The Rules of Love & Grammar (25 page)

“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.

 

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 of 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.

“Weren't you on the news last night?” the woman asks, her breath smelling slightly of garlic. “I think I saw you on TV.” She stares at my giant bowl of ice cream.

This can't be happening. That's the last thing I want to talk about. “On TV?” I try to laugh it off. “No, that's impossible. I've never been on TV.” I cover my ice cream with a napkin and hope they'll leave.

“You weren't at Founder's Day?” she asks.

I screw up my face. “What's Founder's Day?”

She points a finger at me. “Yeah, that was you. You're some kind of organizer guru. You're from Dorset, but now you live in New York.”

“Actually, I'm from Alaska. And I still live there.” I wish they would leave and let me eat my Works in peace, before the whole thing melts.

“Hey, do you do closets?” she asks as more people stream out of the shop and onto the patio. “We could really use somebody like you. And our basement—Mickey likes to collect magnets. I keep telling him to sort them, get them in some kind of order. You know, magnets from different states in one section, countries in another, animals, TV characters…” She moves her hand through the air as though she's pinpointing the places where they'll go. “They could be worth a fortune. He's got thousands.”

“It sounds lovely,” I say. “But I think you're confusing me with someone else.” I can almost hear my pint of ice cream melting, all eight individual flavors merging into a homogenized pool of brown slop.

The woman looks away, as though consulting her memory. Then she says, “That's so weird. The girl on the news looked just like you.”

“Maybe I have a double,” I tell her.

“You must. You could be twins!” she exclaims. “Right, Mickey?”

The man nods, his gold necklace blinking. “Yeah, Marge. Twins.”

Marge squints. “You sure that wasn't you?”

I'm about to grab my Works and run when I hear a familiar voice.

“Excuse me, but this woman happens to be
my
organizer, and we're actually scheduled to meet right now.”

I look up, and there's Sean. He's dressed all in gray—T-shirt, jeans, sunglasses—and he's sporting a day-old beard.

“Oh, my!” Marge says, brushing her curls from her face and straightening her glasses. “Sean Leeds! I loved you in
Purple Cowboys.
Did you really ride all those horses yourself?”

Mickey nudges her. “They don't ride the horses themselves, Marge. They have stunt people do that. Right?” He looks to Sean for confirmation.

I glance around the patio. It feels as though everyone is watching us, even the people who are clearly pretending they're not. There's a buzz of excitement, people speaking louder than normal, laughing more.

“I bet
he
rides the horses himself,” Marge says. “Big, strong guy like him.” Her eyelids flutter as she places her hand on Sean's biceps.

Sean gently removes her hand and smiles. “I didn't ride the horses. Your husband is right.”

“Aw, well, you looked good, anyway,” Marge says with a wink.

“Thank you. Now if you don't mind, I really do—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Leeds.” Three teenage girls appear at the table. “Could we please, oh, please, get a selfie with you?” The one in the middle makes a praying gesture.

“Of course,” Sean says, and the girls jump up and down, shrieking. They take a few selfies, giggle, and run off.

“Mr. Leeds, Mr. Leeds.” It's a group of tanned twenty-something women this time. “We've seen all of your movies,” one of them says. “Twice.” They take a number of photos, rearranging their positions several times so each one can stand next to Sean, first on his right side, then his left.

More and more people gather, all of them with cell phones in hand, a few with pens and paper as well. One woman holds a bottle of Catch Me!, and the smell of jasmine wafts through the air.

“You might need this,” I say, handing Sean one of my Sharpies as he gets ready to sign a napkin. I watch him pose with a family of four and then with two good-looking men who make some jokes about dating him, but I think they're serious.

“Hey, can I get a selfie with you, too?” a young girl asks me. “I saw you on TV last night.”

I take a step back. “Oh, no. I don't think so. I mean, I'm not really even anybody. Or a star. I mean, I'm not a star. Thanks, but not right now.” Oh God, I just want to get out of here.

There must be thirty people in line now, and more are swarming in from the village green, across the street. Cars are starting to slow down, drivers and passengers gawking and honking and yelling Sean's name.

“Yes, thank you,” I hear him tell a fan. “I'm so glad you liked it.” He extricates himself from a group and grabs me by the arm. “We've got to get out of here,” he whispers. “Any place close by where we can hide out until this blows over?”

“The pond,” I tell him as more people try to squeeze in around the tables. “Behind the firehouse.”

“I'll follow you,” he says. “Let's go right after I sign that lady's perfume bottle. On the count of three.”

“Affirmative.”

Sean signs the bottle and then grabs my hand. “One, two, three!” he says, and we're off, running down Main Street to the end of the block, where we turn onto Breakwater Road; cutting through the property behind the building where my pediatrician used to have his office, and down the driveway by the Forrester Design Group; and then running across to Hampshire Lane and turning onto the path near the firehouse, through the trees, and then into the clearing.

By the time we reach the pond, where several ducks glide silently on the water, we're laughing and out of breath.

“We left them in the dust,” Sean says. “Great getaway.”

“Do you have to do that every day?” I ask, still winded. “My God.”

“Oh, I could tell you stories,” he says, looking skyward.

“You know, somebody back there asked me for my autograph.”

“Really. See? That's how it starts. Pretty soon, you'll have to travel under an assumed name.”

I laugh. “Speaking of assumed names, I tried to find out where you were staying. I wanted to thank you for that orchid. But the woman at the Dorset Inn said they don't reveal the names of their guests.” I put a couple of quarters into a duck-food dispenser, and a scoop of cracked corn falls into my hands.

“I'm not there, anyway,” he says. “I'm renting a house.”

“Ah, right. I should have figured.” I pour half the corn into Sean's hands.

“I'm glad you like the orchid,” he says.

“I love it. It's incredible. And my mother went crazy when she saw it.” I don't tell him he could have given me a plain old spider plant and she would have been just as excited. “She's a huge fan of yours.”

He looks embarrassed. “Really?”

“Yes. In fact, if I don't get my own selfie with you, she'll never forgive me.”

The ducks begin to swim toward the bank where we're standing. “We can arrange that,” he says.

“I was hoping we could.”

“How long are you staying in town, anyway?” he asks.

“At least until my dad's party. After that, it depends on when they get my ceiling fixed.” The ducks waddle out of the water, honking at us, and we scatter some corn on the ground for them.

“What happened to your ceiling?”

“There was a leak above my apartment, and part of the ceiling caved in.”

“And what's the party?”

“That's for my dad's sixty-fifth birthday. It's on Saturday. My mom planned the whole thing.”

“Sounds nice. I mean the party, not the ceiling.”

“Yeah. My mother's great at that stuff. It's going to be under a tent, in the backyard, overlooking the water. There's a band coming. And Sunrise Catering is doing the food. They're fantastic. Mom's really thrown herself into the planning, getting the yard in shape and all. It looks beautiful.”

We walk toward a bench that faces the pond. “Hey, you should come,” I say as we sit down. “I'm inviting Peter, too. I'd love to have you, and my mother would absolutely die if you showed up.”

Sean gives me an apologetic look. “We're hoping to wrap before then. Otherwise, I'd take you up on that offer.”

I feel myself blush. “Oh, right.” I can't believe I invited Sean Leeds to my father's party. Of course he wouldn't want to come. How ridiculous of me to ask. And I'd forgotten that Peter will probably be gone by then, too, an even bigger disappointment. He said they'd be wrapping by the end of the week. “Then I guess Peter will be leaving as well.”

“I don't know what his plans are,” Sean says. “He seems to keep changing them.”

I wonder what that means and if he might be staying a little longer.

“Peter's a good guy,” Sean says. “A real straight shooter, which can be hard to find in Hollywood. I consider him a close friend.”

“I'm sure he feels the same way about you.”

Sean puts his hands behind his head and stretches. I study the reflections of the trees and sky in the pond as a gray squirrel shinnies up an oak.

“God, I love this town,” Sean says. “I don't want to leave. I can see why Peter wanted to come back.”

“You could always visit.”

He turns to me. “Yeah, I could. But I probably won't. You know how that goes. You get busy and…”

“I know. I haven't been too good about visiting Dorset myself.”

“Really? But you're in Manhattan, right? It can't be that far.”

“It's only a couple of hours by train. It's not the physical distance that's the issue.”

“Well, if I were you I'd be here a lot. You're lucky to have this place.”

I gaze at the pond, the maple trees and the elms, the yellow coneflowers and purple milkweed, the ducks gliding by. “Yeah, I guess I am.”