Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  But their excitement wasn’t even in the same stratosphere as mine when I opened the present from Alex that he’d sneakily arranged for Gordon—who was rapidly become a fixture at our family gatherings—to put under the tree.

  My jaw dropped as I lifted out the pair of black stiletto boots, and Shirley Temple returned. “Oh my goodness! Manolos!”

  “Gesundheit,” Jordy said.

  I raised the soft leather to my face and inhaled. Who needs sex? Or even a kiss, for that matter? The Casablanca love song began to play in my head, then abruptly screeched to a halt. All I got him was a clock and that paltry paperweight . . .

  “Wow, Aunt Phoebe, he must really like you,” Ashley, my fashionista niece said. “Manolo Blahniks are expensive.”

  “I know!”

  Note to self: Begin planning wedding. After a gift like this, surely it won’t be long now. Wonder if I can wear them under my wedding dress?

  Mom looked at my boots and frowned. “How expensive?”

  “At least five hundred dollars,” Ashley blurted out before I had a chance to stop her. “Probably more.”

  My mother frowned again. “Doesn’t seem a very appropriate gift from someone you’ve just started dating. A little too intimate, I’d say.”

  “Well, they are special. But remember, five hundred dollars to Alex is like twenty bucks to us. And it’s not like he gave me lingerie or anything.” I slid my feet into heaven. “They’re even the right size! How’d he know?” I looked at my mother.

  She shrugged. “I certainly didn’t tell him.”

  My head swiveled to Karen and the girls, who were shaking their heads. “Not us.”

  “Don’t look at me, Pheebert,” Jordy said. “I have no clue about your sizes and wouldn’t even attempt to guess.” He grinned at his wife.

  “That’s one thing I’ve learned over the years.”

  The mystery of the right-size Manolos was finally solved when Lindsey called later to wish me Merry Christmas and wasn’t at all surprised by my gift. “I should have known it was you, Lins. Thanks, best friend.” I flexed my boot-clad foot and preened. “The man really has great taste.”

  “We already knew that. He’s dating you, isn’t he?”

  Oh, Lindsey, why are you there and I’m here?

  And why, for goodness’ sakes, is Alex Spencer way over yonder?

  On the evening of Christmas day, after all the food was eaten, the eggnog drunk, the wrapping paper cleared away, and tired, happy kids put to bed, I’d gone home to my little garage apartment to e-mail Alex—and was thrilled to find an e-mail from him already waiting.

  To: Movielovr

  From: Filmguy791

  Happy Christmas, Phoebe, as we say over here. Hope you and your family had a wonderful time celebrating the birth of the King of kings. They released my father from hospital last night, so we kept things simple and had a nice quiet holiday at home—with the best Christmas pudding, I might add. Sorry you missed it. Know you’d have loved it. Must run; more food and carol singing still to come. Give everyone my best. And God bless you every one.

  Warmly, The Fruitcake Evangelist

  I dissected his e-mail line by line. Polite, pleasant, and spiritual, with a touch of dry wit. High points for etiquette, but low points on the romantic love-meter scale. He never said he missed me—although he did say he was sorry I missed the fruitcake . . .

  I looked over at my new boots, perched resplendently on my kitchen table. How could I even think that Alex Spencer was lacking in the romantic department? I reread the e-mail, this time between the lines.

  I know! What he really meant was that he was sorry I wasn’t there with him to share the holiday. Yes, that’s it. He’s just not very touchy-feely or comfortable expressing his feelings on paper, which is also why he said “warmly” rather than “love” in his closing.

  I felt much better having figured that out. Now it was my turn.

  Careful not to be too clingy or pushy. Be appropriately appreciative of his to-die-for gift, but also be witty and clever so that he’ll miss you and hurry back to Barley.

  To: Filmguy791

  From: Movielovr

  Merry, I mean, Happy Christmas to you too, Mr. Fruitcake Evangelist. So glad your father’s back home and you were all able to spend the holiday together. Jacob loved his remote-control car, by the way, but not as much as I loved my gorgeous boots! Thank you. I’ve wanted a pair of Manolos forever. No fair, though. We said we’d exchange gifts when you got back. (Yours is still under my tree.) Any idea yet when you’re returning? Please wish your family Happy Christmas—and don’t save a piece of fruitcake for me. God bless,

  Your never-going-to-convert-to-fruitcake woman

  I read it over carefully before sending, making sure I’d hit all the right notes. Uh-oh. Does the “but not as much as I loved” sound like Jacob didn’t love the remote-control car? I arrowed up and changed the comma after “by the way” into a period, deleted the “but not as much as” and changed it to read “And I loved my gorgeous boots.” Then I changed my closing line from “Your” to “The” and hit send.

  First thing tomorrow I’ll start thinking about a better gift for Alex.Something a little more meaningful.

  Maybe I could write him a poem . . .

  I began to compose love lines in my head, which soon led me down another track.

  I wonder if he’ll want to get married in England or in Barley?

  On New Year’s Eve, the whole town turned out for the Bijou celebration, happy to ring in the New Year in our beautifully decorated theater.

  With my Alex—after the Manolos, I felt more than justified thinking of him that way—still in absentia across the pond, I’d been tempted to skip the party. But Mom and Gordon insisted I come since the fundraising drive had been my idea in the first place. Good thing, too. The mayor gave a speech and thanked me for my efforts, the theater manager gave me a three-month free popcorn pass, and the crowd applauded.

  After all the hoopla died down, I scanned the lobby and noticed I was the only person in the room without a date. Everywhere I looked was like the Ark—with every creature paired off.

  Except for old Mr. Soames, standing over by the lounges. But that didn’t count. I mean, who’s there to go out with after you’re ninety?

  I spoke too soon. A spry, blue-haired beauty in a red-velvet pantsuit studded with rhinestones made a beeline from the restroom to his eagerly proffered arm.

  Note to self: In future, stay home and wash hair or insert bamboo shoots under fingernails rather than subject one’s dateless self to pathetic public scrutiny.

  Just then I caught sight of my old high-school boyfriend, Travis, and his new bride, Jenny, kissing and making goo-goo eyes at each other. Behind them I spotted Jordy and Karen and, next to them, Jeff and Amy dancing cheek to cheek.

  Romance was definitely in the air.

  Just not the air I breathed.

  I glanced down at my Manolo-clad feet. Think of the boots. Think of the boots and what they mean. Alex can’t help it if he’s stuck in England.

  Not wanting to be there when everyone started kissing at midnight—especially since Bruce Hubert had been sending me flirtatious looks all evening behind a purple-sequined Sylvia’s back—I started edging to the exit. So intent was I on making a clean getaway, I didn’t notice Mom and Gordon lurking nearby.

  “Phoebe, where are you going?” My mother looked at her watch.

  “It’s still forty-five minutes ’til midnight.”

  “I know, Mom, but I’m exhausted. And I have this awful headache . . .”

  Liar.

  “I think I’ll just go home to bed.”

  “We’ll take you, dear.”

  I saw an expression of dismay flit across Gordon’s face as she started to collect her coat.

  “No, you stay,” I insisted. “My car’s just over at the Bulletin. Think I’ll just go home, take a nice hot bath, pop some aspirin, and go to bed.” I kissed her cheek. “Happy N
ew Year.” I nodded and gave a wide smile to Gordon. “You too, boss.” Then I leaned over and whispered in my mom’s ear. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Phoebe!” She blushed and swatted at me.

  “Happy New Year, everyone.” I pasted on the most genuine smile I could and offered a happy wave good-night.

  The minute I was outside and trudging toward my car, my perky demeanor drooped. “So much for ringing in the New Year with a boyfriend for a change.”

  And this year I don’t even have any girlfriends to commiserate with.

  Lins was all the way in Cleveland, and Mary Jo was visiting her sister in Southern California.

  It helped a little to slip into my trusty yellow Bug. We’d been through a lot together. But not even the cheerful rosebud in its little automotive bud vase could cheer me up significantly.

  Times like these call for . . . chocolate.

  Checking my glove-box stash, I found nothing but a wadded-up Snickers wrapper. I smoothed it out and licked it in hopes of discovering a fleck of chocolate or two, but no such luck. Tuning the radio to my favorite oldies station, I tried to lose myself in the music. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again, Naturally” blared from the speakers.

  I smacked the off button.

  Once home in my apartment over Karen and Jordy’s garage, I shed my boots and fancy velvet in favor of comfy flannel. Still in need of some chocolate sustenance, I grabbed the box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars I kept on hand for the kids and upended it on the counter. The last cellophane-wrapped two-pack tumbled out. Tearing it open with ravenous fingers, I wolfed it down. But it wasn’t enough.

  My I Love Lucy cookie jar beckoned from the end of the counter. I ripped Lucy’s head off and peered inside. Empty.

  What am I thinking? It’s six days after Christmas. Of course there wouldn’t be any holiday cookies left. Although . . . wait a minute, what’s that? Looks like a few crumbs on the bottom.

  I turned the cookie jar upside down, shook out the crumbs, and moistened my fingertip to lift the crumbs from the Formica.

  Still didn’t slake my chocolate thirst.

  I rooted around in my single-girl cupboards: rice cakes, granola, tuna in water, fat-free chili, sugar-free Jell-O, macaroni and cheese, flour and other baking stuffs.

  Baking stuffs? Light bulb! Maybe I still had some chocolate chips left over from my supplemental Christmas-cookie baking.

  Ah, success.

  I plopped down on the couch, just my half bag of chips and me, and hit the remote to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

  Talk about more than pathetic. Next thing you know I’ll be a crotchety old woman living alone with only her cats for company. Although it worked for Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s . . .

  Except, of course, she wasn’t old. And could never, ever be considered crotchety. And she had the delicious George Peppard living in the apartment upstairs.

  My kitten, Herman, purred and rubbed against my leg.

  “Bad timing, boy.”

  Noticing a drop of milk on his whiskers, I suddenly remembered the ice cream in the freezer. I grabbed the Ben and Jerry’s chocolate-chip cookie dough and started singing the mournful refrain “All by Myself.”

  How very Bridget Jones of you. Can you say cliché? Snap out of it! I told myself in Cher’s no-nonsense Moonstruck voice. With a decisive snap, I replaced the lid of the ice cream carton and shoved it back into the recesses of the freezer.

  Then my mother’s recessive housecleaning genes kicked in, along with some “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” pride: I’m not some lonely, pathetic thirty-something single woman drowning her sorrows in ice cream. I’m a strong, intelligent woman with a cute apartment and plenty of friends, who doesn’t need a man to make her complete. And besides, I do have a man. A wonderful man. He’s just not here at the moment.

  Popping in a little Avril Lavigne, I turned on my vacuum and ushered in the New Year wondering why things had to be so complicated.

  My mom always cleaned to Barry Manilow or Elvis, but I preferred contemporary pop or some of my eighties favorites. A little “Uptown Girl” always got me in the mood. Then I’d segue into my Flashdance soundtrack and really go to town.

  So with Avril and the vacuuming finished, I did just that.

  Determined to start the new year right, I began cleaning my closet. First, I color coded all my shoes in the stackable shoe hive my brother, Jordy, had built for me. And for those that didn’t fit and had to remain in boxes, I took photos of each pair with my cell phone, then printed them out and taped a photo to the outside of each box, so I’d know at a glance what nestled inside.

  Next I tackled my underwear drawer. In basic training, we’d been taught to fold our panties into equal thirds, but over the years I’d gotten a little lax. After refolding them, I color coded them all too. Then I arranged my hanging clothes in an orderly fashion—beginning with blazers, working through blouses and dresses, and winding up with pants and jeans, all organized by color, hangers spaced two fingers apart (another basic training must-do). I surveyed my clothing rainbow with satisfaction.

  Maybe things weren’t so complicated after all. I could handle this little bend in the road with Alex. In fact, maybe this time apart was a good thing. Could give me time to work on myself a little, become a better person so I’d have more to bring to the relationship.

  I could finally start going to the gym in Lodi, for instance. I pictured myself meeting Alex at the airport, all sleek and firm.

  Get real, whispering-thighs woman.

  And I’d been doing better with my money—cutting way back on the plastic—but I could do better with that. I really didn’t need this much stuff.

  That’s better. Put that on the list. Resolved: I’m going to be even more careful with my money.

  And I’d been meaning to get serious about spending more time in God’s Word and having a quiet time every day. That was important. If I wanted our relationship to have a solid foundation, didn’t I need a solid foundation myself?

  The more I thought about it, the more I really liked the idea—a new devotional routine for the new year.

  Note to self: Set alarm for six o’clock tomorrow morning in order to devote at least one full hour to prayer and scriptural meditation before getting ready for work.

  But wait. It was already tomorrow, and I didn’t have to go back to work until Monday.

  Note to self: Make that Monday morning.

  Satisfied with my resolutions and my clean apartment and my new, positive attitude, I finally took the DustBuster to my windowsill and curtains. Dust up, dust down. Dust up, dust down. I felt like the Karate Kid. Only noisier.

  Through the din, I heard a ringing in my ears. I shook my head, but it didn’t stop. I switched off the DustBuster and turned down Irene Cara belting out “What a Feeling.”

  It was a ringing. My phone. I snatched it up. “Alex?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. It’s just me, your best friend. Happy New Year!”

  “Lins!” I looked at the clock. Twelve fifty-eight. “It’s three in the morning back there in Cleveland! What are you still doing up? Don’t tell me the singles bash went this late.”

  “Nope. Well, actually, I don’t know.” She giggled. “We didn’t go to the party.”

  “You didn’t?” Phil and Lindsey were the consummate partygoers. And party planners. For the past three years running, without fail, they’d organized the annual No More Lone Rangers New Year’s Eve singles party at church. Well, Phil and Lindsey and I had planned it, back before they were a couple. Before Alex.

  Things change so fast . . .

  “So what did you guys do instead?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing much. Went out to dinner, dancing, took a moonlit drive along the lake. Got engaged. Ate some ice cream . . .”

  “Engaged?!” I screamed across the miles.

  Lins shrieked right back. “I know. Can you believe it? Me and Phil?”

  “What I
can’t believe is that I’m here and you’re there so far away,” I whined. “I need details. Give me the whole 411. And start at the beginning. How’d he propose? And where? Did he give you a ring? When’s the wedding?”

  “Slow down, Pheebs.” Lindsey laughed. “We haven’t set a date yet. You know I need at least a year to plan my dream wedding. And I promise I’ll give you all the details, but before I do, let me officially ask you to be my maid of honor. You’d better, or else you’re dead meat.”

  “Of course I’ll be your maid of honor. I’d kill you if you asked anyone else.” We blubbed happy-girl tears together for a minute. “Who’s the best man?”

  “Scotty, naturally. Even though Phil and Alex have become good friends, he wanted his baby brother to stand up for him,” Lindsey said. “But not to worry, Alex will be a groomsman, so you’ll still get to see him in a tux.”

  “Mmm. Can’t wait for that.”

  “Speaking of wedding attire, Pheebs . . . I found this great shiny peach taffeta Southern-belle bridesmaid dress, complete with hoop skirt and scalloped white trim at the bottom, that will make you look like a giant Creamsicle.”

  “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.”

  We snorted together across the miles. “I promise you’ll get a killer dress in a gorgeous color that makes you look absolutely fabulous, dahling,” she said.

  “Without upstaging the bride, of course.”

  “Given.”

  “So what are your colors going to be?” I adjusted the throw pillow beneath my head. “Still pink and cream?”

  “Nah. After Trista and Ryan’s wedding I got a little pinked out.”

  We’d both sat glued to the TV together when the first reality-show bachelorette married her hunky, poetry-spouting fireman in one of the most lavish weddings we’d ever seen—preceded by a couple of prime-time specials where the spotlight couple taste-tested several cake selections, sampled a variety of menus, and sought the perfect locale for the “celebrity wedding of the year” (or decade, as some ad pundits pro-claimed). We’d drooled over the dresses, the decorations, the masses of pink flowers, and the to-die-for fifty-thousand-dollar diamond-encrusted shoes designed especially for the bride by Stuart Weitzman.