Mom laid her hand gently on Gordon’s arm, her eyes bright with tears. “How did Alex find out?”
“Esther had told Millie she was going to look him up while she was in town. She had his card in her purse, so Millie, who was naturally quite upset, gave the card to the hotel manager, who called Alex.” Gordon wiped his eyes again. “And Alex called me. They think she had a stroke and just passed away peacefully in her sleep.”
“Well, I’m glad she didn’t suffer.” Mom handed Gordon my postcard. “And that she was doing something she loved.” She glanced at me. “Daughter, are you all right?”
I just shook my head. I could hear them both talking, but I still couldn’t believe what they were saying.
Gordon fumbled in his pocket. “I got a postcard today too. From Paris.” He handed the card to Mom and she read it aloud.
Bonjour former boss,
Hey, these Frenchies sure know how to kick up their heels! Ooh la la! Millie and I had a grand time checking out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Élysées. The food’s great. Eating lots of croissants and crepes. They have crepe stands the way we have hot-dog ones. Even tried snails! (They call it escargot.) I’m going to come home so fat and sassy you won’t recognize me.
Au revoir, Esther
P.S. The Louvre is amazing, but I sure don’t get what the big deal is about the Mona Lisa.
Gordon’s downcast mouth curved into a fleeting smile. “That’s Esther. Always calling it like she sees—saw it.”
“She did that, all right.” Mom gave him a small smile and patted his hand.
“But . . .” I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall. “She was coming home in three days. I was looking forward to hearing about all her adventures.”
Mom hugged me tight. “She’s already home, honey.”
I picked up my postcard again and stared at Esther’s handwriting, imagining her writing the words.
“Something else Millie told Alex,” said Gordon. “I can’t quite figure it out, though. Seems the tour group had arrived in London last night, passing by Big Ben. As they drove past the illuminated clock, Esther murmured, ‘Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning.’”
Mom looked puzzled, but I smiled through glistening eyes. “It’s from Peter Pan. That’s what Peter said when he flew Wendy off to Neverland. In the Disney movie, they flew right past Big Ben.”
Alex took care of all the arrangements in London, and two days later, Millie flew home with Esther’s body. Gordon wrote up a beautiful front-page obituary on his long-time friend and former employee, and the Bijou Theater board decided to mount a plaque in her honor. If not for Esther’s financial rescue, after all, the theater would have been torn down.
There was a lovely service at the Methodist church where Esther had been a lifelong member—two pews on the right were filled with purple-clad ladies in red hats—and Gordon, who hadn’t been all that at home in a church until recently, delivered the eulogy. He ended by saying, “Don’t feel bad that Esther died so far from home. She was where she wanted to be—and having the time of her life. Besides”— he glanced at Mom—“as a dear friend reminded me, actually she is home.” He coughed and blinked. “Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. See you in the morning, Esther.”
A week after the funeral, I’d just finished writing my latest movie preview for Wednesday’s Black-and-White Night at the Bijou. They were showing one of Esther’s favorites and mine, Mrs. Miniver, the poignant World War II story about the impact of the war on one English family and town. Greer Garson had won a well-deserved Academy Award in the title role.
Gordon was out on an interview, so I had the office to myself. Turning over the delicate snow globe from the Alps that Millie had delivered to me as a final gift from Esther, I cranked the key. The lilting strains of “Edelweiss” tinkled in the office air. As I watched the fake snow fall, I thought of Austria and all the places Esther had seen.
Then I thought of Esther and her Norman and how they were now reunited—even though she never got a chance to visit his memorial.
Much better than thinking about the article I was supposed to be writing about Bobby Randolph’s pet guinea pig.
The phone rang. “Phoebe Grant.”
“Hey Pheebs, remember that woman with the spiky platinum hair who wrote a book in the nineties called Stop the Insanity? You don’t happen to have a copy I could give my fiancé, do you?”
“Phillie, that book was about fitness and weight loss.”
“I don’t care,” he grumbled. “I don’t know how else to get through to her. Lindsey’s in this weird wedding zone. That’s all she thinks about all the time. And all she talks about. It’s driving me crazy. What do I care what color the tablecloths are?”
“You have to understand.” I smiled into the phone. “Most women dream of this day their whole lives. When we’re little, we put pillowcase veils on our heads and Mom’s high heels on our feet to walk across the backyard to our waiting groom—usually our brother—with grubby dandelions clutched in our hands.” I turned the snow globe over again. “Besides, you know how Lins likes to plan parties and events. This is the biggest event of her life, and she wants it absolutely perfect.”
“I know.” He groaned. “But she’s gone off the deep end. You’ve got to talk to her, get her to chill out. She’s like Bridezilla or something. I’m telling you, at this point a Las Vegas wedding chapel is looking mighty appealing—with an Elvis impersonator to perform the ceremony.”
“Don’t even go there. I can’t handle those muttonchop sideburns on a man.” I sighed. “Okay, I’ll try and talk to her, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Thanks, Pheebs. I owe ya. So how’s the job going?” He chuckled. “Still writing about emus?”
“Today it’s guinea pigs.”
“That crocodile-hunter guy has nothing on you.”
“Nothing except he lives in Australia, loves animals, and makes the big bucks. And I’m stuck in Barley, am so not an animal person, and I don’t earn squat.”
“I thought you had a cat.”
“The kids gave me a kitten. And he’s growing on me—although he prefers the big outdoors to my little apartment. But I’m still not likely to have my own show on Animal Planet anytime soon. ”
“Hey, I hear ya,” said Phil, then cleared his throat. “So . . . how’d you like to ditch the small town, earn three times what the Bulletin’s paying you, and never have to write about emus or rodents ever again?”
“And how’d you like to get a Jag for your birthday?” I toyed with the snow globe. “Ain’t gonna happen, Phillie.”
“What happened to the dreamer friend I know and love? Never say ain’t, Pheebs. Aside from the obvious fact that it’s bad grammar, that word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary.” He paused. “I’m offering you a job.”
“Say what?” I almost dropped the glass globe.
“You heard me. And I promise you, there are no animals involved.” He snickered. “Although some of the guys can get pretty wild when they close a new deal. C’mon Pheebs, whaddya say? Come be the PR director of my company.”
I stared at the phone. “But it’s an investment firm.” A Gone with the Wind scene flashed before my eyes. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no investment wheeling and dealing, Mr. Hansen.” I shook my head. “You know I’m no good with numbers—that’s why Lins always had to help me balance my checkbook.”
“Not a problem. We’ve got folks to take care of the numbers side of things. You just have to write it up and make it sound good to attract some high-end clients.” Phil dangled the security carrot. “We provide a full benefits package, complete with dental, vision, 401K, and stock options.” He zeroed in for the kill. “And remember, Pheebs; there are more restaurants and theaters in one downtown Cleveland block than in all of Barley.” He paused. “And stores.”
Visions of movie theaters and shoe stores filled my head.
Phil lobbed the friendship guilt grenade. “Please come home, Pheebs. I really need you. Lins needs you.”
“But I already have a job.”
He snorted. “A job you really don’t like that doesn’t pay anything.”
He had a point there. But my family’s here. This is where I belong, isn’t it? That’s why I came back here in the first place. Besides, Alex will be back any day now, and things will really start moving with us then . . .
I told Phil I’d consider his job offer—that whole friendship thing and all—although I really didn’t think I’d accept. I mean, come on. Me? Writing about budgets and investments?
Nearly as bad as emus.
Sure, the money was good. Really good. But money isn’t everything. I wouldn’t want to leave Gordon in the lurch. Besides, no journalist worth her five-Ws-and-an-H news training would ever consider becoming a public-relations flack.
After hanging up, remembering my promise to Phil, I called Lins.
“Did you say yes?”
“Huh?”
“To Phil’s job offer.” Lindsey bubbled over with excitement. “It will be just like before, Pheebs. Except of course for the rock on my finger.” She giggled. “You can return to the city life you love so much and all the friends who love you and make great money in the process. How cool is that?”
“Well—”
She plowed ahead. “You only left Cleveland in the first place because you lost your job, right? But now you’ll have an even better one—and still get to write!” Lins giggled again. “And as an added bonus, you’d be able to do the maid-of-honor thing up close and personal, which will help take some of the pressure off Phil.”
Would you like a side of fries with that emotional blackmail?
“Speaking of Phil and pressure . . .” I gently tried to convince my best friend to cool it with the wedding obsession. But all my running interference for the groom did was get the bride mad at me.
Note to self: Kill Phil. Then call Dr. Phil.
After dinner that night, I climbed up to the top of my beautifully reorganized closet and pulled down all my No More Lone Ranger scrapbooks.
There were me and Lindsey dressed up in poodle skirts and bobby socks at the fifties sock hop we’d organized. And there we were in costume again—this time in hoop skirts doing a Southern belles skit at the singles retreat—and in soaking jeans and sweatshirts at the carwash fundraiser, dressed to the nines for opening night at the ballet, painting sets for the Christmas play, gabbing at Starbucks, working out at the gym . . .
The gym. Eew. How’d that photo ever see the light of day?
Lindsey of course looked cute as always, her petite little self in a sports bra and a pair of bike shorts, but my thighs in Spandex was not a sight I want the whole world to see. I wasn’t too wild about seeing them myself.
Rip.
We sure did have a lot of fun together. And would again. Probably. I miss those days. Maybe I should give serious thought to Phil’s job offer after all.
I turned the page and my heart clutched.
Alex. His first time at Lone Rangers.
I remembered everything about that night.
He wore black.
I wore red.
He ate Doritos.
I munched on pretzels.
I knew movie trivia and he matched me film for film, star for star. We played Trivial Pursuit together and wiped everyone else, including Phil, off the board.
That’s when I knew we were destined to be together.
I sighed. How could I ever leave Barley and Alex?
Uh, Alex isn’t exactly here right now, my bratty stop-and-face-reality self reminded me. Hasn’t been for a while.
But I wasn’t a Gone with the Wind devotee for nothing.
Ah won’t think about that right now. Ah’ll think about that tomorrow.
[chapter six]
The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
valentine’s Day found me moping around the office the same way I did every year on that stupid romantic holiday.
“If it were up to me, I’d banish this barbaric date from the calendar,” I fumed to Gordon. “All it does is make single, dateless women everywhere feel like a bunch of junior-high-school wallflowers all over again. Even my beautiful niece Ashley is a basket case, wondering if this guy at school she has a crush on will give her a card. If he doesn’t, she’ll be crushed.”
I was really on a roll now. “Did you know that these days boys are even having flowers delivered to their girlfriends at school? Right to the classroom! Guess how that makes the rest of the girls feel? Can you say Loser with a capital L?”
Gordon was looking around for an escape route.
But I was just getting started.
“It becomes this big competition: My boyfriend-slash-sweetheart-slash- fiancé-slash-husband loves me more than yours . . . Look what he sent.” I ran my hand through my hair and scowled. “When I worked at the Star, there were always a few women who got huge bouquets of roses, balloons, or boxes of Godiva chocolates—sometimes all three. Sometimes even jewelry! While the rest of us sat at our flowerless desks feeling like a bunch of losers.”
I paced the floor. “A couple of us talked about sending each other flowers—under false names, of course—just so we wouldn’t look like unwanted, unlovable spinsters. How pathetic is that?”
“So did you?”
“Send the flowers? Nah. Couldn’t afford it. Did you know that a dozen roses costs close to seventy-five bucks?”
Gordon blushed. “Actually, it’s even a little more than that now.”
Pausing in midrant to say “Awww” and bestow a brilliant smile on my boss for treating my mother right, I picked up right where I’d left off. “Valentine’s Day is just another overhyped, overcommercialized holiday ploy created by florists and greeting-card manufacturers to earn big—”
The Bulletin’s front door burst open to reveal an armful of daffodils above a T-shirt and jeans. “Phoebe Grant?” a muffled feminine voice said from beneath the sunny mass.
“You might as well just turn around and take that bouquet right back to the flower shop,” Gordon instructed the florist delivery girl from Lodi, “or keep it yourself. Ms. Grant doesn’t believe in this over-commercialized holiday.”
The flowers inched down to reveal a perplexed pair of hazel eyes.
“Don’t pay any attention to that crotchety old man,” I said. “He thinks he’s a comedian.” I waved her over. “You can just bring those right over here. Thanks.”
The delivery girl left with a backward bewildered glance.
A goofy grin spread across my face. And I couldn’t help belting out the song that popped into my head—except it was today the sun had come out, not tomorrow.
Today was the first time a guy had ever sent me flowers on Valentine’s Day. (My relationships always seemed to end at some point before February 14.) Unless you counted the single white rose my dad always used to give me as his “second-best girl” so I wouldn’t feel left out when Mom got her bouquet of two dozen pink tulips. Dad had always said it was a cliché to send red roses to a sweetheart on Valentine’s Day. Any man could do that. But his and Mom’s love was so special; it called for a special flower. So every year he’d sent pink tulips instead.
And now, on this fourteenth of February, I got special flowers too. Daffodils.
Gordon’s eyebrows knit into a frown as he gazed at my bouquet. “I thought roses were the flower of choice on Valentine’s Day.”
“Depends.” I searched for the card, then glanced over and saw his eyebrows still knit together. “Gordon, Mom loves yellow roses. Don’t worry.” I grinned again, looking at my happy daffs. “Women love it when men send them flowers. It’s an extravagant gesture that makes them feel special and appreciated.”
Fina
lly found the card. “Phoebe, hope this host of golden daffodils brightens a dismal February morning. Happy Valentine’s Day. Fondly, Alex.”
“Fondly?” And I was off again. “You men!” I shot daggers at Gordon. “So afraid to say the L-word. I don’t think absence is making Alex’s heart grow any fonder, to tell the truth. I think it’s making it grow distant and forgetful.”
Gordon peered over his bifocals. “And that’s why he sent you flowers. Because he’s feeling distant and forgetful.” He cleared his throat. “Phoebe, I think it’s time you took a vacation. Things are slow here. Why not take a little time off, get away from everything for a while?” He tapped his pen on the desk. “I hear they’ve got really cheap flights overseas right now.”
My head snapped up. “What are you talking about?”
“I noticed in the Chronicle yesterday that they have some roundtrip flights from San Francisco to London for just a couple hundred dollars.”
“You think I should go see Alex?” I stared at him. “I’d love to, but I thought men hated it when women chased after them.”
“Who said anything about chasing?” Gordon slid me an innocent look. “Haven’t you always wanted to go to Europe? Seems like I remember someone way back in their high-school days who was deterdreaming mined to see the world—so much so in fact, that she up and joined the air force right after graduation.”
“Yeah. And the farthest I got was Cleveland.”
“Well, here’s your chance to change that. You’ve got a passport, haven’t you?”
“Uh-huh. A blank one that never gets used.”
“So put it to use. Give it a workout. Like our friend Esther did.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Life’s short, you know.”
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 7
