The Rules of Love & Grammar (16 page)

“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.

“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.