Free Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay Page B

still feel sleeker. It’s a girl thing.
    The sweaters are gorgeous too. Cashmere. Lovely stuff—so soft. I could go on . . . The skirt, the boots, the belt, the flats, and the coat . . . Everything’s magnificent.
    I’m completely overwhelmed and I thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. I also appreciated your note: A true voyager is outfitted for every journey . You pegged it.
    But I have even more questions now. How is it that everything fits? Do you know me? Do I know you or Ms. Temper? Have you seen me?
    Lately I feel watched, stalked. Rationally, I know it’s not true. But since the Great Beat-down, I feel exposed and fragile. They never found the guy, but that hardly matters. Even if they had, I would still walk around wary. Because now I know—I know what can happen. So I look over my shoulder . . . and into my letters. You don’t deserve such distrust. Father John trusts you, and I trust him. But there it is. I hope you won’t take my insecurity as an insult.
    I can’t think, thank, or write any more now. I’m somewhere I never imagined. I’m also tired, and I haven’t handled all this or Mrs. Conley well. I probably offended her. I was too remote.
    I need to do better here, Mr. Knightley—moving up here requires more commitment. I was invested in Medill before, but I kept one foot in my old world. Now there is no Grace House Escape Hatch. It’s slipping away, and I’m packed with equal parts of gratitude, unworthiness, and fear. Topped with a fierce determination to succeed. With deep breaths, I can do this.
    And to think, I almost let that small-handed mean man steal this from me.
    Thank you for giving it back,
Sam
    P.S. I’ve been sitting in my living room organizing my books. It’s so quiet and dark, but I don’t feel lonely. I feel safe. Howcould I not? All my friends are here. You should see them lined up. I almost broke my back hauling them here, but now they are all arranged: Austen, Dickens, Webster, Gaskell, the Brontë sisters, Christie, Powell, Perry, Peters, Cooper . . . They’re safe and sound and standing proud. I hung my Georgia O’Keeffe lily poster above my bed and pinned my photographs on the bulletin board near the kitchen. It looks like the home I never dared imagine.
    As I was making dinner, the Conley children knocked on the door. I’ve never met kids like them. No wariness. No anger. No reserve that I can tell—all curiosity and unbounded enthusiasm.
    Little James ran in first. “Have you jumped on the bed? It bounces really high.”
    “Jamie, get off her bed! I’m sorry. He knows better.” That was eleven-year-old Isabella. “Do you like it here? I sometimes dream I live up here and that I can’t hear all of them.” She motioned to her three brothers.
    Parker grabbed her in a hug and knuckle-rubbed her head. She feigned anger, but a giggle gave her away.
    Then they showered me with helpful hints: stick my trash in the bins on the other side of the garage; their mom makes them clean the bathroom weekly, but she probably won’t check on me; the DVR cuts one hour of television down to forty-two minutes once you skip commercials.
    They stayed for about forty-five minutes, until Mrs. Conley called them for dinner and homework. I like them. Just thinking about them makes me smile. I hope they liked me too.

    One a.m.
    I can’t sleep. Georgia O’Keeffe is keeping me awake.
    Ashley came over last night to return a book I lent her and to see my new digs.
    She walked in and ooohhh -ed and aaahhh -ed perfectly. Then she noticed the O’Keeffe poster. “That’s nice, but you should hang something real there. A watercolor or an oil. You need more substance for the room’s focal point. The lilies are a bit cliché, don’t you think?”
    Then she flopped on the couch and pulled out her phone and started playing on it. I stood there stunned. First about the poster comment, then because she sat texting or whatever for a full five minutes.
    “What are you doing?” I