The Rules of Love & Grammar (3 page)

“What's that?” Cluny looks over my shoulder. “Uh-oh, what are you doing?”

“It's a flyer for a bike trip. There's a typo.” I take the stack from the counter.

Cluny grabs the Sharpie. “Hey, come on,” she whispers. “You're not at your old job anymore. They might not like you fixing their stuff.” She glances toward the door, where the bike-store guy is standing now, still in conversation with the mother.

“But if I've noticed it, so will everybody else. And it's wrong.” I pull the marker from her hand. “Do you know what came across my desk the day before they cut our whole department?” I ask, continuing my corrections. “A bag of
chivda.
It's this Indian snack with rice flakes and things in it. The bag said,
Bombay Garden Chivda, The Taste of People.
Can you imagine? As if there were ground-up people in there.”

“Yuck,” Cluny says, making a face.

“Exactly. So much for computer translations. It reminded me of that old movie
Soylent Green,
where everybody's living in the future and they've run out of food, so they're eating ground-up people.”

“Stop.” She raises her hand.

“Anyway, my point is, being correct does matter. It can mean the difference between
The Taste of People
and
The Taste People Love.
” Just as I'm about to aim my Sharpie at the next flyer, I hear a voice.

“Excuse me. What are you doing?”

I look up. The bike-store guy is staring at me with those brown eyes.

“Bye, Mitch,” the mother calls as she and her daughter leave.

“I'm just fixing these,” I tell him. “You've got a typo here. A typographical error.” I smile.

“I know what a typo is,” he says. “And I don't need our flyers fixed.” That lock of hair is still in the middle of his forehead. I wonder if he realizes it. He grabs the flyers, but I clutch them tighter.

“I can fix these in sixty seconds,” I say. “Even less—I mean fewer. I'm just trying to be helpful.”

Mitch tugs harder. “Stop messing with them.”

“Come on, Grace,” Cluny says. “Let's get out of here.”

“But they're
wrong,
” I say, holding on tighter.

Maybe it's the sugar from the cookie crunch I ate last night, but for some reason I just can't let go of those flyers. Mitch and I keep tugging until he pulls so hard, I lose my balance and stumble backward, crashing into a bike, which crashes into another and causes a domino effect. In a few seconds a dozen bikes have fallen, and I'm tangled up in several of them, one of my sneakers caught in the spokes of a wheel.

“Ow, my back.”

Cluny rushes to pull the bikes off me. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know. I think so.” I start to get up.

“Here.” Mitch extends his hand. “Let me help.”

“No, no, I'm fine,” I say, too embarrassed to accept his offer. I pick myself up and survey the mess. Most of the flyers have scattered across the floor, but several are blowing through the air, propelled by two large, elevated fans.

“I'll clean this up,” I say as I begin to gather the papers.

Cluny joins me. “Yes,” she says. “We'll have this picked up in just a minute.”

“No, you should sit down so you don't break anything,” Mitch says. At first I think he's talking about my legs, but then I'm not so sure. He snatches a flyer from the air.

“I'm fine,” I say. “And we want to help.” I grab a flyer that's stuck to the back of a fan, the paper fluttering at the suction from the blades. I place the rest of them in a pile on the counter. “I'm really sorry.”

He gives me an exasperated look. “Do you always go around fixing what other people write? Even when they haven't asked you to do it?”

“She gets a little carried away sometimes,” Cluny says. “She has three copies of
The Elements of Style.
” She looks at Mitch, who doesn't seem to be registering this. “Strunk and White?”

He doesn't say anything. I wonder if he's even heard of the book. Probably not. He begins to pick up the bikes I knocked over.

“I didn't mean to mess up everything,” I tell him, although when I glance around the room, I can't help but think the place looked pretty disorganized already. Cluny and I move to help, but Mitch puts his hand up, halting us.

“No, I've got this,” he says. “You've done enough already.”

I don't think he means that in a good way. I'm about to tell Cluny we should leave and find another bike shop when Mitch notices the Schwinn leaning against the side of the counter. He walks toward the bike. “What's this? Is it yours?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “It's a Schwinn.”

“I know,” he says. “A Paramount.” He runs his hand gently over the seat. “These were great bikes,” he says, his voice quiet, studied. “Top-of-the-line for their time. This one here—she's got to be over thirty years old.”

“I'd like to get it fixed,” I say.

He bends down to take a closer look. He examines the frame, his eyes wandering over the grime on the tubes, the rust spots on the chrome, the bits and pieces of the Paramount name still visible under the mess. He looks at the wheels and runs his fingers along a few of the spokes. He nods at the rusted chain and derailleur. He picks up the cracked cables, noting the wires underneath, and lets them fall back into place.

“It could use some work,” he says. “Looks as if it's been stored in a damp place and just forgotten.” He brushes a piece of flaking leather off the seat. “Everything needs to be replaced or repaired.” He looks up at me. “But we can do it.”

“That's what I was hoping to hear,” I say as a young guy with a beard and a little hoop earring steps from a doorway to the left of the checkout counter and wheels a gray bike across the floor.

Mitch straightens up. “So you didn't just come here to correct our flyers, then.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, a sliver of a smile on his face.

“No,” I whisper. “I didn't.”

“Well, you've got two options here,” he says. “We can fix her up using new parts.” He runs his hand over the front brake. “Or we can do a restoration and use original parts—Weinmann Carrera side brakes, Shimano gears, Brooks saddle, that kind of thing.” He begins to pick at the dried black tape around the right handlebar, pieces of it falling to the floor. “Then the bike would look like it did when you bought it.”

I don't tell him I didn't buy it, that it was Renny's. I just nod. All I wanted to do was get the bike cleaned and working again. I wasn't planning to do anything special with it. But the vision of a restored bike with vintage parts begins to blossom in my heart.

Mitch continues to pick away at the tape until it's gone and what remains is a section of shiny silver, a vision of the way the bike looked when Renny had it. And now I have my answer.

“I'd like to restore it,” I say.

“I think you'll be happy with the result,” he says. “Why don't you give me your name and number, and I'll call you after we price it out?”

He passes an index card to me, and I jot down my info.

Picking up the card, he holds it close to his face. “Grace Hammond.”

“Yes,” I say, ready for the usual question. “I'm related to the poet D. H. Hammond. He's my dad. And, no, I don't write poetry.”

“Poetry?” he asks, looking a little confused. “I was just going to ask what these last two numbers are. I can't read them.”

“Oh.” I grab the card and rewrite the digits.

The bells above the door ring, and a very tall, stick-thin woman in skinny jeans and platform sandals walks into the store. She has a big head of wavy, blond hair that she flips off her shoulder as she struts to the counter.

“Mitchell,” she says, in a low Southern drawl. “How ya doin' today, darlin'?”

Her voice sounds familiar, and I'm trying to place it when she turns to Cluny and says, “Hey there.”

“Hello, Regan,” Cluny answers.

And I know exactly who it is: Regan Moxley. Her family moved to Dorset from Texas when we were in middle school. She was always a troublemaker. In seventh grade she told Cluny and me that we were supposed to get on bus eight for a field trip to the natural history museum when it was really bus two, and we ended up at a
Sesame Street Live
show with all the little kids. But that was nothing compared with twelfth grade, when she stole my boyfriend, Grover Holland, from me. I heard she'd moved back to town.

“Regan, you remember Grace?” Cluny says, never one to forget her manners. “From high school?”

Regan steps back, looks me up and down, and smiles. “Grace? Oh, hi there. I didn't recognize you.” I can just tell what she's thinking.
You look like you gained a little weight.
Trust Regan to notice the five pounds I'm constantly trying to lose.

She turns to Mitch, who is behind the counter, removing an inner tube from a box. “Mitchell, did my mountain bike come in yet?” she asks, batting her eyes at him.

“Not yet, Regan. The beginning of next week, remember?”

She purses her lips. “Hmm, okay. Just thought I'd check.” She looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Didn't your hair used to be a couple of shades lighter, Grace? Almost blond? Maybe that's why I didn't recognize you. You know, some highlights would really brighten it up.” She runs her hand through her own hair. “You might want to consider that.”

“Yeah, I'll keep it in mind, Regan.”

She stares at my hair for another moment and then says, “So, what brings you to town, Grace? Visiting family?” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, wait, I heard there's some big party coming up for your dad.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Seems like a lot of people are going, although I never got my invitation.” She laughs as though she's joking, but I detect a serious undertone. Regan has never liked being excluded from anything.

“It's mostly family,” I tell her. “And some close friends of my parents.”

“Ah,” she says. “And do you have a date coming out from New York to join you? I heard you live in the city.” She steps toward a blue mountain bike on a stand.

“No, I'm not bringing anyone from New York,” I say, wondering why Regan Moxley still has the ability to put me on the defensive. I sneak a peek at her left hand to see if she's wearing a wedding band. She married Roger Webber, the captain of the football team, but I heard they divorced ages ago. I don't see a ring.

Regan glances up from the blue bike as she runs her hand lightly over its seat. “A single girl in the big city.” She looks at Mitch, who is holding a hand brake lever and writing something on a pad, and she gives him a little smile.

“Actually,” I say, stepping closer to the counter, “I'm not single. This is my date right here.” I plant my hand firmly on Mitch's toned arm. It's rock solid.

He looks at me, a brief shimmer of surprise in his eyes.

I grin. “We've been going out now for…oh, four or five weeks, I guess. Right, Mitch?”

“I think it's more like six,” he says, catching on. “Maybe even seven. I've lost track, it's been such a whirlwind romance. Even in that short time, though, I feel as if I've gotten to know you so well—all of your interests, your endearing little habits…” He glances at the stack of flyers and then looks back at me, as though he's stifling a grin.

Cluny bites her lip, and I hope she doesn't laugh.

“I feel the same way, sweetie.” I give Mitch's arm a playful squeeze.

“Well, that's so nice,” Regan says. “I didn't realize you were involved with anyone, Mitch.”

“He likes to keep that stuff kind of private,” I say, giving him a wink.

He winks back.

Regan slips her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I saw your cards in Nutmeg Market,” she tells Cluny. “They've got such a big display of them now. Business must be good.”

“Yes, it is,” Cluny says. “Thanks.”

Business is really good, but Cluny's too modest to tell Regan her cards are now in more than two hundred gift, gourmet, and specialty stores across the country.

“Well, I've got a few ideas for you,” Regan says as she picks up a pair of sunglasses from a display on the counter. “For your cards—if you're interested.”

Cluny shoots me a glance. I know my mouth is half-open. I can't believe the nerve. “Oh, sure, yeah,” Cluny says. “Thanks, Regan. I'll let you know.”

Regan puts the sunglasses on, appraises herself in a bicycle mirror, and then returns the glasses to the counter display. “And what about you, Grace? What kind of work are you doin' these days?”

Oh God, the dreaded question. I'm not about to admit to Regan that I'm out of work.

“She's a proofreader,” Mitch says before I can come up with a reply. “Get out your
Elements of Style.
”

“You're a proofreader? I thought you'd be some big-time writer by now. I mean, the way Mr. Palmieri used to talk about you in English class.”

“I'm not a proofreader.”

“It's a private joke,” Cluny says.

“Actually, I review computer translations and fix the mistakes,” I say, standing up a little straighter.

Regan just stares at me.

“Here's an example. Have you ever heard of
chivda?
”

“Chiv what?” She squints.

“Soylent Green,”
Mitch says as he picks up a stack of mail. I see him grin.

“What kind of soy?” Regan asks.

“Never mind,” I say.

“What are you doing with yourself, Regan?” Cluny asks, and I silently thank her for changing the subject. I can't wait to hear the answer. The only thing I ever remember Regan doing well was flirting.

“Oh, me? I own the bookstore,” she says, flicking back her hair.