Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

“Oh, I don’t know, let me think.” Fist under my chin, I struck a “Thinker” pose. “To have a little fun, maybe?”

  “Besides, Ian’s no kid,” Delia said. “He may be younger than you in years, but he’s more together than most thirty-year-olds I know.” She smiled. “And just for the record, MJ, he is a Christian. And loads of fun.”

  “Besides, it’s just a date.” I kicked off the spiffy-but-comfy Clarks clogs I’d snagged during one of our Cotswold shopping sprees, along with a replacement suitcase for the new clothes I’d bought. “It’s not a proposal. It’s not meeting the parents. It’s just a fun evening. Go and have a good time.” I shrugged. “Of course, if you’d rather stay here with us, we’re planning some fun too. Delia, weren’t you saying we could give one another facials tonight? And when we’re finished with that, pedicures?”

  “Don’t forget the leg waxing, Phoebe. We have to do that before the pedicure.”

  Mary Jo shuddered and punched in Ian’s number. “All right. I get the picture. But it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date, I won’t even know how to act.”

  Delia grinned. “Don’t act. Just be your natural self. That’s what he was drawn to in the first place.”

  Once she hung up, after agreeing to go to dinner with Ian, I pounced. “Makeup time!”

  MJ shrank back. “But I don’t usually wear makeup.”

  “You don’t usually date either.” I grinned and led her to a chair at the kitchen table, grabbing my cosmetics bag on the way. “This is a night of firsts.”

  “Do you need concealer?” Delia asked.

  “Nope.” I dotted my cover-up stick beneath the faint circles under MJ’s eyes and rubbed it in. “But do you have any foundation? Mine’s the wrong shade for her coloring.”

  Delia passed me a small bottle. “How about lipstick?”

  “Got it. Blush too. But do you have any eye liner?”

  Mary Jo put her fingers in her mouth and let loose with an ear-piercing whistle. “Now, just hold on a minute.” She directed her attention to Delia. “Didn’t you tell me a little while ago to just be my natural self?”

  “Yes, but—”

  She swiveled her head to me. “And aren’t you the one who told me to just go and have a good time?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Mary Jo shoved herself away from the table and yelled, “Well, I can’t be natural or have a good time with all that gunk on my face.”

  “Okay, okay. Settle down.” My eyes widened. I’d never heard my laid-back friend yell before.

  “Yes, MJ, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Delia said.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.” Her face reddened. “Look, I really appreciate what you’re both trying to do here, but . . . it’s just not me. I’m just not the girly-girl type.” She lifted her shoulders. “He’ll have to just take me as I am or not at all.”

  “He’d be lucky to get you,” I said. The heat climbed up my neck.

  “I’m sorry too, MJ. Guess I got a little carried away.”

  “Me too,” Delia said.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Mary Jo pushed her hair behind her ears and slid a tentative smile our way. “I could use a little help figuring out what to wear, though.”

  Later that night, I was channel surfing and happened upon one of my favorite Julia Roberts comedies. Delia had already gone to bed—we’d skipped the whole facials-and-pedicure ritual, which had just been for Mary Jo’s benefit—and MJ was still out kicking up her heels with Ian. So I settled in to enjoy the last half hour of My Best Friend’s Wedding, disappointed that I’d missed the “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” restaurant sing-along.

  I did, however, catch the scene near the end where Julia is chasing after her best male friend, the seriously hot Dermot Mulroney, whom she thinks she’s in love with, but who is engaged to Cameron Diaz. She’s literally chasing him, in a delivery truck—while Dermot careens after Cameron Diaz in a regular car.

  I’ve seen that chase dozens of times, and it’s hilarious. But this time, watching Julia’s frantic maneuvers, it suddenly hit me: That’s what I’ve been doing.

  No, I hadn’t been tailing Alex through the streets of Chicago. But I’d been chasing him just the same, no matter how I tried to tell myself otherwise.

  Then Rupert Everett, Julia’s other male friend, says something to her on the cell phone as she screeches around a corner, barely missing traffic and parked cars.

  What he says is this: “Who’s chasing you, Jules?”

  And when he said it, I had a full-blown epiphany: That’s it. That’s how it should be.

  Like most of my friends, I’d always hated those platitudes about “don’t chase guys” and “play hard to get.” I mean, we’re in the twenty-first century now; we don’t need all that romantic game playing, right?

  But now I saw the real problem with chasing after a man. It wasn’t a matter of being unseemly or socially unacceptable or not playing the game right. It was just this: if I chase him, I’ll never really know if he cares enough to chase me.

  How nice to know beyond a doubt that you’re really the one he wants—that he’s not just letting you catch him because he’s tired or doesn’t have anything better to do. And I really don’t know that about Alex. Or I didn’t know it until recently.

  Sigh. So much for staying in England and attending Oxford.

  It was a night for surprises.

  “Guess what, daughter? I’ve got a job!”

  I spit out my tea when I read those words from my mother on Delia’s laptop.

  Mom wrote (using Karen and Jordy’s e-mail) that Jeff and Amy from Barley Presbyterian, who also ran Books ’n’ Brew, had left a couple of days earlier to move to Oregon. Jeff had been called to a full-time pastorate at a small church who needed him immediately.

  I didn’t even get to say good-bye, part of me wailed.

  Never mind, the other part answered. Just be happy for them. This is what they wanted.

  I continued reading. My mother was taking over Amy’s place as resident baker for the bookstore and coffee bar. Karen was working there too, handling the book end of things with the help of a local boy named Redmond, who had worked for Jeff and Amy. “Everyone always likes my pies and pastries,” Mom wrote. “So instead of giving them away, I’m going to earn a little money off them from now on. Best of all, this will mean a little extra money for Karen and Jordy, which we hope will relieve some of the stress on your brother. We’ve been really worried about him with all the extra work he’s taken on. He’s pushing himself way too hard. And I can’t help thinking about your father.”

  My stomach clenched when I read that. I knew that Jordy was doing too much and that Mom and Karen were worried about him. I’d just conveniently forgotten about it while I was over here having fun.

  And chasing after Alex.

  Déjà vu flashback to my senior year in high school. My dad had taken on a part-time job in addition to his full-time teaching position in an effort to help make ends meet for our family.

  Six months later, he’d died of a heart attack.

  Chastened, I fell to my knees and whispered a fervent prayer for my brother. “Please Lord, watch over Jordy and keep him safe. We love him and need him.”

  I stayed there for a long time, alternately thinking of my family, praying for them, and sort of chatting with God about what was going on in my life. Then I reached under the table for my trusty carryall and unearthed my travel Bible.

  Lord, show me what to do.

  Opening to Philippians, I found the verse Grace had quoted in my ear: “So that you may be able to discern what is best . . .” I continued reading. “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.”

  I closed my Bible, lost in thought until the TV intruded. I started to hit the off button on the remote, but Mr. Spock caught my attention in one of
the early Star Trek movies—The Wrath of Khan, I think. Spock was behind glass in a sealed chamber filled with some kind of toxins or radiation that, if released, would kill the entire crew. He was absorbing the poison into his own body instead and clearly dying, with his friend Captain Kirk on the other side of the glass, unable to prevent it.

  Spock gasped the beginning of a Vulcan proverb, which the characters had earlier argued about: “The needs of the many—”

  Kirk, almost in tears, finished his sentence, “outweigh the needs of the few.”

  “Or the one,” Spock added and placed his hand on the glass, fingers spread in the Vulcan salute.

  Before I knew it, I was having a major PMS meltdown over the onscreen death of the logical guy with the pointy ears. But I wasn’t too hormonal not to realize there was a message there for me.

  All right, God, I know I asked for some guidance. But Star Trek?

  Wiping my streaming eyes with my fist, I got up and went in search of tissues . . . and chocolate. Then I went back to Delia’s laptop and finished reading my e-mail.

  To: Movielovr

  From: GGreen

  Hi, Phoebe. Things at the Bulletin are running smoothly. Ryan, the intern, is doing a great job. And talking about jobs, I suppose your mother’s told you her exciting news. Wait ’til you see her! She’s having the time of her life—took to that job like a duck to water. Karen too.

  By the way, getting lots of good feedback on your column. Even Lou Jacobs has said nice things. I’m forwarding an e-mail that recently came to the Bulletin for you.

  Dear Phoebe,

  Hope you don’t mind my being so familiar, but I feel like I know you after reading your column. Girl, I laughed myself silly when I read the story of you and Mary Jo and your search for a potty in a tube station! (The very same thing happened to my best friend Sharlene and me. My name is Bobbi Lou Miller, and I live in Lodi, but I’m originally from the great state of Texas. I’m a little bit older than you. Okay, a lot. I turn the big five-oh next month, so I guess that means I could be your mama.) But for my fortieth birthday, Sharlene and I spent ten days in England and had a ball. She still lives in Dallas, but I’ve told her where to find your column on the Net, and we both love reading about all your hilarious misadventures across the pond. You kind of remind me of that travel guy who writes funny stuff about going to Australia or just for a walk in the woods.

  Keep up the good work!

  Bobbi Lou

  Wow. My first fan letter.

  I read it again. Then I thought about my job, my family, and the direction of my life.

  Lord, what should I do with my career? I know you’ve given me the gift and ability to write, but I also know there’s not much money in it—which is why most writers have a backup plan. Should Phil be my back-up? Or do you have something completely different in mind?

  I reread both Mom’s and Gordon’s e-mails again, prayed some more, then turned off the computer and went to bed, my mouth curving into a smile as a completely unforeseen plan began to unfurl in my mind.

  “Tell all, MJ!” I demanded the next morning. “How was your date? We’ve been dying to hear.” I wiggled my eyebrows, Groucho Marx–style. “Did you kiss?”

  Hope so. That way at least one of us would be getting a little lip action.

  “Did you have a good time? He wasn’t too young then?” Delia asked innocently.

  Mary Jo poured a cup of coffee and yawned. “I’m so tired. I haven’t stayed up that late in a long time.” She blew on her coffee before taking a sip.

  “You’re killin’ me here,” I said, putting my head in my hands. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Where’d you go? What did you do? Come on—’fess up.” I exchanged a glance with Delia. “You must have had a good time, or you wouldn’t have gotten in so late.”

  Mary Jo buttered a piece of toast, then took another sip of coffee and smiled. “Yes, I had a good time. We went to dinner at this great Italian restaurant, then we walked around a little and Ian pointed out some really cool things about Oxford.” She turned to me, eyes alight. “Did you know that Christopher Wren helped design the chapel at St. Mary’s Church here? It looks completely different from the little St. Mary’s in Fairford.”

  I groaned. “Skip the architecture lesson already and get back to the date.”

  “Well”—the corners of her mouth turned up—“then Ian took me to this club where they had karaoke . . .”

  “I’ll bet you blew him away!” I turned to Delia, eyes dancing. “MJ rocks! She’s got pipes like Aretha. Our girl can sing.”

  Mary Jo blushed. “So can Ian. He’s kind of a cross between Paul McCartney and Sting.”

  “Did you do any duets?” Delia asked with a sly grin.

  She blushed again. “‘Just My Imagination’ and Smokey Robinson’s ‘Cruisin’. It was fun.” She finished her toast and smiled at me. “Thanks for pushing me to go, Pheebs. You too, Delia. I had a good time. Made a nice end to our Oxford visit.” She looked at her watch. “And now we’d better finish packing if we’re going to catch that train.”

  I shook my head. Ever-practical Mary Jo. No romance in her soul.

  Delia took us to the station, and we all hugged good-bye. “Thanks for everything,” I said. “And come visit us in Barley anytime.”

  “Yeah,” Mary Jo said to Delia. “Then I’ll take you riding.” She grinned. “Don’t have a sidesaddle, though.”

  Just as we were boarding, we heard a shout.

  “Wait!”

  Ian came running down the platform, coat flapping, gangly legs flying, a bunch of freesia clutched in one hand and a small package in the other. He thrust them both at Mary Jo just as the train began to move.

  I shrugged as the platform receded behind us, Ian and Delia waving good-bye.

  Guess I got that romantic train-station send-off that I wanted after all.

  Wrong guy, of course, but that’s all right.

  To my amazement, I found that it almost was.

  [chapter seventeen]

  The Wild Moors

  these English people sure have the gift of hospitality,” Mary Jo said, sniffing her flowers as the train sped toward York. “First Alex’s mom, then Delia, and now Ian.”

  “Ian’s not being hospitable.” I looked her straight in the eye. “He’s wooing you.”

  She snorted. “I don’t think so.” Then she sighed. “Phoebe, I don’t want to belabor the point or anything, but this isn’t Hollywood. People don’t fall in love that quickly.”

  “I’m not saying he’s in love with you”—yet, I added to myself—“but that man has got a serious case of heavy-duty like going on.”

  “May I remind you that we just met? And that an ocean will soon be separating us?” Mary Jo shook her head. “He’s simply doing the proper, polite English thing. They probably learn that stuff from the cradle.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.” I glanced at the still-wrapped package in her lap. “So why don’t you open that and see what Mr. Proper and Polite gave you?”

  “Probably just a little something to remind us of Oxford.” The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a CD of Motown’s Greatest Hits—including “Cruisin’” and “Just My Imagination.” Mary Jo stared at the plastic case in her hand. And didn’t notice a card flutter to the floor.

  I snatched it up and read aloud:

  Dear Mary Jo,

  I had a wonderful time last night and am hoping it wasn’t just my imagination that there was a connection between us. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You’re so different from most of the English girls I meet! So open and natural.

  I do hate that you’re leaving so soon. I’d really like to spend more time with you exploring this connection. May I write you in California, please?

  Hopefully, Ian

  “Yep. I’d say that’s the kind of stuff they teach ’em from the cradle.” I passed the note to her.

  As she reread the card, I replayed Mary Jo’s comments in my head. This isn’t Hollywood. Peop
le don’t fall in love that quickly. I had a funny feeling that not too far down the Ian-road, she might find herself eating those very words.

  But as far as Alex was concerned, though, had I really been in love? Had I known him well enough to be in love? Or (big embarrassed gulp) was I just in love with the whole idea of love?

  Maybe a little bit of both?

  Don’t forget the lust factor, my puritan conscience reminded me.

  All right already. So I went a little overboard on the kiss thing. What can I say? It’s been a while.

  I knew there were notable exceptions to the people-don’t-fall-in-love- that-quickly rule—off the silver screen, I mean. Take my parents: One look at my mom on that Miss Udderly Delicious Dairy Pageant float, and my dad had been a goner.

  Which is why I guess I’d expected the same.

  But that’s not the norm, my internal voice of reason reminded me gently. And when it does happen, you both have to be on the same page.

  Alex obviously wasn’t on the same page. I’m not sure he was even reading the same book.

  “Look at the sheep.” Mary Jo pressed her nose to the window and bleated, “Maaaa, maaaa.”

  I giggled. “You may not be able to get the plums in your mouth down, but you’ve sure got those animal accents licked.”

  “Brrr. Not quite California weather, is it?” Mary Jo pulled her fleece jacket close and power-walked to warm up as we walked the two miles of medieval walls that surround a portion of the ancient city of York and offer stunning views of the cathedral, which they call York Minster. “I’d kill for a hot cup of tea.”

  “Ditto.”

  Ten minutes later found us inside Little Betty’s, a quaint tearoom with creaky, sloping floors and a wonderful cozy ambience. We ordered a standard full tea but also took our guidebook’s recommendation and asked especially for a “Fat Rascal” scone, Betty’s signature offering.

  Fat indeed. That puppy was huge and bursting with currants and raisins.

  Mary Jo slathered hers with jam and cream as Delia had taught us, took a bite, and swooned. I followed in her swooning lead. “This is the most amazing scone I’ve ever had in my life. We should get the recipe for Mom so she can serve them at Books ’n’ Brew.”