See, he’s just exercising restraint like the strong, upright Christian man he is. Remember what it says in the Song of Solomon—“Do not awaken love before its time.”
Yeah, my impatient self grumbled, but just how much time is it going to take?
“Phoebe? Still with me?”
Forever and ever, amen. I affected a nonchalance that belied my romantic fantasy. “Sorry. So, tell me more about England. Is the scenery really as gorgeous as it looks in all those Jane Austen movies?”
He smiled gently. “Well, not everywhere. We’ve got our share of urban blight, you know. But the countryside . . .” He got a faraway look in his eye. “You should see the Cotswolds, where my dad’s estate is. Lush green hills dotted with sheep, villages with ancient churches and pretty stone cottages.” Alex grinned. “And flowers everywhere. The English are quite proud of their gardens, and there are plenty of wildflowers too.”
“I wandered lonely as a cloud,” I murmured, “that danced on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils . . .”
He stared at me. “You know Wordsworth?”
“Not personally. But I studied him in English Lit.” I didn’t add that I’d first heard the poem on reruns of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show.
Alex continued to stare at me in amazement. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I said, tossing my hair. Or trying to. It’s kind of difficult to execute a haughty flowing-tresses toss when you have a short, spiky cut. “I have hidden depths.”
“I already know that.” He gave me a flirtatious smile. “And I look forward to exploring more of them.”
Note to self: Resist urge to climb over this table and kiss that adorable mouth and those to-die-for dimples this very second.
“But for now,” he glanced at his watch, “we’d better go explore the stores before there’s nothing left.”
A few hours later, with several shopping bags between us but no shoe boxes—I’d salivated over some Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks but had sacrificially passed them by in the spirit of the season and in deference to my reporter’s salary—we made our way to the top of Neiman Marcus to have lunch in the rotunda.
Intent on the menu, I didn’t notice the couple that had stopped at our table until a familiar voice interrupted me. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
I looked up to see my two best friends from Cleveland grinning at me. “Phil! Lins! What are you doing here?” I jumped up and hugged them both.
“We had a long holiday weekend, so we thought we’d come see what it is about California that could drag two of our Lone Rangers all the way out here,” Phil said.
Alex and I had both been members of the No More Lone Rangers church singles group in Cleveland—back when I was a lowly obits writer for the Cleveland Star and he was the corporate type who cost me my job. Phil and Lindsey were still official Lone Rangers, but seriously dating ones.
“Wow, Alex, isn’t this a great surprise?” I intercepted a grin between him and Lindsey as we sat down. “Wait a minute. You knew all about this, didn’t you?”
Phil laughed. “Of course he did. How do you think we knew what restaurant to come to? Logic has never been your strong suit, Pheebs,” he said affectionately.
“Never mind him,” Lindsey said, shooting a dirty look at her boyfriend and patting my hand. “I totally get your chick logic.”
“Of course you do, sweetie.” Phil returned her dirty look with a mushy one. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Now it was her turn to return his gooey look.
“Okay, you guys, stop.” I grabbed a sugar packet and shook it in front of them. “I’m about to have a sugar attack.”
“Too bad,” said Phil, grinning and leaning over to plant a big kiss on my best friend’s waiting mouth.
All I could do was watch longingly . . . and pray that my kissless days would be over soon.
“Talk about eye candy,” Lindsey said as we wandered around the fine jewelry department for some friend shopping time while the guys did their male-bonding thing.
I snorted. “Yeah. Expensive eye candy. Reminds me of Tiffany’s. I couldn’t afford anything there either.”
Lins scrabbled around in her purse and held up her sterling silver key chain. “I could.”
We burst out laughing as we remembered our grand adventure in New York not so many months before. She’d done her petite, blonde Sweet Home Alabama Reese Witherspoon impression to the upscale saleswoman while I’d tried unsuccessfully to be Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“May I help you?” A cool Grace Kelly blonde in a cobalt blue silk blouse and straight black skirt wafted subtle waves of Chanel No. 5 toward us from the counter.
“No thanks,” we hooted, clinging to each other as the giggles overtook us again. I sucked in my cheeks in another attempt to be Audreyesque, but wound up looking more like Dory the blue fish from Finding Nemo.
We beat a quick retreat from Neiman Marcus to the misty streets of San Francisco, where we wandered around for a while like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon—minus the trench coat and
T
pilgrim tracks.
“Hey, look! It’s a movie store.” I peered in the window past the life-size cardboard cutout of the Duke. “I’ll bet I can find a Christmas present for Alex here.”
And I did. A really cool Casablanca wall clock for his office. Since Alex and I had watched that beloved black-and-white film on our first date and were forever quoting to each other from the movie, it was perfect. I began humming “As Time Goes By,” Casablanca’s unforgettable signature song. Then I saw a paperweight bearing the line “I was misinformed” and snatched that up too.
Alex had used that same line from Casablanca in his early online correspondence with me, before we each knew who the other was. We didn’t exchange names or addresses since, you never know, you could be writing to an ax murderer or something. To him, I was simply MovieLovr and he was my Filmguy. Who could’ve guessed we actually knew each other—that he was the corporate-raider troublemaker who had already cost me my job?
Well, anyone who’s seen You’ve Got Mail and was paying attention could have guessed it. But I hadn’t . . . and everything had still turned out great. Minus the kiss at the end, of course. But that was still to come.
Lindsey shot me a sly look as we left the movie store. “What do you think Alex will get you? Jewelry, maybe?”
“Oh, it’s way too early for that.” I sucked in my breath. “Isn’t it?”
It doesn’t have to be several carats, Lord. A simple but meaningful family heirloom works for me.
Note to self: Start practicing surprised look now so as to be ready by Christmas.
Near the end of an elegant candlelit dinner at an upscale Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant that evening, a waiter set a silver-domed platter in front of me. “I didn’t order anything else.” I looked up at him in surprise.
Oh my! Be still, my heart. It’s a ring, it’s a ring!
Come off it, Pheebs. You know perfectly well it isn’t. But I couldn’t hear my practical self over the pounding in my chest.
“Permit me.” The waiter removed the dome with a flourish. But instead of a jewelry box, the platter revealed a thick, creamy envelope with my name written on it in calligraphy.
Pretty flat ring, my practical self pointed out unhelpfully.
“What is it, Pheebs?” Lins got that feverish gift glint in her eyes. “Open it.”
Oh my goodness. Shirley Temple took up residence in my head, totally quenching the voice of reason. Could it be? A proposal . . . in writing?
Not quite. Instead of “Phoebe, my beloved, I adore you and worship the ground you walk on. Will you marry me?” Alex had written, “At the end of the day you’ll have seen your favorite musical.” Tucked in behind the note were four tickets to a touring-company production of Les Miserables.
It’s wa
y too early for a proposal, my practical self reminded the disappointed me. He needs to say the L-word first, remember. Focus on how wonderful and romantic this gift is instead.
Alex had discovered that Les Miz was my favorite musical one day at the office. He’d been out to lunch, or so I thought. So I’d slipped on my headphones, shut my eyes, and lost myself in the musical I loved but had never seen on stage . . . until Alex’s rich baritone jolted me back from Victor Hugo’s Paris.
“Thought we’d make it a duet,” he’d said, grinning at me when my eyes flew open. “Although ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ is best with a full revolutionary chorus.”
He’d been right, of course. The chorus was stirring. Magnificent. When the lights came up after the show, Lins and I were both blubbering like babies. We heard a few sniffles from the guys too, but they insisted it was just the San Francisco fog.
We walked to Alex’s car, debating the merits of each song and speculating on who should be cast in the movie version of the musical. Well, Alex and I debated and speculated. Phil and Lindsey just walked arm in arm and mooned over each other.
Realization dawned when we reached the distinctive claret-colored awning of the St. Francis Hotel. “Ah, now I know why you parked in the hotel garage.” I smiled at my date. “It’s so close to the theater.”
“Actually, I parked here because we’re spending the night.”
I stopped short, causing Lindsey to bump into me. “Say what?”
Alex caught Phil’s eye and winked. “I knew we’d be too tired to drive home this late, so I booked a couple of rooms—one for you and Lindsey and one for us.”
“Oh,” I said weakly. “Good idea.” Another thought struck. “But I, um, don’t have anything to—uh, a toothbrush or anything.”
“Yes you do. Your mom packed an overnight bag, and I picked it up on my way to your house this morning. I had the valet take it to your room already.”
Phil shot him an admiring glance. “Now I see how you got that big-time corporate title, buddy. You think of everything.”
Alex lifted his shoulders in a modest shrug. “It’s all in the planning.”
Lins kicked off her shoes and lay down on one of the two queen-size beds, her feet dangling over the side. “Okay, dish. What’s the latest with you and Alex?”
“Nothing.” I began unpacking my overnight bag. “We’re just enjoying each other’s company. We have a lot of fun together.”
She gave me a sharp look. “Yeah, right. Tell me another one. I know you too well, Pheebs. You’re in serious like with that man.”
“So what’s not to like?” I said in my best Jewish mother voice as I pulled on my pajamas.
“True.” Lins shifted on the bed. “How about working together? How’s that?”
“So far, so good. He’s a good boss and a really good writer. Not only that. He also appreciates my writing, which I appreciate.” I grimaced. “Even when I’m only writing about stupid emus, cow-milking contests, or goat roping.”
Lindsey wrinkled her nose. “I still can’t believe that wussy, big-city you is getting so friendly with livestock.”
“Comes with the small cow-town territory.” I did not remind her that I’d actually grown up in that cow town. I just shrugged. “Not a lot of other writing options in Barley—other than my weekly review of whatever’s showing down at the Bijou. Thankfully, there’s the delicious perk of working side by side with Alex every day. Otherwise I’d have to slash my writing-career wrists.”
“Enough about your wrists.” Lindsey hugged her pillow to her. “Get to the good part. I want the whole romantic 411 on you and Alex! Have you guys kissed yet?” “No. We’re taking our time. Unlike some people I know.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “I’ll say you’re taking your time.”
“Lins, we haven’t even been dating a month yet. We’re still at the getting-to-know-one-another stage. I mean, it was only today that I found out anything about his childhood.”
“But don’t you want to? Kiss Alex, I mean.”
“Of course I want to. But it’s not like I’m just going to jump him and grab him in a major lip-lock.”
“Why not?”
“Hel-looow,” I said, doing my best Billy Crystal while arching my eyebrows. “We happen to be trying to rise above the whole lusts of the flesh thing.” An image of Alex’s full lips flashed before me, effectively demolishing my superior stance and bringing me back to reality. I sighed. “Besides, I’ve done that in the past, as you well know, and it never works out. No, I’m going the old-fashioned route this time, waiting for him to take the initiative—which I believe he will take in the very near future, thank you very much.”
I gave my friend a searching look. “But what about you? You and Phil were really doing some major face sucking today. Are you still keeping it pure?”
She nodded and grimaced. “But it’s sure not easy. Especially as things get more serious.”
“Serious? We’re talking about the M-word here?”
“Hasn’t crossed either of our lips, but we are dancing all around it. Her voice got all dreamy. “He’s asked how many kids I want, what kind of house I like. Vacations—we both agree that wherever we go, we have to stay in at least a four-star hotel. No roughing it for this couple.”
“I hear ya on that.” I set my boots next to my suitcase.
Lindsey turned a speculative gaze to the low heels on my Kenneth Coles. “It’s nice to see you’ve gotten over your short-men phobia.”
I bristled. “Alex isn’t short. He’s more than an inch and three-quarters taller than me. Which is just perfect—I don’t have to crane my neck to look up at him.”
And kissing should be pretty easy too.
“I think this whole cultural thing about tall men being hotter is just way out of line!”
“Hey, down, girl. You’re the one whose shopping list said at least six-foot-two.”
“That’s because big guys always made me feel smaller. But Alex doesn’t like skinny women.” I glanced in the mirror at my profile, sucking in my stomach. “He finds Jennifer Lopez and her curves a lot more appealing than any of those scrawny supermodel types.” I lowered my head, sucked in my cheeks, and tried to look appropriately J.Lo sultry.
A soft knock at the door made me blow my cheeks back out to normal.
We looked at each other. Then at our watches. “The guys wouldn’t be dropping by this late, would they?” Lins whispered.
I looked down at my oversized Winnie-the-Pooh slippers. “I certainly hope not.”
“Room service,” a muffled voice said.
“We didn’t order anything,” Lins yelled, peeking through the peephole.
“Courtesy of Mr. Spencer in Room 215.”
Lindsey and I exchanged wide-eyed glances as she hurried to let the waiter in.
“Ooh, check out the gorgeous rose.” Lindsey lifted the bud vase and held it up to the light once the waiter had left. “And that’s not cut glass either, honey; that’s crystal.” She smacked her lips. “Let’s see what the classy Mr. Spencer sent.”
“Ooh.” This time we both smacked our lips. Beneath the silver dome on a china plate drizzled with raspberry sauce sat the largest and densest piece of chocolate decadence cake I’d ever seen, topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.
With two forks on the side.
In a sugar-fantasy fog I reached for one of the forks, but Lins stayed my hand. “Wait.” She passed me a piece of folded creamy vellum paper from beneath the plate. I recognized Alex’s familiar scrawl: “Since I deprived you of dessert, I thought you might like some now. Bon appetit.”
“Oh Lins,” I moaned as the first decadent bite hit my lips. “I just can’t let this one get away.”
[chapter two]
Fruitcakes
three days later, back in Barley, I sat in the Bulletin office, nursing a double mocha and pecking lamely at the keyboard. I was suffering from acute Lindsey withdrawal and finding it difficult to
muster up the enthusiasm to write an advance about the upcoming Christmas craft festival at church.
Somehow, Mabel Wilson and her crocheted-doll toilet-paper covers didn’t hold much appeal.
Then Gordon, my former potty-mouthed, chain-smoking boss, who’d cleaned up his act considerably since he’d begun wooing my mother, sprang to my rescue. He had just returned from visiting his brother in Phoenix and volunteered for the assignment.
“But you’re supposed to be taking it nice and easy.”
“If I take it any nice and easier, I’ll be dead.” Gordon leaned back in the ancient wooden swivel chair next to my desk until it squeaked in protest. Then he jumped up and began pacing, jerking his hands through his thinning hair. “I just got back from a week of doing nothing but sitting around playing cards and bingo. I knew it was time to leave when my sister-in-law said they needed a fourth for bridge because their usual player was in the hospital, getting her hip replaced.” He gazed out the Bulletin’s plate-glass window. “This retirement stuff isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Makes a man feel da—um, downright useless.”
Alex reappeared from the dusty back room. “Gordon. Great to see you. When’d you get back?”
“Last night.” My former boss twisted the bottom button of his worn cardigan. “Uh, Alex, I was wondering—”
My new boss and boyfriend—can I even call him that yet?— interrupted him. “Good thing you stopped by. I was planning to ask a favor. We’re pretty swamped with this special Christmas edition, and I’m not sure we’ll be able to get to all the stories. Right, Phoebe?” He threw me a telling look behind Gordon’s back.
Mouth full of mocha foam, I nodded.
Alex slung his arm around the former editor’s shoulders. “Would you mind helping us out by writing a few articles? I’ll pay you the going freelance rates, of course.”
Gordon beamed. “No problem, son, no problem at all. Can’t afford not to have the Christmas edition. It’s a Bulletin tradition, and folks would sure miss it. You just give me those assignments.”
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 2
