by Mary Simses
“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.”
Chapter 18
A gerund is a noun formed by adding ing to a verb.
Working can be enjoyable when everyone gets along.
By Monday, all thoughts of ice cream and Sean Leeds are gone. The morning brings a steely sky filled with black, smoky clouds and air so heavy, I can taste the ozone. The few people on Main Street scurry along, as though sensing they’ll get caught in a downpour at any moment.
I’m relieved to find a parking space right across the street from the bike shop, knowing I’ll be able to make a beeline to my car if it’s pouring at the end of the day. I’m standing by the car, trying to stuff my phone and my spiral notebook and a bottle of water into my handbag, when I drop the notebook. It lands, open, on the street, and when I pick it up, I see handwriting on one of the pages. But it’s not my handwriting; it’s my father’s.
It’s a poem about seeds—how they blow around, looking for a place to land and take root, and whether there are seeds that blow around forever. It’s about a lot more than that, of course, but that’s what sticks with me. I read the poem several times, trying each time to come up with a different interpretation, but, no matter how I look at it, I know this poem is about Renny. She’s the seed the wind blew away, the seed that never took root. He’ll always be thinking about Renny. Renny will always come first. I take a deep breath to stop my chin from trembling. Then I slip the notebook into my handbag and cross the street.
When I open the door to the Bike Peddler, Kevin is arranging new cycling helmets on the shelf. He glances at me. A.J. is ringing up a plastic rain jacket for a customer. He gives me a perfunctory nod. There are no friendly hellos or chatty conversations, the way there usually are when I arrive.
As soon as I walk into the workroom, before I even put my handbag in the drawer of the file cabinet, Mitch closes the door, and the room feels as though it’s been reduced to a closet. He glares at me.
“Why the hell did you say those things about the store?”
I stand there, frozen, staring at the name Thatcher Academy on his T-shirt, my mouth going dry. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Let me explain.”
“Why did you say that we’re—what was it? We’re not competitive, we’re old-fashioned and behind the times, and we need to come into the twenty-first century.”
“I didn’t say that last part.”
“You didn’t have to. The news guy did.” Mitch grabs an old cable from the worktable and throws it into the trash. The muscles in his face are taut. I can hear him breathing.
“I didn’t mean to say all of that stuff. The guy was pushing me into it. I tried to explain at the end, but he wouldn’t let me.”
Mitch slams a drawer in the tool chest, sending its contents clanking. “Looks as if you didn’t try hard enough, because it sounds like we’re a bunch of idiots here. Why did you do it?”
Thunder rumbles in the distance. I lean against the file cabinet, the limbs in my body heavy and useless. It was all because of Peter. Because I wanted to impress Peter. But I can’t tell that to Mitch. He’ll think worse of me than he already does.
“I didn’t mean to do anything that would hurt the store. The interview just got away from me. I guess I didn’t realize what I was saying.”
“It got away from you? You didn’t realize what you were saying? How could you not realize—you, the girl with the Sharpie, who came in here correcting our flyers and talking about the difference between complimentary with an i and complementary with an e? The one who goes around correcting menus in restaurants? Isn’t that your special talent—understanding language? And now you want me to believe you had no control over your own words?”
My words. My special talent. He’s right. I should have been able to control my words. But he’s hitting me in my most vulnerable spot, making me feel like a failure at the one thing I know I can do.
I cross my arms. “You know, maybe the store could use a little updating. Did you ever think of that? It’s basically been this way for the past thirty years. You’ve just added more stuff.”
“Are you serious?” he says. “You come in here knowing absolutely nothing about bikes and tell me what we need to do?” He looks at me with disgust, takes a wrench off the table, and throws it into one of the drawers.
“Yes, you need updating. Look around. Maybe you’d get more business if you straightened the place out a little. Once every thirty years wouldn’t be so bad.” I pull the wrench out of the drawer where Mitch tossed it and drop it into the drawer where it belongs. It lands with a clatter.
He takes a step closer. “You think you’re so smart. We don’t need your advice on how the store should look or how it should be run or on anything. You know, when we were in the apple orchard and at the lighthouse, I thought we knew each other better. I thought maybe I could trust you. But you’ve turned against me. It’s clear you don’t belong here. Maybe Hollywood is a better place for you.”
I step closer, too, and now I’m right in his face. “I said I was sorry, and I am. You could accept my apology.”
“Well, the damage is done, so being sorry doesn’t help.”
“Then I don’t know what else I can do, Mitch. You just want to be angry, so go ahead. Be angry. See how far that gets you. Good luck with it.” I kick a small box lying on the floor. It rips and breaks open, and hundreds of bolts go flying under the worktable, behind the bikes and wheels, around the trash can. And then everything is quiet.
“I can’t have you working here anymore,” he says, lowering his voice, his gaze fixed on the upended box.
“What do you mean?” Rain begins to tap against the roof.
“This isn’t working out, Grace. My dad doesn’t know about the TV story. He didn’t see the news. Thank God. So I want you to go out there and tell him…”
He glances around the room, at the new crates, with their neat labels, at the new pegboard, where I’ve got the cone wrenches and the spoke wrenches and the headset wrenches neatly displayed.
When I open the workroom door and step into the store, I’m greeted by the sound of rain crashing against the plate-glass windows. Thunder rumbles, sending vibrations like shivers down the walls. For a moment, I can’t move. I stand by the counter, biting my lip, trying to calm myself. It’s just a job. Just a temporary job. It wasn’t meant to be anything more than that.
I peek into the office. Scooter is there, sitting at the desk, thumbing through a catalog. I give a gentle rap on the doorjamb. “May I come in?”
He looks up. “Hey there, Grace. Sure, come on in. Have a seat.”
I sit down on the folding chair opposite the desk.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, turning another page.
I’m so relieved he doesn’t know what happened. “It had its ups and downs. How was yours?”
“I’m still here,” he says with his usual grin.
I don’t want to tell him I’m leaving. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I came in here complaining about how the workroom needed to be cleaned up and reorganized, and he was counting on me to do it. There’s so much more I’d planned on accomplishing. I guess that’s why I feel so bad, why everything hurts right now, physically hurts. I know I have to tell him, but I don’t want to.
“What have you got there, Scooter?”
“Oh, this?” He closes the catalog and holds it up. Raleigh 1970. The finest bicycles made in England by Raleigh. There’s a photo of a man and woman sitting by a river, a huge wooden ship docked nearby. The woman is wearing a jumper with a long-sleeved blouse, and the man is dressed in brown pants and a brown sweater. In the foreground three different Raleigh bikes are displayed.
“Nineteen seventy,” I say as he hands the booklet to me.
“Don’t you love those clothes?” He chuckles.