The Rules of Love & Grammar Page 6

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “I don’t know. What do you have in your handbag? Anything you can use to make a disguise? A scarf or a hat, maybe?”

  Cluny puts her handbag on the table. “Sure, I’ll just pull a sombrero right out of here.” She makes a face. “Why can’t you do this, Grace?”

  “Because I’m in the wrong position and you’re in the right position. I’d have to go to the edge of the bench and turn around, and then he’d recognize me right away.”

  “All right,” Cluny says as she digs through her bag. A moment later she holds up a pair of large, black sunglasses.

  “Perfect.”

  She puts them on and arranges her hair so it covers the sides of her face.

  “You haven’t lost your touch. Now take a look.”

  She inches her way to the edge of the bench and peers around. Suddenly, she straightens up. “It’s him!”

  “Are you sure?”

  She leans forward and adjusts her sunglasses. “Yep. He’s talking to another guy. He doesn’t have any hair.”

  “Peter’s bald?”

  “Not Peter,” she says. “The other guy. And he looks really good. Peter, I mean. Oh, wow, yeah.” She goes silent for a moment, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. Then her hands fly to her chest. “Oh my God, somebody else just joined them. I think it’s…” All the color has left her face. “It’s Sean Leeds.”

  “What? You’re kidding!” I start to stand, to get a glimpse of the actor People magazine recently named Sexiest Man Alive. Then I catch myself and quickly sit down. “Are you sure?”

  Cluny looks again. “Yes, it’s definitely him. He just sat down two seats from Peter.” She bangs her fist on the table. “Oh God, he’s so handsome. I’m going to faint.”

  I’m dying to look. Peter’s back in town, and he’s with Sean Leeds. “All right, tell me exactly what they’re doing.” My hand trembles as I dump a packet of sweetener into my coffee.

  “Okay, let’s see,” Cluny says. “Besides Sean and Peter, there are two other guys—one is the bald guy, and the other is the one who needs a shave. And there’s Brittany Wells. Wow, she really is tiny.”

  “Okay. So what are they doing?”

  “They’re just talking. Oh, wait. Peter’s on his cell phone now. And Brittany’s drinking her lemon water. One guy is eating something. Looks like seeds. No, that can’t be right. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Who cares what he’s eating? What’s Peter eating?” I ask. He can’t be eating seeds. He always had the apple pancakes.

  Cluny leans out a little farther. “I can’t tell.”

  “What about the other people?”

  “I just told you what they’re eating.” She lowers her sunglasses and glares at me.

  “I mean, can you tell who they are?”

  “No. Which is why we should just go over there and say hello.” She starts to rise again.

  I grab her by the forearm and yank her down. “Not yet. We’re still in the reconnaissance phase of our mission.”

  “Well, what else do you want to know?”

  “Are the other guys actors?”

  Cluny focuses again on the table. “I don’t know. I recognize Sean Leeds and Brittany Wells, but I don’t know who those other two are.”

  “They always say when you see actors in person, they never look the way they do in the movies,” I remind her. “Just like the waitress told us.”

  A coy smile emerges on her lips. “I don’t know about that. Sean Leeds sure looks like Sean Leeds to me.”

  “Then who are they?”

  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.”

  Chapter 5

  An adverb tells us more about a verb and answers how, when, or where.

  Preparing carefully for an event can mean the

  difference between success and failure.

  Oh 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.”