The Rules of Love & Grammar (26 page)

B
y Monday, all thoughts of ice cream and Sean Leeds are gone. The morning brings a steely sky filled with black, smoky clouds and air so heavy, I can taste the ozone. The few people on Main Street scurry along, as though sensing they'll get caught in a downpour at any moment.

I'm relieved to find a parking space right across the street from the bike shop, knowing I'll be able to make a beeline to my car if it's pouring at the end of the day. I'm standing by the car, trying to stuff my phone and my spiral notebook and a bottle of water into my handbag, when I drop the notebook. It lands, open, on the street, and when I pick it up, I see handwriting on one of the pages. But it's not my handwriting; it's my father's.

It's a poem about seeds—how they blow around, looking for a place to land and take root, and whether there are seeds that blow around forever. It's about a lot more than that, of course, but that's what sticks with me. I read the poem several times, trying each time to come up with a different interpretation, but, no matter how I look at it, I know this poem is about Renny. She's the seed the wind blew away, the seed that never took root. He'll always be thinking about Renny. Renny will always come first. I take a deep breath to stop my chin from trembling. Then I slip the notebook into my handbag and cross the street.

When I open the door to the Bike Peddler, Kevin is arranging new cycling helmets on the shelf. He glances at me. A.J. is ringing up a plastic rain jacket for a customer. He gives me a perfunctory nod. There are no friendly hellos or chatty conversations, the way there usually are when I arrive.

As soon as I walk into the workroom, before I even put my handbag in the drawer of the file cabinet, Mitch closes the door, and the room feels as though it's been reduced to a closet. He glares at me.

“Why the hell did you say those things about the store?”

I stand there, frozen, staring at the name Thatcher Academy on his T-shirt, my mouth going dry. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Let me explain.”

“Why did you say that we're—what was it? We're not competitive, we're old-fashioned and behind the times, and we need to come into the twenty-first century.”

“I didn't say that last part.”

“You didn't have to. The news guy did.” Mitch grabs an old cable from the worktable and throws it into the trash. The muscles in his face are taut. I can hear him breathing.

“I didn't mean to say all of that stuff. The guy was pushing me into it. I tried to explain at the end, but he wouldn't let me.”

Mitch slams a drawer in the tool chest, sending its contents clanking. “Looks as if you didn't try hard enough, because it sounds like we're a bunch of idiots here. Why did you do it?”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. I lean against the file cabinet, the limbs in my body heavy and useless. It was all because of Peter. Because I wanted to impress Peter. But I can't tell that to Mitch. He'll think worse of me than he already does.

“I didn't mean to do anything that would hurt the store. The interview just got away from me. I guess I didn't realize what I was saying.”

“It got away from you? You didn't realize what you were saying? How could you not realize—
you,
the girl with the Sharpie, who came in here correcting our flyers and talking about the difference between
complimentary
with an
i
and
complementary
with an
e?
The one who goes around correcting menus in restaurants? Isn't that your special talent—understanding language? And now you want me to believe you had no control over your own words?”

My words. My special talent. He's right. I should have been able to control my words. But he's hitting me in my most vulnerable spot, making me feel like a failure at the one thing I know I can do.

I cross my arms. “You know, maybe the store could use a little updating. Did you ever think of that? It's basically been this way for the past thirty years. You've just added more stuff.”

“Are you serious?” he says. “You come in here knowing absolutely nothing about bikes and tell me what we need to do?” He looks at me with disgust, takes a wrench off the table, and throws it into one of the drawers.

“Yes, you need updating. Look around. Maybe you'd get more business if you straightened the place out a little. Once every thirty years wouldn't be so bad.” I pull the wrench out of the drawer where Mitch tossed it and drop it into the drawer where it belongs. It lands with a clatter.

He takes a step closer. “You think you're so smart. We don't need your advice on how the store should look or how it should be run or on anything. You know, when we were in the apple orchard and at the lighthouse, I thought we knew each other better. I thought maybe I could trust you. But you've turned against me. It's clear you don't belong here. Maybe Hollywood is a better place for you.”

I step closer, too, and now I'm right in his face. “I said I was sorry, and I am. You could accept my apology.”

“Well, the damage is done, so being sorry doesn't help.”

“Then I don't know what else I can do, Mitch. You just want to be angry, so go ahead. Be angry. See how far that gets you. Good luck with it.” I kick a small box lying on the floor. It rips and breaks open, and hundreds of bolts go flying under the worktable, behind the bikes and wheels, around the trash can. And then everything is quiet.

“I can't have you working here anymore,” he says, lowering his voice, his gaze fixed on the upended box.

“What do you mean?” Rain begins to tap against the roof.

“This isn't working out, Grace. My dad doesn't know about the TV story. He didn't see the news. Thank God. So I want you to go out there and tell him…”

He glances around the room, at the new crates, with their neat labels, at the new pegboard, where I've got the cone wrenches and the spoke wrenches and the headset wrenches neatly displayed.

“Tell him whatever you want, whatever excuse you want to give him for why you have to leave.” He picks up the broken box and tosses it into the trash. “And then go.”

When I open the workroom door and step into the store, I'm greeted by the sound of rain crashing against the plate-glass windows. Thunder rumbles, sending vibrations like shivers down the walls. For a moment, I can't move. I stand by the counter, biting my lip, trying to calm myself. It's just a job. Just a temporary job. It wasn't meant to be anything more than that.

I peek into the office. Scooter is there, sitting at the desk, thumbing through a catalog. I give a gentle rap on the doorjamb. “May I come in?”

He looks up. “Hey there, Grace. Sure, come on in. Have a seat.”

I sit down on the folding chair opposite the desk.

“How was your weekend?” he asks, turning another page.

I'm so relieved he doesn't know what happened. “It had its ups and downs. How was yours?”

“I'm still here,” he says with his usual grin.

I don't want to tell him I'm leaving. I don't want him to be disappointed in me. I came in here complaining about how the workroom needed to be cleaned up and reorganized, and he was counting on me to do it. There's so much more I'd planned on accomplishing. I guess that's why I feel so bad, why everything hurts right now, physically hurts. I know I have to tell him, but I don't want to.

“What have you got there, Scooter?”

“Oh, this?” He closes the catalog and holds it up.
Raleigh 1970. The finest bicycles made in England by Raleigh.
There's a photo of a man and woman sitting by a river, a huge wooden ship docked nearby. The woman is wearing a jumper with a long-sleeved blouse, and the man is dressed in brown pants and a brown sweater. In the foreground three different Raleigh bikes are displayed.

“Nineteen seventy,” I say as he hands the booklet to me.

“Don't you love those clothes?” He chuckles.

I leaf through a few of the pages, contemplating the simple, odd-looking contraptions bikes were back then. “Where did you get this?”

“I have a little collection up there.” Scooter nods toward the shelves above the computer, where dozens of books and catalogs are packed together. “I like to browse through them sometimes. I remember all those bikes. It's kind of like visiting old friends.”

I stop at a page showing a dark-green model, the paint sparkling on the fenders, and I read the description aloud:
“The Raleigh Superbe is elegant and unique, the result of ninety years of Raleigh refinement.”

“Those were old classic touring bikes,” Scooter says, rocking back in the chair. “Three speeds.”

“Equipped with our Sturmey-Archer three-speeds hub,”
I continue,
“c
aliper brakes, Brooks B seventy-two leather saddle, Dunlop Sprite tires, rear carrier, handy pump, and built-in fork lock to prevent unauthorized use.”

“Let me see that,” he says. I hand him the catalog. “Dunlop Sprite tires,” he mutters, tapping the photo. “I had to buy a couple of those not long ago for an old ten-speed. Found them on eBay. Sixty-nine bucks apiece.” His voice rises in pitch as he quotes the price. “And Sturmey-Archer…” He flips through a few more pages. “They were a division of Raleigh. Once upon a time they made the greatest products. Top-notch stuff. But after a while they started to let the quality suffer. Same old story. Trying to save a buck. They ended up getting sold to a company in Taiwan.” He puts the catalog on the desk, between us. “Their three-speed hubs were always pretty good, though.”

“These old bikes are kind of nice,” I say. “They're simple. They don't look nearly as sleek as today's bikes, but I like them.”

“Oh, they were sleek for their day,” Scooter says. “I can promise you that.” He looks at the pages lying open, and I wonder if he's recalling a time when he rode those bikes, when they were new.

“Do you think bikes were better then? I mean, made better?”

He runs a hand through the thin strands of his white hair. “What I liked about the old bikes like yours was that they were mostly handmade. There was a lot more craftsmanship to them. And they were made of steel, not aluminum or carbon fiber, like today's bikes. So they're a lot more durable. The older bikes were a lot simpler, too, like you said. Fewer gears, simple shifters. They're sure a lot easier to work on.”

“So you like the older ones better.”

“No, that's not what I said.” He sits up a little straighter and leans toward me. “See, with the newer bikes, they're more mass produced. But you get a lot more for the money. You get aluminum or carbon fiber, higher technology, and they're usually faster and weigh a lot less.”

I think about the Trek I rode with Mitch. He's right about that.

“There's no way a serious racer could compete today with an old bike,” he says.

“So the new bikes are better,” I say.

Scooter smiles. “Grace, it just depends. You need to know what you want in order to decide whether to go with the old or the new.” He closes the catalog and puts it back on the shelf. “I know you love that old Schwinn. But just remember, it's not good to idealize the past too much.”

“Well, the old Schwinn is the only bike I have right now,” I tell him. And I know I have to say it—that I'm leaving.
Tell him whatever you want, whatever excuse you want to give him.

“Scooter, while we're on the subject…” I steady myself. I don't want to get upset. If he sees I'm upset, he'll start asking questions. “I'm going to be taking the bike home.”

“But I don't think much work's been done on it yet.”

“I know, but I have to cut my job here short.”

He's got
Why?
written all over his face. Those lines that like to travel in their own directions are at it again.

“I'm really sorry,” I go on. “But remember the party I told you about? The one my mom is giving my dad?”

“I remember.”

“It's this Saturday, and she really needs my help. There's still so much to do, and Mom gets really stressed about this kind of thing. We've got over a hundred people coming, and I think it would be best if I helped her. For the rest of the week.”

“Well, sure, Grace,” he says. “You should do whatever you need to do.”

“I'll come by tomorrow or Thursday, as soon as I can borrow my friend's Jeep, and I'll pick up the bike.”

“Ah, there's no rush,” he says. “And you know, you can bring it back anytime, and we'll get her done. You've got a lot of credit in the bank here. I really like the changes you've made so far.” He stands up and steps around the desk. I stand up, too. Then he comes toward me with open arms, and I fall into his embrace. He smells like Ivory soap and a lemony aftershave my grandfather used to wear. “We'll miss you,” he says. “Don't be a stranger.”

I nod, because that's all I can do, and I try to keep my eyes from tearing. Then I walk away, out of the office and through the store, where the rain is still pelting the front windows. Outside, it's dark. The street is empty except for a woman running, a red umbrella over her head. I step outside, into an avalanche of rain, and I race across the street to my car. But I don't leave. I sit there, watching the front door of the bike shop, hoping I might see Scooter. Or A.J. or Kevin. Or Mitch. Hoping Mitch might see me out here and tell me he didn't mean to fire me. That I should come back to work. But the door never opens. Nobody comes out. And I tell myself again that it was just a temporary job. It wasn't meant to be anything more than that.

T
he following afternoon, the sun is out again, and all signs of yesterday's storm are gone. I pull into the parking lot of the Dorset Yacht Club, looking forward to seeing a real movie shoot, with my favorite director at the helm. The clubhouse, a white Colonial-style building, looks elegant, with its dormers on the front and widow's walk on the roof. It sits on a blanket of grass so green, I suspect one of the members owns a fertilizer company.

I try to remember the last time I was here. Four or five years ago, I think, for a charity luncheon. I picture the antique nautical prints in their burled wood frames, hanging in the reception area, and the main lounge, with its overstuffed sofas and chairs and tall windows that catch the breeze from the sound. I imagine members sitting there, discussing the latest Newport–Bermuda race and how the stock market is faring.

Toward the left side of the parking lot, a fleet of trucks and vans is parked, including the red Panavision truck I saw downtown a week ago. People are milling around a refreshment tent, drinking Starbucks and Diet Cokes, talking on walkie-talkies and cell phones, texting, and smoking cigarettes. Webs of cable are strewn across the parking lot, running toward the clubhouse.

I pick up my phone to call Peter's assistant, Cassandra, and notice that I've got a voice message. It's the property manager for my building, telling me that my ceiling is already fixed. This is turning into an even better day than I'd expected.

I dial the number for Cassandra, and after two rings she picks up.

“Cassandra Vail.” Her voice is quick, snappy, high pitched.

“Hi, Cassandra. This is Grace Hammond, a friend of Peter's. He told me to get in touch with you about coming to the set.”

There's noise on the other end, people talking, someone laughing, someone yelling. “Oh, hi, Grace. He told me you were going to call. When are you planning to stop by?”

I glance toward the tent, where a husky man in a gray T-shirt is hitching up his jeans. “Well, actually, I'm here.”

“You are?” she says, sounding a little surprised.

Oh, no. Please don't tell me I'm not on the list again. Peter said he would handle it himself. “Peter said it would be a good day to stop by.”

“It's fine,” she says. “It's crazy, but every day is crazy. Where are you?”

“I'm near the tent,” I say, relieved.

“I'll be there in a minute.”

I'm touching up my lipstick when I see a girl come around the side of the yacht club, the girl I remember from the party. She's dressed in skinny jeans with wide stitching up the sides, and she's holding a plastic cup with a straw. A walkie-talkie hangs from one side of her belt, a cell phone from the other, and a dozen beaded bracelets wind around her wrist. Her hair, which hangs all the way down her back, bounces as she walks.

“Grace?” She takes a sip of her drink.

“Yes, hi.”

“I'm Cassandra. I'll bring you inside.”

I look around at all the trucks, at the cables and the tent. “Oh. It's inside?”

She scrunches her eyebrows together. “Yeah. You thought we were filming out here?”

“Um, Peter said something about the parking lot. I guess I misunderstood.”

“This shoot's inside,” she says. “Follow me.” She picks up her walkie-talkie. “Steve? Hey, I've got Peter's friend.” I hear a garbled voice. Cassandra looks at me. “They're still turning around. We've got fifteen minutes.”

“Turning around?”

“Between scenes.”

I nod, and we walk down the path that runs over the grass and along the side of the club. Sailboat riggings clank softly against masts and booms, and I can smell oysters and mussels in the air. Two crew members in T-shirts and shorts dash past us, heading toward the parking lot, one of them talking nervously into a headset. And then we're at the back of the club.

I have to stop for a moment to take it all in, the place that's been in my memory for so long. The docks stretch in front of me, a long, horizontal line bisected by a few vertical strokes, and the boats loll in their slips, waves lapping at the moorings. A dozen sloops skim the sound farther out, and a fishing boat motors toward the club, its mast and rails gleaming, its engine emitting a pleasant gurgle. I wonder if
Reserved Seating
or
My Girl
is still here. Or
Time Out,
where Peter and I had our kiss. I want to bring Peter back here, to this spot, to relive the magic of that night, to make some new magic. I want him to kiss me here again, in the moonlight, and I want the rest of my life to finally begin.

“This way,” Cassandra says, and I look up and realize she's waiting for me. I follow her to a door guarded by a young guy wearing a headset and a baseball cap. We go inside, down a hallway where the carpeting is covered in brown paper and cables run like spaghetti. In a small room to the right, two women are putting makeup on a couple of teenagers. In another room a woman is steaming a gown. People from the crew pass us, men with beards, some with walrus mustaches and stomachs overflowing their belts. Finally we stop in front of a doorway where a guy in camouflage shorts and a walkie-talkie on his belt stands guard.

“Hi, Dan,” Cassandra says.

I follow her past him, into a large room. My knees lock, and I take in a quick breath. I'm in the room where the Cinderella Ball took place. Hundreds of silver and white balloons hang in clusters from the ceiling, like bunches of exotic grapes. Yards of gossamer fabric are draped in elegant curves, attached at one end to chandeliers and at the other end to the ceiling. Tables scattered around the room are covered in long, white cloths, and in the center of each table an arrangement of white roses is nestled in a glass slipper. It's as though I've stumbled through a time warp, back to 1998.

At the far wall, there's a little stage where band equipment is set up—drums, microphones on stands, speakers. In front of the stage is a dance floor, and behind the stage, a backdrop, probably twenty feet wide by fifteen feet high. It's a painting of a night sky with blue stars and a bronze crescent moon. In the foreground is a white, horse-drawn Cinderella carriage with a round compartment in a framework of filigree—a carriage that was once a pumpkin.

I can't move. I can't speak. All I can do is gaze at the decorations and feel my heart swell with joy. And then I realize the room is full of people. Crew members in jeans and shorts and T-shirts are standing to the side, some of them talking into headsets. A woman is touching up a boy's makeup, and another woman is spraying a girl's hair. There's a group of teenagers on the dance floor. I spot Peter across the room, in a blue button-down shirt and jeans, talking to a woman with a clipboard.

“Are you okay?” Cassandra asks, and I wonder if I look as hypnotized as I feel.

“How did this happen?” I whisper, gazing at the balloons, the Cinderella carriage backdrop, and a glass-slipper flower arrangement on a nearby table.

“We're filming a dance scene,” she says. “A high school dance.” She starts to walk across the room, dodging equipment carts and lights on stands, detouring around a camera on a dolly.

I try to keep up with her, but I'm moving in slow motion, unable to absorb this, not quite believing Peter has re-created this night—the best night in my sixteen-year-old life, the night before everything crumbled. Everywhere I look, there's something I remember—the white bows on the backs of the chairs; the silvery crowns decorating the front of the stage; the potted ficus plants around the perimeter of the room, their branches glittering with tiny white lights. I want to put on my emerald-green dress and dance around the room in Peter's arms. I want to go back to that night and never let the next day come. I feel almost dizzy knowing that he cherishes this night as much as I do.

Cassandra waits for me, ten feet away.

“Sorry,” I say as I scurry to catch up.

“We had to bring in a lot of background actors for this scene.” She arches an eyebrow. “Teenagers. That's always interesting.”

“Yes,” I say, eyeing the kids on the dance floor. “Well, they
were
sixteen.”

She gives me a curious look. “Oh, have you read the script?”

“No,” I tell her. “But I think I know the story.”

She stops a couple of yards from Peter, who stands by one of the skirted tables, turned away from us, talking to a different woman now. He's got a pair of headphones around his neck, and he's holding something that looks like a long camera lens. And I can't take my eyes off him. I adore this accomplished, brilliant, handsome man who has fashioned this room as a symbol of his deep feelings for me. I'd give up my life in Manhattan in a second to make a new life with him in L.A.

The woman standing next to Peter shuffles some papers. “It happens again in the other scene,” she tells him. “Outside the Sugar Bowl.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” he says. “Well, we're going to have to work it out. Let Marty know.”

She scribbles something and walks away.

“Peter?” Cassandra says.

His face lights up when he sees me. “Grace.” He pulls me into his arms. “I'm glad you're here.” Then he glances at Cassandra. “Thanks, Cassie. Oh, and can you hunt down those new script pages?”

“Will do,” she says, and then she's gone.

“This is…” I wave my hand across the room while I try to form the words to describe how I feel. “It's incredible. I didn't know you had a scene like this in your movie.”

“Yeah, it's one of the nineties flashbacks. Does it look familiar?”

“Completely familiar. I can't believe how you've re-created the dance.” I glance at a couple of plastic silver crowns on the table next to us. “Right down to the crowns.”

“I'm glad you're here to see it,” he says. “Tracy, my set designer, worked like a demon trying to make my vision come true.” He picks up one of the crowns, brushes a lock of hair from my face, and places it on my head. “There.” Our eyes meet, and I feel a current run through me. I touch the crown and smile.

A woman in a pair of red glasses approaches Peter. “Do you want any of the couples on the dance floor to kiss?” she asks, glancing up under long, black bangs.

“Yes, definitely. Let's get some kissing in there. It's a high school dance, remember? Needs to be authentic.” He turns to me and nods, as though he's conferring authenticity on our own kiss seventeen years ago.

“Hey, Peter,” a teenage boy says. “Any chance we could go back to the last setup? I don't think that was my best performance. I'd really like to do it over.”

Peter puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Sorry, Jason, my man. We can't do that. We're pressed for time. And, anyway, I thought you were great.”

“Moments away, folks!” a man shouts.

Peter turns to me. “We'll be sitting together in video village.”

Oh, good. He's sitting with me. This is even better than I imagined. “Where's video village?”

“It's just a little place in the back of the room with chairs and monitors so we can watch what's being filmed.” I look to where he's pointing, across the ballroom, and I see a cluster of director's chairs. “Just be warned. There are a few suits here today.”

“Suits?”

“Executives. From the studio. But they probably won't bite.”

I laugh. “Oh, okay.” I don't care who I'm sitting with. I'm still pinching myself to make sure I'm really here.

“I'll get Cassie to take you over, and I'll be there in a minute,” he says. He picks up a walkie-talkie. “Cassie?”

Two men pass us carrying rolls of white paper and electrical cords. A moment later, Cassie reappears and leads me to the back of the ballroom, where the director's chairs, emblazoned with the name
By Any Chance,
are positioned behind two monitors. Two men in business suits and another in jeans are seated there, along with two women dressed in jeans and T-shirts. One of them is staring at a laptop. The other is thumbing through a binder, a stopwatch on her lap. They're all wearing headphones.

Cassie hands me a set of headphones. “So you can listen to what's going on.” She looks at my hair. “Uh, you might have to move your crown, though.”

“Oh, right.” I adjust the crown, put on the headphones, and sit down.

A man calls,
Quiet on set!
and everyone settles down. Peter takes a seat, too, his arm pressed against mine. I glance at him, and I see the two of us living in Malibu in his beach house, waking up to the sun and the surf, walking on the shore and dodging the waves—well, on the weekends, anyway. I know he has to work during the week. And I'll find a job as a technical writer. There must be some instruction manuals that need to be written out there. Hot tubs for celebrity dressing rooms, maybe?

I'm thinking about all this when I realize there's something happening on the monitor. They've started the scene, and two young actors are on the dance floor, doing a slow dance, while other teens, moving in pairs, orbit them like planets around the sun.

The boy is wearing a navy-blue blazer, and his wavy hair and blue eyes remind me of Peter's. The girl has sandy-brown hair styled in long, loose waves, the way I used to wear mine. I wonder why she's wearing the wrong-color dress, though. It's yellow when it should be green.

There are musicians on the stage, or maybe they're actors pretending to be musicians. I can't tell. Either way, there's music, and a woman is singing a slow, romantic ballad. It's not Shania Twain's voice, but I'd know the song anywhere: “From This Moment On.” It's our song. I slide to the edge of my seat. The boy and girl begin to talk, and within the first couple of lines, I know the two of them are meant to be Peter and me. Their words reverberate through me, echoes of what we once said.