journal with beautiful, thickly-lined pages. At the top of every few pages was a quote by Jane Austen. I flipped through and found myall-time favorite: I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun . Mr. Darcy spoke those immortal words in answer to Lizzy’s question about falling in love with her. I sighed and showed Hannah the page.
“I don’t know the book like you do, but those are the best words ever.” She sighed too.
“Does Matt say such things to you?”
“He’s not that eloquent, Sam. But I can tell he feels them. Someday you’ll have that. And knowing you, you’ll hold out for that one guy who not only feels them, but can say them.” She gave me a tight hug. And I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t think it’d be so hard to leave, Mr. Knightley. Maybe the Great Beat-down (humor keeps fear at bay) made me more emotional, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because this time I know it’s permanent. There’s no turning back. Grace House has been good to me: “I have lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified . . .” Lately Jane Eyre’s melancholy and complex emotions resonate strongly within me.
It’s my last night here and, in many ways, I feel the same apprehension Jane felt before her marriage to Mr. Rochester. She had nothing to fear—she didn’t yet know about the crazy wife in the attic. But like Jane, I too “look with foreboding to my dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.”
Always ready for dread, but
hoping for adored . . .
Sam
NOVEMBER 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You must know what I’m typing on. Thank you so much. I’m still trying to process all this. I am completely stunned and need to start at the beginning. You may need to write me a letter, Mr. Knightley. Why did you do all this? And that’s only my first question . . .
I arrived here late this morning. I thought I’d feel so free and independent embarking on this journey, but I felt small and scared. More mouse than lion. By the time I reached the Conleys’ house, I was bug-eyed.
Have you ever seen the homes along the lake north of Chicago? They are huge and lovely. The lawns are deep green and manicured like golf courses. The Conleys’ house is no exception. Mrs. Conley met me at her door and walked me around to the garage. She said they built the apartment last year for her husband’s mother, but she’s not ready to move in yet.
“This is an adventure for us. We hadn’t thought to rent it until Father John called. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m so appreciative.” I felt stiff, and my words came out stilted. Everything is more formal when you’re nervous—at least for me.
She left me at the stairs to see it alone. “Call me up when you’re ready. That way you can see it for the first time without feeling like you have to compliment it. You may not like it.”
I loved it at first sight. It has hardwood floors, a bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen that opens onto the livingroom. Huge windows let in the dappled sunlight and made a dance of light and shadow across the floors. It’s perfect and it’s mine. And it’s yellow. The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream. I watched the light shine through the bright clean windows and my mind flashed back to that first apartment with Cara. That place scared me, made me feel hopeless; this one invited me in, soothed and healed—all with light and super-clean white trim.
And the furnishings are comfortable with a hint at bold. Exactly how I want to be. The bedroom has a queen bed with a wooden frame and headboard, a huge dresser, and two wooden bedside tables. And there’s a big fluffy armchair with flowers embroidered in the fabric. The living room has a red-and white-striped couch with huge pillows
“I don’t know the book like you do, but those are the best words ever.” She sighed too.
“Does Matt say such things to you?”
“He’s not that eloquent, Sam. But I can tell he feels them. Someday you’ll have that. And knowing you, you’ll hold out for that one guy who not only feels them, but can say them.” She gave me a tight hug. And I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t think it’d be so hard to leave, Mr. Knightley. Maybe the Great Beat-down (humor keeps fear at bay) made me more emotional, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because this time I know it’s permanent. There’s no turning back. Grace House has been good to me: “I have lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified . . .” Lately Jane Eyre’s melancholy and complex emotions resonate strongly within me.
It’s my last night here and, in many ways, I feel the same apprehension Jane felt before her marriage to Mr. Rochester. She had nothing to fear—she didn’t yet know about the crazy wife in the attic. But like Jane, I too “look with foreboding to my dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.”
Always ready for dread, but
hoping for adored . . .
Sam
NOVEMBER 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You must know what I’m typing on. Thank you so much. I’m still trying to process all this. I am completely stunned and need to start at the beginning. You may need to write me a letter, Mr. Knightley. Why did you do all this? And that’s only my first question . . .
I arrived here late this morning. I thought I’d feel so free and independent embarking on this journey, but I felt small and scared. More mouse than lion. By the time I reached the Conleys’ house, I was bug-eyed.
Have you ever seen the homes along the lake north of Chicago? They are huge and lovely. The lawns are deep green and manicured like golf courses. The Conleys’ house is no exception. Mrs. Conley met me at her door and walked me around to the garage. She said they built the apartment last year for her husband’s mother, but she’s not ready to move in yet.
“This is an adventure for us. We hadn’t thought to rent it until Father John called. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m so appreciative.” I felt stiff, and my words came out stilted. Everything is more formal when you’re nervous—at least for me.
She left me at the stairs to see it alone. “Call me up when you’re ready. That way you can see it for the first time without feeling like you have to compliment it. You may not like it.”
I loved it at first sight. It has hardwood floors, a bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen that opens onto the livingroom. Huge windows let in the dappled sunlight and made a dance of light and shadow across the floors. It’s perfect and it’s mine. And it’s yellow. The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream. I watched the light shine through the bright clean windows and my mind flashed back to that first apartment with Cara. That place scared me, made me feel hopeless; this one invited me in, soothed and healed—all with light and super-clean white trim.
And the furnishings are comfortable with a hint at bold. Exactly how I want to be. The bedroom has a queen bed with a wooden frame and headboard, a huge dresser, and two wooden bedside tables. And there’s a big fluffy armchair with flowers embroidered in the fabric. The living room has a red-and white-striped couch with huge pillows