Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  At a nod from their grandma, the girls giggled and dropped the sheet, saying, “Ta-da!”

  “Lindsey!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I hugged my best friend. “What are you doing here, you silly girl? You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

  “We got back from St. Thomas last night—and had a wonderful time.” She gave me a wicked grin. “But there was no way I was going to miss my best friend’s birthday.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, my husband—I love saying that!—returned to a work fire he had to put out, so he couldn’t come.” She smiled. But he did send you this.” She pulled a silver framed photo from her purse—a goofy shot of the two of them behind prison bars at Alcatraz.

  I giggled, remembering our day with Alex in San Francisco and all the fun we’d had. Lindsey pulled me to one side and whispered, “I have another little surprise too.” Her eyes sparkled. “Guess who’s not dating you-know-who anymore?”

  The tiniest of flutters started to kick up in my stomach, but I squashed them down. “That’s nice, Lins. But he’s there and I’m here, and we both have totally—”

  “Hey Louise! Think fast.” Mary Jo tossed me an orange-and-yellow foil-wrapped package that looked and felt remarkably like a can.

  It was a can.

  Of neon-green English mushy peas. I threw back my head and roared. “Nice one, Thelma.”

  Lindsey raised her eyebrows.

  “Louise, I mean Phoebe, hates peas—the whole texture thing,” Mary Jo explained.

  “I know.” Lindsey turned to me. “I take it this is MJ, your traveling companion?”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you two had met.” I inclined my head. “Cleveland best-friend Lindsey, meet Barley best-friend MJ—I mean Mary Jo.”

  They nodded at each other. Then Mary Jo got a good look at Lindsey’s frosty face. And proclaimed, “I think it’s time for a little karaoke.” She crossed over to the corner of the room, where a rented karaoke machine stood proudly. She started with a little Aretha just to warm things up, belting out “Chain of Fools.”

  Then she handed me the mike. And I’m no Aretha—or Mary Jo, for that matter—but who could resist? I called up both of my best friends for backup on “It’s My Party (And I’ll Cry If I Want To”). Lindsey still looked a little miffed, but she didn’t protest. And with both her and Mary Jo doing their sixties girl-group thing, we brought down the house.

  Ashley and the girls quickly got into the act, and we all jammed on “I Will Survive” followed by “YMCA,” with a thawed-out Lindsey teaching the hand motions to Mary Jo.

  In the midst of forming the M over my head, I caught sight of a familiar face at the door. And completely forgot about the song.

  “Delia!” I squealed and made my way through the crowd, MJ close on my heels. As we drew nearer, I saw that Delia wasn’t alone.

  “Grace!” I moved to enfold her in an exuberant hug but stopped myself just in time. I stretched out my hand to Delia and Alex’s elegant mother and dialed it down a notch. “How lovely to see you again.”

  She laughed and grabbed me in an all-American bear hug. “Happy birthday, Phoebe! I’m so glad we could be here to celebrate it with you.” She released me and embraced Mary Jo next while Delia and I swapped hugs.

  I looked from mother to daughter. “Just what does bring you here? I know you didn’t come all the way from England just for my birthday party.”

  “No, but we would have,” Delia said. “Right, Mum?”

  Grace smiled and nodded.

  “Actually, I had to come over on business. And now that Dad’s been given a clean bill of health,” Delia said, “Mother decided to come along too and visit some family and friends. Of which you are one.”

  “Fantastic!” I turned to Mary Jo. “Isn’t this a great surprise, MJ?”

  “Uh-huh. For you.” She shook her head at me. “Someone had to give them directions.”

  I punched her on the arm just as Lindsey, my mom, and the rest of the family joined us. Introductions were made all around, and Mom and Grace immediately started chattering away.

  I pulled Delia aside. “So what’s really up? You’re absolutely beaming.” My eyes gleamed. “Is it a guy?”

  “No. Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose it is. Dad, with a little help from Mother, has finally seen the light and come through with my promotion.” She shot me a triumphant look. “He’s made me chief financial officer of the firm. Alex is going to be CEO, and Dad’s going to take it just a wee bit easier and just chair the board.”

  “That’s great!” I hugged her again. “I’m so happy for you. No one deserves it more.” I narrowed my eyes. “How’d Alex take the news?”

  “He was thrilled. Both for me and him.” She lowered her voice. “Although George was a little less so.” Her voice rose again in excitement. “So anyway, in my new role, Dad thought it would be good for me to visit some of our stateside papers. Which is why I’m here. I thought I’d start with the Bulletin and get to see you and Mary Jo at the same time.”

  She looked around for Mary Jo, who was laughing at something Lindsey had said. “Speaking of which, I have a little gift for her that my mate Ian asked me to hand-deliver . . .”

  Seeing Delia so excited about her new job gave me fresh resolve. I’d made my decision about the new job. But I needed to tell my family.

  Okay, God. I can do this. But I’m going to need You to hold my hand.

  I rejoined my mother, who was deep in conversation with Grace. “Well, you two look like long-lost friends.”

  “I was just telling your mother what a fool my son was to let you get away,” Grace said.

  “And I was agreeing with her,” Mom added.

  I waved my hand. “Ancient history. Besides, my life is a man-free zone right now. Time for me to figure out some things on my own, without any romantic distractions.” I tilted my head. “Or Hollywood fantasies.”

  Grace smiled. “Sounds like a good place to be.” She sighed. “Although I still hope that someday . . .”

  “You never know what God will do. And speaking of what God’s doing, do you mind if I steal my mother away for a few minutes?” I linked arms with Mom and shepherded her toward the kitchen, whispering, “I need to tell you something.”

  “Why, that’s fine, daughter. Actually I have something to tell you too.”

  Looking around for Jordy and Karen, I signaled them with my eyes to join us. Gordon, too. When the kitchen door shut behind us all, I cleared my throat and gave a nervous laugh. “You’re probably wondering why I called you all here. I, uh . . .”

  And I caved. I couldn’t get it out. “Mom, didn’t you say you had something to tell us?”

  Mom’s hands fluttered to her throat. “Well, yes,” she said with an apologetic smile and a glance at Gordon, who patted her arm and gave her an encouraging smile.

  “You see, Gordon and I have been spending a lot of time together lately, and we’ve decided to, um . . .”

  Was she really saying what I thought she was saying? I looked over at Karen and Jordy, and they looked as gobsmacked as I felt.

  “You’ve decided to do what, Mom?”

  Mom’s face flamed. “That is, we think, um . . .” She lifted her chin. “The thing is, I just want you to know that Gordon and I, we . . .” Another encouraging nod from Gordon. “What I’m trying to say is we’ve decided to go steady. In other words, I guess I’m saying that Gordon is my . . . boyfriend!”

  She didn’t say it with quite the same intensity as Cloris Leachman’s Frau Bleucher in Young Frankenstein, but I’m sure I heard horses whinny in the background.

  Jordy, Karen, and I exchanged glances, then burst out laughing. “Gee, Mom. We hadn’t figured that out,” my brother said. “Guess we’ll have to alert the media.”

  Gordon reached for Mom’s hand and held it to his chest. Mom blushed but laid her head on his shoulder. “But Phoebe, didn’t you say you had an announcement too?”

  This was it. My practical self and my moral voice-
of-reason self and all my other selves, even the silly, selfish ones, were all yelling, Go for it!

  I cleared my throat again. “Well, my news isn’t as romantic as Mom’s, but equally exciting, I think.” I took a deep breath and rushed on. “I—I’ve been offered the most amazing writing job in Southern California . . . and I’ve decided to take it.”

  I ducked my head and held my breath, waiting for the protests.

  Instead, the room erupted in applause.

  “Gee, if I’d known you didn’t want me around, I’d have left a lot sooner.”

  “Phoebe, the editor’s a friend of mine,” Gordon said. “She called and told me she was going to offer you the columnist job—a job that’s tailor-made for you, by the way. And ever since she did, I’ve been waiting—we’ve all been waiting—for you to tell us about it.”

  Mom took my hands between hers and smiled. “Daughter, you came back and helped when I broke my arms. You’ve stayed and helped ever since. And I appreciate it. I appreciate you.” Her thumbs stroked the backs of my hands. “But God has something for you beyond Barley. He’s calling you to use the gifts He’s given you. You don’t need to tie yourself down here—not when God has a big, wide world out there just waiting for you. I want you to go and follow your dreams. We all do.”

  “But what about Read a Latte? Don’t you want me at the bookstore?”

  Jordy and Karen double-hugged me. “Of course we want you there.” My brother winked. “As long as you stay away from the cash register.”

  “You’ll still be a partner, Pheebs,” Karen said.

  “Just a silent one.” Jordy grinned at me. “As if you could ever be silent.”

  A thought suddenly hit me. “But what about my apartment? I’ve already said yes to the paper, and they want me to start in two weeks.” I bit my lip. “I’m not giving you much time to find a new tenant.” My voice trailed off.

  “Not to worry, Pheebert. God will provide. He always does.”

  Just then the kitchen door flung open and an excited Mary Jo burst through, waving a letter. “Pheebs, guess what? Ian’s applied to the veterinary program at UC–Davis! He’s coming to California in a week or two for interviews!”

  I gotta give You Your props, God. Once You decide to move, You really do it fast.

  [chapter twenty-four]

  On the Road Again

  the next week, Mary Jo and Ashley were helping me pack while Mom and Karen held down the bookstore. I was in serious purge mode, wanting to start my new life without too much to weigh me down.

  Ashley held up a stuffed giraffe I’d won at a carnival in Cleveland. “Keep or toss, Aunt Phoebe?”

  “Toss.”

  She smiled and put it in the box marked “Ashley.”

  Mary Jo held up a baggy, stretched-out, rainbow-striped sweater. “Keep or toss?”

  “Toss.”

  She put it in the box marked “Mary Jo.”

  Ashley held up something green and glittery. “Uh, what is this, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Mary Jo turned and stared at the strange item. “Yeah, what exactly is it?”

  I snatched it from Ashley’s hand, stretched it across the front of my T-shirt, and adopted the John Travolta Saturday Night Fever dance pose. “It’s a tube top from the days when disco was king. I found it at a little thrift store in Cleveland and wore it to disco night at Lone Rangers a few years ago. Isn’t it cool?”

  Mary Jo looked at Ashley. Ashley looked at Mary Jo. “Toss,” they chorused.

  “You’ll be sorry, Ash. Vintage clothes are really hot, and I hear disco’s going to make a comeback. You’d probably be the only girl on your block to have one.”

  “That’s okay. But thanks for thinking of me.” She shot me a sweet smile. “I think we should send it to someone who really needs it.”

  “Yeah. Like Cher,” Mary Jo said, and they both dissolved into giggles. I took the top from them and chunked it into the “toss” box.

  Now came the hard part. Shoe time. What to keep and what to get rid of? My new place didn’t have a built-in shoe hive like the one my sweet brother built for me here, so I had to be ruthless.

  My low-heeled Kenneth Coles?

  Definitely keep.

  My Jimmy Choo wannabes?

  Get rid of.

  My classic black pumps?

  Keep. Same for the practical Clarks clogs.

  My Manolos?

  I picked them up and drank in the rich leather smell, remembering how I’d walked all around London in them—and gotten the blisters to show for it. Then I glanced over at my fashion-conscious niece, whose head was bent over a box. “Ash, what size shoe do you wear now?”

  “Eight.”

  “Here’s something you might want to add to your box.” I tossed her the boots.

  She looked and screamed. “Your Manolos?! Aunt Phoebe, those are so expensive!”

  “I know. Which is why you’d probably better not wear them to school. Save them for special occasions, okay?”

  “More than okay.” She body-slammed me, and we fell to the floor together, laughing, while Mary Jo gave me a thumbs-up.

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  “I hope that’s Jordy with more boxes.” I got up to answer it, still giggling, while a beaming Ashley pulled on her new boots.

  A mass of daffodils filled the doorway, obscuring the person holding them. But this time when the flowers were lowered, it wasn’t a teenage delivery person.

  Alex Spencer stood there with a sheepish grin and said, “Frankly my dear, I’ve been an idiot.” He thrust the daffs at me, and those gorgeous lips curved into an apologetic smile.

  “I’m sorry I missed your birthday party, Phoebe. I really wanted to be here, but I had to tie up some loose ends back in Britain. Once I did, I flew all night from London and drove here straight from the airport.” He gave me a pleading smile. “I was hoping we could start again.”

  Behind me I heard Ashley gasp.

  Mary Jo, too.

  This was what I’d longed for.

  And dreamed of.

  And prayed for.

  And spent countless hours thinking about.

  And three months ago, this moment would have been a dream come true.

  Except I wasn’t living in a dream world these days. The new Phoebe was beginning a new job, a new life, and a new adventure rife with possibilities. Real possibilities, not fantasies. Sure, she planned to take frequent vacations to Neverland, but she wasn’t going to live there anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Alex, but you’re a little late.” I turned and gestured to the box-strewn room. “As you can see, I’m moving on.”

  He glanced behind me and noticed Ashley wearing the boots he’d given me. Alex’s eyebrows raised. “You gave away your Manolos?”

  “I outgrew them.”

  Two days later, my Bug was packed and ready to go. My family and friends clustered around to say good-bye.

  “I still can’t believe you got a dog,” Mary Jo said, shaking her head.

  “Well, I just decided Herman would be happier staying here with his cat family. And you’re the one who told me dogs are good company to snuggle up to.” I cuddled Sam, the three-year-old terrier I’d found at the pound. I thought he looked a lot like Dorothy’s Toto.

  “But you’re not an animal person.”

  “And you’re not a dating woman—or at least hadn’t had a date in four years.” I cut a glance at Ian, who had arrived the day before and was playing with Jacob. “Things change.”

  Moments later, I drove off into the sunset to my new adventure, humming my old air-force anthem: “Off we go into the wild blue yonder . . .”

  Then I cranked up my stereo. I’d stocked my car CD holder with a lot of strong-women CDs: Bette Midler, Martina McBride, Shania Twain, and even a little Aretha, in homage to Mary Jo. But for now, on my way to sunny San Diego, this California girl turned on the Beach Boys full blast and flew along the coastal highway with the sunroof open and the wind in my ha
ir, singing along at the top of my lungs.

  In the backseat, strapped into his Toto basket, woman’s best friend howled along. “Want me to play it again, Sam?”

  I was Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, beginning an exciting new career.

  Minus Harrison Ford.

  Just You and me, God. And Sam too.

  Note to Self: Who needs a man anyhow? It’s great to be male-free.

  Pulling into a gas station a couple of hours later, I filled my tank. And at the pump next to me, I noticed a man. A tall, attractive man, in that rumpled-professor sort of way. He was helping an old woman into her car. After his Good Samaritan bit, he jogged back to his Bug—cherry red, with a golden retriever in the front seat—and drove away, flashing a brilliant smile at me as he did.

  Mmm. Nice lips.

  Amended note to self: Or not . . .

  Acknowledgments

  Sincere thanks to:

  Dr. Henrietta Blackmore, for answering endless e-mails and for your eyes-and-ears insights on Oxford, the church, and being a twenty-something single in England.

  Davis and Isabella Bunn, for introducing me to Henri.

  Patricia Smith, my dear Dorset friend, for her explanation of Christmas pudding, fox hunts, British slang, and other things English.

  Brian Morris, for his London insights.

  Sue and Roger Garlick of Grey Gables for the “wau-tuh, not wa-derr” lesson.

  Kari Jameson, who helped refresh my memory on important details from our England trip. We’ll always have Les Miz. (Ditto to her mom, Sheri.)

  The Martinusen family, for letting me stay at their wonderful dream home. Cindy, thanks for reading an early draft and for your gentle suggestions to “introduce more conflict” without causing a conflict between us. You’re the best!

  Annette and Randy Smith, for my Texas writing getaway. And for catfish, homegrown steaks, and Ruby Faye. But most of all, for your friendship, Annette.

  Pat and Ken McLatchey, longtime friends and fellow Anglophiles, who graciously let me stay in their beautiful and quiet room with a view during another much-needed getaway.