Free Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay Page A

featuring embroidered sunflowers. I’ve also got a big desk in front of the bay window and a small table with two chairs over by the kitchenette. And there’s a huge television on the wall—my very own TV.
    I called to Mrs. Conley, and she came up and started going through everything with me, as if I had the power to complain.
    “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 appearedto 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