Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Well, some of the food was kind of strange,” Mary Jo interjected. “And that first grotty hotel—”

  “Grotty?” He raised puzzled eyebrows.

  “Tacky. Icky. Dirty. Apart from those couple of inconveniences, the trip was absolutely fabulous.” I looked straight at him. “And if not for you, I’d never have gone and seen all those amazing things. So thank you.”

  “Yeah,” Mary Jo piped up from the backseat. “Thanks, Gordon. And thank you too, Pheebs, for inviting me to tag along. It was quite an adventure.” She giggled. “Phoebe and Mary Jo’s excellent adventure.”

  Gordon cleared his throat. “I am sorry that things didn’t work out with Alex though. I really thought there was something there—definitely saw some sparks.”

  “Me too.” I sighed. “And if he’d stayed in Barley, who knows what would have happened? But things change and that’s okay. Obviously it just wasn’t meant to be.” I gestured with my head toward the backseat. “But while we’re on the subject of sparks . . . there’s someone else in this car who set off a few over in Merrie Olde.”

  Gordon raised his eyebrows and looked in the rearview mirror at a blushing Mary Jo. “Is that so? Pray tell. I’d love to hear all about it.” His mouth twitched. “And I’m sure our Bulletin readers would too.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” she said, glaring at me. “Ian’s just a friend.”

  “Uh-huh. A tall, blond, and gorgeous friend who saw her off at the train, bearing gifts.”

  “Ian, huh?” His eyebrows arched higher. “As in Ian Fleming and James Bond?” His eyes twinkled. “Careful, Mary Jo. You don’t want to become just another Bond girl.”

  She glowered at him another minute, then switched her tone.

  “So, Gordon, how are things going with you and Phoebe’s mom these days?”

  “Yeah.” I switched teasing gears in no time flat. “Are you going to make an honest woman out of her one of these days?”

  Gordon blushed to the roots of his thinning hair.

  Mary Jo let out a relieved chuckle. “Will we be hearing wedding bells anytime—” She broke off as we neared the outskirts of Barley, where her attention was distracted by a horse grazing in a nearby field. “How are my babies doing?” She sighed. “I’ve sure missed them.”

  Gordon scratched his nicotine patch. “They’re right as rain—don’t you worry. Elizabeth, Gloria, and I have been feeding ’em and giving them their daily workouts. All right, here we are . . .”

  He pulled up the long drive to Mary Jo’s farmhouse, where she barely waited for him to stop the car before jumping out.

  “Thanks, Thelma.” I handed Mary Jo her backpack. “For everything. It was a blast.”

  She hugged me. “Thanks, Louise, for pushing me to go. And don’t forget to mind the gap.”

  While Gordon helped Mary Jo carry all her bags inside, I rummaged around in the shopping bags in the trunk until I found what I was looking for.

  Gordon slid back into the driver’s seat and buckled his seat belt.

  But before he could restart the car, I stopped him. “I brought you a present.”

  “What is it?” He slid me a wary look. “A stink bomb? Or maybe some plastic English dog cr—uh, excrement?”

  “I seriously considered that, you old curmudgeon. But then I found something even better.” I handed him a baseball-sized package.

  Excited, he tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. Slowly, eyebrows knitted in confusion, he extracted a small jar of Marmite. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Only the best for you, boss.”

  Gordon examined the jar and began to unscrew the lid.

  I quickly rolled down my window. “You never want to open that puppy in a small, confined space.”

  One sniff, and he screwed the lid back on. “Guess I’ll wait ’til I go duck hunting.”

  “You might scare away the ducks.” I grinned and handed him another package. “Here’s your real present.”

  He unwrapped it warily, holding it far away from his nose. Then he stared. First at the book in his hand, then at me.

  “It’s only a second edition, but I found it in a dusty antique stall in Portobello Market, and it still has the original book jacket, which I thought you’d like.”

  Gordon wiped his hands on his pants, then caressed the worn paper cover. “For Whom the Bell Tolls is my favorite Hemingway. How’d you know?”

  I snorted. “You only talk about it all the time. And since it begins with the Donne poem that was one of my Dad’s favorites, I just had to buy it.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, now that I’ve buttered you up, there’s something I need to say.” I looked him square in the eye. “I’m giving you my notice, Gordon. That’s another thing I discovered in England. I don’t want to write about emus anymore.”

  “You didn’t want to write about ’em while you were still here.” He chuckled and rewrapped his gift with infinite care.

  “I know, but I let my thinking get clouded by the proximity of a certain good-looking English publisher.”

  “What—I’m not good-looking?” He backed up for the return trip down Mary Jo’s driveway.

  “I suppose you have your appeal, though you don’t ring this particular Grant woman’s bells.” I gave him a sly look. “I can’t speak for another member of my family, however.”

  Gordon smiled but refused to take the bait. “Whatever am I going to tell Christy Sharp?” He shook his head in regret. “She was really hoping you’d come do a follow-up piece on her salt-and-pepper–shaker collection. Says she’s gotten some new ones since you were last there. She and Bob finally took that long road trip in their Winnebago and collected several from the Midwest.”

  “Gee, I hate to miss covering that breaking story.” I released an exaggerated sigh. “Guess you’ll have to assign it to your new intern.”

  “Ryan will love that. He’s got big dreams of becoming an investigative reporter. He’s even been sniffing around town trying to ferret out corruption in the local government somewhere.” Gordon chortled. “Thought he had a hot story—that Betty Dixon on the cemetery board was taking kickbacks from Norm Anderson—but turns out the two of them are dating and were just trying to keep it quiet.”

  “Norm and Betty?” I gaped at him. “They can’t stand each other.”

  “Well, you know what they say.” He chuckled. “There’s a thin line between love and hate.”

  I’ll say.

  Down girl, my moral compass reminded me. You know you don’t hate Alex. He’s your friend and your brother in Christ. Just because he didn’t live up to your romantic expectations—

  And never even kissed you—my libido interrupted.

  Note to self: Strangle libido and remember to be content in all circumstances.

  Gordon shifted in his seat. “So since you’re not going to work for the Bulletin anymore, may I ask what you plan to do to earn a living, young lady?”

  “Well, I’d like to keep doing my column, if that’s okay, though I’ll have to think of another angle. ‘Notes from Abroad’ won’t work anymore. And I have some other things I’m looking into—nothing definite, so I can’t talk about them yet.”

  He slapped his hand to his forehead. “Your column! I knew I forgot something. There’s a few letters and e-mails come for you the past several days. I’ve got ’em over at the Bulletin.”

  “Letters?”

  “Fan letters.” He grinned. “You’re becoming quite the celebrity.”

  Slipping into Karen and Jordy’s, I tiptoed through the house to the back screen door. My family, taking advantage of the warm spring day, was eating dinner at the backyard picnic table.

  I pushed open the door. “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

  Forks clattered to the table. “Aunt Phoebe!”

  “An Beebee!” Lexie hurtled herself at me as I bounded down the steps, followed in quick succession by the rest of the Grant clan except for Jordy, who I presumed was at work.

>   Mom barreled her way through my nieces and nephew and enveloped me in a bear hug. “We thought you weren’t coming ’til tomorrow. You should have told us you got an earlier flight; we’d have picked you up at the airport.”

  “What? And miss all this?” I hugged her back and nodded to the man behind me, “Gordon rode to our rescue.” Glancing toward the table, my eyes lit on a welcome sight. “Is that fresh fruit?”

  Karen slid over on the picnic bench. “Are you hungry? Sit down and dig in.”

  Mom piled a plate high with good old American bounty: hot dog, baked beans, potato salad, green salad, and fresh fruit salad. “Gordon, have you eaten? Would you like to join us?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got some things to do over at the Bulletin, but, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Looking forward to it.”

  I inhaled chunks of juicy pineapple, oranges, bananas, kiwis, and grapes. “Boy, did I ever miss this.” Then I grabbed a forkful of salad: a crisp mixture of spring greens and iceberg lettuce combined with hothouse tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, celery, fresh mushrooms, green onions, sprouts, and sunflower seeds. “Now, that’s what I call a salad.” I mewled with pleasure.

  “Don’t they have salad in England?” Ashley asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Yes, but it’s not the same. Usually when you ask for salad, you get a piece of limp lettuce to go with your sandwich—at least the places where we ate. It might not be the same everywhere.” I poured on more Ranch dressing. “And although I’m sure they have fresh mushrooms, the only ones I ever tasted were canned at breakfast.” I gestured to the beans on my plate. “This they did have—at breakfast too. But they weren’t baked. Just plain old pork and beans from the can.”

  “Beans for breakfast?” Karen asked.

  I nodded, my mouth full.

  The kids peppered me with questions. “Did you wide on dat big fewwis wheel, An Beebee?” Lexie asked.

  “And go to castles and see swords and armor and everything?” Jacob chimed in. “Did you see Sherwood Forest where Robin Hood lived?”

  “Hush, you two.” Karen jiggled little Gloria on her knee. “Let Aunt Phoebe eat.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind.” I snuggled Lexie up against me with one arm and Jacob with the other. “I’ve missed these little monkeys.”

  I planted a kiss on Lexie’s head. “Yes, sweetheart, I rode on the big Ferris wheel, but you wouldn’t have liked it, because it moves really slowly. It was a great way to see the whole city though.” I turned to Jacob. “And yes, I got to see a few castles with lots of swords and armor and other painful instruments of torture.”

  “Cool!”

  Elizabeth gave me a curious look. “Did you really see the place where the king had all his wives’ heads cut off?”

  Her mother grimaced. “Uh, some of us are still eating here.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth.” I took another bite of my hot dog, dripping nice thick ketchup as I did. “And he only had two of his six wives’ heads cut off.”

  Ashley cut straight to the important stuff. “Did you see anyone famous? Like Gwyneth Paltrow or Madonna? They both live over there now, you know.” Her eyes widened. “Or maybe Prince William?”

  “No.” I took a grateful gulp of Mom’s iced sun tea. “But one day we saw the prime minister’s car drive by, and another time we saw a limo near the Ritz with someone in the backseat who looked remarkably like Donatella Versace.”

  “Cool!” my fashion-conscious eldest niece said.

  Unimpressed with prime ministers and fashionistas, Lexie had just one burning question. “Wheah’s Awex?”

  [chapter nineteen]

  Phoebe’s Great Idea

  with only the tiniest of stomach flutters, I answered, “Alex lives in England now, Lexie. That’s his home. Just like this is my home.”

  She pouted. “But Awex gonna mawwy you, An Beebee.”

  Ashley and Elizabeth gasped, Mom sucked in her breath, and Karen warned, “Lexie . . .”

  “It’s okay, Karen.” I looked into my niece’s confused brown eyes.

  “Sweetie, Alex is my friend—he’s a friend of all of ours—but I’m not going to marry him. He’s staying in England with his family, and I’ve come home to mine. You can’t be married and live that far away from each other.”

  “Well, you can,” Ashley said under her breath, “but it never works.”

  Changing the subject, I grinned at my nephew and nieces. “So . . . who wants presents?”

  “I do, I do,” the kids chorused.

  “Okay. I have a few bags inside—”

  En masse, they made a rush for the back door.

  “Hey guys, hang on a sec.”

  Jacob collided into his older sisters.

  “You need to be very, very careful with them ’cause there’s breakable stuff in there. Okay?”

  They nodded, eager to be off.

  “In fact, Ash, why don’t you take charge of the largest white bag?”

  “Okay.” They all scampered inside.

  Once the kids were gone, I turned to my sister-in-law and saw traces of fine lines around her eyes I’d never noticed before. “So, I take it Jordy’s still working most nights and weekends at that second job?”

  “Yes.” Karen expelled a tired sigh. “And it’s really taking a toll. The kids never see him, and when they do, he’s exhausted and irritable.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Even though I’ve started working part-time at Books ’n’ Brew with Mom—which I love, by the way—it’s only minimum wage, so it doesn’t help all that much.”

  “Well, hold on to your hat—’cause I’ve got an idea that will—”

  The kids’ rambunctious return interrupted us. “Tell you later,” I mouthed to Mom and Karen. “Okay, everyone. Let’s open prezzies!”

  “Prezzies?” Jacob looked at me.

  “Actually, that’s what they call presents over in England.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows at my “ack-shwally.” “Looks like someone picked up an accent.”

  “Yeah.” Ashley stared at me. “You sound like Madonna since she moved over there.”

  “It’s really easy to develop an accent when you’re surrounded by it all the time.” I reached for the largest bag and rummaged around inside. “Although there’s no way I’d ever say ‘shed-yool’ or ‘al-loo-minium.’” Finally I found the box I was searching for. “Ah, here it is.” I handed the package to my youngest niece. “Lexie, you go first.”

  She struggled with the wrapping paper until her eager brother stepped in to help.

  “Oooohhhh.” Her big brown eyes grew even bigger as she gazed at her sparkling treasure, which I placed atop her golden curls.

  “Princess Diana wore a tiara just like that, Lexie.” I knelt down beside her and said solemnly. “Only very special princesses are allowed to wear this tiara.”

  She flung her chubby little arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder, careful not to displace her new rhinestone crown in the process. “I wuv you foweveh, An Beebee.”

  I hugged her tight. “And I love you forever too, sweetheart.”

  In the next moment she was off, scampering to show her mother her gift.

  “Now it’s Jacob’s turn.” I lifted a bulky, unwieldy box.

  After tearing off the paper, my nephew reached in and pulled out something silver and shiny too. “It’s a knight’s helmet,” he said in awe.

  “Yep.” I helped him put it over his head. “And see, it’s got a real visor that opens and closes.” I flashed him an apologetic smile. “I wanted to bring you home a sword, buddy, but I was worried about getting it past security.”

  Ashley loved her Notting Hill T-shirt and the cool toe rings I’d picked up from a stall in Portobello Market, while Elizabeth was entranced with her traditional English horse brass.

  Finally, I presented the kids with the Chronicles of Narnia set from Blackwell’s, which resulted in a chorus of oohs and aahs from everyone
except Lexie, who didn’t quite understand all the fuss.

  “It’s a really neat story about kids who travel through a magic wardrobe to a special land with all kinds of magical creatures,” Elizabeth explained.

  “Wike de Wizard ob Oz?” Lexie clapped her hands. “Wanna wead. Wanna wead.”

  “Ashley, would you take the kids inside and read the first chapter to them, please?” Karen asked.

  She pouted. “But I want to stay and hear all about England. And I want to tell—”

  Lexie started to wail. “Wanna heaw stowy.”

  “Ashley . . .”

  “Oh, all right.” She flounced away, muttering, “Always get treated like one of the kids.”

  “Hey Ash,” I called after her. “Why don’t you come over to my apartment for a girl’s night soon—just you and me—and I’ll give you the whole scoop, okay?”

  A dazzling smile replaced her pout. “Okay, Aunt Phoebe.” Then she took Lexie’s hand in hers and we heard her say, as they all walked toward the house, “Just wait until you meet Aslan . . .”

  Karen shook her head and sighed. “That’s my quick-mood-change daughter.”

  “How well I remember those days.” Mom glanced at me and chuckled.

  “What?” I flipped my growing-out hair and stuck out my lower lip. “I was never like that.”

  No, you were worse, my guilty conscience reminded me. You were a brat to your mother up ’til six months ago.

  That’s ’cause I was under the mistaken assumption that she’d held my dad back from his dreams. How was I supposed to know she had dreams of her own?

  You could have asked.

  All right, already. Ancient history. Mom and I are good to go now, so give it a rest.

  “Okay, Miss English and Drama Major,” I said to Karen. “Your turn.”

  My sister-in-law was thrilled with her Oxford sweatshirt and the CD from the London production of Les Miz. (I’d also bought her a beautiful bone-china teacup, but I was saving that for Mother’s Day.)

  “And now for the pièce de résistance . . .” I reached into a separate bag—the big white one—and pulled out a large, heavily padded box, which I presented to my mother. “I had them wrap it really well so it wouldn’t break.”