Premiere: A Love Story (11 page)

“Peter, please, where are your manners, young man? Good hit, Sam. Nice work. Was he getting fresh with you?”

Sam continued to stare at Peter.
What the hell was that?
kept ringing in her head. He was drunk, and he was playing with her. For a blink, right before Grady came in, it looked as if he was going to kiss her.

Sam was angry. Peter was gracing his little hometown with his presence, and he had decided to mess with the hometown girl. Peter looked at her once more for a split second and then, rubbing his jaw, closed his eyes again. Sam walked right past Grady and toward the door. Grady dropped into the empty chair.

“No, Sam. Don’t leave, I think they’re opening gifts down there. Sounds dreadfully boring.”

Grady was clearly enjoying the awkwardness of his intrusion. Sam was not sure what game Peter was playing, but suddenly the games at the shower seemed a lot safer. She told herself it was the five beers, cursed herself for being foolish enough to play along, put on her fake smile, and walked down the stairs.

Chapter Eleven

S
usan Cathner was the only woman Sam knew who could pull off wearing capris with red, white, and blue pinstripes. Most women would look silly, even on the Fourth of July, but she looked festive and classic. Her mother wore them every year, sometimes with a white shirt, but mostly with a navy blue polo and cute little flip-flops sprinkled with glitter. She was a patriotic vision greeting guests at the front door for the Cathners’ annual Independence Day celebration.

Sam wore her solid red shorts and a dark blue denim shirt, tied at the waist. Her flip-flops were white and that was about as exciting as her patriotic outfit got. Still, she was genuinely excited for the party, a long-standing family tradition. Since before Sam was born they’d been breaking out steel buckets filled with cold beer and firing up her dad’s Lynx grill. Headquarters, as Jack Cathner called it, had grown over the years into a station of four grills, a sink, a full-size refrigerator, burners, and some hickory smoker thing Sam never understood. Jack was clearly an obsessed grill master and Fourth of July was his day to shine.

Sam looked out back and savored the gift of home, the simplicity of seeing her father, apron on, with a huge smile. She remembered being a little girl and pushing past her brother and his friends to help at the grill. The smell of smoke and her father’s big hands as he hoisted her up into his arms.

“You can be my co-captain, little nut. Co-grill-captain, that’s what you are,” and he’d kiss her on the cheek with his Saturday stubble.

She looked at him now, surrounded by his family, a family he’d worked hard to support, to love, and most importantly to keep laughing. He had his arm around Henry; Sam was sure they were telling some tasteless jokes before too many guests arrived or her mother overheard. Sam was still restless, but she felt a little less off-center when she was with her family.

The yard began to fill with guests dressed in patriotic colors. The only requirement on the invitation was that all guests must dress in red, white, and blue. It became a competition for many of their neighbors, friends, and relatives. Mrs. Gressling always wore a sundress that looked like Betsy Ross herself made it. Grady’s mother would arrive with a patriotic silk scarf tied around her neck, and April Everoad always wore the same stars-and-stripes skirt that she bought once at a boutique in Santa Barbara. People wore crazy hats, Bermuda shorts, and even carried purses with glittering American flags. Sam’s uncle always brought his big English bulldog wearing a coat saying “No More Taxation” over a Union Jack background.

It was a blast to see the turnout every year. It was a tradition. Without fail, no matter what was going on that year, her parents had their Independence Day barbecue. Sam loved that about them, their consistency. On days like this she saw the very best of her neighborhood. They were a community—not all the same, not cookie-cutter as many would have it—but a community rooted in traditions and relationships. There were plenty of ugly stories and scars to go around, but Sam chose, especially on days like this, to see everything that worked, everything that was right.

Sam was putting buns in baskets when Grady arrived with his family. The Senator and Mrs. Malendar came in first, carrying a covered desert, and raving about the new painting in the entryway. They were followed closely by Grady and Kara, beautiful, eternally stuck-up Kara, his younger sister. Sam smiled over her shoulder at Grady. He was a sight—for any woman, as she was well aware. Dark navy linen pants and a loose white linen shirt rolled to his elbows, tucked in barely, the whole thing pulled together with a red belt. Crystal blue eyes peeked out of his just-showered hair as he removed his sunglasses and shot Sam his killer, little-boy-with-a-secret grin. Grady Malendar was pretty devastating by anyone’s standards—and for the most part a wonderful guy.

Underneath all the posturing that came from the crap he grew up with and his own need to fill at least a portion of his father’s shoes, Grady was a loyal and funny friend. Sam had asked herself many times why she couldn’t simply fall head over heels in love with him and live happily ever after, but she had never felt that way for him. When they were in junior high school, he had been her very first kiss: at Sheila Fernell’s birthday party. But as they grew up, Sam and Grady were just good friends, and the rest took a backseat. Grady could never and would never want to handle a woman like Sam. She was too strong-willed with too many thoughts and not enough curves for Grady. So, they settled into being there for each other, and that was enough.

“Happy Independence Day, beautiful,” Grady said, sliding his arm around Sam’s waist.

“No fair copping a feel, I’m busy with the buns.”

“That sounds very interesting.”

Sam blushed, and his mission was accomplished. They both laughed as Grady kissed Sam’s mother on the cheek.

“I’ve never understood why men stay out of the kitchen,” he said, stealing a chip from the table, “the kitchen is where all the women are. This is where it’s at.”

“The kitchen is usually where the help is at, Grady. I suppose it all depends on whom you want to hang out with,” Kara said, setting her platter down.

“Sam, good to see you. Mrs. Cathner, interesting pants.”

They both nodded politely and, as she did every year, Kara floated by them and out to the patio. Kara was in a red, white, and blue wraparound dress, her long blonde hair tied back in a red ribbon. Her lips were tinted red, and her dark sunglasses hid what Sam knew were a stunning copy of Grady’s eyes. It was a shame all that perfection was wasted on someone so incredibly unlikable.

Grady chomped on another chip and rolled his eyes.

“Has she always been such a, well, bitch?”

“Grady Malendar, watch your tongue, you’re talking about you sister.”

He froze and looked at Sam’s mother.

“But, to answer your question, yes, we’ll always love her dearly, but yes, she has.”

They all laughed, and Grady hugged Mrs. Cathner.

“I should go mingle. Thank you, ladies, for brightening my day once again.”

Sam watched him through the kitchen window, as he joined their fathers at the grill. He extended a beer to each and seemed to fall right into the conversation.

“Well, the buns are done,” Sam said, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.

“Do you want me to bring them out?”

“No, just leave them there on the table. The caterers will bring the rest in a few minutes. I love their barbecue, but I’ve never been a fan of the . . .”

“Buns, I know. Did Henry bring these from Los Angeles this morning?”

She smiled.

“He did. I asked him to order the kaiser rolls early because they always run out. He brought extra hamburger buns too. I’m picky about my buns.”

She giggled like a schoolgirl, and Sam shook her head. Her mother was really the definition of young at heart.

“Go outside and relax. Everything’s under control in here,” her mother urged.

“I’d rather stay busy.”

“Something wrong?”

Susan knew Sam was having a hard time with Peter in town. But she hadn’t said anything. It was usually best to let Sam sort those feelings out on her own.

“No, fine. I just like to stay busy. When does the farmer’s market start today?”

“Eleven o’clock. They moved it up an hour because it gets so packed. You could go before lunch this year.”

“That’s the plan. I’ll go see if Dad wants anything and then head over. Tomatoes and avocados for you, anything else?”

“If that sprout guy is there, pick up some radish sprouts. I love those and Dr. Weil says . . .”

“Oh, boy. Radish sprouts it is,” Sam said, opening the door and escaping another wellness-after-sixty excerpt. Strawberries were added to the list, at her father’s request.

Sam walked around to the side gate and took one of the bikes from the rack by the garage. It was her mother’s: wide handlebars and a big basket on the front. Every year she snuck away to the farmer’s market in town, usually after lunch, but Sam was antsy this year. She felt nervous and knew Peter’s family would arrive any minute. Sam wasn’t sure if Peter would be with them, but she hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She needed to step away.

Peter had been at rehearsals all week, but they had not spoken since his little night out with Grady. He’d had five beers, she kept telling herself, but then she would picture his face and his hands, the need. Sam paused for a minute to catch her breath. The thought of Peter made her aware of her breathing, and that was annoying. She was clearly an idiot. What more did a person need to put her through before she stopped feeling? How could she even be in the same room with him after the mess he left? Sam let out a deep breath. She’d always had a weakness for Peter, maybe she always would. Just something else to accept about herself. Sam pushed up the kickstand and backed the bike out toward the driveway.

“Want some company?”

Sam jumped and the bike fell to the ground. She whipped around to face Peter, who was standing right beyond the house, and her sunglasses flew off her face.

“Christ! Jesus, where did you . . . ?”

Peter kneeled to pick up her glasses while she struggled with the bike.

“Sorry, you were in your own little world there. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sam snatched her sunglasses from his hand. Peter’s eyes were hidden behind his wired-rimmed shades which was a good thing because Sam was in shorts and she still had the most fantastic legs he’d ever seen. They were barely tan with the most adorable freckles at the knees. Peter felt his pulse quicken.
Really? You
’
re turned on by knee freckles? Pull it together, man.

Sam quickly put her glasses back on.

“You didn’t scare me. Well, maybe you did a little. Why the hell are you lurking in the bushes?”

She glanced at her legs in a flutter of insecurity, wondering if she was still too pasty white for red shorts.

“I’m not lurking. Your mom said you were going to the farmer’s market and I thought. . .”

“You thought you’d scare the crap out of me?”

“I’m not much into parties, and I thought I’d see if you wanted me to . . . Forget it.”

He turned toward the house. She should let him go. She told herself to get on the bike and let it go, but . . .

“Make sure you get one with a basket,” she said pointing to the bike rack, “we have a lot of requests,” Sam said as she hiked up onto the seat and started down the driveway.

Peter ran toward the bikes and was close behind her by the time she got to the street. They rode side by side on the wide neighborhood street in silence. Peter looked over at her every now and then. They both looked up at the sun twinkling through the huge trees that canopied above. Peter was rumpled and perfect, not Grady perfect, but perfect in Sam’s eyes. Khakis loose around his narrow hips, a navy blue T-shirt fitted over a much larger chest than she remembered, and leather flip-flops. His dark brown hair blew in the breeze. They pulled into the open-air market set around Victory Park and parked their bikes.

“Where’s your red?” Sam asked, collecting the empty bags out of her basket.

“What?”

“Red,” Sam stopped in front of him and forgot herself, the bike ride having made her silly.

Sheer stupidity set in when she touched his blue T-shirt and daringly the white rope belt that hung around his waist.

“Blue shirt, white belt . . . no red.”

Peter looked at her suspiciously for a beat and then took her hand gently and laid it right at the neck of his T-shirt. Sam could feel his chest moving in and out. She lost her words and her courage.

“Red,” he said, showing Sam a string necklace around his neck.

It was in fact red, white, and blue. She tried a casual smile as he let her hand drop. Peter’s mouth curled into a grin as he tried to steady himself.

“Do you enjoy doing that?” she asked.

“What? You touched me first.”

“Seriously? Okay, actually, I believe you touched me first. About four years ago. I should probably keep my distance. We all know how that turned out.”

It came out with a soft, sarcastic chuckle.

For some reason it felt good for Sam to make light of it. Maybe it was the warmth of the day, but she suddenly felt stronger and so tired of the weight and drama. Peter’s heart had jumped when she touched his chest and that made her feel in control and a lot less like the girl left behind.

“Oh, aren’t you quick with the clever quips this morning.”

Peter nudged her, and they both laughed.

They walked past a barbecue pork stand manned by big and bald Al from Al’s Chicks and Ribs. Sam nodded a hello, took a deep breath of his honey barbecue sauce, and felt ten years old again.

Peter walked next to her and took the empty bags as Sam started to pick out tomatoes.

“I haven’t been here in years. Remember when we used to come back three or four times in one day just to get another churro?”

“Correction, you and Grady would drag me back here so you two could get another churro.”