Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay Page B

to lay them down, isn’t it? They’ve gone from helping me to trapping me to hurting others. That can’t be good.
    Good night, Mr. Knightley. Thanks for reading. Sleep well . . .

NOVEMBER 13
    Dear Samantha,
    Mr. Knightley asked me to write to you. He didn’t dictate this letter, only asked me to alleviate your worries about the clothing. I hope I didn’t overstep. He told me what Father John arranged and asked me to “purchase some nice articles of clothing.” I may have gotten carried away.
    I visited Grace House last fall and passed you outside Father John’s office. You had just turned down the foundation’s offer for graduate school and accepted the position at Ernst & Young. In fact, you were moving out of Grace House that very afternoon. You were a few inches taller than me and I noted your warm complexion, brown eyes, and beautiful brown hair. The several photos that Father John attached to your application confirmed my memories and added further insights into your size and stature.
    Armed with my gathered information, I hit the stores. I thought the cream sweater, orange scarf, and brown coat would look perfect on you. Except for the one blouse, I stayed away from black, as I imagine your coloring more suited to warm tones. I think my favorite item is the pair of suede boots. I almost bought a pair for myself and still might.
    Mr. Knightley did not know the details of a single item purchased. He didn’t ask, and he has never met you. Nor will he attach strings to this gift. This I know: he is a good man and would never cross the line with any woman. Please don’t hold my exuberance against him or his foundation.
    I hope this note assuages your concerns and that you enjoy the clothes. One more thing—I know you are busy at Medill, but your new laptop has amazing resolution. Great for movies. Downton Abbey and the new Sherlock are available online, if you’ve never seen them.
    Sincerely,
    Laura

NOVEMBER 16
    Dear Mr. Knightley,
    Thank you for allowing Laura to write to me. I can’t tell you how much her letter helped. Will you please thank her?
    On to life here . . . I feel I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I haven’t moved forward. Well, last night I moved forward—full speed ahead.
    How, you ask? I had a date. Twenty-three years old, and it finally happened. You’re the only one who knows that little detail, so please keep it to yourself. I’m a full decade behind the curve. But no longer—and I figure if you’ve been on one date, you can make it a verb. “I date” or “I’m dating.” I love verbs!
    You need the whole story. Well, I need to tell the whole story, and telling Debbie and Ashley was awful because I had to act so blasé. Dates happen to them all the time: Ashley went out with four different guys last month alone, and Debbie has a boyfriend in Minneapolis. So I pretended last night was no big deal. But you? You get all the details—so I can relive them.
    It started a couple weeks ago, when Ashley, Debbie, and I went to a Kellogg Halloween party. Kellogg is the business school at Northwestern, and those folks host the best parties. Anyway, we each dressed in black with sunglasses and walking sticks. Get it? We were the Three Blind Mice and a huge hit. The party was down on Davis Street and spanned three floors of an old walk-up apartment building. It was warm and noisy—everyone trying to make first impressions, secondimpressions, any impressions. Me, I was trying to sneak home to a good book and hot cocoa. There were simply too many people. I was almost out the door of the top floor’s apartment when he stepped in front of me.
    “Are you trying to get a drink?” He was not much taller than me, stocky with black hair and equally dark eyes.
    “Trying to make a getaway,” I shouted.
    He touched my shoulder to corral me toward the hallway stairs, where the music wasn’t blaring. “How can I convince you to stay?”
    That melted me a little. I thought about