The Rules of Love & Grammar

by Mary Simses

  “Yeah, that’s crazy,” Buddy says. “She would never do that. You’re getting carried away here.”

  I glare at Mitch. The light above the table casts an eerie orange glow over his face. I feel a vein in my neck start to twitch. “I’ll tell you what,” I say, my tone cold and clipped. “When I come into the shop tomorrow, I’ll ask your dad what he wants to do. As far as I’m concerned, it’s his decision, not yours.” My hands shake as I lay the cue stick on the table. “But you’re totally wrong about me. And, from the looks of your pool game, I’d say the only hustler around here is you!”

  Chapter 10

  A possessive noun shows ownership.

  The woman’s persistence cannot be underestimated.

  My mind reeling, I race through Ernie’s, and when I step outside I plow straight into a man on his way in.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was my—”

  “Grace, it’s you.” He smiles.

  “Peter.” I let out a deep breath, and then I throw my arms around him.

  “Hey, are you all right? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, letting go. “Just glad to see you.” I feel a little embarrassed, but his kind face is such a welcome sight after that Mitch. And he looks so handsome in his jeans, his faded green T-shirt, and his brown cowboy boots. It must have taken someone a year to tool the detail on those boots.

  “I was going to call you today,” he says. “But I was in the middle of a thousand disasters, and the time just got away from me.” His eyes light up. “And now here you are.”

  I’m caught in his smile, and I think how wonderful it feels to have him back in Dorset, to see him in front of Ernie’s. And this time he’s alone. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” I say. “What happened?”

  He frowns. “It’s more like what didn’t happen. The producers were giving me grief about Cici Thorne, telling me she’s expensive and she’s not in enough of the scenes.” He blows a puff of air through his cheeks. “Believe me, she’s in enough of the scenes. And then a company that paid for a product placement, supposedly with no strings attached—now they also want us to mention the product. In the middle of a scene where Sean and Brittany are kissing on the beach. It’s antifreeze. For cars. How do you write that into a love scene?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I can think of a couple of ways you could get it in there. Metaphorically, of course.”

  “They don’t want metaphors.”

  He glances at the door, and I try, subtly, to block his way. I can’t go back in there. I don’t want to run into Mitch again. “It sounds like a horrible day.”

  “Yeah, on top of all that, we had a ton of rewrites, so we ran way over.”

  “Rewrites?” I ask, pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about and wondering how long I can keep him out here.

  “Script rewrites.”

  “Got it.”

  He glances at the door again. “Are you going back in?”

  “Uh, no, I wasn’t planning to. Why, are you?”

  He looks a little confused. “Well, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, right.” I move away from the door. “You know, it might not be such a good idea to go in there.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with Ernie’s?”

  “It’s crawling with people tonight. You wouldn’t get a minute’s peace, with all the fans.”

  “People don’t tend to recognize me, Grace. Not the way they do Sean or Brittany.”

  “Oh, no, they would. In fact, I overheard a lot of people say they wanted to get your autograph or get a selfie with you.”

  “Really?” He smiles and glances around, as though some of them might be out here right now. “Well, I don’t mind that. This is my hometown. If people want autographs or selfies, they can have them.”

  “Yes, but it’s so crowded. You wouldn’t be able to get your food for at least an hour.”

  He looks as though he’s considering this. Then he says, “But it’s Monday night. How crowded can it be?”

  “Oh, extremely crowded,” I say. “There’s a…a motorcycle gang that always comes on Monday nights. From up north.”

  He gives me a skeptical glance. “A motorcycle gang?”

  “Yes, so it’s crowded and dangerous. You really shouldn’t go in there.”

  He looks toward the parking lot. “I don’t see any motorcycles.”

  “Well, the thing is, on Monday nights they like to walk.”

  “The motorcycle gang members walk?”

  “Absolutely. That’s how they get their exercise.”

  He scratches his cheek and studies me. “Ah, well, I think I’ll take my chances. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink if you’ve already had dinner.” He reaches for the door.

  I block the way again, this time not so subtly. “Okay, but there’s something else.”

  He steps back. “Now what?”

  “Well, it’s…the food.” I grimace. “It’s not what it used to be. I really think we should go somewhere else.”

  “But I was here just last night. And the night before. The food was great.”

  “That may be.” I give him a concerned look. “But it’s like Russian roulette. You never know when you’re going to get that bad meal. I heard a guy had to get his stomach pumped last week.”

  “From eating here?” He looks alarmed.

  “Just saying.”

  Suddenly the door swings open and bumps against us. It’s Mitch. He looks at me as if he’s surprised I’m still here, and then he glances at Peter.

  “Excuse me,” he says gruffly as he steps between us.

  Peter watches him walk across the street. “Who’s that?”

  “Just a guy I know.”

  Mitch stops and glares at me. “Yeah, I’m the pool hustler!”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Oh, yes, you did!” He heads toward the parking lot.

  “That must have been some game of pool,” Peter says.

  I take a deep breath and step toward the door. “Okay, shall we go in?”

  “I thought you said the motorcycle gang is in there.”

  I glance at my watch. “They’re probably gone by now. Out the back way. I forgot, they come in for the early-bird special.”

  “What about the food? Russian roulette? Stomach pumping?”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. “Oh my God, I was just kidding. The food’s great here.” I open the door before he can say anything else.

  Sitting at the bar for the second time tonight, I study the list of desserts while Peter scans the dinner menu. There’s a blackberry and apple crumble, which has a fruit filling and a crunchy topping; a treacle tart that’s kind of like a pie, with buttery pastry and a thick filling made with syrup; trifle, with layers of custard, sponge cake, jelly, and whipped cream; and a few strictly American desserts, including a hot fudge sundae. Peter orders the fish and chips, and something warm stirs in my heart. It’s just like old times. I order the sundae.

  “They still have that?” Peter says, lowering his voice and placing his hand on my wrist. “With the walnuts and that really great whipped cream?” He stares straight into my eyes, as though this is the most important question in the whole world. I know he’s just kidding around, but I feel as though I’m on fire.

  “Yes, they do,” I reply, my voice low and husky. And then I add, barely above a whisper, “With the walnuts and whipped cream.”

  “Mmm,” he says. “And the homemade fudge sauce they used to serve in the little gravy boat?” He tilts his head. “They still have that, too?”

  I’m trapped in his gaze. “Yes. They have the homemade fudge sauce.”

  “And it’s the same?” His hand lingers on my wrist. “Just the same?” he whispers.

  “It’s exactly the same,” I whisper back, hoping he won’t let go. “Some things never change.”

  He leans in a little closer. “That’s good to know.”

  I think maybe he’s going to kis
s me, but then the bartender comes back. “Did you say you wanted coleslaw with that order, sir?”

  Peter pulls away, releasing his hand from my arm. “Oh, sure, yeah,” he says. “Coleslaw would be good.”

  I can still feel the warmth of his hand and his face so close to mine. I want to get him out of here. I want to go somewhere quiet, where we can be alone.

  “Why don’t we take the food to my house?” I say. “My parents are having dinner at a friend’s, and we’ll have a much more comfortable place to talk.”

  “I’d love to,” he says, without a second’s hesitation.

  I can barely sit still waiting for our food. Finally, the bartender hands Peter his bag of fish and chips. Then he puts separate containers of vanilla bean ice cream, whipped cream, candied walnuts, and hot fudge sauce in another bag for me.

  “Do you remember where the house is?” I ask when we step outside. “At the end of Salt Meadow?”

  “Of course,” he says, and I realize I’d forgotten how his eyes get just a little crinkly when he smiles. I’d forgotten how his nose has the tiniest angle to it, as though it’s positioned one or two degrees off kilter. It’s something you’d never notice unless you looked closely.

  “Okay, then,” I tell him. “I’ll see you there.”

  I watch him walk to a light-blue Audi convertible and open the door. I can’t believe he’s getting into his car and coming to my house. It’s been so many years. My mouth is dry.

  I’m parked farther back in the lot, and when I drive to the front, I see that Peter is waiting for me, his headlights throwing halos on the pavement. I drive around his car, and he follows me. As we leave Main Street, I roll down the windows and breathe in the night air. The temperature has dropped to about seventy degrees. At a stoplight, crickets chirp a steady rhythm, the heartbeat of summer. It’s the same sound that hummed around the two of us on nights just like this, when we’d sit on the village green and talk about rock bands and where we wanted to live when we grew up and how our parents didn’t understand anything. And now it’s all coming around again.

  We arrive at the house a few minutes later, and Peter opens my car door and escorts me up the front steps, where moths bat at the lanterns. When we step inside, the sconces in the foyer cast a warm yellow glow over the mirror, the Chippendale chest, and the hooked rug of lavender snapdragons. The house has its own peculiar scent of salt air, well-worn wood, and a hint of lemon that I think comes from the dusting spray the housekeeper uses. I wonder if Peter notices it, too.

  He looks around, taking in everything. “I remember all this. The stairway, this foyer.” He taps the top of the chest. “Even this Chippendale chest. Didn’t your parents used to keep batteries in the top drawer? I remember getting some for a flashlight one night during a storm when the power went out and we were doing our homework together.”

  I open the drawer. He looks inside and picks up a package of triple As. “Still there,” he says.

  “Not much has changed,” I tell him. “They’ve bought new furniture here and there, of course, and they renovated the kitchen and bathrooms last winter, but the bones of the house are the same.” We walk down the hall, toward the kitchen. “It’s kind of surprising my mother didn’t go blasting through the walls, the way she does in other people’s homes. I’m sure she would have if it weren’t…” I let my words hang in the air. If it weren’t for Renny. That’s what I was going to say. That she likes to keep the house pretty much the way it was when Renny was alive. But I say nothing.

  “Is your mom…?” He pauses as he stands in the kitchen doorway. “Wasn’t she an architect?”

  “Yeah, she still is.” He hasn’t forgotten a thing. I wonder if he knows how fast he’s running away with my heart, right here, right now.

  He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, stops, and looks around. “Wow, I remember being in this room so many times.”

  I put the food on the table.

  “How many bags of popcorn did we microwave in this kitchen?” he asks.

  I laugh as I take a plate and a couple of bowls from the cabinet. “I couldn’t even guess. A hundred?” I put his fish and chips on the plate.

  “Remember that science project you and I worked on in here?” He looks away. “Something to do with magnesium and the growth rate of plants. Your mom was really interested in it. Didn’t she love gardening?”

  I can’t believe he remembers that science project. I haven’t thought about it in years, but now a vision hovers in front of me—green barley seedlings, like little sprouts of grass. “I think that was in Mr. Tomasino’s class. Chemistry or biology, maybe. Wasn’t it?” I pull out a couple of chairs.

  “Yeah, Tomasino,” Peter says as we sit down at the table. “Remember the bets people had about whether or not he wore a hairpiece?” He cuts into a piece of fish, and I watch the steam rise.

  “He definitely wore a hairpiece.”

  Peter nods. “I’m with you on that one.”

  I remove the containers from the ice cream sundae bag and I open each one. Then I dip the tip of my spoon into the whipped cream. “Wow, that’s as good as ever.” I can’t help but marvel at how thick and sweet it is.

  I spoon some of the ice cream into one of the bowls. Then I grab a handful of walnuts, which look as if they’ve been seared in brown sugar, and drop them on top of the ice cream. I follow that with fudge sauce and a mound of whipped cream.

  “Oh my God, it’s fantastic,” I say after taking a bite. I glance at Peter, but he’s looking toward the windows, at the sapphire darkness beyond. A motorboat glides by, its green starboard light winking at us.

  “Dorset High,” he says, his voice far away, as though he’s tunneled deep inside an old memory. “We had some crazy times at that place.” He shakes his head and watches the motorboat until the light is gone. “I really hated to leave here when we moved. I was so angry at my parents for taking us away. And I couldn’t stand Arizona.” He puts down his fork. “It probably wasn’t a bad place, but I hated being there because everyone I cared about was here.”

  I wonder, is he talking about me? “It had to be hard to leave the place where you grew up,” I say, rushing to fill the silence.

  He looks at me. “I’m sorry we moved at such a bad time, Grace. So close to Renny’s…” He pauses for a second. “Renny’s accident.”

  Fifteen days, I want to say. You moved exactly fifteen days later. But I don’t say it. “It wasn’t your fault you had to leave then.”

  “No, but I should have been better about keeping in touch.” He gazes at the copper pots dangling over the island. “With everything you must have been going through, I should have done more. I just didn’t know what to say.” He reaches out and touches my hand, runs his fingers over mine. “I really didn’t know what to say.” His voice is so quiet, I barely hear the words.

  “Of course you didn’t, Peter. How could you? I’d shut down. With everybody. My parents, you, Cluny. Everybody.” My chest aches. I feel as if everything is slowing down around me.

  He takes my hand in his, and my fingers begin to perspire. “You know, that day we said good-bye?” I ask, trying to steady my breath. “I was angry. I was angry at Renny. I was angry at myself, my parents. I was angry at the policeman who came to the house and told us, and I guess I was angry at you, too. I know it doesn’t make any sense.” I feel tears coming on, and I do my best to hold them back.

  “It’s all right. I get it, Grace. I know.” He leans in, a little closer. “It was an awful thing that happened. She was your sister.”

  No, it was more than that, I want to say. It was a lot more than that. I wonder if everyone walks around feeling guilt over the death of a loved one. If only I had (fill in the blank), if only I was (fill in the blank). They’re like boulders, these thoughts, weighing me down. But if I tell him what really happened, what will he think of me? The truth will set you free. People say that all the time, but does it really work that way?

  “Yes,” I say
. “She was my sister.”

  We sit there for a while, the house creaking and settling around us, katydids buzzing in rhythmic bursts beneath the open windows. The bell on a buoy rings in the distance.

  “You want to know the really weird thing?” Peter says.

  I look at him.

  “My dad had to leave right away, to start his new job in Phoenix, but my mom and Randy and I could have stayed here a while longer. Mom could have taken her time moving.” He picks up a spoon and absently turns it between his fingers. “The reason why she insisted we pack up every table, bookcase, plate, and toothbrush and go out to Arizona with my dad was because she thought he was having an affair with somebody in the Phoenix office. She didn’t want him out there alone.” He takes the spoon, slowly stirs the river of ice cream and fudge sauce in my bowl, and then lets the spoon drop. It hits the bowl with a clank.

  “Oh, no,” I say, and I can’t help but see the sadness in his eyes. That famous Brooks smile is gone.

  He leans back in his chair. “My poor mom. She should have just let him go. I mean, he was having an affair, and they ended up getting divorced anyway. So all of us leaving Dorset and rushing out there was for nothing. I guess I still haven’t forgiven him for that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That must have been really tough on you and Randy.”

  “We wanted to come back here,” Peter says, his eyes returning to the window. “But Mom was so demoralized. Said she needed a fresh start. That’s how we ended up in California. She had a friend in L.A., who got her a job at a postproduction company.”

  “Is that how you got into making movies?”

  “That was a lot of it, yeah.”

  I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. After a minute, he gets up and walks to one of the windows and presses his face to the screen. “I remember you had a great view from here, being on the point and all.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to see much now. It’s pretty dark out there. We do have lights, though.”

  I walk to the wall and press a switch, illuminating the oak and maple trees on the lawn behind the house, sending a glow down the yard, past the place where we used to hang the hammock, all the way to the sound, where the light ruffles the water. A crescent moon, like a thin scrap of silver, shines in an ink-black sky.