The Rules of Love & Grammar (23 page)

I ride in front on the return trip. It's almost five o'clock, and we're cycling down Elm Street, along the back of the village green, when I see Peter leaving Ernie's with a take-out bag in his hand. He's wearing a pair of jeans that fit him perfectly and a charcoal-gray T-shirt, and I just want to kill him for the way he stood me up yesterday.

For a second, all I can see are Peter and Regan, and they're at the Academy Awards again, the two of them seated together, her hand linked in his. But this time it's Regan's name that's called. She gives Peter a kiss and sashays her way up the steps to the stage to collect
her
Oscar statuette.
Best Actress in a Supporting Role.

No! I pedal faster, until I'm almost alongside Peter's parked Audi. As he's about to open the door, I give the handbrakes a hard squeeze, and the bike skids to a stop beside him.

He does a double take. “Grace? Oh my God. Look at you. What are you doing on that bike?” He's all friendly, as if nothing's happened.

“I'm riding it,” I say, pretending nothing's happened as well. “I'm training for the Dorset Challenge.”

“What's the Dorset Challenge?”

“You haven't heard of it? It's a very demanding bike ride being held on the Fourth of July.”

Mitch pulls up beside me, and before he can say anything, I grab on to his arm. “And speaking of training, here's my trainer.” I smile. “Peter Brooks, this is Mitch Dees. Mitch, Peter Brooks.”

The two men eye each other. “You're the movie director,” Mitch says as they exchange a perfunctory handshake.

“Guilty as charged,” Peter says. “And I guess you're the trainer.”

“Ah, I'm not really a trainer. Although I am training Grace. I make an exception for her.” He glances at me. “She's special.”

I feel myself start to blush.

“That's nice of you,” Peter says, but there's a slight edge to his tone. Now he's the one looking at me. “Yes, Grace is special.”

“We had quite a ride,” I say. “Mitch took me to the Bratton Point Lighthouse. He knew all about its history, the lighthouse keepers, the lens. It was fascinating.”

“Oh, really?” Peter says.

“I'm a history buff,” Mitch says. “I teach it at Thatcher.”

“And he helps his dad at the Bike Peddler in the summer,” I add. “He cycles a lot. That's why he's in such great shape.”

“I have a bike,” Peter says, a little defensively.

“I'm sure it's very nice,” I say as I check my watch. “Well, we'd better be going.” I slide back onto my seat. Then I smile. “Oh, sorry I didn't catch you yesterday.”

Peter gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean? What was yesterday?”

I keep the smile on my face, although it's a strain. “You told me to come visit you at the set. So I did. I was right outside the Sugar Bowl.”

Mitch pulls out his water bottle, leans against Peter's car, and takes a leisurely drink.

“You were there?” Peter asks. “Yesterday?”

“Yes. But your production assistant wouldn't let me in. He said my name wasn't on the list.”

Peter's eyebrows draw together. “You're kidding me. I told Rob Nagle to put you on the list.”

“Well, I guess Rob Nagle, whoever he is, didn't do it. Although he must have put Regan Moxley's name on there. She walked right in.”

“But I—”

“By the way,” Mitch says, “there was a nice photo of you and Regan in the paper. Did you see that?”

Peter glares at him. Then he puts his arm around me and pulls me close. His T-shirt feels soft, and it has that Peter smell I've always loved. “Grace, I'm sorry. I had no idea. I thought it was all set up. Why would I invite you and then not arrange for you to be let in?” He shakes his head. “I'll have Rob's ass in a sling. I'll have him fired. How about that?” He grins, and his eyes sparkle.

I feel myself begin to thaw. It was just a mistake. Why did I jump to conclusions? I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation about Regan as well. “I guess firing him would be a good start.”

Peter laughs and gives me a squeeze. “Okay, you've got it.”

“Grace,” Mitch says, looking a little impatient, “I think we'd better be getting back.”

“Just one more thing,” Peter says, pulling his arm a little tighter around my waist. “I was going to call you, but now I can ask you in person. I'm going to be one of the judges at the apple pie contest at Founder's Day this Saturday, and I was wondering if you'd go with me.”

“You're going to be a judge?” I say. “I'm impressed.”

“It's not that big a deal,” Mitch says as he inspects his front brake. “I've done it before.”

“Well, I know about
eating
apple pies,” Peter tells me. “But I don't know anything about judging them.”

“You'll be fine,” I say. “I don't think they'll ask for your judging credentials.”

“No, they won't,” Mitch says. “I told you, I've done it.”

Peter gives him an exasperated look and then returns his attention to me. “So, do you want to go? I can pick you up at noon.”

Founder's Day with Peter. I'm jumping for joy inside. “I'll meet you there,” I say. Did Mitch's shoulders just slump a little? “I'm going in the morning with Cluny and Greg and their girls.”

“Then I'll call you when I get there,” Peter says. He leans over and whispers, “I hope all is forgiven.”

“Yes,” I whisper back. “All is forgiven.”

C
luny, it's not that good. Please put it back.” She's holding my college screenplay, having plucked it from the Chippendale chest in the hall.

“No, I want to read it. Let me be the judge of how good or bad it is.”

“But I never finished it.” I try to grab the script from her, but she dodges me and slips out of the house with it.

“This would be like me paging through some sketchbook you had when you were in college,” I say as we walk toward Greg's Tahoe.

“I wouldn't mind if you looked at my old sketchbooks. They're still me. My work was a lot simpler back then, at least in some ways, but I'm not ashamed of it. And you shouldn't be ashamed of yours, either.”

“I'm not ashamed. I just…” I don't finish the thought because I'm not sure what the thought is. Am I ashamed of it? Or am I ashamed that I'm not doing something better with myself, and the screenplay is a reminder of that? Maybe it's a little bit of both. Oh God. Could my father be right? Do I have more talent than I'm giving myself credit for? Am I afraid to try something more challenging? To take a chance?

Cluny's six-year-old daughter, Morgan, grabs my hand as we stroll down Main Street toward the middle of town, where the Founder's Day celebration is taking place. “Aunt Grace, my friend Lilly says they've got funnel cake.”

“Really. Then we'll have to get some, won't we?”

Cluny sighs. “You're corrupting her.”

“No, I think it's this
Lilly
who's corrupting her. And, anyway, they can't eat carrot sticks all the time.”

“What's funnel cake?” asks Elizabeth, who is four.

“What's corrupting?” Morgan asks.

“We'll explain later,” Greg tells them.

Up ahead, a blue and white banner hangs over the road.
Happy 375th Birthday Dorset!
It's just crying out for a comma.
Happy Three Hundred Seventy-fifth Birthday.
Pause.
Dorset.
If only I had a Sharpie that big.

The girls skip ahead to catch up with their father. Cluny turns to me. “So, tell me what's
really
going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Mitch. Miller's Orchards on Tuesday, the lighthouse on Wednesday. What's happening with you two?”

“Nothing. I told you, we delivered a bike, and he bought a pie.”

“And you took a romantic walk in the orchard.”

“No, we didn't. It was just a walk.”

“Okay, but the next day you rode bikes to the lighthouse.”

“He's training me for the Dorset Challenge. He wanted to take me up this monster hill.”

“If he made a pass, it sounds as if he's training you for more than the Dorset Challenge.”

“Cluny, stop. Honestly. I don't even think he was making a pass. I think I kind of imagined it. And, anyway, everything's great now with Peter. I was so relieved when he told me the whole deal with the movie shoot was just a mistake.”

“So you didn't have any other outings with Mitch.”

“No, that was it. He wasn't even in the shop the past two days. He went to a bike race, and I've just been working. You should see the cool storage bins and crates I got at Sage Hardware.”

“Greg,” Cluny calls out. “Elizabeth's sneaker is untied. Can you get that, please?” She gives me an incredulous look. “Most women lust after clothes and jewelry. You're ecstatic about storage bins.”

“Oh, I still love clothes and jewelry.”

“Thank God. I was worried.” She laughs. Then her expression becomes serious. “So, you're really going to ride in that bike outing?”

“I don't know. There's a route that's twenty-five miles. It's a lot better than fifty, but it still seems like a long way.” We walk in silence for a bit. Then I stop. “Hey, would you ride in it with me? Please? It could be a lot of fun.”

 “Oh, Grace, I can't. I run and do my yoga, but I'm not in bicycling shape.”

“Neither am I. Come on, Cluny,
please.
I'd really like to show Regan Moxley I can do it. Wouldn't you?”

She raises her eyebrows and lets out an extended sigh. “Well, I guess when you put it that way…Yeah, okay.”

“Yay!” I give her a hug.

We walk to the Founder's Day entrance, where a sign reads,
All proceeds benefit the Dorset Historical Society and this year's special recipient, the Dorset Animal Rescue League.
Greg buys the tickets and refuses to take my money.

“Come on, Greg. I'm not a charity case,” I tell him.

He looks at me. “Grace, has anyone ever told you that you need to relax a little?”

“Who? Me?”

He laughs. I don't see what's so funny.

A volunteer hands us programs.
Games on the Green, Baxter Middle School Choir, Apple Pie Contest, Vintage Car Parade, Revolutionary War Reenactment, Tara Jones Dance Studio, Zip Roddy Quartet.

We pass booths selling oysters, burgers, barbecue chicken, and fried clams. Smoke billows over the food tents, and the smells of hickory and barbecue and fish drift on a slow breeze, making me hungry. I study the people going by: teenagers in ripped jeans, fathers with children on their shoulders, mothers with babies in front packs, toddlers in strollers, dogs in strollers, dogs on leashes, college girls in short-shorts, elderly people with canes. We pass a line of children waiting for their turn in a hula-hoop competition, and a man selling T-shirts that say,
Dorset: Here's to the Next 375!

At the Dorset Historical Society booth, two women in hooped skirts and aprons are handing out pamphlets about the history of the town. A collie dressed in a Colonial pinafore comes over and sniffs my ankles as I look at a display of old photographs. A sepia-toned picture of Main Street shows a blacksmith's forge where 32 Degrees, the ice cream shop, now stands.

Farther down the street, a line of children and parents snakes around a booth where an artist is offering free face painting. We wait for almost an hour so the girls can have their faces done up like Disney princesses.

Then we're on to the dunk tank. Scott Danzberger, from the town's board of selectmen, sits, dripping wet, on a precarious-looking platform a couple of feet above the water. Greg pays the five-dollar fee, and the second softball he throws hits the target, triggering the lever that dumps Scott into the tank.

“Sorry about that,” Greg says. “But it
is
for a worthy cause.”

“You'd better vote for me in the next election,” Scott calls as we walk away.

Greg offers to take Morgan and Elizabeth to see the red engine on display from the Dorset Fire Department and then to visit the bounce house, their favorite part of any celebration. “You know, once they get into the bounce house, we'll probably never see them again,” he tells Cluny.

“That's fine,” she says. “As long as they end up in a good home.”

It's about twelve thirty when I get a call from Peter telling me he's here. “But they've got us in a tent,” he says. “And they're not letting anyone in but the judges.”

“Wow. Serious business.”

He laughs. “Yeah, guess so. I'll call you as soon as I'm done.”

It's close to two when he calls again and tells me the results are being tallied. I arrive at the tent to find dozens of people assembled there. The front flaps of the tent are parted to reveal a long table inside, strewn with the remains of about twenty-five pies. Some of the pie plates are empty, but most still have a few slices on them, and the variety is impressive—traditional crusts, latticework crusts, crumbly toppings instead of crusts, and crusts with decorations made from dough, like apples and leaves, red stripes and blue stars.

I spot Peter talking to some people by another table, farther inside the tent. He's wearing a white button-down shirt, dark-denim jeans, and a blue blazer. I've always been a sucker for a blue blazer, and my heart does a little jump when I wave and he waves back.

“Hey, Gracie girl.” He walks over and gives me a kiss.

I glance at his hair where he's got that little wave, and I'm dying to touch it. “You look so handsome in your blazer.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I thought I should dress like a judge.”

“Yes, you're very judicial looking. All you're missing is the white wig.”

“That's only for pie contests in England, Grace.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

A tall woman with strawberry-blond hair emerges from the tent and raises a microphone. “We have our winners,” she tells the group, which closes in around her, people holding cameras and cell phones in anticipation. A bearded, pot-bellied man from Channel 22 News stands in the front with a video camera, ready to capture the moment. “First place goes to Meredith Leonard, for her three-apple pie,” the woman announces to loud applause.

Peter steers me away. “Let's go,” he says. “I've had about all the pie I can take for one day. I may never eat apple pie again. Or even apples.”

“Oh, don't say that.” I think of all the trees in Miller's Orchards, all the restaurants in Dorset, each putting its own particular spin on an apple pie in order to lay claim to having the best in town, all the residents who entered their pies in the contest. “It's almost like saying you'll never come back to Dorset.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “I didn't mean it that way, Grace.”

“Oh, well, that's good.” We meander down the street. “So, what's going on? Are things better? With the movie?”

“There are always ups and downs. But overall, things are better. The rewrites are going well, and we're back on schedule. That keeps the studio happy, anyway.”

“I'm glad.”

We pass a poster listing the day's events. “Hey.” I tap his shoulder. “Look at this. The Tara Jones Dance Studio is going to perform in a few minutes. Maybe we should watch.”

He grimaces. “No, thanks. She always yelled at me for turning in the wrong direction. I used to get my right and left mixed up. She'd come at me with those long, spindly fingers.” He raises his hand, extending his index finger. “
You, young man. Turn the other way!
I can't believe she's still teaching. She must be a hundred by now.”

“She always did say dancing keeps you young,” I remind him with a smirk.

“All right, folks. That ends the egg toss. Let's get ready for our next event.” Peter and I stand at the edge of the village green, where a stout, sunburned man with a microphone is speaking to a group of about twenty people. A banner over the gazebo announces that the Zip Roddy Quartet will be performing at four o'clock. In anticipation of the event, some fifty people have already set up collapsible chairs and spread blankets on the grass.

“Okay,” the announcer says. “I'll need everybody who wants to do the three-legged race right over here.” He looks around, waving in the stragglers at the edge of the group. “Don't be shy, folks. Find a partner, tie two of your legs together, and run the length of the field and back. Nothing to it.”

“Grace!”

I turn at the sound of my name. Cluny and Greg and the girls are walking toward us.

“Hey, Peter,” Cluny says. “How was the pie contest?”

“I survived, although I might need to run a couple of miles later to make up for it.”

“We still have room for a few more teams,” the announcer says, a hopeful note in his voice. The crowd of onlookers is growing.

“You could run right now,” Greg says. “In the three-legged race.”

Peter glances toward the green, where the teams are assembling along a horizontal chalk line drawn on the grass. He turns to me. “Yeah, how about it?”

“The race?” I expect him to laugh, but he doesn't.

“Sure, we could be a team.”

I can't believe he's serious. “No, no.” I cross my arms. “That's not my thing. I mean, you know I'm not very athletic.”

“Oh, come on. For old times' sake. It'll be fun.”

“Yeah, Grace,” Cluny joins in. “For old times' sake.”

“What old times?”

Peter nudges me. “We did a three-legged race once at a party. Don't you remember?”

“That wasn't a three-legged race,” I remind him. “It was a wheelbarrow race. And you ended up steering me right into the Rickenhouses' pool.” I can still feel the chill of that water. End of September. Pool heater off.

He glances across the green as though he's trying to recall the event. “Well, it
was
dark. You can't blame me for not being able to see. And it was still fun.”

“Maybe for you,” I say. “But, putting that aside, look at those two ten-year-old boys out there. They'll crush us.”

“All we have to do is walk fast,” Peter says. “And stay in sync.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Gracie girl. Where's your sense of adventure? And nostalgia?”

I'm racking my brain to come up with an alternative activity—the school choir performance, the vintage cars, anything—when a familiar voice joins the discussion.

“I'll do the three-legged race with you, sweetie.”

The Southern accent, the sultry tone. It's Regan. Her smile is outlined in bright-pink lipstick, and she's showing off her tan size-zero legs in black cutoffs so skimpy, I'm not even sure they qualify as shorts. I can feel my jaw muscles tighten like vise grips.

“I'll take him off your li'l ole hands.” She smiles and puts her arms around Peter like a lion about to drag its prey into the lair.

Peter shoots me a look that makes me think he's asking for help, but then he laughs. “You're going to run a three-legged race in those?” He points to her platform sandals, which are at least four inches high. “This I've got to see.”