The Rules of Love & Grammar (31 page)

Peter places a manila envelope on the table.

“What's that?”

“Open it.”

I pick it up. My name is on the outside, in my father's scratchy handwriting. I pull out a sheaf of papers.
All She Ever Knew
by Grace Hammond. I flip through the first couple of pages. My screenplay. “Where did you get this?”

“Cluny gave it to me.”

“Cluny?” I wonder how Cluny got it, and then I remember her taking it from the chest in the front hall on Founder's Day. I didn't even want
her
to look at it, and now she's passed it on to Peter. “Why did she give this to you?”

“She thought I should read it.”

Right. And what does Cluny know about screenplays? Now she's made me look like a fool, and the last thing I need is another reason for Peter to think I'm a fool.

“Look, Peter. I didn't want Cluny to see this. I didn't want anybody to see it. And I certainly would never have given it to you. This is just something I wrote in college. It's not very good, and I didn't even finish it, as I guess you know by now.”

“Well, I read it,” Peter says. “And—”

“I know, I know.” I throw the pages on the table. “I'm sorry you had to waste your time.”

He looks confused. “Waste my time? I thought it was pretty good.”

“Cluny had no right to—wait. What?”

“I really liked it.”

I lean in a little closer. “You liked my old screenplay?”

“Yes. Good story line, strong characters, some great dialogue. I do think the father could be developed a little more.” He chuckles. “I love that scene where the mother goes to the hardware store and returns all the power tools the father bought. And it needs an ending, of course. You should write one.”

“An ending. Oh, of course. Yes.” I'm still stuck at
I really liked it.

Peter takes another sip of coffee and then pushes the mug aside. “You know, you've got talent, Grace. I remember that from high school, and it shows in this script. Cluny told me you're a technical writer. Frankly, I don't know how you juggle both jobs—doing that and being an organizational efficiency…What kind of consultant are you again?”

I give him a blank stare, and then I realize what he's talking about, and I want to burst out laughing.

“Anyway, with your talent, you should be doing a lot more than technical writing.”

“You really think so?”

He leans toward me, a surprised look on his face. “Sure. Hasn't your father ever told you that?”

I
t's three thirty on Saturday, a half hour before the party is scheduled to start, and there's too much chaos in the house for me. Mom is fretting about the hors d'oeuvres, while the caterers keep trying to escort her from the kitchen. Dad is holding court in the library with his brother, Whit, and some other relatives who flew in last night. They're telling remember-the-time-when stories that I've heard so often, I've begun to think they're my own.

I walk into the backyard, where a huge, white tent sits in the middle of the lawn. The band is testing the sound system, and two women from the catering company are making last-minute adjustments to the tables. The sides of the tent are open, providing an unobstructed view of Long Island Sound, where a dozen sailboats puff along in the breeze. White linen napkins, shiny flatware, glass hurricane lamps, and vases filled with blue and white hydrangeas sit atop each table, arranged with the precision of a drill sergeant. Around the tent, the grass is clipped and green, and the flower beds have been treated to a fresh layer of mulch.

I walk to the bar in the new cocktail dress Mom insisted on buying for me at Bagatelle. Full price, no less. The fabric is a silky chiffon of pale greens and blues, and the dress has a fitted waist and a flared skirt that makes me feel as though I'm floating when I move. I head toward the bar, where one of the bartenders is emptying bags of ice into coolers. He watches me as I approach.

“Can I get you something, Miss Hammond?”

“I'd love a sauvignon blanc.”

“Sure,” he says. And then he adds, “That's a nice dress.”

I smile. “Why, thank you.”

He pours the wine, and the glass catches a glint of light from the sun. I walk to one of the tables and sit down, and I think about how, at this time tomorrow, I'll be back in my apartment in Manhattan, turning the air conditioner back on, going through the pile of mail I'll find wedged into my box, throwing out the wilted lettuce and the squishy lemons and the other food that's gone bad.

Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll call a friend and see an off-Broadway play or go to an outdoor concert or take a walk on the High Line. I can wait another day to clean the fridge and toss out the junk mail. I think Katharine Hepburn was right. If you obey all the rules, you
do
miss all the fun. Maybe I've spent too much time worrying about typos and grammar and dotting i's and crossing t's.

Guests begin to make their way across the grass and into the tent, where Mom and Dad greet them, exchanging hugs and handshakes. Buddy and Jan arrive and, not long after, Cluny and Greg.

“I heard you were a hero the other day,” Greg says as we stand at the side of the tent near the water. “Cluny told me you did CPR. On Scooter.”

“Oh, I'm not a hero. I just knew enough to get by, and it worked.”

Cluny leans in and whispers, “He doesn't know we learned that in spy school.”

“I was a detective,” I correct her, for the millionth time.

“Hey, I came up with a great idea,” she says. “And it was all because of that Dorset Challenge. I'm going to do some illustrations of animals on bikes. I've never used bikes before, and I think it could be great. I'm figuring out which breeds I'll put on racing bikes, which ones will get hybrids, mountain bikes, tricycles. My first card is going to be based on the Dorset Challenge. I'll have Main Street in the background.”

“Oh my God. I love that idea, Cluny. It's brilliant.”

“Yeah, I think it will be a fun addition to the line.”

I lean in and whisper, “By the way, they're called
road
bikes, not racing bikes.”

“Ah,” she says. “Thanks.” Then she digs into her clutch bag. “Almost forgot—I have something for you.” She whips out a little piece of newsprint—something she's pulled from the paper.

“No way,” I say, backing up a step. “No more horoscopes.”

“Let me just read this to you. It's an interesting one.”

“I've got to go say hi to some people.”

She steps closer. “It says,
Breaking the rules can be a good thing, especially if those rules inhibit your creativity
.”

“Okay, thanks.” I start to walk away.

“No, wait. There's more.
Today, let any inspiration that comes your way guide you. And don't fall back on old assumptions.
Oh, but here's the really interesting part.
Someone from your past is heading toward your future tonight.
Maybe something will happen right here at this party, Grace. Something romantic.”

“How is that possible, Cluny? The only guy from my past is on his way back to the West Coast right this second.”

“I don't know the details,” she says. “I just know what I read. So be prepared.”

One of my parents' neighbors grabs me and pulls me away for a long chat. Lines begin to form at the bar, and the band's singer, a petite woman in a purple dress, starts belting out a jazzy rendition of “It Had to Be You.” The guests gather in clusters, talking and laughing and plucking hors d'oeuvres from passing trays, and the dance floor begins to fill.

“How are you doing?” I whisper to Dad as I brush by him on my way to talk to my cousin Allison from Rhode Island. Dad's got Ward Johnson, a partner of Mom's, on his left, and Kiki Ross, who has something to do with Dad's publisher, on his right, and they're all discussing a hotel in Paris where Ward and his wife just stayed. I know some part of Dad would probably prefer to be inside, tinkering with his puzzle or scribbling lines of poetry on the back of an envelope, but he looks happy.

“I'm having fun, Gracie,” he says, and when he smiles, the little crinkles around his eyes seem to smile, too. “Although I could use another one of these.” He holds up his empty glass, shaking what's left of the ice.

“A G and T?” I ask, although I don't wait for the response, because it's always gin and tonic. “I'll be right back.”

Blini and caviar, crab salad canapés, mini ham and Gruyère pastries, tuna Niçoise crostini, truffle risotto balls, and tiny polenta sandwiches with mushroom filling are offered to me on silver trays. I try them all, going back for seconds and thirds on the caviar. I weave my way among the guests, saying hello to the ones I know, smiling politely at the ones I don't, and I get Dad's drink from the bar and deliver it to him.

The cocktail hour goes on for an hour and a half, and then we sit down for dinner. I take my seat across from Mom and Dad and next to a man with a handlebar mustache and a toupee much darker than his sideburns. He leans over and peers at my place card.

“Ah, you're Grace.” He thrusts a hand at me. “Paul Duffner here.”

Paul Duffner. Where have I heard that name?

“I'm at the university with your father.”

Oh my God, now I remember. He's the guy writing the book about that Dutch poet, Joost van der something.

I shake his hand. “Yes, nice to meet you. My dad's, uh, spoken of you. You're writing a book. About Joost…” I can't remember his last name, so I leave it at that, as though the dead poet and I are on a first-name basis.

Paul Duffner fiddles with the knot in his tie, wincing for a moment as though he's being choked. “Van den Vondel,” he says, completing the name. “Are you familiar with Vondel's work?”

I wouldn't know Vondel's work if a volume of his greatest poems landed on my head. “Of course,” I say. “Isn't everyone?”

Duffner's eyes pop open, and he smiles, a huge smile that makes his mustache twitch. “How I wish that were true!” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Most people, outside of literary circles, of course, have never even
heard
of him.”

“No!” I say, recoiling. “I find that hard to believe. Aren't they teaching Vonder in school?”

“Vondel.”

“Yes, Vondel. Isn't that what I said? Students should be learning about…”—I pause to make sure I've got the name right—“Vondel, just as they learn about Shakespeare. Don't you think?”

He tilts his head. “What a refreshing attitude. I happen to agree. He is, after all, the greatest of the Dutch poets and playwrights.”

“The greatest. Let me ask you this, Paul—may I call you Paul?”

He smiles and blushes; his eyes gleam. “Of course.”

“What do
you
consider to be Vondel's best play?”

A server puts a plate in front of me—lobster, tenderloin, roasted potatoes, baby carrots.

“Well,” Duffner says, “I'd have to say
Jephtha
,
although I know I'm going against the grain there, most critics choosing
Lucifer
.
”

“Of course you're going against the grain. But bravo to you, Paul! How many people would have the courage to do that? It's always
Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer.
I have to say, I agree with you about
Jephtha.
”

“You do?” He looks stunned. “Well, a fellow Vondel contrarian. I can hardly believe it.”

“Oh, believe it. Definitely believe it.” I raise my glass of wine. “To Vonder,” I say. And then I realize my mistake.

But Paul Duffner doesn't notice. He's looking at me as though he would follow me over hot coals. He raises his glass. “Yes, to Vondel!”

Toward the end of the meal, Mom rises from her chair, walks to the stage, and picks up a wireless microphone. I hope she's not going to sing. She's been known to empty a room after even attempting just a few bars of “I Get a Kick out of You.” She taps the mic a couple of times as plates of yellow cake with buttercream icing arrive at our table.

“Hello, everyone. Hello.” She waits for the chatter to subside. “While we're enjoying our dessert,” she says, “I'd like to say a few words. And I do mean a few. I was advised a long time ago that the secret to public speaking is to be brief, be funny, and be seated.” There's a roar of laughter and a smattering of applause. Mom smiles, and her cheeks take on a rosy glow.

“We feel so fortunate to have all of you here today,” she continues. “And I want to thank you for being here. Some of you have come from far away, and all of you have given up your time to be with us, to celebrate Doyle's birthday.” I'm listening to Mom, but I'm also aware of an undercurrent of chatter coming from the opposite side of the tent.

“I look around,” Mom says. “And I see family and friends, some of whom we haven't seen in years…”

People are whispering and murmuring and turning to look at the entrance to the tent.

“And so,” Mom says, “with that, I'd like to ask…” She stops and peers across the tent, where a man is standing. He's talking to one of the women from the catering company, and she's pointing at our table. No, more specifically, she's pointing at
me.
The man walks into the tent. It's Sean.

Mom clutches the microphone, looks around as though she needs confirmation that this is really happening, and says, “Sean Leeds?” That's when several women pull out bottles of Catch Me! and begin spraying jasmine into the air and all the guests grab their cell phones and start snapping pictures.

“Come on up here,” Mom says, gesturing to Sean. “We want to see if you really are the sexiest man alive.”

“Mom!” I yell, mortified. But everybody else laughs, including my father.

Sean walks toward me. “Hello, Grace,” he says, in his deepest, smoothest voice. “You look beautiful.” Then he adds, “I'll be right back.” He walks to the stage, leaving me with my mouth agape.

“It really is you,” Mom says as Sean walks over and stands beside her.

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Hammond,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. Her face turns radish pink. “Grace invited me, and I'm sorry to show up unannounced, but I didn't think I'd have a chance to stop by before I flew out.”

“Oh, Mr. Leeds, you don't have to apologize,” Mom says, fluffing her hair. “Can you stay for dessert? We'll set a place at our table, right over there.” She points. “Right next to Grace.” She beams at me and mouths,
Sean Leeds!
as if I didn't already know and as if nobody else can see her doing it. Oh my God. Mom, stop!

“I wish I could,” Sean says, “but I've only got a few minutes.” He touches her arm, and she looks as though she's about to drop. “Grace told me you're a fan, and I knew I had to meet you. I also wanted to wish your husband a happy birthday.”

Dad waves to Sean. “Thank you.”

Mom blurts out, “Hey, everybody. It's Sean Leeds!” and the whole tent erupts in laughter.

That's when I walk up and rescue him. “Come on.” I grab his arm.

“Sean Leeds, everyone,” Mom says, clapping like a late-night talk show host whose guest is exiting the stage.

Sean laughs as I lead him out of the tent to the other side of the lawn. We stand under the trees. “I can't believe you came.”

“Sorry for the surprise entrance.”

“Are you kidding? It was perfect. You've given my mother something she'll talk about for years. Not to mention my father. And everyone else here.”

“It's the least I could do, after the other day.” I must look as confused as I feel, because he adds, “When you planned that great escape from the mob at the ice cream store.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “That was no big deal. It was fun.”

Two small boats glide by in the distance, their white triangles of sailcloth catching the wind. We watch them for a moment, and then Sean says, “Well, I'd better run. The other coast calls.”

“Have a safe trip,” I tell him. “And thanks again for coming. Really.”

“You're welcome,” he says. “Really.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “See you, Grace.” And then he's off.