The Rules of Love & Grammar (6 page)

She grabs my compact and opens it, displaying the mirror. “Here, Nancy Drew, remember how to use this? You look and tell me if they're actors.”

I slide to the end of the bench and pick up my lipstick. Then I lean my head out of the booth, hold up the compact, and apply my Rose Glow once again.

Tilting the mirror to the left and right, up and down, I sweep the room, taking in a woman with snow-white hair, a mother and a small girl, three men in business suits, a young guy with wire-rimmed glasses. Then I see a table of five, and there's Sean Leeds, and, oh God, Cluny is right. He's so handsome, his dark hair flecked with bits of gray, his eyes so soulful they could melt butter in a freezer, his teeth like miniature sculptures. I linger there for a moment, watching him as he eats something from a bowl. Cereal? Oatmeal? Seeds? I can't tell. I move the compact just a touch. And there he is. Peter.

I stare into the mirror, unable to take my eyes off him. He's talking on his cell phone, and he looks tan. Very tan. He's wearing a black T-shirt with a design on the front, but I can't see what it is. A pair of sunglasses hangs from his T-shirt pocket. His hair is still thick and wavy. No gray. Old memories begin to stir. Peter and I in middle school, working on an English project in the library (was that the year we acted out scenes from
The Great Gatsby
?). Peter and I in a blue-hulled Boston Whaler with Tom Hartney and Caroline Kent, Tom piloting the boat to Bluff Island, where we swam until our lungs ached and the skin on our fingers turned to prunes. Peter and I in a booth here in the Sugar Bowl, sharing a piece of apple pie with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream on the side. At the Dorset Playhouse, sharing a package of red licorice. At the Cinderella Ball, sharing a kiss. That kiss.

Why am I starting to feel like a goofy teenager again? I might as well be back at Baxter Middle School, waiting at the end of the hall for a glimpse of him.

Cluny is looking at me, eyes wide, a big smile on her face. “So? Did you see him? He looks good, doesn't he?” I don't answer for a moment, and she laughs. “What's going on?”

I close the compact and meet her gaze, my pulse thundering. “He looks really good, Cluny. He looks great. I can't believe he's here. I feel so—I don't know…”

I run my hand over the smooth surface of the compact and think about something I once heard on the radio, about how people never forget their first love, how first loves are actually imprinted on our brains—hardwired. And how first-love couples who get back together later in life have a greater than 70 percent chance of staying together for good.

“Let me take another look,” I say.

I open the compact again and adjust the mirror so Peter is in view. No cell phone now. He's got his head back and he's laughing and I could swear we're back in high school because the gesture is so
Peter.
I tilt the mirror toward the other people at the table. They're all laughing as well, and I feel a little jealous. I look back at Peter. God, he's handsome. And it's not just the way he looks. It's the way he seems to command the table. I feel that old tug. I can't take my eyes off him.

Now he's talking to Brittany Wells, and as I watch he looks up and stares right at me, straight at me, into the mirror. He doesn't take his eyes off the mirror for a second. Can he see me in the mirror? Oh my God, he must see me. I put the compact down, turn around, and look at him.

And now he's waving. He's
waving
to me! And he's gesturing for me to come over. I think I've stopped breathing. He waves again, and a glint of light flickers off the sunglasses that hang from his T-shirt. I feel the last seventeen years begin to dissolve.

“Cluny, we're going over there,” I say as I rise from the bench.

This time, she clutches my arm. “What?”

“He saw me. He knows I'm here. He waved to me, to come over. Let's go.”

“No, wait. You go first. This is your chance to talk to him alone. I'll come over in a minute. Oh, and fix your hair on the side there.” She points, and I reach up and smooth my hair.

I stare at Peter as I walk toward the table. He looks like the old Peter, but a more mature version. A Peter who has done a lot with his life. His face has lost that soft, boyish appearance, but there's still something so sweet about it. I think it's his eyes, sparkling blue, like sea glass.

Gliding right up, I tap him on the shoulder. He's listening to something the bald guy next to him is saying about skiing in Switzerland. Peter turns and looks at me, and when he does I feel as though I've been punched in the stomach. He shows no sign of recognition. In fact, he looks surprised at having had his conversation interrupted. Now I want the floor to open and swallow me in an act of mercy.

He's about to say something when a tall brunette, dressed in white jeans and a blue tank top, sidles up to the table. “What took you so long, Melissa?” he says. “We saved a seat for you.”

That's when I realize he wasn't signaling to me. He was waving at her, at this
Melissa
person. And now I'm here, and he doesn't even know it's me, Grace Hammond, who's just discovered she's still wild about Peter Brooks after all these years.

I must be turning crimson, because every part of me feels scorched and prickly, as though I've been caught in a brush fire. I want to run, but my feet refuse to move; it's as if static has disrupted the signals between my brain and the rest of my body.

Peter turns back to me. “Is there, uh, something I can help you with?”

“Peter, it's me. Grace. Hammond. From Dorset High.” I look around at the other people at the table. The conversation has quickly tapered off. “I didn't mean to interrupt. It's just that I saw you were here and—”

“Grace?” He stands up. “Grace Hammond? Oh jeez.” His face breaks into a huge smile, his eyes brighten, and he grabs me and pulls me in for a hug. He smells like cedarwood and rosemary and something else—like Peter. It's all wonderful.

“What are you doing in town?” he asks when he finally lets me go. “Do you live here?”

I keep it simple, telling him I've come from Manhattan for my father's party. “We're celebrating his sixty-fifth.”

“That's great,” he says. “And how are your parents? Still in the same house? Out on the point?”

He remembers the house. I feel a warmth go through me. “Yeah, they're still there. And they're fine, thanks.”

He looks me up and down. “God, Grace, you look wonderful. Really. I can't believe you're here.” He reaches out and touches my arm, and I could swear we're the only two people in the room.

“Brooks made that decision, not me,” one of the men at the table says a moment later, and Peter looks around with a start, as if he, too, thought we were alone.

“Hey, let me introduce you to the group,” he says. “We're working on a project. These guys are part of my team.” He lowers his voice and leans a little closer. “I live in L.A. now. I'm here doing a movie.”

“Yeah, I think I might have heard that,” I tell him, trying to act nonchalant as drops of perspiration trickle down the back of my shirt.

He turns toward the table. “This is Grace Hammond. Grace and I go back to the days of middle school. We have a lot of history together.” He smiles at me. “Don't we, Grace?”

“Yes, we do.” I can feel myself blush.

“This is my assistant director,” he says, introducing me to the bald man, whose name is Art. The man who looks as though he needs a shave is Jerry Ash, Peter's director of photography. “And this is Brittany Wells,” Peter says. “One of the finest actors around.”

Brittany gives me a tepid wave, and I recall that just a few weeks ago, I saw her in
Liberty Revival,
a film about a group of college kids who attempt to build a life-sized replica of the Statue of Liberty out of Styrofoam in order to win a huge cash prize and save their school from bankruptcy.

I feel hit by a surge of embarrassment as I say hello to Melissa, Peter's production designer, the woman he was really signaling. But I forget that within seconds, as soon as I come face-to-face with Sean Leeds. I try to say hello, but the word won't form properly and comes out as a seagull-like squawk.

Sean Leeds takes my hand between his, stares straight into my eyes, and says, “Hello, Grace. I'm Sean.”

Even though I've heard his voice in more than a dozen movies, as well as on
Stat!,
the TV show where he played Steve Franklin, an orthopedic surgeon, none of that has prepared me for hearing him speak in person. His voice is deep and smooth, and his smile is disarming—even better in person than on-screen. He seems so honest and genuine that I'm caught completely off guard. I can barely think. I just stand there, holding his hand, until he pulls it away gently and says, “It's nice to meet an old friend of Peter's. He's lucky to have come from such a great town.”

I manage to tell him I love his work or something equally fawning, and then my mind flashes to Sydney Parker, the actress Sean was dating until recently, when she broke off their two-year relationship. I'd always thought she was crazy, even before their breakup, because I'd heard she demands a hot tub in her dressing room and tons of Skittles candies—but only the yellow ones. Somebody has to pick out all the yellows! I glance at Cluny to summon her over, but she looks as if she's secretly snapping pictures on her cell phone while pretending to be reading text messages.

“How long has it been?” Peter asks me.

“Seventeen years,” I tell him. I think about how fast those years seem to be falling away now, and I wonder if it feels that way for him.

“No. Really?” He frowns a little, as though this can't be true. And there's something in his eyes—a mist of sadness, maybe a hint of regret.

“I haven't seen you since just before you left town. We were sixteen, remember?”

He glances across the room and rubs the back of his neck. “You know, you're right. It
has
been that long.” He studies me again, from head to toe, and I stand there, mentally squirming, hoping he can see beyond my old jeans and wrinkled tee. Then he says, “Gracie girl, you look fantastic. You don't look a day older than you did in high school.”

I smile. He thinks I look good. And he's using his pet name for me. “Nobody's called me Gracie girl in a long time.”

He laughs, and then he shakes his head, slowly, as though he still can't believe we're really here together. “I remember the day you won the tenth-grade essay competition as if it was yesterday. And all those spelling bees in middle school…you were invincible.” He glances across the room for a moment as though he's picturing this. Then he says, “So tell me, what are you doing with yourself these days?”

What am I doing? I start to panic. I don't want to tell him I just lost my job. Or that I'm a technical writer. Or that I haven't won any competitions in years. I'll sound like such a loser compared with him. “I left a friend back at the booth,” I say as I give a frantic wave to Cluny. This time she notices and dashes over.

“Peter, do you remember Cluny Barrow?” I ask. “I mean Hart. She was Cluny Hart in high school.”

He hands a waitress his black American Express card. “Sure. How could I forget Cluny? You guys always hung out together.” Peter gives her a big squeeze and then introduces her to the group. She can barely speak by the time she gets to Sean, who is in the midst of autographing take-out menus for a couple of elderly ladies.

“Okay, people,” Peter says. “I'd better get going. I've got work to do.” He smiles at me. “I'm so glad I came here today. I was feeling a little nostalgic for the apple pancakes, and then who do I run into but you?”

So he did have the apple pancakes. “It was great to see you again,” I tell him, my eyes lingering on a little wavy section of hair above his left ear.

“Hey, ladies,” Sean Leeds says, his gaze going from Cluny to me. “You two should stop by the set sometime.”

“Ooh, that would be fun,” I say. “I've never been to a movie set.”

I'm about to ask where they're filming when Peter says, “We can make that happen, but I also have another idea. Why don't you come to the party tonight?”

I look at Cluny, who has turned so pale, I worry she's gone into shock. “Party?” I ask. “What party?”

“At my house,” Peter says. “I'm having a few people over. Around eight. It's kind of a thank-you to the folks in town who have helped us. The production company set it up.”

“Sure, that sounds nice.”

“Believe me, it's not the kind of thing we'd normally do in the middle of a shoot, but there were scheduling issues with a few of the key guests, so we're having it early. And, anyway, I'm happy to do what I can to give a little something back to Dorset.”

“It's at your house?” I ask.

“Yeah, the house I'm renting. On Mill Pond. Two Forty-Four.”

“Okay, great,” I say. “We'll be there.”

Peter looks at Cluny. “Oh, and bring your husband.” Then he says to me, “And, of course, if you have a boyfriend, Grace…”

A boyfriend? He thinks I'm dating someone? All of a sudden Scott Denby feels like three lifetimes ago. But I'm not sure what to say. I wish there were a better expression for not having a boyfriend.
Between relationships?
Sounds too presumptuous.
Single?
Sounds too, well, single. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment,” I finally say.

I catch a flicker in Peter's eyes. “Really?” he says. “Then that makes two of us.”

O
h my God, Cluny. How can I go to this party? I have nothing to wear.” We sit in the front seat of my car, in the parking lot behind the Sugar Bowl. The engine is off, the windows are down. I'm mentally reviewing my closet.

“You must have something,” she says.

“Yeah, pink and green preppy dresses I bought at Snapdragon the summer I worked there during college. I can't wear those.”

“Don't you have any other cocktail dresses here?”

“I do, but they're too…
Connecticut.
I need something edgier. More Hollywood.” I run my hand over the steering wheel. “I really want to look good for this party. Peter was so sweet. And did you hear the way he asked if I had a boyfriend?”

Cluny grins. “He couldn't take his eyes off you.”

“Really?” I'm getting chills just thinking about it. “I need something fantastic to wear.”

“I don't have any Hollywood clothes, either,” she says.

“But you've got tons of nice things,” I tell her as a car pulls in next to us. And she does. I've seen photos of Cluny with Greg at local charity events for animal causes and children's relief organizations she's involved in, and she always looks great. I wish I were five foot eight and not five foot six. Then I could borrow something from her.

“What do you think people wear to Hollywood parties, anyway?” she asks.

“I'm not sure,” I tell her. “Maybe the same kind of clothes they wear to movie openings.”

She looks out the window, contemplating this. “I don't know. You might have to buy something new, then.”

“I'm coming to the same conclusion.” It's an expense I don't need right now, but, with the sidewalk sale taking place, maybe I can find something at a good price.

Cluny laces her fingers together. “If you want something a little funky, we should go to Bagatelle.”

Bagatelle. Nice but expensive. I think about my bank account, which is shrinking by the minute. I can't keep up with Cluny at Bagatelle, but I don't want to give her any more reason to think she needs to loan me money. “Yeah, okay.”

“I bet they'll have some good deals,” she adds, reading my mind. “Sidewalk sale and all.”

We walk out of the parking lot, onto Main Street, and make our way through the crowds. I stop to say hello to Mrs. Meisner, who's been a friend of Mom's for years. Dressed in peach golf shorts and a matching peach top, she smells like Calvin Klein Eternity, the only perfume I've ever known her to wear.

“Come over for a drink,” she says, touching a tanned hand to my arm. “We're always around at cocktail time.” She winks and walks away.

We pass racks of sweatshirts, sweaters, dresses, and beach cover-ups and weave through piles of jeans, from the darkest inky blue to the palest shade of iceberg. One store has a table overflowing with handbags. I stop to pick up a plastic tote and, almost without thinking, check the inner pocket. There's only a price tag in there. I put the bag back and keep moving.

Mom once bought a handbag at the sidewalk sale, and after she got it home, she found a little note in the inside pocket, written in Hindi by someone in India. Translated, it meant
Good luck to you.
She carried that note in her wallet for years. It's probably still there.

Cluny waves to Poppy Norwich, who's across the street, loaded down with shopping bags. Poppy went to middle school with us before going away to prep school. Now she's married and lives in town and writes personal growth books. Her latest,
What You've Been Doing Wrong All Along,
was a
New York Times
bestseller. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to buy a copy, thinking maybe I could pick up a few tips. But then this jealous feeling about Poppy having done so well starts to nag at me, and I opt for a beach read instead.

We make our way to Bagatelle, where women huddle around the racks out front, elbowing one another as they try to lay claim to the best items. Cluny and I approach the racks, vying for space. A young woman, probably a college student, sits at a card table, looking bored and drumming her fingers on a cash box. With her long, tan legs and blond hair flecked with even lighter streaks, she looks like the poster child for summer. The words from an old Don Henley tune, “The Boys of Summer,” pop into my head. I can almost hear the electric guitar notes that sound like the cries of seagulls.

Cluny nudges me. “Hey, check this out.” She holds up a lavender dress with a jeweled top. “Do you think it would look good on me?”

“Yes, it's gorgeous! You could wear it tonight. Try it on.”

I cull through the racks, but nothing jumps out at me. I want to look perfect for Peter. I want to look pretty and sexy. Years from now I might reflect back on this moment—how I bought the dress for this party and how this night changed my life. I feel as though something magical is going to happen. Maybe Peter will fall in love with me and ask me to move to California. We'll get married and have a house in the canyon. I'm not sure which canyon, but I'll be happy with any canyon as long as it's not the kind that's always catching on fire or having mudslides.

“There's more sale stuff inside,” the girl at the table says, giving us a sleepy-eyed look.

Cluny and I walk into the store. While she heads toward the dressing rooms in the back, I scan the dresses in the sale section, quickly eliminating each one in my size—too short, too much spandex, too bright, a neckline that would plunge to my navel. There's nothing for me.

A saleswoman walks toward me, her hair swept up in a big twist, her face a billboard of makeup. She's wearing huge false lashes and thick streaks of black eyeliner. Perfume oozes from her—something Oriental, heavy on the sandalwood. She looks around fifty, maybe a little older. “You look like you need some help, honey,” she says, one hand in the air as though something's about to float down into her palm.

“Oh, no, I'm fine,” I say with a tepid smile. “Just browsing.”

I glance at the women in line at the checkout counter, arms laden with clothes, and I'm about to give up. And then I see it—a rose-colored silk dress, cinched at the waist, with straps that crisscross in the back. Perfect! I grab the hanger just as another arm reaches for it.

“Sorry,” I say as I clutch the dress to my chest and watch as the other woman disappears into the mob. With newfound hope I head toward the back of the store.

“Cluny,” I whisper as I approach the four dressing rooms. “Where are you?”

The wooden doorway of the dressing room on the far right opens a crack, and a waving hand emerges. “In here.”

I slip inside to find her zipping up the lavender dress. “Wow. You look beautiful,” I say as she turns to view herself from the side and back.

I hold up the rose-colored dress. “What do you think about this?”

“Oh, that's pretty,” she says. “Try it on.”

I'm about to undress when I hear a voice outside the room.

“Let's see, we'll put you right in here, honey.” It's the saleswoman with the big hair. I can smell her perfume even through the wall. “That's going to look so cute on you,” she says.

A second later there's another voice. “This is just a li'l ole last-minute thought. There's a party tonight, and I have something all picked out, but, you know, I'm not dead set on it.”

“Regan Moxley!” I whisper to Cluny.

“Would y'all come in here so you can zip me up when I get this on?” Regan says.

“Sure, honey. Tell me when you're ready.”

The door to Regan's dressing room closes, and Cluny and I rush to the adjoining wall to hear what she says.

“This is just like the old days,” Cluny whispers as she steps out of the lavender dress. “When we wanted to be spies.”

“You wanted to be a spy,” I remind her again. I pull off my jeans and T-shirt. God, I wish I had Cluny's shape. Two kids, and her stomach is as flat as Kansas.

“So, you're going to a party?” the saleswoman asks.

“Yes,” Regan says. “With the actors in town. You know, Sean and Brittany and…well, all of them.”

“She's going?” I whisper. “How did she find out about it?”

Cluny shakes her head and steps back into her skirt.

“And listen to how she's talking about them,” I say as I pull the dress over my head. “
Sean
and
Brittany.
As though she knows them.” I can almost feel my veins clog with indignation.

“Oh, honey, you're so lucky,” the saleswoman croons.

“The director invited me,” Regan says.

Peter invited
her?

“We went to high school together,” Regan adds. “I think he was secretly in love with me.”

I gasp. “That's a—”

I'm about to say
lie,
but Cluny clamps her hand over my mouth. “Shh!”

“I know we would have gotten together,” Regan says, “if his family hadn't moved away. Luckily, I had a lot of other boys after me.”

Cluny looks at me as she puts on her blouse. “She's crazy.”

“She barely knew him.” I feel a knot in my stomach.

“Well,” the saleswoman says, “no wonder why he invited you. Maybe he's still interested, honey.”

“Oh, I think he is,” Regan says. “I can always tell.”

“What a liar,” I say as Cluny zips up the back of my dress.

“Don't worry,” Cluny says. “She's not even his type.”

I look at my reflection in the mirror, at the straps that cross in the back, the little gathers at the waist that make the silk fall in a soft way. Cluny nods approvingly. The dress is on sale for a hundred and fifty dollars, a steal in this place. I study the smattering of freckles across my nose, the green flecks in my blue eyes. I pull back my hair to see what it would look like in an updo. Then I let it fall to my shoulders, the loose waves settling back into place. I spin around and watch the dress move with me.

I'm about to tell Cluny I'll take it when Regan says, “Could y'all come in now?”

“Oh, sure,” the saleswoman says, and I hear the door to Regan's dressing room open and close. “Oh, my, look at you. You're going to turn every head at that party. That dress is perfect. Sure wish I had your cute little figure.”

“Hmm,” Regan says. “I think it's too long. I'm going to have trouble walking in it. And see over here…this kind of puckers out. It's way too loose.”

“I wonder what she's trying on,” I say. “Sounds as though it's something full length. And we're wearing short dresses. I can't go in the wrong thing.” I don't want to make a clothing faux pas at Peter's party and start things off on a bad note. I'd never forgive myself.

“I'm sure other people will be wearing short dresses,” Cluny says.

Will they? I wonder. I analyze my reflection again. What if Regan is dressed in something so mesmerizing that
she's
the one who gets Peter's attention instead of me? What if he ends up taking
her
to L.A.? I have this horrible vision—Regan dressed in a long Gucci gown with a neckline down to her navel and Peter, in an Armani tux, seated next to her. They're in one of the front rows of a huge auditorium. Someone calls Peter's name, and he stands and makes his way to the stage, where a woman is holding a gleaming Oscar statuette. I'm watching the whole thing on TV, of course, at my parents' house, because I still haven't found a job and I've lost my apartment for good, due to nonpayment of rent, and the only clothes I have left are my pj's with the Santas and reindeer on them.

“Oh, we can fix that, honey,” the saleswoman says. “We'll take it up there, nip it in here. Go on out to the three-way mirror, and I'll get the seamstress to pin it.”

“Come on.” I grab Cluny's arm. “Let's get out there so we can see what Regan's wearing. She knows what to wear to a Hollywood party.”

Across from the dressing rooms is an area with a small platform, like a stage, surrounded by a three-way mirror, and, standing on the platform, preening and looking at her reflection, is Regan. She is not wearing a full-length dress or a full-length skirt or a full-length anything. And she is not wearing something that needs to be taken in. Regan Moxley is wearing the shortest, skimpiest, tightest dress I have ever seen, made entirely of silver sequins. And she looks terrific.

I swallow, and it feels as though a marble is going down my throat.

Regan sees us in the mirror. “Oh, hey, girls. Y'all doin' a little shopping?”

“Just looking around,” Cluny says.

“They've got a lot of things on sale,” Regan says, although I can't imagine the dress she's wearing was marked down. She twirls, admiring her reflection, and I can't turn away, as much as I want to. Those legs. That body. Then she gives me a long, appraising stare, and, although she doesn't say a word, I can tell what she's thinking—that the dress I'm wearing is a dud.

Regan flicks back her hair. “Are you wearing that to the party tonight, Grace?” Then she covers her mouth. “Oh, wait. You're invited, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Cluny and Greg and I are all going.”

“Oh, the three of you. That's nice. What about Mitch?”

“Mitch?” I'm about to ask what Mitch has to do with it, and then I remember he's supposed to be my boyfriend. “Oh, he can't make it. He has a…” My mind unplugs for a second, and I can't think of what to say.

“A bike thing,” Cluny says.

“Yes, a bike thing. A race.”

“At night?” Regan says, giving me an incredulous look. “In the dark?”

I swallow. “Well, yes. It's, uh, a charity thing. To raise money…for the visually impaired.”