The Rules of Love & Grammar Page 16

  “That’s nice,” he says. “Really pretty.”

  I stand beside Peter and gaze at the view. “We used to have a hammock between those two maple trees.” I press my finger to the screen. “It was right there. I used to love to nap in it on summer afternoons. There’s always a nice breeze from the water.”

  “You know, I don’t remember the yard being this big. It’s pretty dramatic, the way the lawn slopes down to the water like that.”

  “You sound like a movie director.”

  He looks at me and smiles. “You guys had a float out there. Do you still have it?”

  “No, that was a long time ago. It got old, and my parents never replaced it.” I look straight out, to where the float was once anchored, and I can almost see it bobbing in the waves under an orange sun, feel the hot, gray paint flaking under my feet. “Renny and I used to love jumping off that thing when we were kids. She was a great swimmer.”

  I turn to Peter, and our eyes meet. “She was a talented girl,” he says. “A good athlete. I remember that.”

  I look away as my eyes mist over.

  He chuckles softly and says, “You know, I was always a little jealous because you guys lived right on the water and had a float. I mean, how many people had a float?”

  “You were jealous over a float?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, now you have a house on the beach, in Malibu.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have a float.”

  He gives me that crinkly-eyed smile, and I have to laugh. “We have an old picture of me and Renny on the float. It’s in the family room. Do you want to see it?”

  “Sure, I’d love to. Will you show me the rest of the house, too?” He looks around the kitchen again, even studying the ceiling, and I remember his penchant for details.

  “Of course,” I say. “Follow me.”

  I lead him through the dining room and the living room. In the library, he stops to admire the fireplace. He walks toward one of the two bookcases full of photographs. “What’s this from?” He points to a photo of me in an old green-velvet ball gown Mom found at the thrift shop. My neck is draped in fake jewels.

  “That’s when I played Ophelia, in Hamlet. Senior year.”

  He grins. “Love that costume.”

  “I was trying to copy what Helena Bonham Carter wore in the movie.”

  He turns to the coffee table, where the border of a large jigsaw puzzle has been partially assembled. The photo on the puzzle’s box shows the Grand Canal in Venice—motorboats and gondolas on a river of green-blue, bounded by ancient buildings that sparkle, orange and golden, in the sun.

  “My dad does those.”

  “Impressive,” Peter says. He picks up a puzzle piece, bringing it closer to his eyes. “What’s this? It looks weird. And it’s not made of the same material as the others.”

  “I know. It’s some kind of lightweight wood. My mom gets the puzzles at the thrift shop. She likes to buy things there and give them a new life. You know, reduce, reuse, and recycle? If there’s a piece missing, she makes her own replacement.”

  I think about the pair of carved wooden peacocks, originally in eye-numbing purple, that Mom transformed into lifelike creatures. They grace the dining room today. And the old wooden picture frames she restored and made look like cherished antiques. They hang in the upstairs hall, filled with family photos—all except for the two frames that still display the pictures that came with them, faded 1940s-era strangers.

  “So she made this part for the puzzle?” Peter asks, becoming suddenly still.

  Now I wish I hadn’t tried to explain. He probably thinks she’s nuts. “I know it’s kind of weird, but she—”

  “That’s pretty inventive,” he says. “Really inventive.”

  “Yes, I guess it is,” I say, relieved. I give a little tug at the sleeve of his T-shirt, my hand brushing his arm. “Let’s go into the family room. That’s where the photo is. The one of the float.”

  I lead him down the hall, and when we step into the family room, he stops and stares straight ahead, at the far wall. “Whoa. I do remember that—the Steinway.” He rubs his hands together and approaches the baby grand piano. “Nice.” Pulling out the bench, he takes a seat and runs his palms over the fallboard covering the keys. “Does anybody play?”

  “No, not since Renny died,” I tell him as I stand beside the piano. “She was the one who really played. I tried, but I was never very good. A little ‘Für Elise,’ a little ‘Moonlight’ Sonata. Just the first movement, though.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Do you still play?”

  “Not very often.” He starts to open the fallboard but then hesitates. “Do you mind?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  He looks at the keys for a moment, as though he’s admiring them or maybe just getting acquainted with them. Then he sits down and plays a few arpeggios, the notes singing up and down the keyboard, and I wonder how someone who doesn’t play very often can sound that good. “I don’t think it’s out of tune,” he says.

  “That’s because my mom has it tuned. I said it never gets played; I didn’t say it never gets tuned.”

  “Ah, I understand,” he says.

  And then he does something incredible. He starts to play “Claire de Lune.” A memory wells up inside me—ninth grade, the empty Dorset High auditorium, and Peter seated at the grand piano, playing this same piece of music, while I’m standing in the doorway, listening. He doesn’t know I’m there, but he’s hypnotizing me, the notes cascading up and down the keyboard, out into the auditorium, carrying me away to some distant place, a garden of moonlight and wisteria.

  I’d heard him tinker around on the piano plenty of times before that day, mostly with jazz compositions and bits and pieces of blues tunes he was practicing. But that was the first time I heard him play something seriously, from start to finish, and I remember thinking that anyone who could play like that would own my heart forever. Maybe he does. By the time he gets to the end of the piece, the final notes whispering through the upper register of the keyboard, I’ve got tears in my eyes.

  “I think I played it better in high school,” he says.

  I look away and wipe my eyes. “No, it was beautiful.”

  “Ah, you’re just an easy critic.” He runs his hand gently along the tops of the keys, and, although there’s no sound, it’s as though he’s divining something from them, some information only he can glean. Then he stands up, steps toward me, and holds out his hand. “I need to show you something.”

  I can’t imagine what he wants to show me, especially in my own house. I feel a little nervous as I put my hand in his, but then he takes me in his arms, and we start dancing.

  “You know, I wanted to be the one to dance with you the other night,” he says as he leads me around the room, a gentle smile playing on his face.

  I smile as well, but I don’t say a word. I just melt into the rhythm, and after a minute I can almost hear the music of Debussy. It’s just me and Peter. Maybe this is the way it was always meant to be. I have such a weightless feeling, I think I could float away.

  “I remember the last time we danced,” he says. “That was a long time ago. The Cinderella Ball.” He adjusts his hand on my back, sending a tremor up my spine, and he pulls me closer. “Do you remember?”

  I feel his breath on my neck. “Of course I do.”

  “That dance with you was my only dance all night,” he says.

  I think about the words of the song, how life has started from this moment, and I remember how true they felt that night. “It was my only dance, too,” I tell him.

  He sways me from side to side. “And we kissed.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, as I rest my neck against his cheek, feeling as though I could stay this way forever. “Our one and only kiss.”

  “I remember I got there a little late, and I was worried you might have gone. And then I walked in and saw you.”

  He was worried I�
�d gone. I never knew that. I can barely feel my feet touch the floor as he leads me across the room.

  “The Dorset Yacht Club,” he says. “The room was decorated in white and gold and—”

  “It was silver,” I tell him. I remember the room. I know every detail. “It was silver and white. They had tons of balloons hanging from the ceiling in silver and white.”

  “Yes. That’s right,” he says, spinning me and drawing me back into his arms. “Lots of balloons.”

  “And streamers,” I add. “Made from something silvery and gauzy. Fabric, I think. They were beautiful.”

  He holds my hand a little tighter. “Streamers?”

  “Yes. They started in the middle of the ceiling and the other ends were attached further out so they draped over the room. It was kind of like a maypole effect. Remember?” My hand is on the back of his neck. His skin is warm. I run my fingers through the ends of his hair.

  “And Cinderella table decorations,” he says.

  I close my eyes so I can see the room again. “Yes, white tablecloths. With little glass slippers on the tables. And, oh my God, silver magic wands,” I whisper. “I almost forgot about those.” He leads me across the room, toward the piano, his body pressed close to mine. “Do you remember?” I ask.

  “Of course I remember.” He dips me and slowly raises me up. “Now, admit it. I’m a much better dancer than Leeds, right?” He smiles.

  “You’re pretty good.”

  We stop and stand by the piano. His eyes meet mine, and he brushes his hand over my hair. He’s still gazing into my eyes, and I know he’s going to lean in and kiss me. I’m waiting for it, wanting it to happen, wanting him to press his lips to mine. And then he does. He moves in closer and he kisses me. And he’s the boy I knew, but he’s also the man I’m beginning to know. That teenage kiss we shared is still there, in our history, but the one we’re sharing now is something new, something bigger. He pulls me in even closer, his arms around my back, his skin smelling of cedarwood and that faint trace of rosemary.

  And that’s when I hear her.

  “Honey, are you home? Who’s here?” It’s Mom, down the hall.

  We pull apart. Peter smooths his shirt; I fix my hair. We walk through the room and meet my mother in the hall.

  “You remember Peter Brooks, Mom.”

  “Of course I do,” she says as she smiles and extends a hand. “This is a surprise.”

  “It’s nice to see you again,” Peter says. “It’s been a long time.”

  “We got takeout at Ernie’s,” I tell her. “I was just giving Peter a tour of the house.”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful,” he says. “Brings back memories.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you,” Mom says. Then she adds, “I’m going upstairs to check on Dad. We had to leave early. He’s getting one of his migraines.” She turns to Peter. “Good luck with the movie. I hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks,” he says, and she walks down the hall.

  Peter glances at his watch. “I’d better get going, Grace. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  I don’t want him to leave. “All right,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. I follow him into the foyer, and we stand at the door. He kisses me again, briefly. Then he brushes a lock of hair from my face. “Come to the set. We’ll be downtown tomorrow. Main Street.”

  “Okay,” I tell him, wanting to commit to memory the feeling of his hand on my skin.

  And then he’s gone. I watch him get into the blue convertible and close the door. He starts the engine, and the car heads down the drive, gravel rumbling under the tires. I watch the taillights until I can’t see them anymore. I listen to the engine until all I hear is a faint whine somewhere far down Salt Meadow Lane. And then that’s gone.

  The moths are still tapping around the lanterns when I walk to the door. Inside, I head down the hallway and into the family room, where I close the fallboard on the Steinway, sending the eighty-eight keys into exile once again.

  Chapter 11

  The present tense of a verb describes things that are happening now.

  She hopes she is up to the task.

  I hardly sleep that night, thoughts of Peter whirling in my head. We’re at the kitchen table, with the fish and chips and hot fudge sundae between us. We’re at the window, our faces pressed to the screen, the lights in the backyard flickering over the water. He’s leading me across the family room, “Claire de Lune” playing in my head, my feet barely skimming the floor.

  At seven thirty I get up, put on my white jeans, a pale-blue top, some makeup, and the good-luck necklace Mom and Dad gave me when I went to college—a gold G on a chain. I think I’m going to need some luck. After last night, I’m not even sure I still have a job.

  There’s coffee left in the pot, but my stomach is too jumpy to drink it. I pour myself a glass of water and stand at the sink. What if Mitch is right? What if I am in over my head? Maybe this whole thing will be a huge failure. I feel a twinge in my chest as I think about it. And then my cell phone rings.

  “What are you doing?” It’s Cluny, and she’s using that same, animated I’ve got a mystery for you! voice I remember from our Nancy Drew days.

  “I’m about to leave for work.”

  “Good, I’m glad I caught you. Have you seen the paper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Find page seventeen. It’s your horoscope.”

  “Oh, Cluny, not that again.” I glance at the table, where the pages of the Dorset Review lie scattered. “I can’t, I’ve got to go.” I sling my handbag over my shoulder and, as an afterthought, grab one of Dad’s new spiral notebooks from the end of the counter.

  “You have to be careful,” she says.

  I head down the hall, toward the front door. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mercury is going retrograde. We all need to be careful.”

  “What does that even mean?” I slide my car keys off the Chippendale chest.

  “It means when you look at Mercury in the sky, it looks as though it’s moving backward, although, of course, it really isn’t.”

  “So, what do I care?” I check my makeup in the hall mirror.

  “You should care, because Mercury going retrograde can cause all kinds of problems, Grace. With travel, for one thing.”

  “I’m only driving downtown.”

  “And also with communication.”

  I peek into my handbag. “I’ve got my Sharpies.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously. I’m telling you, be careful—with your new job, with Peter. Where you go, what you say.”

  “Cluny, all Peter and I did last night was kiss. How could I possibly be more careful than that? And just because some planets are moving back and forth and sideways doesn’t mean it’s going to have any effect on me. Look, I’m going to be late. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  I head down the driveway, “Claire de Lune” playing on my phone. But it takes more than twenty minutes just to get near Main Street. A few of the intersections are blocked, and traffic is at a crawl. As I cross Mason Street, I see a long line of white box trucks and tractor trailers parked by the side of the road. Standing out among them is a bright-red tractor trailer with the name Panavision emblazoned on its side. Hollywood has come to Dorset.

  By the time I park in the lot behind the stores and run around to the front door of the bike shop, my blouse is fused to my skin with perspiration, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got sweat stains under my arms. Mitch is crouched at the back of the store, near the counter, spraying WD-40 on the chain of a white mountain bike when I walk in. He glances at me. Then he looks at the clock on the wall, above the counter. “Fifteen minutes late on your first day?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I walk toward the counter.

  He stands up and grabs a rag. “Look, I’m not in favor of this plan, but if my father wants to hire you, I won’t get in the middle of it. It’s his store and his decision. I’ll give you a chance. But you need to
be on time.”

  “I will be. I’m sorry,” I say, looking around for Scooter. “It couldn’t be helped, though. They have the roads blocked off for the movie, and I couldn’t turn onto Main. And when I finally could, the traffic was all backed up.”

  He crouches by the bike and rubs the chain with the rag. “Well, it’s going to be a mess until those movie people leave, so you’d better plan your time accordingly. I don’t know why the town ever agreed to it.”

  I glance at a display of cycling gloves to the right of the counter and notice a pair of gray Giros in the wrong place. “Oh, I think shooting the movie here is a good thing. It’s putting Dorset on the map.”

  Mitch looks up. “For what? Being overcrowded and congested? I read that business has doubled in the restaurants here because people are coming in from other towns to try to get a glimpse of the actors. They’re all a bunch of Hollywood phonies, anyway, with their mansions and their handmade cars. Why do you think they call it Tinseltown?”

  I pull the gray Giros from the display and put them where they belong. “Dorset will be on the map for having a famous director in our midst. Peter Brooks. And he’s certainly not a phony. He and I were very close friends. We still are.” Peter’s blue eyes flash through my mind.

  “I know,” Mitch says, sounding unimpressed. “You’ve told me.”

  “Oh, right. I guess I have. Well, he invited me to stop by and watch some of the filming, so I’m going today. I’ve never been on a movie set.”

  Mitch’s eyebrows tick up. “Oh, hanging with the stars, are we?” He sounds a little sarcastic.

  “I’m not hanging with the stars. I’m just going to visit Peter.”

  “Right.” He goes back to the bike chain.

  I look around. “So, what do you want me to do first?”

  “Kevin’s going to show you around the workroom,” he says. “Explain how we do things, where we keep everything.”