Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “You can have that tomorrow.” Delia said, turning to me with an anxious look. “I talked to Mum, and she’d really like you to come for lunch and a ride. Is that all right?”

  I looked at Delia, then Mary Jo, who was doing her best not to look too eager. “Sure. I’d love to see your mother again. But tomorrow’s Monday. Don’t you have to get back to the office?”

  “Actually, I managed a bit of holiday.” She crinkled her nose into a smile. “Sometimes being related to the boss can be an advantage. Especially when the boss’s wife puts in a special word.”

  “Well, then, we accept with pleasure,” I said, but added, “as long as I don’t have to do the riding bit. Not really my thing.”

  Delia looked puzzled, then her face cleared. “Ah, I see. That was for George’s benefit, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “No worries.” She slid a sly glance at me. “George won’t be there tomorrow.”

  Thank you, Lord. Now I can wear my Manolos in peace.

  “Look, MJ,” I squealed, “It’s Tiddles!”

  “Who?”

  “Tiddles the church cat,” I explained. “Norm Anderson mentioned it when he was trying to get approval from the Barley Cemetery Board to let him erect a monument to his pet pig. Said when he was stationed in England, he saw a memorial to Tiddles the cat in a country churchyard. But I thought he just made it up to strengthen his case.” I walked around the diminutive concrete cat-shaped memorial. “Guess he didn’t. I mean, how many Tiddles the church cats can there be?” I dug around in my purse. “I’ve got to get a picture for him.”

  Mary Jo snapped a picture of me in front of the cement cat, whose tiny grave marker said he’d lived from 1963 to 1980. Then we wandered inside the church attached to the churchyard. The sign outside told us it was called St. Mary’s. And according to our guidebook, St. Mary’s in the village of Fairford contained England’s only complete set of “medieval narrative glass.”

  The church was dim as we stepped inside. No surprise—it was cloudy outside. But when the sun peeked through a few minutes later, the windows—all twenty-eight of them—sprang to unbelievable, vivid life.

  Every stained-glass scene depicted a chapter of the salvation story, beginning with Eve taking the apple in the Garden of Eden and going through Jesus’ birth, crucifixion, and resurrection. And although every window was exquisite, the one that brought me to my knees and kept me there for some time was the one of Jesus sitting enthroned on a blue and gold rainbow with the earth as his footstool. And encircling Jesus were all the martyrs and heavenly host in a background of brilliant blood red.

  Such a red as I’d never seen—even in Technicolor.

  I stared at Jesus on the throne for a long time. And all the red around him. And wept. Gradually I felt a sense of peace steal deep into my being.

  And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a spiritual loser.

  When Delia turned in the long, curving drive of the ancestral family home late that morning, I felt like I needed to go find the servant’s entrance.

  MJ gasped as the stately home hove into view. “It’s a castle!” she said.

  “It is a bit of a monstrosity, isn’t it?” Delia said. “No castle though, just a manor house.”

  “Just a manor house?” I gulped. “It looks like something out of Dynasty.”

  Behind me, I could hear Mary Jo gulp. “Uh, how old is your house, Delia?”

  “About three hundred years, give or take.” She grinned. “I never can keep track, but Father can tell you the exact figures if you really want to know—although I wouldn’t ask if I were you. He’ll run on for hours.”

  “That’s older than our entire country.” Mary Jo shook her head.

  “And it shows in spots.” Delia grimaced. “Thankfully, Mum had it all modernized when I was little. The loos were positively ancient, I’m told.” She pulled her BMW up to the front door.

  “Right. Here we are then.”

  The massive oak door opened, and I steeled myself to see a starched English butler appear. Instead, I was relieved to see Grace hurry to welcome us, followed by her husband at a more sedate pace.

  “Hello, darling.” Grace gave her daughter a warm hug, and then turned to an awestruck Mary Jo and me and gave us each a quick embrace as well. “So lovely to see you both again. Please come in. I’ve got lunch all prepared.”

  She chuckled when she realized we were still staring wide-eyed at her home’s imposing façade. “It is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? Imagine how I felt when I first came. I was used to cleaning grand houses like this, not living in them.”

  “Grace,” her husband protested.

  “It’s true, David.” She winked at us. “My husband doesn’t like me to remember those days now that I’m the grand lady of the manor.” She linked her arm with his as she ushered us inside a marble foyer lined with antiques, then led us through the house to a sunny, glass-enclosed room filled with plants at the back. “Since you’re all going riding soon, I thought we’d just have a light lunch in the conservatory.” (She pronounced it that lovely English way, of course: conserva-try.) “It’s a lot less stuffy than the formal dining room,” she added. “Then after your ride, we’ll have a more substantial tea.”

  We sat down at a round, glass-topped wicker table set with beautiful, floral-patterned bone china and sparkling crystal. All except for Grace.

  “Right,” she said. “I’ll just pop into the kitchen and get the food.”

  “I’ll help, Mum.” Delia started to get up.

  “No need. I’ve got everything ready—just need to load it on the tea trolley and roll it in.” Her eyes twinkled. “Besides, you need to stay and protect Phoebe and Mary Jo from your father.”

  David harrumphed. “Don’t see why they need—”

  “Only teasing, darling.” Grace gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “Won’t be a moment.”

  Mary Jo jumped into the breech. “Mr. Spencer, your house is wonderful. Has it always been in your family?”

  “Please. Call me David.” He gave her a warm smile and launched into a historical narrative of his ancestral manor home while Delia, behind him, grinned and rolled her eyes.

  Grace returned with a tray of cold meats and cheeses on a platter, a basket of bread, a crock of butter, and some Ploughman’s pickle relish. The latter looked a bit too much like Marmite, so MJ and I both passed on it, but we practically inhaled the thick, crusty bread and wonderful English cheddar.

  Mary Jo was in her element during lunch, talking broodmares and foals with David and Delia while Grace asked me questions about my family and Barley and I chatted with her about living in England.

  Finally, David pushed his chair back and stood. “Now, then. Are you girls all ready for your ride?” He glanced down at my Manolos. “Guess you left your gear in the car. You can change in the tack room.”

  Confession time, Pheebs. See what happens when you lie?

  I took a deep breath. “Actually, I don’t—”

  Grace rode to the rescue with a gracious smile. “Darling, why don’t you three go on ahead? I’d like Phoebe to keep me company.”

  I shot her a grateful look.

  “But—”

  Mary Jo pushed back her chair and stood up abruptly. “Mr. Spencer, uh, David, I’m eager to see that new mare you were telling me about. Has she foaled yet this year?”

  The three excused themselves and headed to the stables.

  “Thank you, Grace.” My cheeks flamed. “I wasn’t trying to lie, I just—”

  She held up her hand and smiled. “I know, dear. George can be a bit formidable, can’t she? I’ve never taken to riding myself, much to David’s chagrin.” She began to clear the plates. “But he loves me anyway. And besides, everything else about living here in the country I adore. Especially my garden.”

  I helped her stack the dishes on the trolley. “Thank you again for the lovely flowers you sent to our hotel room. I’ve always loved daf
fodils.”

  Grace gave me a gentle look. “I know.” She wheeled the trolley to the spacious kitchen with beautiful ancient slate floors. “Alex has told you of his plans to stay here and run the business for his father then?” she asked as we loaded the dishwasher.

  My heart clutched, but only for a second. “Yes.” I handed her a plate. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to have your son so close again.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she said softly, almost to herself. “If he’s staying for the right reasons.” She smiled, and her adopted homeland’s famous reserve fell back into place. “Alex has told me so much about Barley and the Bulletin. Will you continue to write for the paper?”

  “I’m not sure.” I gave her a crooked smile. “To be honest, I think I’ve written about all I can about pigeon racing, cemetery boards, and emu ranching.”

  Her laugh bubbled forth. “I can imagine.” She wrinkled her nose. “Emus?”

  “And cows. And goats. And sheep. And every other four-legged creature known to man—which is kind of funny since I’m about as far from an animal person as you can get.” I handed her another plate. “When I lived in Cleveland, my pet was a plastic goldfish. No fuss and no mess, but bright and pretty to look at.”

  “A bit difficult to cuddle up to,” Grace observed.

  “True. But no shedding either.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?”

  “You said that in Cleveland your pet was the plastic goldfish. What about now?” Grace pulled out a chair and sat down at the scarred pine kitchen table, which also served as an island, and gestured for me to do the same.

  “Now I have a cat named Herman. My five-year-old nephew gave him to me to keep me company and to help keep the mice at bay.” I sat across from her and grinned. “Actually, Herman allows me the pleasure of his company only when he’s feeling so inclined. Which isn’t often. Except when he’s hun—”

  A deep howl behind me made me jump, knocking over my wooden chair in the process. I whirled around to see a dog that looked a little like Charlie Brown’s Snoopy, only tricolored and much, much older. He stood with his graying muzzle thrown back, ready to howl again.

  Grace’s eyes twinkled. “I think you hurt Chester’s feelings with your talk about not being an animal person.” She patted her leg. “Here, boy. Come here. That’s okay. Phoebe didn’t mean it.”

  “Sorry.” My ears burned as I set the chair to rights.

  The beagle, uh, Chester, stretched in his doggy bed, which I hadn’t even noticed, and padded over to his mistress, who stroked his head and scratched his ears. When he flopped on his back, stubby legs in the air, she slipped off her right loafer and began rubbing Chester’s tummy with her foot. “So then what will you do?”

  “Pardon?”

  “If you leave the Bulletin?”

  I sighed. “Actually, a friend of mine in Cleveland made me a really good job offer recently, but I’ve pretty much decided to turn him down. The money’s great, and it would be wonderful to live in a big city again, but I’m afraid it would turn out to just be emus all over again . . .”

  She looked a bit confused, so I took a deep breath and started over. “Actually, I’m considering several options—including staying in England a bit longer.”

  Her eyes met mine, probing. Then she looked back at Chester and put her loafer back on. “Yes, Delia mentioned that.”

  I blushed. “Grace, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How difficult was it for you to adjust to life over here rather than in the States?”

  She smiled. “It’s quite lovely living here now, but it was a tremendous adjustment at first. Everything was completely different from what I was accustomed to.” She stood up and moved to the sink while Chester padded back to his bed. “Not just the country, but the whole lifestyle I married into.” She looked back at me, drying her hands on a tea towel. “I think Alex told you that when I met David, I was his parents’ housekeeper?”

  I nodded.

  A shadow crossed her face. “My first husband was an alcoholic and had trouble keeping a job, so we never had much. When he died, we had nothing.” The shadow disappeared. “But God provided me with a position as a housekeeper to the Spencer family, which in turn led to my meeting David, which in turn led to our falling in love and getting married and”—she made a sweeping motion with her hand—“my moving into all this. I still find it difficult to believe at times that I live here amid all this grandeur.” She shook her head and gave me a rueful smile. “This Pittsburgh girl never expected to become the lady of the manor.”

  She glanced at me. “Would you like a tour of the house?”

  “Would I?!”

  Whoa! Dial it down a notch, California-girl.

  Note to self: Remember new resolve to be less exuberant.

  “Thank you,” I said in a softer, better-modulated tone. “That would be lovely.”

  Although I tried not to gape and exclaim at room after grand room that Grace led me through, that proved impossible—especially when she showed me the library with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases on all sides. “Omigosh! It’s like the one in Beauty and the Beast, and there’s even one of those attached rolling-ladder thingies.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like to try it?” Grace’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “When Cordelia was little, I used to push her round and round on the nanny’s day off.”

  Now I really gaped. Then shot a rueful look down at my thighs. “I’m not exactly little.”

  She waved off my objection. “You’re fine.”

  “But what will your husband think?”

  “He’ll never know. They’ll be out riding for ages.” Grace giggled.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve got the house to ourselves. Now climb on up and I’ll push you.”

  And that she did. I flew past Shakespeare and Shelley and Grisham, Wordsworth and Coleridge and Clancy.

  Then I pushed Grace. And she pushed me again.

  And again. And again.

  “Okay, hold on tight,” I cautioned. “I’m going to go really fast this time.”

  Grace threw back her head, shut her eyes, and squealed with glee as she flew around the shelves.

  “Mother—what in the world?”

  I stopped in midpush, Grace’s eyes flew open, and we both turned sheepish faces toward the door where Alex stood, his mouth hanging open.

  Next to him were a tiny pair of Manolos I’d have recognized anywhere.

  I cast an involuntary glance down at my own bare feet, having removed my boots and socks to improve my balance on the ladder. My heart lurched, and I felt my face flame.

  Grace descended the ladder, smoothing her hair. “Hello, darling. What a nice surprise. We weren’t expecting you today.” She inclined her head toward the tiny Manolos. “Georgina.” Then she linked her petite arm with my not-so-petite one. “I was just showing Phoebe the library, but I think it’s nearly teatime. Your father and the others should be back soon.”

  The tea, complete with Grace’s homemade scones and clotted cream, was scrumptious but stilted. MJ tried to dispel the awkwardness by regaling us with the story of Delia and David hoisting her up into an antique sidesaddle—in which she had elected not to ride. “I’m glad you weren’t there with your camera, Pheebs,” she said with a laugh. “I looked more than ridiculous.”

  “Oh, Phoebe, didn’t you get a chance to ride?” George looked me up and down. “What a shame.”

  Before I could answer, Grace stepped in. “I asked Phoebe to keep me company. After all the wonderful things my son had told me about her, I wanted to get to know her better.” She cast a warm smile my way. “I’m so glad I did.”

  Delia grinned, and George leaned in closer to Alex, who tugged at his collar. My heart did another little lurch as I took in his dear, familiar face. He really was a wonderful-looking man. But I kept my cool.

  During our farewells, Alex hugged Mary Jo and said, �
��I’m glad I got the chance to see you both again before you leave.” He frowned. “Just sorry we weren’t able to spend much time together. So much going on, you know, and . . .” Then he turned to me with what seemed like a wistful look—I was probably just imagining it—and gave me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Have a great flight home, and please tell your mom and everyone in Barley hello.”

  He lowered his voice. “Here’s lookin’ at you, Pheebs.” But he couldn’t seem to look me in the eye.

  I was misinformed. Way misinformed.

  When Grace hugged me good-bye, she lingered a little longer to whisper in my ear, “‘And this is my prayer, that your love may grow ever richer and richer in knowledge and insight of every kind, and may thus bring you the gift of true discrimination.’”

  [chapter sixteen]

  More Surprises

  back at Delia’s flat, an interesting message awaited us from Ian.

  Asking Mary Jo out. On a date. That same evening.

  She was gobsmacked.

  I was thrilled. So was Delia. We danced around the room and serenaded MJ with “Tonight” from West Side Story. (Turns out Delia had played one of the Jet girls in a school production, so she knew all the songs from the show.) Our serenade screeched to an abrupt halt, however, when MJ told us, “I’m not going.”

  “What? Why not?” I frowned. “You thought he was nice.”

  “And smart,” Delia chimed in. “And sweet.”

  “And he loves history and horses,” I reminded her.

  “But it doesn’t make sense.” My practical friend ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “First, he’s just a kid. Second, I don’t even know whether he’s a Christian or not. And third, we’re going home in a few days. What’s the point?”