The Rules of Love & Grammar (8 page)

“Have you seen Peter?” I ask Buddy. “We can't find him anywhere.”

“Last time I saw him, he was outside.” Buddy points toward the open French doors at the back of the room. “Talking to Regan.”

Regan.

I grab another flute from a passing tray and remind myself that Regan is not Peter's type. And that she's the one person here whose dress is shorter and tighter than mine.

I drink half the glass, and we head out of the air-conditioning, onto a stone patio lit by sconces and hurricane lamps. A brick walkway leads to a pool, about thirty feet away, where the turquoise water shimmers like the ocean around an exotic tropical island, the kind of place where I imagine Peter goes for vacations or maybe even has a spare home. This would be the perfect spot for the two of us to sit, look up at the stars, listen to the trill of the crickets, and talk about old times. But not tonight, because at least thirty other people are out here, chattering and laughing, and you couldn't hear a cricket if it were sitting on your shoulder.

I scan the crowd and finally spot him. He's standing in a small group, with two men and three women, and he's dressed in faded jeans and a light-blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looks so handsome. In fact, he looks so much like he did in high school. He may be older, but he's really still the same boy. He hasn't changed a bit.

I don't see Regan's silver dress in the group, and I let out a sigh of relief. “At least Regan's not there,” I tell Cluny.

But I'm wrong. An instant later one of the women turns her head, and it's Regan. She's standing right next to Peter, and there's not a sliver of a sequin or a breath of spandex on her. She's wearing a one-shoulder, coral-colored silk dress with a flowing skirt that almost goes to her knees. Her
knees.
I glance at my half-naked legs, and I want to kill her.

“I take that back,” I say. “She's over there, right next to Peter.” I nod in the direction of the group. “In that very conservative coral dress.” I drain the rest of my drink.

“What?” Cluny searches the crowd. “Oh my God. What happened to the silver thing?”

“I don't know,” I say as Regan throws back her head and laughs at something.

I can't believe she did this to me again. It's just like the time I wanted to get on the cheerleading squad and Regan told me tryouts were on Wednesday when they were really on Tuesday. I walked into the gym in a little pleated skirt and T-shirt, ready to shake some pom-poms, only to find the school band in the middle of practice, marching around in lines and doing turns. I almost got mowed down by a tuba player. And then the band director, Mr. Elkhorn, stuck a baton in my hand, thinking I was there to try out for baton twirler. The whole thing was a nightmare.

“Ladies,” Greg says. “What's going on? Are you going to introduce me to Peter or what?”

“Uh, yeah,” Cluny says. She takes my arm and gives me an encouraging smile. “Come on. Let's do it.”

It's when we walk across the patio that I feel the alcohol kick in. There's a disconnect between my head and the rest of my body, as though my head is a balloon that was tethered to the ground and has now been set loose. And my legs—they're getting out in front of me, leaving the rest of me to catch up.

As we approach Peter's group, I notice how close he and Regan are standing. You couldn't slide a credit card between them. And she's so naturally tall that when she looks at him, their eyes are almost on a level playing field. She makes a comment and brushes something off his shoulder. Now she's touching the back of his neck, bringing him closer so she can tell him something. What is she saying that's so interesting? Why is he listening? Doesn't he see who she really is?
What
she really is?

I glance at them again. Regan is leaning in farther and whispering something. My chest tightens. What if he doesn't remember? What if he doesn't see through her? I have this horrible image—Regan lying on a chaise longue by a pool at a mansion in Bel Air. It's their mansion, hers and Peter's, and I'm her secretary. It's the only job I can get. She's dictating letters to me, and I'm correcting her grammar.
“
To whom,”
Regan, not
“to who.”
Or would I be calling her Mrs. Brooks? I shudder.

“Hey, you made it,” Peter says, smiling.

I want to tell him,
Don't do it, don't marry her, she'll only break your heart,
but the words are trapped inside me.

Cluny introduces Greg, and then Peter gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I almost lose my balance, wobbling on my heels, which seem so far away, they could be in Nepal. I feel Regan staring at me as I put my arm around Peter.

“Long time no see,” I tell him, and I laugh—maybe a little too loudly. He feels so warm and strong—somebody who's got it all under control. I remember that about him—how he could work a room, even as a teenager, how the teachers loved him, how he could always think on his feet and come up with an answer. Even if it was the wrong answer, he had an answer, and he could usually make it sound pretty good. It doesn't surprise me that he can direct a movie, keep it all together, get what he needs out of everyone—the best of everyone.

When I let go, Regan is sipping her wine, peering at me from over the rim of her glass. “That's quite a dress, Grace.”

I thank her, pretending to take it as a compliment, although I'm sure she didn't mean it that way. “Isn't it fabulous? And look at these cutouts!
Très chic!
”

A server passes by, and I exchange my empty champagne glass for a full one. Regan gives me a disapproving look, but I tell myself not to worry, she's just jealous. She probably wishes she had these curves. I'm feeling so good, I'm even reconsidering those olive crostini.

“This is some party,” Greg says.

Peter looks around. “I can't take any of the credit. It was the production company that did it. Although my assistant, Cassie, is the one who got the cake. She said we had to do something to celebrate my birthday.”

His birthday. How could it be his birthday? He was born in…Oh my God. His birthday is in June. That's now.

“It's your birthday?” I say.

“Yeah. Guess I'm getting to be an old man.”

The group laughs. Everybody except Regan, who puts her hand under Peter's chin and says, “Why, darlin', you don't look a day older than sixteen.” She bats her eyes, and I'm surprised she doesn't knock him over with the sheer force of her lashes.

Peter's cheeks turn pink. I can't believe how obvious she is.

“I hope you like my gift,” she tells him. Then she leans toward me. “I brought him a little present. A set of Marilyn Monroe movies. Don't you remember how much he loved Marilyn? Or maybe he just loves blonds.” She laughs and brushes her flaxen hair behind her ear, revealing a large diamond earring in the shape of a cheetah.

Marilyn Monroe movies? I'm afraid I'm going to cry. How did Regan even know it was his birthday? How did she know he likes Marilyn? I was the one he took to the Fifties Film Festival at the Dorset Playhouse. I was the one who went with him to see
Some Like It Hot
and
How to Marry a Millionaire,
not Regan. I can't believe the two of them are that chummy.

“You know,” I tell Cluny, grabbing her shoulder to steady myself, “I would have brought him a gift. But nobody told me it was his birthday. Nobody told me.” I'm getting teary.

“It's okay, Grace. You didn't need to bring anything. Who cares about a bunch of old Marilyn Monroe movies, anyway?”

“Are you sure? I think I should have maybe brought him something.” Regan knew, but I didn't remember. I really think I need to give him a gift.

A woman in a black chiffon dress walks over and asks to get a selfie with Peter. As she's getting ready to take the shot, Regan squeezes in between the two of them.

“I have to give him something,” I whisper to Cluny, holding on to her arm so I don't fall. “Can't not give him something.”

“Grace, you don't have a gift. Forget about it.”

“Well, then I need to think of one. I'll give him…I'll give him a gift from my heart.” That's right. Not some stupid movies anybody can buy on Amazon. “Yeah, something real,” I say, leaning into Cluny.

“Are you okay? You seem kind of—”

“Fine. Absolutely fine.”

I hand my empty glass to her. Then I walk toward Peter, very carefully, in my high heels. I feel as though my legs are replacements that have been brought in to do the job of my real legs, but they don't quite have the hang of it yet.

“I have a birthday gift for you,” I tell him.

“Grace?”

Cluny is behind me, tapping my shoulder. I ignore her.

I look at Peter, and all I can see are his eyes. His blue, very blue, eyes.

“Aw, Grace, you didn't need to do that,” he says.

“Oh, I know, I know. But I wanted to.”

“Um, Grace, I think maybe—”

It's Cluny again. I wave her off.

“I prepared this just for you,” I say, pointing to Peter and rocking back slightly on my heels. “Hope you like it.”

I clear my throat. Then I begin to sing, in a low, slow, breathy sort of way. I sing “Happy Birthday to You” the way Marilyn Monroe sang it to President Kennedy for his forty-fifth birthday at Madison Square Garden. She wore a very tight, nude-colored dress. It was even tighter than mine. And it had twenty-five hundred rhinestones on it. Twenty-five hundred. I've seen pictures. It was so tight, she couldn't even wear underwear. Just the dress.

I'm thinking about Marilyn and the twenty-five hundred rhinestones as I sing.
“
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”
I think my voice sounds good. I'm pretty sure I'm on key. I don't want Peter to think this is a joke or something silly. I want him to know how much I care, how much I really do wish him a happy birthday. And I want him to want me, not Regan. I try to sound just like Marilyn, with that breathy voice. I feel kind of like her in my own clingy dress, although I
am
wearing underwear, of course. A few people stare into their drinks, but most of them are watching me.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Director, happy birthday to you.”

I think I did a great job.

But I guess nobody else does. A few people clap, but almost everybody is laughing. Even Cluny and Greg and Buddy. They think it was a joke. They think it was funny. They don't understand that I was trying to
be
Marilyn. I swallow hard, my eyes burning. I glance around for the doorway, and then I bolt from the patio, almost knocking a tray of shrimp from a server's hands.

“Grace, wait!” I hear Cluny call after me, but I keep going. I dash through the crowd in the living room and head toward the foyer. The man who was serving wine and champagne when we arrived is gone. I see a half-open door to a powder room, and I dart inside, close the door, turn the lock, and stand there, my heart pounding. Peter must think I'm an idiot. I feel like an idiot. I lower the toilet seat lid, sit down, put my head in my hands, and cry.

I can't believe everything has gone so wrong. For a little while this afternoon, I was actually happy, and I was looking forward to this party. I wasn't dwelling on Scott or my job or my stupid ceiling. Maybe I hadn't totally put them in the back of my mind, but they weren't hovering in the front of it, either. Now they're all back again, staring me in the face. I'm alone, jobless, and stuck in Dorset. And I've just made a fool of myself in front of the one person I wanted to impress.

I grab a tissue off the counter and decide I'd better go find Cluny and see if she and Greg will take me home. And I make a promise that if I can get out of here without embarrassing myself further, I'll give up this ridiculous fantasy of getting back together with Peter, of believing he'd even want to be with me. I'll stop reaching for the stars and go back to being Grace Hammond, the technical writer, who is returning to Manhattan in a few weeks—alone.

As I wipe my eyes, I look around. The room is tiny, but it's quiet, and the muted light is soothing. I study the curved pedestal sink, the cream-colored walls, the sloped ceiling. It's a peaceful retreat. The tiny mother-of-pearl tiles on the sink's backsplash glow with a pale iridescence, and I wonder how many pieces it took to fill that space.

There's a knock on the door, and I freeze, not wanting to give up my haven just yet. “I'm going to be a while,” I call out. “Lost a contact lens.” A few minutes later there's another knock. “Trying to find my contact lens,” I say. “Think I'll be in here for a bit.”

I look around the bathroom again. Something about the ceiling catches my attention, and then I realize the bathroom seems familiar, and now I know why the house seems familiar. I'm pretty sure my mother was the architect and that she brought me here a few times when the house was being built. If I'm right, there's a little room upstairs that wasn't originally supposed to be there—one of her shrines.

I sit up, feeling more alert, more sober, and more in control. I splash cold water on my face and dab it with a little towel. I need to see if that room is here, find out if this is the house. Opening the bathroom door a crack, I watch as a group walks through the foyer and leaves the house. The room is empty now. I glance at the stairway, which ascends to a landing and then doubles back and continues to the second floor. An antique pewter chandelier hangs from the ceiling, high above me, glimmering like a star sailors would use to find their way home.

Holding the banister, I start up the stairs. After a few steps I pull off Cluny's heels and leave them behind. At the top of the staircase, a long hallway lit by sconces and decorated with oil paintings of old sailing ships stretches before me. Music drifts through ceiling speakers—the Beatles, singing “Here Comes the Sun.”