Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Pink is no longer mah signature color.” Lindsey parroted Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias. (After hanging out with me for a while, my friends are starting to spout movie lines like I do.) “Of course, it also depends on what time of year we choose, what the setting will be, whether it’s a morning or evening wedding . . .”

  I could just see her furrowing her brow across the miles.

  “I’m thinking if it’s evening I might go with silver and white and splashes of fuschia. Or maybe very sophisticated, black and white all the way, with just a hint of red? What do you think?”

  “Either works for me. As long as you don’t put me in orange or yellow, I’m happy.” I bounded up from the couch, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, and took a swig. “So, has Phillie agreed to sign the prenup?”

  Lindsey and I had come up with our own version of the celebrity prenuptial agreement—except ours had nothing to do with money. Our prenup included, among other stipulations, that our husbands must never say yes when asked, “Does this make me look fat?”; that they must only have eyes for us, no matter how many hard-bodied Baywatch babes parade into view; and that they must lovingly say “yes, dear” when we presented them with our multipage honey-do lists.

  “I haven’t brought that up yet,” Lindsey said. “Thought I’d better ease into it.”

  “Good plan. So you still haven’t told me how he proposed. What are best friends for if not to live vicariously through?”

  She expelled a romantic sigh. “Well, we had this wonderful dinner at that little French restaurant downtown . . .”

  “What’d you eat? You know me—I need every gastronomic detail.”

  “For an appetizer we had baked brie with almonds, then for our main course I had coq au vin and Phil had rack of lamb. For dessert, delicious crème brûlée. Then we went dancing for a little while, did the whole midnight-kiss thing . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “Save the kiss memories for later,” my lonely, kissless self ordered. “I want the proposal. Setting and words, please.”

  Lindsey released another romantic sigh. “We drove along the lake, and he pulled into this quiet spot and wanted to get out. Well, you know what Cleveland weather is like in December. I wasn’t about to get out of the car! But he pleaded, said it would only take a minute. By this time I had an inkling, so I agreed.” She took a breath. “It was a gorgeous crisp night; the stars were out, and the lights were shimmering on the water. Phil led me over to this little bench—he put a blanket on it first.” She sighed again. “Very chivalrous.”

  I sighed right along with her.

  “He sat beside me, looked in my eyes, and told me he loved my goofiness, my relationship with God, the dimple in my left cheek when I laugh, the way I move my food around my plate in circles when I get nervous, even my shopaholic tendencies.” She giggled.

  “Then he knelt down in the snow, pulled out this gorgeous vintage diamond-and-emerald ring, and proposed. Said he wanted to start the New Year with me as his fiancée and knowing that before the year was over, I’d be Mrs. Phil Hansen.”

  “Very When Harry Met Sally. Who knew Phillie was such a romantic?”

  “I know!” Lindsey said in her Monica-from-Friends voice.

  “You’ll get married at First Pres, right?”

  “Of course. We’re going to ask Pastor John to marry us.”

  “How many bridesmaids are you going to have?” I stretched back out on the couch. “And who?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She wailed, “Why’d you have to go and move all the way to California? I wanted to go through all this bride stuff with you—looking for a dress, checking out reception sites, choosing a D.J., deciding on favors—you know I don’t want any Jordan almonds at my wedding.” Lindsey sniffed. “It’s not going to be as much fun with you there and me here.”

  I could just see her pout. “I know, Lins, but there’s this wonderful invention called e-mail. Plus we both have picture phones, so you can send me photos of everything. And I’ll make sure I come out the week before the wedding so I can do all those maid-of-honor things: throw you a shower, give you a bachelorette party, take you to the spa for a head-to-toe beauty treatment.” I adopted a stern tone. “And make sure you get to the church on time, Ms. Always Late.”

  Her sigh of relief came through loud and clear. “Thanks, Pheebs. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Always. All for one and one for all, remember?” I chuckled. “I can’t wait to call our third musketeer and congratulate him.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to,” Lindsey said. “Wait, I mean. Phil’s already home and is probably fast asleep by now. Poor guy . . . I think he was so keyed up with anticipation that it totally exhausted him. His eyes were really drooping when he drove me home.”

  “My, my. You already sound like a little wifey, taking care of her man. Just as long as you don’t turn into a desperate housewife,” I teased. “Okay, Mrs. Hansen-to-Be. I’ll just e-mail your fiancé instead.”

  “Good plan.” Lins changed course abruptly. “So what’s up with Alex? I know he’s still in England, but any idea when he’s coming back to Barley?”

  “Nope.” I hurried to explain. “He’s got so much to do, what with his dad and the family business and all. And I really admire the way he’s helping out his father in his time of need . . .”

  “Of course you do, but ’fess up, Pheebs. You still wish he’d hurry up and get his hot self back to town, right?”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Best friends usually do.” I heard her take a sip of her Sleepy Time tea. “So how’s it going at work without him there?”

  “Not as fun.” I sighed again. “I mean, I love Gordon and everything—don’t get me wrong. He’s a great boss. But he’s definitely not as nice to look at as Alex. Plus I miss our movie banter . . .”

  “I’ll bet you do. You must be going through withdrawal without anyone to play Silver Screen Trivial Pursuit with.”

  “I’m trying to teach my nieces, but they’re even worse than you are. They think all black-and-white films are boring.”

  She laughed. “So, do what you did with me, Ms. Movie Nazi. Force feed them Casablanca until they cry uncle.”

  “Good idea.” I looked at the clock. “Yikes! Do you know what time it is? You’d better get your beauty sleep. You don’t want Phil to take back his proposal when he sees your bloodshot eyes in the morning.” I stretched and sat up. “Love ya, Lins. And I’m so happy for you. Both of you. We’ll talk soon.”

  She giggled. “You got that right. ’Night, Pheebs. Love you too.”

  I hung up and bawled my eyes out.

  [chapter four]

  A Grumpy New Year

  i’m an awful best friend.

  I should have been so happy for Lindsey and Phil. And I was, I really was.

  Only . . .

  I know You brought them together, God. But is it ever going to be my turn for the happily-ever-after? Or am I going to be single for the rest of my life?

  Would that be so bad?

  Yes!

  “Oops. Sorry, God. Didn’t mean it. I take it back.”

  Smart move, Pheebs—way to antagonize the Big Guy. That’s all you need right now. Get Him mad at you and make sure you never get married.

  Okay, I know that’s bad theology, but it’s hard to think straight when you’re lonely and miserable—which was the way the new year was shaping up right now.

  But January’s a time when you’re supposed to get a good start on being a better person, right? So I repeated the single woman’s lifeline Psalm: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Then, wiping my eyes, I powered on my laptop—determined to forget my pity spree and do the good-friend thing.

  To: Phansen

  From: Movielovr

  Hey Phillie, what are you doing sleeping? Lins just called me with the great news. I’m thrilled! Congratulations! Rejoicing across the miles with you. If I
know Lindsey, your wedding’s going to be amazing. You’d better take good care of my best friend, bucko. Remember, I know where you live.

  Next I dropped a quick note to Alex.

  To: Filmguy791

  From: Movielovr

  Happy New Year. Have I got some news for you, Filmguy. Guess who’s getting married? Phil and Lindsey! She just called. Pretty exciting, huh? Although they haven’t set a date or anything yet—she says she needs a year to plan. Hope your dad’s feeling better every day and things are going well. All’s fine here, but I’m longing to see you soon. I really miss you. —P.

  Wait. Is that too pushy and clingy?

  I reread the words again, then deleted “But I’m longing to see you” and instead wrote, “I’m looking forward to seeing you.” I also deleted “really”—though I really did miss him.

  I surfed the Net for a while, checking out a few bridal sites and losing myself in all the satin and lace. But not wanting the tears to start up again, I grabbed my Bible and decided to read the seventh chapter of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians: “It is good . . . not to marry . . . I would like you to be free from concern.”

  And that, of course, cheered me right up.

  The next day, after church, I dropped by Esther’s for a visit, thinking it would be nice to bond in singles solidarity with a fellow spinster—someone who’d been unmarried her whole life and seemed none the worse for it.

  Handing her a tin of Christmas cookies from my mom’s supply, I noticed all the postcards and souvenirs displayed around the room. “Esther, you’ve become quite the traveler.”

  “Yep, but I waited way too long to start, and now I’m too old to do everything I want.” Esther turned her latest scrapbook toward me.

  “Esther, you’ll never be old.”

  “Cold?” She wrapped her sweater tighter about her and snuggled deeper into her wingback chair, glancing at my Manolos as she did. “You bet your uncomfortable-looking high heels I’m cold. That’s what happens when you get old. Especially if you’re skinny. Not enough flesh to keep a body warm.” She shot me an approving glance as she pried the lid off the cookie tin. “You won’t have that problem. You’re a nice, healthy girl, Phoebe. Not skin and bones like most of these young girls today. You want one of these?”

  “Sure,” I said, deciding that if I already had the “healthy girl” look, I might as well keep it up. “So what is it you want to do?”

  “Huh? Speak up. You’ll never make it at the Bulletin if you’re soft-spoken.”

  Ah, but do I really want to make it at the Bulletin? That was the question. And the answer, of course, had a lot to do with Alex.

  I raised my voice. “You said you wished you’d started traveling earlier because now you can’t do everything you want. Like what, for instance?”

  Esther wolfed down one of Mom’s Mexican wedding cookies. “Like climb the Dome in Florence, ski the Swiss Alps, and go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.” She threw me a sharp look over her trifocals. “And don’t you make the same mistake, young lady. Don’t get so wrapped up in your job and your relationships that you lose the opportunity to see what the rest of this big, wide world has to offer.”

  “But I did that already, remember? I enlisted in the air force right after high school so I could leave Barley and see the world.”

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  “Well . . . San Antonio, Texas; Biloxi, Mississippi; Dayton, Ohio. And Cleveland.”

  “Like I said.” Esther snorted. “But have you ever been out of the good ol’ U.S. of A.? The good Lord created the entire world, remember, not just America. I love my country, I truly do. And I’ll fight anyone who says something bad against her. But we Americans have a tendency to get insulated in our little corner of the world and forget that our brothers and sisters live beyond our borders too.”

  She sighed. “I’m not tryin’ to give you a hard time, Phoebe. Fact is, I’m talkin’ to myself as well as you. Before September, I’d never left the States in my entire life.” She plucked another cookie from the tin. “But even though I’m old, my hearing’s goin’, and I don’t move as fast as I used to, I’m not going to shuffle off to some old folks home, watch paint dry, and reminisce about the good old days from my rocking chair.” Esther grinned at me. “That’s why I’m starting the New Year off right with a trip to Europe.”

  “Europe? When?”

  She settled back in her chair, an expectant gleam in her eyes. “Me and Millie, one of my purple ladies, are leaving Tuesday for a three-week tour. These old bones may not be able to ski in the Alps anymore, but I can sure enjoy the view while I’m drinkin’ hot chocolate and eatin’ some Sacher torte inside a nice, warm chalet.”

  Her eyes danced behind the thick glasses. “I’ve wanted to do this all my life but kept puttin’ it off for one reason or another—not enough money, too many obligations, and just plain old fear, I suppose. But no more. That’s another thing gettin’ old does for you. You become fearless. Or fearful, depending on your outlook.”

  “You’ve always been fearless, Esther.”

  “Hah, a lot you know. I just put on a good front. But that’s the past, and from now on I’m livin’ in the present.” She straightened. “We’ll start out in Austria and Germany, then head down to Italy, where even though I can’t climb the Dome, I can still see the David and the Sistine Chapel. ’Course, I’ll have to watch out for those Italian men—I’ve heard they’re real pinchers .” She gave me a sly wink. “But they’d better watch out. I’ll pinch ’em right back.”

  I choked on a cookie. Then gulped my hot chocolate to wash down the crumbs.

  After making sure she didn’t need to do the Heimlich maneuver, Esther continued. “Going to the City of Lights too. Hemingway said Paris is a moveable feast, and I plan to eat with gusto.”

  “I’m jealous.” I sighed. “Wish I could be part of your red-hat club and go along.”

  “No you don’t.” Esther snorted again. “Bunch of old women wearing funny clothes and silly hats. Besides, you gotta be at least fifty. You’d have more fun with someone your own age.” She leaned forward eagerly. “We’ll wind up our trip in London, where we’ll see Buckingham Palace. And who knows? Maybe the Queen’ll invite me in for a cup of tea.” She chuckled. “I want to see the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens too. That was always one of my favorite stories.” Saw the musical in San Francisco, too, a long time ago—not Mary Martin, but pretty good. Even liked that Disney version.”

  “I’d love to see the original stage play,” I murmured, thinking of a showing of Finding Neverland I’d caught in Sacramento the week before. But Esther hadn’t heard me.

  “And of course, St. Paul’s Cathedral is a must,” she said softly. Her faded denim eyes took on a misty, faraway look. “There’s something special there I need to see.”

  “What?”

  “When they rebuilt part of the cathedral that was destroyed during the Blitz, they included a memorial to American soldiers,” Esther said. “They have this book called the Roll of Honor with all the names of the U.S. military who died over there.” She wiped her eyes. “One of those names is of a boy I loved, Norman Howard. We were high-school sweethearts and wanted to get married before he shipped out, but my parents said I was too young. He was eighteen. I wasn’t even seventeen yet. So we decided to wait until he came home.” She gave me a sad smile. “Only he never came home.”

  “Esther, I never knew. You never said anything . . .”

  “That’s because it was a long time ago, a lifetime ago. But before I end this life, I want to see his name in that famous place and lay a rose at the altar for him.” Esther sniffled, then gave herself a little shake. “Land sakes, I’m gettin’ all weepy in my old age. Norman’s gone to Glory and I’ll see him again, but I ain’t dead yet! This is an excitin’ time, and I plan to enjoy every minute of my grand European adventure.”

  She shot me another sharp look. “You just make sure you don’t wait as long
. You should enjoy these things while you’re still young and can move around freely. Besides, travelin’ helps you learn more about yourself—discover who you really are and what kind of stuff you’re made of. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “I hear you.” I didn’t want to rain on her travel parade. “I think it’s wonderful you’re doing this, Esther, but why go now when it’s so cold? Why not wait until spring?”

  “It’s called money, honey.” She cackled. “I’m no Donald Trump. Besides, the good Lord’s opened these doors, and I’m not about to refuse to walk through them. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Alps in the wintertime.”

  “The hills are alive . . .” I said softly, thinking of The Sound of Music.

  Esther stared at me. “No, I’m not going to let Millie drive.” She snorted again. “Woman’s a slowpoke behind the wheel. No, sirree, we’ll go by train or bus, and let someone else do the navigatin’.”

  I was working on my attitude. I really was.

  But I was also beginning to suspect I was not only a terrible friend, but a spiritual loser.

  For the fourth day in a row now, I’d reneged on my New Year’s resolution. I’d failed to get up in time for my daily quiet time in the Word like all good Christian girls do.

  Well, maybe not everyone. Lindsey, who is not a morning person either—although she forces herself on gym days—also struggles in this area. And when I lived in Cleveland, we’d commiserate about our shared spiritual failing over double nonfat mochas from Starbucks. But Lindsey, Cleveland, and Starbucks were a world away—well, at least several states and four time zones—and Lindsey was way too busy to buck me up now. I was on my own here.

  Note to self: No matter what, will actually get up early tomorrow morning.

  But when the buzzer sounded at the crack of dawn the next morning, I slapped down the snooze button and buried my head beneath my pillow.

  Ten minutes later it rang again.

  “Jus’ nine more minutes.” I hit the snooze button.