Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  I took another sip and sighed. “I could really get used to this afternoon tea thing. So much more leisurely than gulping down a mocha in the car.”

  “I know.” Mary Jo drained her tea. “I’ve got to say that I prefer this place to Brown’s Hotel, though. It’s cheaper, and I’m not expected to dress up. Plus, here I don’t feel like I need to crook my little finger.”

  “Are you sure?” I shot a surreptitious glance around the tearoom and lowered my voice. “I think maybe they have etiquette police planted.” I cut my eyes to a stout, well-dressed woman two tables over. “If you’re not careful, they may stick your hands in some of those medieval stocks until you crook your finger properly.”

  Mary Jo snorted. The stout woman gave us a snooty look, which made my Thelma pal snort all the more.

  Rolling our way out of the tearoom, we wandered through the Shambles, a crooked, traffic-free street crammed with ancient, narrow buildings, fabulous shops, and an Internet café where I could write my next column and send it to Gordon.

  “How long do you think you’ll be, Pheebs?”

  “An hour or so,” I said, looking up from the computer to my fidgeting friend. “Why?”

  “I want to do a little more shopping and just wondered how much time I had.”

  My fingers stilled. “Did you really just say want and shopping in the same sentence?” I peered behind her and looked all around. “Where’s my friend, and what have you done with her?”

  She stuck out her tongue, waved, and set off—a woman on a mission. I pulled out my travel journal, typed up my column to Gordon, and then sent my mom an e-mail care of Karen and Jordy:

  To: KGrants7

  From: Movielovr

  Karen, this one is for Mom. Please tell her when it arrives. Thanks.

  Hey there, working mom. How’s it feel to be back in the job ranks again after all this time? Congratulations! I’m thrilled for you, and I know everyone in town’s equally thrilled with all your yummy goodies. Looking forward to seeing all of you again—miss you! Lots to talk about when I get home. Lots. We took scads of pictures—wait’ll you see! Give the kids my love, especially that little namesake of ours. See you soon. Love, P.

  P.S. You’ve probably already heard from Gordon that Alex won’t be returning to Barley. C’est la vie. Easy come, easy go. Right? (Don’t worry. I’m fine. )

  BTW, Alex’s mom and sister are darlings. You’d love them.

  Late that afternoon, Mary Jo and I attended Evensong at centuries-old York Minster, where young choirboys sang in Latin and the sinking sun blazed in through centuries-old stained glass.

  Closing my eyes, I let the glorious music wash over me, and I thought of all the saints who had worshipped there throughout the centuries, listening to the same music, looking at the same stained glass, loving the same God. Then I opened my eyes and gazed at the vivid Technicolor windows, remembering the little church in Fairford. Once again, an uncanny sense of peace and reverence filled me. And suddenly that familiar line from Casablanca seemed to take on a whole new meaning.

  “It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three [in our case, two] little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world . . .”

  And the next phrase that flew through my imagination took me completely by surprise.

  “Seek first the kingdom of God . . . and all these things shall be added to you.”

  Mary Jo and I walked back to our bed-and-breakfast in silence, each intent on our own thoughts. And once in our room, I sequestered myself in a Radox bath for a little more one-on-one time with God. I was surprised to find myself humming a hymn I’d learned as a child at our family church. That was odd. For years I’d been more of a gospel-chorus, praise-music sort of girl. But something felt like it was changing, shaking loose in me, and I was hearing God in completely new ways.

  Okay, God, I’m all ears. What’s next?

  When I finally emerged from the bathroom an hour later, all wrinkled and pruney, my roommate handed me a small gift-wrapped box.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?” She crossed her eyes. “It’s a present. Open it.”

  Inside was a miniature replica of the Minster’s stained-glass rose window. Carefully I removed the delicate glass circle and held it up to the light. “But we didn’t even stop by the cathedral gift shop afterwards . . .”

  “I know. I got it while you were at the Internet café earlier. Something, or someone”—she smiled—“compelled me to buy it for you.”

  That night I slept peacefully without one thought of Alex.

  “How cute is that? It’s the same car Charlize Theron drove in The Italian Job.”

  MJ, who’d watched the heist caper with me on DVD, walked around the tiny Mini Cooper in the car rental parking lot, a skeptical expression on her face. “Except this one’s a lot older.”

  “Don’t be a spoilsport. Come on, get in. I’m a very good driver,” I said in my best Rain Man voice as I slid behind the wheel.

  On the right-hand side of the car, no less.

  “This feels too weird; sitting on the driver’s side without a steering wheel.” Mary Jo buckled her seat belt in preparation for our day trip through the Yorkshire countryside.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?” She shot me a wary look.

  “This isn’t an automatic.” We glanced down at the stick shift between us. “And I’m not left-handed.

  “But that’s okay.” I shrugged my carefree shoulders. “It will be one of our final Thelma-and-Louise adventures in England.”

  “Final?” Mary Jo dug her nails into the seat. “I’m glad this isn’t a convertible.”

  I grabbed the gear stick and shifted into reverse. Grind. Grind. I tried again, but my little-used left hand refused to obey the signals my brain was giving it.

  “Allow me,” MJ said, shifting with her right hand while I pushed in the clutch.

  “Right, then. By George”—no, not George, anyone but George—“I think we’ve got it.”

  Then we encountered my first roundabout—the Brits’ answer to stop signs. The intersecting roads all feed into a little traffic circle—you just drive around the circle and take the road you need.

  Except how exactly do you get in? Cars whizzed by from all directions, blaring their horns.

  Holding my breath, I took the plunge.

  But then I couldn’t get out. It was like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s European Vacation—only we didn’t have to stay in the roundabout all night. But we did drive around in the same circle seven times until at last Mary Jo yelled, “Now! Go for it! To the right, to the right!”

  Problem was, I always get my right and left confused. In air-force basic training, they’d had to tape a big R on my right shoe and an L on my left when they taught me how to march. Now here I was; sitting in the wrong side of the car, driving on the wrong side of the road, trying to shift with the wrong hand . . . and trying to remember which way was right.

  In city traffic.

  Can you say stressful?

  At last we were out of the city and on a hedge-lined stretch of country road.

  After trying in vain to pick up a decent radio signal with music we liked, we finally gave up. Instead, we sang Martina McBride’s “This One’s for the Girls” at the top of our lungs as we rode through the pastoral countryside, surrounded by thick hedges on either side.

  “Wow, these country roads sure are narrow, huh, MJ?”

  “Watch out!” All at once, a huge truck came barreling into view from around a curve—straight at us.

  “It’s just a one-lane road!” I shrieked. “What do I do?”

  The truck slowed down.

  So did I.

  Then he idled a truck length away from us and gestured.

  “Any idea what he’s trying to tell me?” I glanced at Mary Jo.

  “I think he wants you to move.”

  “To where?” I looked around wildly. “I’m boxed i
n on either side by these stupid hedges. And I read somewhere that beneath all this pretty greenery they’ve got thick stone walls. If I hit them, they’d crumple this baby like an accordion.”

  At last the truck driver gave an exasperated shake of his head. He revved his engine and backed all the way to the curve, pulling over to allow me just enough room to pass.

  Which I did at a snail’s pace.

  “Sorry,” Mary Jo yelled as we drove by.

  He yelled something too. Something about Yanks and blood. And made another gesture.

  We continued on our oblivious American way. After a couple more close calls, however, we finally realized that the unwritten law of the road was to pull over as close as possible to the lethal hedge when another vehicle approached. If there still wasn’t enough room, then one of us would back up until we found a slightly wider spot.

  So much for our idyllic day of driving through the English countryside. By the time we arrived in Thirsk and parked in the town square, we were both basket cases.

  “I’m driving when we leave,” Mary Jo said.

  I didn’t argue.

  Thirsk was the hometown of Mary Jo’s favorite author/vet, James Herriot. His house is now a museum, and I snapped a trembling-with-excitement Mary Jo’s picture in front of the gleaming red door. Once inside, we made our way through a warren of rooms; my animal-loving friend clucking in delight at each one we passed.

  All of a sudden she stopped short. “Phoebe,” she said in awe. “This is the dispensary.”

  I peered into the small room and looked around. “What? It’s a bunch of old bottles.”

  “But this is where the real James Herriot worked and dispensed medicines to his animal patients.” Her voice caught. “I never thought I’d really be here.”

  Glancing at my traveling companion, I noticed tears in her eyes—a first for practical, no-nonsense Mary Jo. At least since I’d known her.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I told her as we exited the museum. “Let’s stay here in Yorkshire an extra night instead of heading back to London.”

  Her eyes lit up momentarily. “But you wanted to see another show before we go home. You’ve got reservations.”

  “Which can be canceled.” I looked at my friend’s happy face and off into the distance.

  “Besides,” I added, “I like it here too. And I don’t want to be this close and miss the moors.”

  “S’mores?” Mary Jo said with a mischievous gleam. “Not sure they have those here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very funny, Esther.”

  We headed west to the moors—Brontë country—where I found myself longing to follow in the footsteps of Jane Eyre and Heathcliff.

  Minus all the torment, of course.

  And not in my Manolos—or even my Clarks.

  No, trudging across the wild moors called for some very specific British footwear: Wellingtons, affectionately known as Wellies. These strong, green rubber knee-high boots were perfect for mucking through rain and mud and traipsing through the countryside.

  Not terribly attractive, but wonderfully functional and an English institution.

  Fortunately, the hosts of our B&B outside of Haworth—home to the Brontë parsonage—kept a ready supply of Wellies for guests in their mud room. Mary Jo’s fit like a glove, but mine were just a tad too big. It was sort of a Goldilocks encounter as I sat on the stone steps trying on pair after pair . . . too little, way too big, and finally, although not “just right,” close enough.

  Once we’d been properly equipped, we made our way up the grassy fell that swooped down just behind the B & B. Once over the crest we were out of sight of town—we might as well have been a million miles away. The wind whipped our hair and sliced into our faces, and mud kept sucking my right boot off my heel at regular intervals.

  The funny thing was, I didn’t even mind. It was the best not-so-quiet time I’d had in a while.

  Tramping along behind Mary Jo, I replayed all that had happened on our trip—the sights we’d seen, things we’d done, people we’d met. And I found myself returning again and again to my friend’s assertion that I lived in Neverland.

  She wasn’t, of course, the first person to make such an observation.

  I know I tend to be a bit flighty, God, and walk around with my head in the clouds. And yes, I know I need to be responsible. I want to be responsible. But can’t I be responsible and dream a little too? Does being mature have to mean being boring and predictable and living without imagination?

  We topped another rise, looking back down over the town, and then down in a dished-out little valley. I kept on slipping and sliding in my slightly too-big boots. Then, part of the way down the next little valley, an answer floated lightly into my heart.

  Unless you become like little children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.

  At just that moment the heavens opened and a torrent of rain spilled forth. Slipping again, I grabbed at my traveling companion. “Hey, Mary Jo,” I yelled over the wind, “time to become like little children.”

  We tumbled down the muddy hill, laughing all the way.

  We arrived back at our cozy, warm B&B, sodden and soaked through—except for our feet. I gladly returned my ill-fitting Wellies.

  But all the rest I’m taking with me—except for the blood-clot tomatoes, of course.

  Back in London, Mary Jo indulged my need to check out the world-renowned Harrod’s. We goggle-eyed our way through the immense food halls, wishing we could bring back one of the massive wheels of cheddar cheese or Stilton, but opting not to since we didn’t want our clothes to smell.

  My Thelma pal had to pull me out of the shoe department before I drooled on all the Italian leather. We did, however, nip down to the bargain basement that Grace and Delia had recommended, where I picked up several tins of tea and tea biscuits to take home to my family.

  All my shopping at last accomplished, I turned to my traveling companion. “Well, Thelma, what else do you want to do in this marvelous city before we leave for home tomorrow?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I’d like to go on the London Eye at dusk. That way we can watch the sun set and see the whole city light up.”

  It wasn’t the most exciting Ferris wheel I’ve ever been on—can you say slow?—but it was definitely the biggest. All of London lay sparkling below us.

  What a perfect way to say good-bye to this amazing city. And as dusk turned to night, I looked across at the illuminated Big Ben and thought of Esther. And how right she’d been about traveling.

  You do discover who you are and what you’re made of when you’re on the road. Sometimes you even get a hint of where you’re going.

  “Second star to the right, my friend,” I whispered as the big wheel started its slow descent, “and straight on ’til morning.”

  [chapter eighteen]

  Sweet Home California

  sure feels great to be back in warm California again.” Mary Jo lifted her face to the sun as we stepped out of the air-conditioned coolness of Sacramento’s airport.

  “Enjoy it while you can.” Gordon chuckled. “Supposed to get up to sixty-eight today, but weather man says we’re due for a cold snap this weekend. Might get down to forty-five.”

  Mary Jo hooted. “You don’t know the meaning of cold ’til you’ve spent a few days in the English countryside in what they call spring.” She shivered in remembrance. “There was one day when it got down to thirty degrees.”

  We’d arrived in Washington, D.C., from London that morning as scheduled but discovered that our connecting flight to San Francisco had been canceled due to mechanical problems. That meant we’d have to spend the night in our nation’s capital and continue on to San Francisco the following day. I’d called Mom, who was planning to pick us up, and told her to stay put.

  But then we learned that, if we hurried, there was a flight to Sacramento we could catch, arriving late that same afternoon. Eager to get home and more than ready to sleep in our own beds again, we ran f
or it. As we were boarding, I called Gordon on my cell and asked him to make the one-hour drive from Barley to pick us up.

  “Don’t say anything to my family, though,” I’d warned him. “I want to surprise them.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  Now at the airport, Gordon looked down at all our bags. “Did you buy out the whole country, or what, Phoebe?”

  “Well, the airline lost my luggage, so I had to buy a new bag,” I said with an injured air. “And then, just as we were about to fly out, we discovered they’d had my old one in a stray corner all along. So I have them both now. But,” I sniffed, “I’ll have you know that many of those bags belong to Mary Jo.”

  “Thought you weren’t a shopper.” He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

  “I’m not.” Mary Jo grimaced. “But shopaholic Louise there managed to pull me over to the dark side with her.”

  She held up a placating hand. “Not to worry, though. It was just a case of temporary insanity. Now that I’m back on American soil, I see no reason to repeat the offense.”

  Driving home, Gordon kept up a constant stream of chatter, wanting to hear all about our trip but never making direct eye contact with me.

  Sensing his discomfort, I finally broached the subject he was doing his utmost to avoid. “You can mention his name. It’s okay.”

  He fidgeted in his seat, then clenched the steering wheel tighter and stared straight ahead. “Phoebe, I owe you a big apology. I’m sorry I pushed you to go to England and see Alex and that things didn’t work out between you two.”

  I laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Gordon, I’m glad you pushed me to go to England.”

  “You are?”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything in the world.”

  Gordon stole a cautious glance my way. “But what about Alex?”

  I twisted around and shot a wry grin at Mary Jo in the backseat.

  “Well, I must admit that wasn’t my favorite part of the trip. Neither was meeting Gorgeous George, the family lawyer. But everything else was wonderful.”