists and rightfully so. You should read them if you haven’t. Anyway, one of Ashley’s professors announced yesterday that he was coming to her class this morning, so Ash snuck me in the back.
Mr. Powell was such a surprise. At first I thought he was the TA. The guy looks about twenty. He talked for half an hour, then answered questions on his writing methodology, research, and favorite authors. He then thanked Professor Thomas and walked out. The whole class was in chaos, so I slipped out too. And banged right into him.
“Whoa. Isn’t there more to the class period?”
“I am so sorry. Did I hurt your foot? No, I’m not in that class.”
He hiked his eyebrow.
“I came to see you.” Did I say that out loud?
“And?” Powell smiled.
“You were great. I mean I like your approach. I mean I like your books. I mean I’m going to stop talking now.” I sounded like an idiot.
“Did you miss class for this?” He chuckled.
“Today’s light for me. I’m in Medill’s grad journalism program.” Please don’t think I’m a high school groupie.
“Journalism? You aren’t going to write about me, are you? I’d rather you didn’t.” It was his turn to sound uncomfortable.
I laughed—a skittish giggle really. “I wasn’t there for a story. I actually know that about you. There are no pictures on your book jackets and you rarely give interviews. You don’t even have a photo on your website.” Stop talking, Stalker.
But I kept on. “I expected you to look different, older—gray hair, black glasses. You’re surprisingly young.”
Eyebrow hike again.
“I’m Samantha Moore.” After all my lunacy, I thought introductions were in order. I reached out my hand and for a second he simply stared at it—so I blabbed on. “I’m sorry I ran into you and I’m not a stalker, I promise.”
“I didn’t think that.” He took my hand and forced a thin smile. “No worries.”
I didn’t scare him too much, because a minute later he asked me to grab a coffee with him. Once outside, I stopped and took a deep gulp of air. I thought I might hyperventilate. I know he heard me, but he didn’t say anything. As I led him toward the Starbucks in Norris, we got sidetracked and wandered around campus for about fifteen minutes. He went to school here, but I gather new buildings have popped up in the last few years.
Did you get that? He graduated from NU and is only about thirty years old. My image of him was definitely older, but after that it was vague. I was always more entranced by the hero than the author. His detective, Cole Barker, is my Darcy, Wentworth, Rochester, Bond, and Hunt—all the great men, dressed in jeans and a black jacket.
Alex is very different from that. Cole, in my mind, has dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses and is super-fit. Hollywood followed that idea in the movie. Alex embodies all that, but differently. He’s got the firm jaw and he’s tall (like six foot four tall), but his eyes aren’t dark and they’re not hidden behind glasses. They’re deep blue and actually snap. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s studying you, focusing energy on you, and all this connects in his eyes. It was intimidating at first, and I got self-conscious. I stammered and resorted to my fallback friends: a quick amalgam of Lizzy Bennet and Edmond Dantes gave me my voice back. Then I was able to laugh. Talking to him became easy, and soon I quit thinking about my characters at all. After we bought a couple coffees, we wandered back outside and he turned toward town.
“I’m meeting an old professor at Barnes and Noble in a few minutes. Are you heading that way?”
“No.”
“Then it was nice to meet you, Samantha.” He put out his hand to shake mine.
I looked at it a moment and realized I didn’t want to say good-bye. How often do you get to meet one of your literary heroes? And most of mine are dead. “I’ll walk with you. I can get some work done at the Starbucks across the street.”
“You have a coffee in your hand.”
“Oh . . .” I wanted to run. I had clearly used up all my social skills. But I also felt more myself than I had felt in months, and I didn’t want it to end. Alex hadn’t asked me lots of personal questions, so I hadn’t lied to him. He hadn’t treated me as insignificant, so I let my guard down. And Lizzy and Edmond and all the rest had silently slipped away. No one was yelling in my head. No one even whispered. My processing all this must have played across my face.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“I am.” I was completely amazed, exhilarated, and alarmed. So you can see why I wanted to run and why I wanted to stay. “Just realized that two coffees would be a bit much.”
“Buy a decaf. Come on.” And he started walking toward town. I followed.
When Alex discovered how much I loved to read, he suggested a game. He proposed we quote from a book, no movies allowed, and the first one stumped, lost.
And I won! It took about ten quotes, but I foiled him with “Wait and hope.” He smugly shot out Wuthering Heights—as if Heathcliff or Cathy knew anything of either.
I struggled to keep a straight face. “The Count of Monté Cristo. Edmond Dantes writes that in closing his letter to Maximilian.”
I forgot to cross the street once I saw Barnes and Noble—it’s like a homing beacon to me. I automatically walked through the doors, forgetting that Alex and I were to part ways. Alex bumped into me when I stopped in the lobby. His face had the same kid-in-a-candy-store expression I imagine my own wore. This is a particularly potent store. We stood in a two-story lobby with a huge chandelier bouncing light off the thousands upon thousands of books lining the walls.
I pulled at Alex’s arm and raced to the escalator. When he laughed I realized what I’d done and dropped it like a stone. Then I felt silly and tried to shake my schoolgirl reaction.
“I’m sorry. You go meet your professor. I’m going to find a table in the back to study. It was great to meet you.” I started to walk away.
“I’ve still got a few minutes.” He turned in the aisle. “Look here—mysteries. Do you read mysteries?”
I smiled. “A few.” I ran my fingers along the books, tapping some of my favorites. I stopped at Perry, traveled to Peters, and landed on Powell. “And here you are.”
“I am. They’ve got a good selection.”
I pulled out a book and grabbed a pen from my bag. “You need to sign some. Can you imagine how thrilled people will be to see your signature?”
“That’s called vandalism,” he quipped, but I could tell he was intrigued.
“Only if I sign your name. If you do, it’s called winning a golden ticket.”
“Fine.”
We picked out a few of his books and he signed them—real notes too. In a copy of Salvation Bound he wrote: Enjoy my favorite passage on p. 187. It really happened. All the best, Alex Powell.
I flipped to page 187 and started reading from the top. It’s a defining moment for Cole. A break in his father’s murder investigation rocks him to his core, and we find him inside a church, bereft and questioning everything he’s done and is. A pastor approaches from behind and asks to join him. Cole nods to the pew, but continues to look forward, uncommunicative and sullen.
The pastor sat for a few moments, then turned to Cole. “You’re going to be okay. Trust your heart.”
Cole turned, angry at the intrusion, angry with himself. “What?”
“You have to stop questioning and fighting so much.”
“Who are you? You know nothing about me.”
“I don’t need to.”
“But you’re giving advice, or worse, assurances?”
“I must be right or it wouldn’t anger you so much.”
“Go away.” Cole turned forward, unwilling to give the intruder his time or energy.
“I will, but listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks.”
The pastor leaves the pew and Cole sits there, stunned. I knew that was the scene Alex meant. He had revealed himself and some conflict that had impacted him deeply. I looked up at him; my eyes asked, What happened?
“My father wasn’t murdered in a police-mob conspiracy, but yes, at a very dark time, a young pastor took me on. Just like this. He’s now one of my best friends. He got a kick out of being in my book.”
“Can you tell me more?” I sensed that this was fragile ground.
“Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.
He grabbed another book, Three Days Found, and lightened the mood. Enjoy the story, he wrote. It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.
“Patsy’s?”
“It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”
“Which are you?”
“I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run a marathon. A few friends like to go there each year before New York.”
“I’d love to run New York someday.”
“You should. They say it’s the best. The crowds are amazing, and you run through all five boroughs.”
I looked down at the book in my hands and was reminded of my mental image of him. “Why do you never put your photo on the back cover? You aren’t ugly.”
“That’s good to know.” He laid his hand on top of the book. Not really talking to me, he continued, “I don’t, because however people imagine me is always better than I am. And I don’t want to be defined by these.”
“I thought fame was the icing on the cake.”
“It should be avoided. It limits you and hurts you. Besides, if I was shackled by too much of it, you and I couldn’t spend even this time together. Too many people already know what I do and where I go. People forget your face after a book tour or an infrequent interview on Letterman, but put your face on your books and you’re handing them your life. They presume to know what you think or who you are. Not like a movie star or anything, but you definitely give yourself away.”
Alex leaned against the shelves. “No more spontaneity. No more first impressions. All of that gets tainted by the fame and the money, and even by Cole Barker himself.”
“I never thought of it like that. I used to believe all those externals meant happiness. I’m beginning to see they don’t.” Ashley and her mother came to mind.
“Often they lead to pain.” It was a cryptic answer, but one I couldn’t question.
We wandered a bit more. I confessed my obsession with Jane Austen. We agreed that Barnes and Noble could devote an entire section to Austen’s sequels, prequels, mimics, knock-offs, and add-ons . . .
Last year I got the flu and went through about forty titles: The Darcys Give a Ball, The Watsons and Emma Watson, The Darcys and the Bingleys, George Knightley’s Diary, Captain Wentworth’s Diary, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Diary, Austenland . . . I emerged with no aches and pains, but with a stilted language pattern that took a month to purge. My new favorite title is How Jane Austen Ruined My Life. I don’t have the courage to read it, though. I’m afraid to discover she’s ruined mine too.
We were talking next to a display table when a booming voice startled us.
“About time you came home, young man!”
I looked up to see a blur of white bounding toward us. Professor Muir is tall, thin, and intense like a lightning bolt, with the bushiest white eyebrows imaginable. Without Ashley and those tweezers, mine may look like that someday.
The professor grabbed Alex into a quick hug and, after much backslapping, started rapid-firing questions. Alex jumped right in, and I faded into the background. It was like watching puppies play in a pet shop window, all unbridled affection and enthusiasm.
“You carrying your books around with you now?” Professor Muir joked to Alex.
“I signed these.” Alex threw me a glance. “Couldn’t help myself. I’ll take them down to the customer service desk on my way out.”
“Not yet, we’ve got a few minutes.” He took Alex’s arm to lead him toward the café.
I inched away.
“Don’t leave.” Professor Muir looked straight at me. “Come sit for a few minutes.”
“No, thank you. I just met Al—Mr. Powell today. You two catch up.” I turned to Alex. “Good-bye.”
He studied me for a moment. “Sam, I’ve only got about fifteen minutes before I’m needed downtown for some PR work. Come sit. You should know this old guy.” He poked the professor in the ribs. “He’s good to have in your back pocket.”
To be honest, it was time to leave. I was intruding and I knew it, but I didn’t know how to politely decline. And it was fine for a few moments. Then I opened my mouth and humiliated myself. I should have left when I had the chance.
Alex clearly got that “quote from a book” game from the professor, because that’s what got me into trouble. I corrected an English professor and America’s best writer—who does that? They were talking about another writer they both knew and disliked.
“I saw him last week and couldn’t help but think ‘How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.’” Professor Muir laughed as he delivered the line in a high falsetto.
“Katherine to Bianca, Taming of the Shrew. Bravo, Pops. Very appropriate. I feel the same way.”
“No, no! It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You’ve forgotten the Bard.” The professor sounded pleased.
“I have not. You’re confused. Katherine says it about Bianca’s suitor in act 1,” Alex replied.
“I beg—”
“You’re both wrong,” I announced. Their heads swiveled so fast I thought they’d twist off. Alex hiked his eyebrow at me, questioning.
“Beatrice said it to Antonio in Much Ado About Nothing.”
Both men stared at me. My face burned.
“Are you sure?” Alex said.
“Yes. It happens in the scene right after—” I clamped my hand over my mouth. No more talking! They didn’t seem angry, but I’m not sure . . . Alex left moments later.
I sat with the professor for a few minutes while he drank his coffee. I didn’t know how to leave without being even more insulting.
“You should meet my wife.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should come to dinner. Here, write down your number and she’ll call you.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I like you. And a friend of Alex’s is always worth knowing.”
There was no point protesting again that I’d just met Alex, so I wrote my number down, thanked him, and left.
It was a great day, Mr. Knightley, and I’ll never forget it. And though I tarnished it at the end, I am determined to revel in what began as a most spectacular day. I’ll never see him again, so what does it matter? Besides, can you believe that, for a brief shining moment, I was on a first-name basis with the Alex Powell?
I called Ashley to recount the morning; she chewed and savored every detail. I’m meeting Debbie after class tomorrow, so I’ll get to enjoy the whole story again. Now it’s late and I need to sleep.
Lovely dreams,
Sam