by Mary Simses
A story about a young woman whose sister has terminal cancer can really go in only one direction. Yet one of my versions included a last-minute, miracle cure developed by a handsome research physician/love interest. Another featured the discovery that the sister’s perfectly normal X-rays had accidentally been switched with those of a terminally ill patient. And those endings were the most credible of the bunch.
The night before the project was due, I jettisoned the ending altogether, and the next day I turned in an unfinished script. I remember Mrs. Semple looking at me with her quiet blue eyes and saying, Someday you’ll write the ending.
On the way out the door, I put the script on the Chippendale chest. Maybe I’ll look at it later. It’s sweet of my father to tell me he thinks it’s good. For that, I feel grateful.
I spend the morning sorting through piles of stuff on the worktable at the bike shop, asking Kevin and A.J. questions, taking pictures of parts and making new labels with names and photos on them. At noon I run out for lunch. When I return, a dozen women are crowded around the shop’s entrance, all talking at once. “I’m getting this framed!” one of them says, pressing a piece of paper to her heart. “Those eyes,” another says. “Oh my God. I’d follow him anywhere.”
I squeeze by them and open the door. Kevin is near the counter, emptying the saddlebag on one of the rental bikes. A.J. is adjusting the back wheel of a mountain bike while its owner, a gray-haired man, looks on. The usual rubbery smell of the shop has been replaced with something sweet. Almost too sweet. It smells like jasmine and that terrible perfume Catch Me!
“What’s going on?” I ask Kevin, trying not to inhale too deeply. “What are those women doing outside, and why does it smell in here?”
“I know,” he says, closing the saddlebag. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s awful.”
He steps behind the counter. “This dude came in a little while ago. He was looking at some of the bikes. Next thing I knew, all these ladies were in here. They were trying to make it look like they weren’t paying any attention to the guy, but they were definitely checking him out. I knew something was up. Then I realized it was Sean Leeds. I recognized him from Bullet Holes.”
“Sean Leeds was here?” Oh my God. How did I miss him?
Kevin shrugs. “Yeah. It was definitely him, except he looks a little shorter in person. Man, there must have been thirty ladies here, all going crazy, asking for his autograph. The dude was nice about it, though. He even did some selfies.”
Thirty women. I wonder if Porcine Thighs was here. “Did anybody get rowdy?”
“Uh, well, this one lady…she wanted Sean to sign her chest, and she was going to take off her shirt, but Mitch said no way, and he walked her outside. She looked almost as old as my mom. That was scary. And some of them had these bottles of perfume they were spraying, until Mitch got them to stop, because it was really stinking up the place.”
“So, did he buy a bike, or was he just browsing?”
Kevin runs his finger along the stubble on his chin. “Uh, nope. He was looking for you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. He asked for you. Said he went to your house first. Found out you were here.”
My house? “Did he say what he wanted?”
“No. When Mitch told him you weren’t here, he left.”
“That’s it? He didn’t leave a message? A phone number?”
“No, but he left something else.”
Kevin bends down, and when he stands up again he’s holding a huge orchid in a large clay pot. He places it on the counter. The orchid has a half-dozen long, green leaves and one twenty-inch bloom spike that shoots from its base into a tall, graceful arch. Attached to the bloom spike are nine massive blossoms—white with flecks of maroon.
“Wow.”
I step closer. It’s some kind of cambria. Not your usual grocery store orchid. Nothing you could find around here, that’s for sure.
“There’s a note,” Kevin says, handing me a small envelope.
I rip it open.
Grace,
Thanks for the dance the other night.
I’m hoping you might start a new collection.
Maybe this can be the first.
Yours,
Sean
I read the note again. A new collection. This can be the first. I turn the words over in my mind as I study the tiny dots of color on the orchid’s petals. I can feel Kevin staring at me, but I can’t stop smiling. Maybe Peter’s forgotten about me, but it’s nice to know that not everyone else has.
Kevin tilts his head. “So you and Sean Leeds are…like, friends?”
“Yeah, we’re friends.”
The bells above the door ring, and three young women stroll in. “Gotta get to work,” Kevin says. As he walks toward the women, I hear him mutter, “Sean Leeds…Cool.”
I pick up the orchid and head into the workroom, where Renny’s bike leans against the wall, untouched. A blue Fuji mountain bike is on one of the repair stands. The front wheel is off, and Mitch is removing the stem, the piece that connects the handlebars to the rest of the bike. I wonder when someone will start to work on the Schwinn.
“You just missed all the excitement,” Mitch says. “Hollywood came to the Bike Peddler. And apparently Hollywood was looking for you.”
“So I hear.” I try to keep my tone casual, as though I’m used to people like Sean Leeds inquiring after my whereabouts. I place the orchid on the file cabinet and drop my handbag into the drawer.
Mitch slides the fork, which holds the front wheel in place, off the bike. “Course, I could have done without the sideshow. Those women were nuts. Autographs, selfies; some of them were spraying that perfume you were wearing yesterday.” He gives me a cursory glance. “I had to put a stop to that. This is a bike shop after all, not Sephora.”
“Right,” I say. “Without that rubbery smell, people might not know.”
“I was afraid the lady with the thighs might be here and I’d have to wrestle her to the ground and confiscate her jasmine.”
I laugh. “I heard you did have to escort one unruly fan outside.”
“News travels fast. Who told you that?”
I pick up a seat post clamp from the worktable and deposit it in a container where several others are stored. “Kevin did. Something about an autograph on her chest?”
“I guess she ran out of paper.”
“Well, Sean does attract the ladies. He’s a popular guy.” I watch as Mitch taps the fork with a hammer and some metal rings fall to the floor.
“Looks to me like you attracted him.”
“What?”
“Sean Leeds. He brought you an orchid.” Mitch glances at the file cabinet. “So now you really are hanging with the Hollywood crowd.”
Here we go again. “I barely know him. I just had a little talk with him one night.” I pick up a round piece of metal that looks like a ring. “What’s this?”
“That’s a headset bearing. It goes in one of those.” He points to the small plastic drawers above the worktable, half of which bear my new labels showing the names and photos of the parts inside. “By the way,” he says, “good idea with the labels.”
So he noticed the labels. And he likes them. Amazing.
“And the table looks a hell of a lot better.”
So he noticed that, too. I feel proud of my work.
Mitch picks up a new fork from the table. “Didn’t you dance with him at a party?” he says, and I realize he’s still talking about Sean.
“How did you hear about that?” I open and close several unlabeled drawers, looking for the place where the bearing belongs. “Is there an underground newspaper in town I don’t know about?”
“Everybody heard about that. This is Dorset, remember. The story is that you danced with him in a greenhouse.”
“Oh my God, you really did hear everything. Yes, we were in a greenhouse, with orchids. That’s why he got me an orchid.” All of a sudden I’m feelin
g defensive. Why does Mitch make me feel that way?
“So,” he says, “you danced with Sean, you’re dating the director. I’d say you’re in pretty good company there, Hollywood.” He slides the new fork onto the bike frame.
“Mitch, I’m not from Hollywood. I live in New York, but I’m from Dorset. Just like you. I’m a small-town girl. Not glitzy, not flashy, and definitely not Hollywood.” I find a drawer with the word Bearings scrawled on a faded label, and I drop the piece into it. “And, although I wish I were dating the director, I’m not. He didn’t even have my name on the list to get into the movie shoot yesterday. After he invited me.”
Mitch puts the handlebars on the bike. “Maybe they only allow one guest at a time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Regan Moxley was there, right? Maybe there’s a limit on the number of people who they let come watch.”
“There really is an underground newspaper here. You knew Regan was there?”
“That was in the real newspaper, Grace. There’s a photo on the front page.”
“The front page of the Review?”
“Yeah. There’s a copy on the counter, if you want to see it.”
I rush into the store and grab the paper, and right there on the front is a photo that makes my stomach lurch. Peter is smiling and pointing to something on a video monitor. And standing next to him, looking at him with dark, adoring eyes, is Regan.
The headline reads, DIRECTOR REVIEWS FOOTAGE WITH DORSET’S NEWEST ACTRESS. I feel my throat tighten as I read the caption.
Film director and former resident Peter Brooks views a scene from yesterday’s filming of By Any Chance, with resident Regan Moxley. Moxley, who came to watch the action, was later given a small part in the movie. “She’s a natural,” Brooks said. “She was born to act.”
I throw the paper on the counter. Regan got a part in the movie. An actual part. How is that even possible? He won’t let me in to watch, but he gives Regan a part. I feel something start to tear inside me, and I just want to cry.
But I don’t. I walk back into the workroom and stand in front of the table, looking at everything I still have to organize. I can feel Mitch staring at me. There’s an awkward stretch of silence, and then he says, “Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. That’s what I’d like to say. I watch as he puts the front wheel back on the Fuji, and I’m about to tell him I’m fine. But then I look at Renny’s Schwinn again, and the thing that’s tearing apart inside me rips even further.
“Is somebody going to get started on my bike?” My voice is wobbling, and I stop for a second to bring it under control. The last thing I want to do is cry. “I can’t take looking at it any longer. I’ll work extra hours if I need to, but I’d really appreciate it if someone could begin working on it.”
Mitch peers at me, his mouth ajar. “Well, yeah. We’ll get it done,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ll have A.J. start on it tomorrow.” He takes the Fuji off the repair stand and leans it against the end of the worktable. “Are you still planning to ride it in the challenge?”
“I don’t think I’m going to do the challenge,” I tell him. “I haven’t really been on a bike in years. I only signed up because Regan was making such a big deal about it. I felt I had to compete with her.” I pick up another bearing and let it fall into the plastic drawer. “But obviously I can’t.”
Mitch walks over to Renny’s bike, lifts it up, and sets it in the repair stand.
“Are you going to begin working on it?” I ask, feeling a sudden rush of hope.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re doing your part of the deal, so I’ll do mine.”
“Fantastic,” I say, stepping closer to the bike and imagining it with a new seat that’s not rotted and peeling, wheel spokes that aren’t gray and oxidized, tires that aren’t flat and cracked, and a chain that’s not coated in rust. “I can’t believe you’re going to take this whole bike apart and put it back together.” The prospect seems daunting, but also thrilling.
He runs his hand along the top tube. “I’ve rebuilt plenty of old bikes, and it’s always interesting. You usually run into some kind of challenge. Sometimes you’ll have a nut that’s frozen on there because it hasn’t been moved for a long time, and it just doesn’t want to come off.”
I hope that doesn’t happen with Renny’s bike. “What do you do? I mean, if you can’t get it off?”
“Oh, I’ll get it off,” he says. “With this.” He picks up a can of WD-40 from the table. “Sometimes, with a part that’s stubborn, you’ve got to spray it, leave it for a while, loosen it a little, spray it again, leave it, loosen it. It can take a couple of days.”
“Just to get one bolt off?”
“Sure, sometimes,” he says, putting the WD-40 back on the table. “That’s part of the challenge of taking something old apart and reassembling it as something new, something better. Sometimes you need a few days just to get one bolt off, but you’ve got to have a clean slate before you can put the bike back together.”
You’ve also got to have a lot of patience. My father might, at least if he had the mechanical inclination. I can see him in here, tinkering with a bike the way he tinkers with his puzzles. I’d never have the patience for it.
“So where do you start?” I ask.
“With the wheels,” Mitch says. He flips the quick-release lever on the front wheel, removes the wheel, and leans it against the wall. Then he does the same with the back wheel. “Next, I have to get the chain off. Once that’s done, I’ll start taking off the cranks so I can get to the bottom bracket.”
“The crankset is here, and the bottom bracket’s there, right?” I point to the parts.
“Uh, yeah. That’s right.”
“The bottom bracket connects the crankset to the bike and lets the crankset rotate,” I add.
Mitch gives me a curious look. “Yeah, right again. Are you taking a class at night or something?”
I laugh, feeling good that I’ve done my homework.
“Okay, so, now the chain,” he says as he picks up a metal tool that looks like a T. He places it around a section of the Paramount’s chain. Then he turns to me. “Hey, why don’t you do this?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You’re learning about bikes.”
I move closer. “What do I do?”
“Just turn the top of this tool a few times. Right here.” He points to the horizontal part of the T. “It will break one of the pins in the chain.”
“Okay.” I grab the tool and give it a few turns. The more I turn, the harder it gets.
“Keep going,” he says.
I turn the tool again, and suddenly, the old, rusty chain gives way. It breaks apart and falls to the cement floor, landing with a clank. I look at the broken chain and think about how many years it was on that bike. It could have stayed on there forever, but then the bike wouldn’t work. It had to come off. There’s something almost freeing in knowing this is the first step in turning around this bike, in taking it from something run-down and unusable to something vibrant and functioning. I think about what Mitch said. You’ve got to have a clean slate before you can put something back together.
We pedal down Main Street. I’m on a rental from the shop, a black Trek road bike, and Mitch is slightly ahead of me, on his own carbon-fiber Trek. I overheard Kevin say it cost eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand!
“Really,” Mitch says, “all you’ll need is a little training, and you’ll be able to handle the Dorset Challenge. You don’t have to do the fifty-mile ride. There’s one that’s twenty-five.”
Twenty-five miles. I’m not so sure I can do that, although the Trek feels pretty good, much lighter and quicker than my old Raleigh. I have a sudden sense of liberation being outside, my own legs propelling me, the freewheel making its soft ticking sound as I coast.
Downtown seems so much different on a bike than in a car—so much busier. Drivers whiz by, people cross in the middle of the street, other b
ikers race past, tourists move in packs on the sidewalk. But soon we’re off Main Street, heading down quiet roads where graceful trees dip their branches and the air is cooler. These are roads I haven’t seen from the seat of a bike in years.
We pass a field where a man is riding a lawn mower, and the sweet scent of green, fresh-cut grass fills my lungs. We ride by yards where golden day lilies and yellow coreopsis and purple hydrangeas climb through gardens. Passing a stream, I hear water gurgle over rocks and notice dappled sunlight falling through the trees. Farther on, a black Lab bounds toward me, tail wagging, and races me along the edge of a wide lawn. At the end of the property, he stops and barks, an invitation to return.
Mitch waves me forward, and I ride up beside him. “I think we’ll do about ten miles,” he says. “Round-trip.”
“Are you crazy? That’s too far.”
“No, it’s not. You can do it.”
I give him a dirty look, and the image of Mitch as a drill sergeant comes to mind, with me struggling to lift a thirty-pound weight in each hand and him counting, Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
A chipmunk scurries along the shoulder and into the woods. “Just don’t take me on a ton of big hills.”
“Oh, I won’t take you on a ton.”
“Or any.”
“Grace,” he says as we go around a bend, “you can’t avoid hills. This is Connecticut, remember. Not Manhattan.”
A half hour later we’re somewhere just north of Dorset, on a road where houses are tucked back in the trees. I’m winded. We’ve been up and down a number of hills, some small, some not so small, and Mitch still refuses to tell me where we’re going. I don’t recognize the road we’re on now, and I see another hill ahead of us. This one’s big, very big, so big it looks as if it goes straight up. I downshift, and I downshift again, and pretty soon, I’m all the way down to first gear, and I’m still struggling. Mitch, who is ahead of me, finally turns, and when he sees how far behind I am, he rides down the hill to rejoin me.
