by Mary Simses
Chapter 16
The object of a sentence is the entity that is acted upon by the subject.
She finds herself in the spotlight.
Peter takes my hand, and we walk to the edge of the green and onto the street. I’m still spinning from the kiss when I notice a man waving and coming toward us. I recognize his sandy hair, light complexion, and teeth, which are just a little too big for his face. It’s Mark McKechnie, one of the reporters for Channel 22 News. Trailing behind him is the cameraman from the apple pie contest.
“Peter,” Mark says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks again for the interview.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Peter turns to me. “Do you know Mark McKechnie? Channel Twenty-Two?”
“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” I say.
Peter introduces us. “Grace also grew up in Dorset,” he tells Mark. “We hadn’t seen each other in years, and we both ended up here in town at the same time.” He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head, and I feel a little zing go through my body. “Must be fate,” he says. He looks at me. “Mark did a little interview with me before the pie contest.”
Mark smiles, and his large teeth gleam. “We also got some footage of the race—the winners and…uh, the losers. I was wondering if I could maybe get you to say a few words about it on tape. I’m doing a little montage of the whole day here.”
Peter laughs. “The race? Oh, I could say a few words about it, all right. But you wouldn’t be able to broadcast them. We came in dead last, in case you didn’t notice. And it’s all Grace’s fault.” He gives me a playful jab in the ribs. “So maybe you should ask her.”
“Right.” I jab him back, less playfully.
“Oh, and she lives in Manhattan now, so you can put a nice small-town girl goes to the big city and comes back spin on it.”
Mark looks at me. “You know what? We could do that. How about it, Grace?”
What? He can’t be serious. “You really want to interview me about Founder’s Day?”
“Yeah,” Mark says. “I’ll just ask you a few questions.”
He is serious. Oh God, I wonder how my makeup looks. I stare at the grass stains on my white jeans. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Go ahead,” Peter says. “I’ve done mine. Now it’s your turn.”
I comb my hair with my fingers and dig into my handbag for a lipstick. “It’s just going to be a couple of questions, right?”
Mark signals to the cameraman, who has wandered over to a fried-clam booth nearby and is chatting with a young brunette. “Willie. Stop flirting and get back here.”
Next thing I know, I’m standing on the side of the street, with the village green and the gazebo behind me and the camera pointed at me, a little light on the front glowing red, telling me I’m being recorded. Mark asks when I moved from Dorset, how often I come back, and what I like best about Founder’s Day. After that, he launches into a few questions about the race. Did you have a plan going into it? What is Peter Brooks like as a partner in a three-legged race?
Then he changes the subject. “So, you’re here on vacation?”
“Yes,” I say, deciding I’ll leave out the lost job, lost boyfriend, and temporarily lost apartment.
“And how are you spending your vacation in your hometown, besides coming to Founder’s Day?”
I wonder if he thinks I’m just goofing off—sleeping late, eating ice cream, reading books. Actually, that sounds like what I’d originally planned to do. “I’m working,” I tell him, feeling very purposeful.
This elicits raised eyebrows. “You mean you have a job? While you’re here on vacation? That’s very enterprising.”
“Yes, I have a job. I’m working at the Bike Peddler.”
“The Bike Peddler,” Mark says. “Now there’s a business that’s been around a long time. What are you doing there?”
What am I doing? The red button on the camera glows like the eye of a wild animal. Peter gives me a smile and a thumbs-up. I can’t let him find out I’m just straightening up a bike-shop workroom. He still remembers me as the girl who won the tenth-grade essay competition and never lost a spelling bee. I’ve got to make it sound as though I’m doing something more important.
“Well, I’m…I’m a consultant. I’m consulting.”
“A consultant,” Mark repeats. “And what kind of consulting are you doing?”
I glance at Peter again. Little beads of perspiration trickle down my back. Aren’t there consultants who help people organize things? Who go in and sort through…stuff? I’m sure there are. I think I’ve seen ads for them on the Internet. “I’m an organizational…um, consultant,” I say. “An organizational efficiency consultant.” That sounds better. As though it might require an extra degree.
“An organizational effective…What was that?” Mark smiles and shakes his head.
“Efficiency. Organizational efficiency.”
“And what do you do as this, this consultant to the Bike Peddler?”
“Well, I…” I look at the red light again, and my mind starts to unravel like a loose hem. “Well, I have to…you know, organize things to make them more efficient…”
“So right now there’s no efficiency there,” Mark says.
That’s going a little too far. “I didn’t say that. What I can say—”
“So tell us what’s going on at the Bike Peddler that they need to hire a consultant from New York.”
What’s going on? How should I explain this? “Well, you see, I’ve been going there since I was a kid, and, truthfully, it’s always been kind of a mess. It needs a good makeover, for one thing. That would help them move ahead, stay competitive, shall we say? I think they just need to embrace change a bit more.”
“Embrace change. So are you saying the store hasn’t kept up with the times? That maybe it’s a little out of date?”
I hate to sound negative, but what he’s saying is true. “Yes, I think that’s right. They are outdated. I think they could do a lot better if they took a really good look at everything that’s there and reorganized. That would help them become more efficient.”
“Efficiency again,” Mark says. “I guess in your line of work you must see a lot of businesses that run into problems because of inefficiency.”
My line of work? Oh, right. I’m a consultant. “Yes, I do. It’s always sad to see. Very sad.”
“Well, I’ll bet the folks at the Bike Peddler hadn’t even realized how far behind the times they are. I’ll bet they’re glad to have you help bring them into the twenty-first century.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to suggest they’re not in the—”
“There you have it,” Mark says, pulling the microphone away from me. “Grace Hammond, organizational…”—he looks around nervously for a second—“consultant from New York City, has returned to Dorset. She may have lost the three-legged race, but she’s a winner where the Bike Peddler is concerned.”
The Zip Roddy Quartet begins to play in the gazebo, doing a cover of the Bruno Mars tune “Just the Way You Are.” The lawn around the gazebo is full now, with blankets and folding chairs and people everywhere. Peter and I are sitting on the grass, at the edge of the green, sharing fried oysters and drinking beer.
“We’re scheduled to wrap at the end of the week,” he says, taking another oyster from the paper plate.
The end of the week? Somehow I didn’t realize it was going to be so soon. “You are?” I say, wondering what’s going to happen after that. What it means for us.
“You should come to the shoot on Monday,” he says.
“The shoot?” Oh, no, we’re trying that again. I take a deep swig of beer as two women walk by pushing strollers.
“Or, wait a minute,” he says. “Better yet, come on Tuesday. We’ll be at the yacht club. That’ll be more fun.”
“Will my name be on the list this time?” I’m only half joking. I’m also wondering if Regan’s going to be there, but I’m afraid he might say yes,
so I don’t ask. I wonder if she gets a dressing room.
“Grace, of course you’ll be on the list. Don’t worry. I’m going to see to it myself.”
Thank God. “I’d love to come,” I tell him.
“When you get there, call my assistant, Cassandra.” He gives me her number and says something about the parking lot. “She’ll find you,” he says. “There won’t be any problems this time.”
We listen to the music for a while and then walk to the far side of the green, where there aren’t any people—just a small grove of maple trees. He leans me against a tree and draws me in with his blue eyes. They’re as deep as the quarry where we used to swim when we were teenagers.
He presses his lips to mine and kisses me, and I think about the Cinderella Ball and the kiss on the docks. I was just a kid then, and now here I am, seventeen years later, with all the flotsam and jetsam of those years still swirling around me, holding me under water: Renny’s death, my failed love life, my questionable career. I open my eyes and see Peter looking at me, and I feel as if I’ve finally come up to the surface.
Outside my bedroom window, the sun is setting, the evening light a whisper against the lace curtains. I’m lying on my bed, propped up with pillows, one of Mom’s home-decorating magazines on my lap. But I’m not looking at it. I’m gazing at the ceiling, at a little square patch of light coming from one of the windows. I’m thinking about Peter and the feeling of his lips on mine, his face against my face, the slight stubble on his cheeks, his arms around me.
I watch the sun lower itself toward the horizon, and I slump into the pillows, my eyelids heavy. Two birds are still singing, lone voices in an otherwise silent evening. I’m in that state just before sleep takes over when the ring of my phone jolts me awake.
“Grace, turn on the TV, right away.” It’s Cluny. “Channel Twenty-Two. They’re doing a thing on Founder’s Day after the commercials. Maybe they’ll show you and Peter in the race.”
I sit up and rub my eyes. “What did you say?”
“Channel Twenty-Two. Turn it on. Founder’s Day.”
I rummage through the drawer of the bedside table for the remote control. “Hold on. I’m getting there.” I find the remote and press the Power button. Maybe there will be a little clip about Peter and me losing the race but winning at love. I wonder if they caught that kiss. That’s just the kind of thing they do on Channel 22, and I usually think it’s corny, but this time I wouldn’t mind. The television springs to life with a detergent ad.
Then the Channel 22 News logo pops up, and the anchorman, George Steffans, says a few animated words about Founder’s Day, followed by, Our very own Mark McKechnie was there, and here’s what he saw.
Mark does a voice-over while the camera zooms in on a long table covered with apple pies and then cuts to Peter, standing in front of the tent. I’ve always considered Dorset my real home. There are a few shots of Peter and the other judges at the table, with plates lined up in front of them, a slice of pie on each. “And the winners are…,” Mark’s voice-over announces, and the scene switches to a crowd of people in front of the tent as the woman with the strawberry-blond hair reads off the names.
After that, there’s a clip of the vintage-car parade, and a stop at the historical-society booth, with a shot of the collie in the pinafore. “Even the dogs got in on the festivities,” Mark’s voice-over says. Then it’s on to the fire engine, where a little boy starts to cry and refuses to get out, followed by the Tara Jones ballroom dancers, nine- and ten-year-olds led by Tara herself, who does look like she’s a hundred and, judging by the way she’s swaying, also looks to be a little drunk. After that, the camera pans across the booths and the crowds in the street, and the piece finally ends with a clip from a speech by First Selectman Scott Danzberger, his hair still wet from the dunk tank.
“Peter looked good,” I tell Cluny. “I guess they aren’t showing any footage from the race, but maybe that’s just as well. I’d rather not relive our loss.”
“Oh, but that would have been funny,” she says. “To see you and Regan going at it.”
No, it wouldn’t have. I’m just about to turn off the television when George Steffans says, “Our next story is about one of Dorset’s most established businesses and how a very savvy former resident is teaching an old dog new tricks. We go back to Mark McKechnie for that story.”
Teaching an old dog new tricks? I don’t like the sound of that. I start to get a funny feeling in my stomach, and then I see my face on the screen.
“There you are!” Cluny says.
Oh, no, I look awful. I really could have used a hairbrush. And I can’t believe how high and whiny my voice sounds. But my answers seem okay. That is, until I mention the job. After that, it’s a quick and steady decline. It’s always been a mess. It needs a good makeover. They need to embrace change. By the end of the interview, I’ve made the Bike Peddler sound like a relic from the Stone Age. I feel as though I’ve swallowed a bag of cherries, pits and all.
There’s a heavy silence on the other end of the phone, as if the cable carrying our conversation has snapped. Finally, in a kind of dazed whisper, Cluny says, “What happened?”
I turn off the television and sit down on the bed. “Wow, that didn’t come out the way I’d planned.”
“Grace, why did you say those things about the bike shop?”
“I didn’t mean to, Cluny. Really. It just got out of control. And Peter was watching. He was standing right there. I was too embarrassed to say I was only cleaning up the workroom. I wanted him to think I was doing something important.”
“But it is important. At least, it is for them.”
I put the remote control back in the drawer. “Do you think they’ve seen it?”
“Scooter? The other guys in the shop? Of course. At least one of them will have seen it.”
I take a deep breath. “So what do I do now?”
There’s another long silence. “I don’t know, Grace. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court, I guess. Go in there on Monday and apologize. What else can you do? Do you remember the time Nancy Drew had to apologize because she was wrong about—”
“Cluny, I’m not ten anymore. This isn’t Nancy Drew. This is a serious problem. I feel like a creep, a traitor. I don’t want to go back there. I’m too ashamed about what I said.”
“You’ve got to move forward, Grace. That’s all you can do.”
We hang up, and I fall back against the mattress, my eyes on the ceiling. The little patch of light that was there before is gone.
Chapter 17
A transitive verb is a verb that has one or more objects.
The paparazzi have a tendency to chase celebrities.
I spend Sunday morning at home in my pajamas, dwelling on the TV interview, cringing as I mentally replay the things I said. All I want to do is watch old movies and eat ice cream, but when I check the freezer, there’s no ice cream left. I stand there with my hand on the freezer door, the realization hitting me that black raspberry chocolate chip is probably the only thing in the world that will cheer me up right now. So I throw on some clothes and head for 32 Degrees.
As usual, there’s a line extending out the door, and it’s all I can do to wait my turn. Inside, behind the long case of ice cream, Renée, the owner, and two college-aged girls are busy assembling cones and sundaes and floats while the milk shake machine whirs. I study the list of flavors posted on the wall. Black raspberry chocolate chip is there, thank God, along with about twenty others that sound tempting, including ginger, cinnamon coffee, chocolate hazelnut, peach, and juniper lemon. Now I’m not sure what I want.
The line moves forward, and I move with it. Maybe I’ll get a scoop of black raspberry chocolate chip and a scoop of cinnamon coffee. Or maybe I’ll go for something strictly fruity on the second scoop. That would be a lot healthier. Oh, who am I kidding? A man and woman ahead of me order the Works, which Peter and I used to get when we were kids—a sampling of eight different flavors o
f ice cream in a giant bowl. It’s no less than a work of art, a precariously balanced sculpture made of heaping scoops of ice cream.
“What can I get you?” one of the girls asks when I finally make it to the counter.
“I’ll have a scoop of black raspberry chocolate chip,” I tell her. “With a scoop of cinnamon coffee.” I shake my head. “No, wait, how about black raspberry chocolate chip with a scoop of peach.” I smile, certain I’ve added some vitamins there somewhere.
“Okay,” she says. “So, one black raspberry chocolate chip and one peach. Cone or cup?”
I wave my hand. “Cancel that. Sorry. Um, I think I’ll get three scoops. So leave the black raspberry chocolate chip, but I think I’d rather do…” I glance at the menu board again. “Let’s see…how about the butter pecan and the cookies and cream?”
“So, then, you want black raspberry chocolate chip, butter pecan, and cookies and cream.”
I nod.
“Cone or cup?”
“No, wait.”
The girl looks at the line behind me. I lower my voice. “Tell you what, just give me the Works.”
Out front are a half-dozen round tables with umbrellas. I take my Works, which the menu assures me contains a pint of ice cream or my money back, and sit down at a table as far away from everyone else as I can get. Then I methodically sample a spoonful of each flavor, and when I’ve done that I go back to the first scoop again.
A middle-aged couple sits down at a table near me. She’s got short, black, curly hair and big glasses; he’s got a potbelly and a gold neck chain. I’m focused intently on my third go-round of the flavors when I get the feeling the woman is staring at me. She whispers something to the man, and the next thing I know, the two of them stand up and approach me.
