The Rules of Love & Grammar (24 page)

“Oh, no, I'll just go barefoot, darlin'.” She strokes his cheek.

I can't stand to see her touch him. “No, you won't.” I grab Peter's hand. “He's doing the race with me.”

“Well, that's a shame,” Regan says with a wink. “'Cause I promise you'd come in first with me, Petey.”

Petey? Nobody has ever called him Petey. Cluny and I look at each other, horrified.

“Last call for the three-legged race, folks,” the announcer says.

Peter takes off his jacket and hands it to Cluny. “Would you mind holding this?”

Then he takes my hand and leads me to the starting line. A dozen other teams are already lined up—adults, children, and teams of adults and children, which could prove to be the most dangerous of all. The orange pylons on the far side of the green seem as though they're miles away, and I'm beginning to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

“Here you go,” the announcer says, handing Peter a cord to tie around our ankles. He steps closer, and I can feel the muscles in his leg, the warmth of his body, as we stand side by side, his blue jeans against my white ones. He ties his right ankle to my left.

“Okay, now, here are the rules.” The announcer takes a few steps into the field. “You and your partner have to cross the green and go
around
your pylon.” He points and makes a little loop with his finger. “Don't go in
front
of it, or you'll be disqualified. And if you fall down or the two of you get separated, you'll be disqualified. The first team back to the starting line wins. Everybody got that?”

I nod nervously and stare at the stretch of lawn in front of us.
Around the pylons.
I trace a straight path with my finger, adding a little loop at the end.
Don't fall.
I look down, at my left sneaker and Peter's right sneaker, and I think about the walk we took so long ago, after our dance at the Cinderella Ball, on the docks behind the yacht club, where a round, blue moon hung over the water.

As we passed the boats, we called out their names and made up silly stories about how the names came to be.
Reserved Seating
from Dover,
My Girl
from Dorset,
Insomnia
from Dorset,
Lickety Split
from Port Jefferson,
Time Out
from Block Island. And that was when he kissed me, in front of
Time Out
.
He tasted like mint gum, and the summer that was almost upon us. He traced his finger along my bare arm, and I felt a current soar through me. Looking at Peter now, his leg pressed firmly against mine, I can still feel that sixteen-year-old hand on my arm.

The announcer raises his microphone. “Just a second, folks. Looks like we have one more team.” I look over and I can't believe what I see. It's Regan. And she's found herself a partner: Mitch. He takes the cord from the announcer, and he and Regan walk to the empty lane to our left. There's only one team between us.

Mitch ties their ankles together, and he and Regan laugh, and there's something about this little scene I find irritating. Maybe it's the way Regan always manages to manipulate the men around her into doing her bidding. I would have thought that Mitch, of all people, was above this. Mitch, who seems to have radar for phonies.

“No, your
left
leg,” he says, and Regan laughs again.

“Hey there, Grace,” she calls as she links her arm in Mitch's. “Don't we make a great team?” They're almost the same height. Physically, they do look as though they go together, but I'm not about to admit it out loud. “Sorry to hear about your breakup,” she says, a false note of sympathy in her voice.

“My what?”

She smiles and glances at Mitch. “He told me.”

I'm about to say
Told you what?
And then I realize what she's talking about. She still thinks the two of us were dating. And he told her we broke up!

Peter gives me a puzzled look. “What's she talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just a joke.” But as I glance back at Mitch and Regan, I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Peter swings his arm around my back and pulls me close. I put my arm around him. “All right,” he says. “Let's focus here. Remember, step together. Just think
right leg, middle leg, right leg, middle leg.
That's the key.”

Someone yells,
Peter Brooks—go, Hollywood!
and a roar of laughter erupts from the crowd. The announcer raises a starter's pistol, and with a loud crack, the race begins, Peter and I sprinting away from the starting line. He's a horse that wants to gallop, and I'm a rider who wants to trot, and I struggle to keep up with him.

“Slow down or I'll lose my balance!” I yell, our middle leg feeling like the limb of a badly constructed robot.

Peter slows down, but not by much, and I soon realize why. We've gotten a good start, but Regan and Mitch are coming up on our left—Regan, all legs, with her black minishorts, and Mitch, the muscles in his arms flexing as he guides her smoothly over the grass.

I stumble over a dip in the ground, but Peter catches me.
Right leg, middle leg, right leg.
Now Regan and Mitch are breezing along next to us, their strides so in sync, it's almost eerie.

“Good luck catching us! You'll never win!” Regan yells.

“Oh, yes, we will!” I yell back. “Come on, Peter, faster!” He tightens his grip on me, but we're struggling to keep up. I can't stand the fact that she's ahead. If I can't beat her with athleticism, maybe I can at least outwit her. “Hey, Regan,” I taunt. “Do you sell SparkNotes at the bookstore?”

“What?” she screams, her eyes blazing.

“Let's go, we're winning,” Mitch says.

“You heard me!” I yell back.
Right leg, middle leg.
“SparkNotes. That's all you knew how to read in high school.”
Right leg, middle leg.

“That's not true!”

“Oh, yes, it is. And how about Grover Holland? Are you going to deny that, too?”
Right leg, right leg. Oh, no, I'm goofing up here.

Regan glares at me. “Who?”

“Come on,” Mitch tells her. “We've got a race to win.”

“Twelfth grade!” I yell. “You stole Grover Holland from me!”

“Let's go,” Peter says, lurching ahead as two teams pass us.

Fall, fall,
I chant as Regan and Mitch navigate the orange pylon. But they don't fall. And now they're on their way back.

Peter and I approach the pylon and hobble around it. “Come on, Grace,” he says. “They're ahead of us!”

They're way ahead of us. In fact, they're ahead of everybody now, moving so elegantly, they make it look like a dance competition rather than a casual picnic game.

“Damn! They're going to win!” I say as three other teams gain on us.

Peter pulls me forward as if he's shifting into high gear. I almost lose my balance again. The crowd is screaming and cheering. I don't know where Cluny and Greg and the girls are. I can't see anyone. It's all just a big, loud blur. Then I see Regan and Mitch cross the finish line, followed by all the other teams but one, a mother-and-son duo.

“Faster, faster,” Peter calls as we barrel ahead, nearing the finish. “Let's not come in last.”

“I'm trying,” I say, but I can't make my legs move any faster.

In an effort to save our second-to-last place, Peter attempts to leap over the finish line. “No!” I yell as I lose my balance and fall, taking him down with me. We lie in the grass, his arms around me, our ankles still bound by the cord, the finish line under us.

“I think we lost,” I say, panting. “Sorry. I told you I wasn't athletic.”

He doesn't move. He just looks at me. Then he says, “I don't accept your apology, Grace. I'll only accept this.” He slides closer, and I gaze into his eyes. They're blue, like sea glass, with darker blue around the outside. He reaches out and touches my hair, and then he kisses me. His lips are warm and soft. The kiss keeps going and going, and, even though I'm not standing, I feel a little weak in the knees, a little dizzy. When I open my eyes, he's looking at me in a kind of dreamy way. I think he's about to say something. And then I hear a voice above us.

“Well, that was quite a finish.”

I look up. It's Mitch. He's holding a trophy with a little gold cup on it. I can feel my face turning red.

“Hey, Mitch,” I say as I struggle to untie the knotted cord that binds my leg to Peter's. “Congratulations.”

“Here, I'll get that,” Peter says, and a moment later we're separated and we stand up. I brush the dirt off my clothes and look around. In the gazebo, the Zip Roddy Quartet is setting up their instruments. A couple of children walk by carrying ice cream cones. Cluny and Greg and the girls come toward us. I look around for Mitch, but he's gone. He's vanished into the crowd, as though he were never there.

P
eter takes my hand, and we walk to the edge of the green and onto the street. I'm still spinning from the kiss when I notice a man waving and coming toward us. I recognize his sandy hair, light complexion, and teeth, which are just a little too big for his face. It's Mark McKechnie, one of the reporters for Channel 22 News. Trailing behind him is the cameraman from the apple pie contest.

“Peter,” Mark says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks again for the interview.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Peter turns to me. “Do you know Mark McKechnie? Channel Twenty-Two?”

“No, I don't think we've met,” I say.

Peter introduces us. “Grace also grew up in Dorset,” he tells Mark. “We hadn't seen each other in years, and we both ended up here in town at the same time.” He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head, and I feel a little
zing
go through my body. “Must be fate,” he says. He looks at me. “Mark did a little interview with me before the pie contest.”

Mark smiles, and his large teeth gleam. “We also got some footage of the race—the winners and…uh, the losers. I was wondering if I could maybe get you to say a few words about it on tape. I'm doing a little montage of the whole day here.”

Peter laughs. “The race? Oh, I could say a few words about it, all right. But you wouldn't be able to broadcast them. We came in dead last, in case you didn't notice. And it's all Grace's fault.” He gives me a playful jab in the ribs. “So maybe you should ask her.”

“Right.” I jab him back, less playfully.

“Oh, and she lives in Manhattan now, so you can put a nice
small-town girl goes to the big city and comes back
spin on it.”

Mark looks at me. “You know what? We could do that. How about it, Grace?”

What? He can't be serious. “You really want to interview me about Founder's Day?”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “I'll just ask you a few questions.”

He is serious. Oh God, I wonder how my makeup looks. I stare at the grass stains on my white jeans. “No, I don't think so.”

“Go ahead,” Peter says. “I've done mine. Now it's your turn.”

I comb my hair with my fingers and dig into my handbag for a lipstick. “It's just going to be a couple of questions, right?”

Mark signals to the cameraman, who has wandered over to a fried-clam booth nearby and is chatting with a young brunette. “Willie. Stop flirting and get back here.”

Next thing I know, I'm standing on the side of the street, with the village green and the gazebo behind me and the camera pointed at me, a little light on the front glowing red, telling me I'm being recorded. Mark asks when I moved from Dorset, how often I come back, and what I like best about Founder's Day. After that, he launches into a few questions about the race.
Did you have a plan going into it? What is Peter Brooks like as a partner in a three-legged race?

Then he changes the subject. “So, you're here on vacation?”

“Yes,” I say, deciding I'll leave out the lost job, lost boyfriend, and temporarily lost apartment.

“And how are you spending your vacation in your hometown, besides coming to Founder's Day?”

I wonder if he thinks I'm just goofing off—sleeping late, eating ice cream, reading books. Actually, that sounds like what I'd originally planned to do. “I'm working,” I tell him, feeling very purposeful.

This elicits raised eyebrows. “You mean you have a job? While you're here on vacation? That's very enterprising.”

“Yes, I have a job. I'm working at the Bike Peddler.”

“The Bike Peddler,” Mark says. “Now there's a business that's been around a long time. What are you doing there?”

What am I doing? The red button on the camera glows like the eye of a wild animal. Peter gives me a smile and a thumbs-up. I can't let him find out I'm just straightening up a bike-shop workroom. He still remembers me as the girl who won the tenth-grade essay competition and never lost a spelling bee. I've got to make it sound as though I'm doing something more important.

“Well, I'm…I'm a consultant. I'm consulting.”

“A consultant,” Mark repeats. “And what kind of consulting are you doing?”

I glance at Peter again. Little beads of perspiration trickle down my back. Aren't there consultants who help people organize things? Who go in and sort through…stuff? I'm sure there are. I think I've seen ads for them on the Internet. “I'm an organizational…um, consultant,” I say. “An organizational efficiency consultant.” That sounds better. As though it might require an extra degree.

“An organizational effective…What was that?” Mark smiles and shakes his head.

“Efficiency. Organizational efficiency.”

“And what do you do as this, this consultant to the Bike Peddler?”

“Well, I…” I look at the red light again, and my mind starts to unravel like a loose hem. “Well, I have to…you know, organize things to make them more efficient…”

“So right now there's no efficiency there,” Mark says.

That's going a little too far. “I didn't say that. What I can say—”

“So tell us what's going on at the Bike Peddler that they need to hire a consultant from New York.”

What's going on? How should I explain this? “Well, you see, I've been going there since I was a kid, and, truthfully, it's always been kind of a mess. It needs a good makeover, for one thing. That would help them move ahead, stay competitive, shall we say? I think they just need to embrace change a bit more.”

“Embrace change. So are you saying the store hasn't kept up with the times? That maybe it's a little out of date?”

I hate to sound negative, but what he's saying is true. “Yes, I think that's right. They are outdated. I think they could do a lot better if they took a really good look at everything that's there and reorganized. That would help them become more efficient.”

“Efficiency again,” Mark says. “I guess in your line of work you must see a lot of businesses that run into problems because of inefficiency.”

My line of work? Oh, right. I'm a consultant. “Yes, I do. It's always sad to see. Very sad.”

“Well, I'll bet the folks at the Bike Peddler hadn't even realized how far behind the times they are. I'll bet they're glad to have you help bring them into the twenty-first century.”

“Well, I didn't mean to suggest they're not in the—”

“There you have it,” Mark says, pulling the microphone away from me. “Grace Hammond, organizational…”—he looks around nervously for a second—“consultant from New York City, has returned to Dorset. She may have lost the three-legged race, but she's a winner where the Bike Peddler is concerned.”

The Zip Roddy Quartet begins to play in the gazebo, doing a cover of the Bruno Mars tune “Just the Way You Are.” The lawn around the gazebo is full now, with blankets and folding chairs and people everywhere. Peter and I are sitting on the grass, at the edge of the green, sharing fried oysters and drinking beer.

“We're scheduled to wrap at the end of the week,” he says, taking another oyster from the paper plate.

The end of the week? Somehow I didn't realize it was going to be so soon. “You are?” I say, wondering what's going to happen after that. What it means for us.

“You should come to the shoot on Monday,” he says.

“The shoot?” Oh, no, we're trying that again. I take a deep swig of beer as two women walk by pushing strollers.

“Or, wait a minute,” he says. “Better yet, come on Tuesday. We'll be at the yacht club. That'll be more fun.”

“Will my name be on the list this time?” I'm only half joking. I'm also wondering if Regan's going to be there, but I'm afraid he might say yes, so I don't ask. I wonder if she gets a dressing room.

“Grace, of course you'll be on the list. Don't worry. I'm going to see to it myself.”

Thank God. “I'd love to come,” I tell him.

“When you get there, call my assistant, Cassandra.” He gives me her number and says something about the parking lot. “She'll find you,” he says. “There won't be any problems this time.”

We listen to the music for a while and then walk to the far side of the green, where there aren't any people—just a small grove of maple trees. He leans me against a tree and draws me in with his blue eyes. They're as deep as the quarry where we used to swim when we were teenagers.

He presses his lips to mine and kisses me, and I think about the Cinderella Ball and the kiss on the docks. I was just a kid then, and now here I am, seventeen years later, with all the flotsam and jetsam of those years still swirling around me, holding me under water: Renny's death, my failed love life, my questionable career. I open my eyes and see Peter looking at me, and I feel as if I've finally come up to the surface.

Outside my bedroom window, the sun is setting, the evening light a whisper against the lace curtains. I'm lying on my bed, propped up with pillows, one of Mom's home-decorating magazines on my lap. But I'm not looking at it. I'm gazing at the ceiling, at a little square patch of light coming from one of the windows. I'm thinking about Peter and the feeling of his lips on mine, his face against my face, the slight stubble on his cheeks, his arms around me.

I watch the sun lower itself toward the horizon, and I slump into the pillows, my eyelids heavy. Two birds are still singing, lone voices in an otherwise silent evening. I'm in that state just before sleep takes over when the ring of my phone jolts me awake.

“Grace, turn on the TV, right away.” It's Cluny. “Channel Twenty-Two. They're doing a thing on Founder's Day after the commercials. Maybe they'll show you and Peter in the race.”

I sit up and rub my eyes. “What did you say?”

“Channel Twenty-Two. Turn it on. Founder's Day.”

I rummage through the drawer of the bedside table for the remote control. “Hold on. I'm getting there.” I find the remote and press the Power button. Maybe there will be a little clip about Peter and me losing the race but winning at love. I wonder if they caught that kiss. That's just the kind of thing they do on Channel 22, and I usually think it's corny, but this time I wouldn't mind. The television springs to life with a detergent ad.

Then the Channel 22 News logo pops up, and the anchorman, George Steffans, says a few animated words about Founder's Day, followed by,
Our very own Mark McKechnie was there, and here's what he saw.

Mark does a voice-over while the camera zooms in on a long table covered with apple pies and then cuts to Peter, standing in front of the tent.
I've always considered Dorset my real home.
There are a few shots of Peter and the other judges at the table, with plates lined up in front of them, a slice of pie on each. “And the winners are…,” Mark's voice-over announces, and the scene switches to a crowd of people in front of the tent as the woman with the strawberry-blond hair reads off the names.

After that, there's a clip of the vintage-car parade, and a stop at the historical-society booth, with a shot of the collie in the pinafore. “Even the dogs got in on the festivities,” Mark's voice-over says. Then it's on to the fire engine, where a little boy starts to cry and refuses to get out, followed by the Tara Jones ballroom dancers, nine- and ten-year-olds led by Tara herself, who does look like she's a hundred and, judging by the way she's swaying, also looks to be a little drunk. After that, the camera pans across the booths and the crowds in the street, and the piece finally ends with a clip from a speech by First Selectman Scott Danzberger, his hair still wet from the dunk tank.

“Peter looked good,” I tell Cluny. “I guess they aren't showing any footage from the race, but maybe that's just as well. I'd rather not relive our loss.”

“Oh, but that would have been funny,” she says. “To see you and Regan going at it.”

No, it wouldn't have. I'm just about to turn off the television when George Steffans says, “Our next story is about one of Dorset's most established businesses and how a very savvy former resident is teaching an old dog new tricks. We go back to Mark McKechnie for that story.”

Teaching an old dog new tricks? I don't like the sound of that. I start to get a funny feeling in my stomach, and then I see my face on the screen.

“There you are!” Cluny says.

Oh, no, I look awful. I really could have used a hairbrush. And I can't believe how high and whiny my voice sounds. But my answers seem okay. That is, until I mention the job. After that, it's a quick and steady decline.
It's always been a mess. It needs a good makeover. They need to embrace change.
By the end of the interview, I've made the Bike Peddler sound like a relic from the Stone Age. I feel as though I've swallowed a bag of cherries, pits and all.

There's a heavy silence on the other end of the phone, as if the cable carrying our conversation has snapped. Finally, in a kind of dazed whisper, Cluny says, “What happened?”

I turn off the television and sit down on the bed. “Wow, that didn't come out the way I'd planned.”

“Grace, why did you say those things about the bike shop?”

“I didn't mean to, Cluny. Really. It just got out of control. And Peter was watching. He was standing right there. I was too embarrassed to say I was only cleaning up the workroom. I wanted him to think I was doing something important.”

“But it is important. At least, it is for them.”

I put the remote control back in the drawer. “Do you think they've seen it?”