Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  It took a while, but she finally cut through all the tape and wrapping and opened the lid to reveal . . . more wrapping. Around a bulky round object.

  “Told you I didn’t want it to break.” I grinned at her. “Careful now.”

  She gasped at what she could see beneath the final flimsy layer of tissue paper. “Oh my.” Gingerly she removed the antique Blue Willow teapot.

  “That’s to replace the one I broke years ago when I was a bratty teen.”

  Her eyes glistened.

  “I found it in this great little shop in the Cotswolds that you’d have loved. The only thing—it’s over a hundred and fifty years old, so you probably don’t want to use it when you play tea party with Lexie.”

  Mom carefully set the teapot down on the table, gently tracing the ancient blue-and-white pattern. “It’s absolutely beautiful, daughter. Thank you so much. I can’t believe you brought this all the way from England.” She leaned over and hugged me. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  “It’s the least I could do after all the grief I’ve given you over the years,” I said quietly. “But now,” I added with a Monty Python flourish, “for something completely different.”

  Glancing around to make sure all the kids were still inside, I outlined my idea to Mom and Karen.

  The next morning, Karen and I researched small-business loans on the Net while Mom held down the fort at Books ’n’ Brew and Ashley babysat.

  And that night when Jordy got home from his second job, we filled him in on our plan.

  “You want to do what?” he said, his head swiveling from one of us to another in disbelief.

  “We want to buy Books ’n’ Brew from Mr. Webster and run it ourselves,” I said calmly.

  He gave me an incredulous look. “But you can’t afford that—we can’t afford it. None of us has that kind of capital to invest.”

  “Not alone, we don’t, brother dear.” I stuck out my chin. “But it’s very easy these days for small, women-owned businesses to get loans, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Jordy started to interrupt, but I didn’t give him a chance. “Mom and Karen are already working there and loving it, and Books ’n’ Brew does a good business, so why watch all the profits from their hard work go to someone else?” I folded my arms across my chest. “A San Francisco businessman who doesn’t even live here, no less. Let’s keep Barley money in Barley.”

  My brother looked at his wife, then his mother, and finally back to me, “Pheebert, I hate to remind you, but you’ve never been so good with numbers,” he said gently.

  “I know.” I gave him a triumphant smile. “But you are. Which is why we want you to be our bookkeeper and financial adviser.” I hurried on before he could interrupt. “With Mom’s baking skills, Karen’s educational and organizational skills, my understanding of the retail market, and your financial acumen, we can’t lose.”

  “But what about your job at the Bulletin?”

  “I’ve already given my notice to Gordon.” I shuddered. “If I had to write about one more goat or emu, I’d tear my hair out.”

  Jordy gave me a knowing look. “But you love to write. Won’t you miss it?”

  Mom and Karen had raised the same concern, but I had a ready answer.

  “That’s the good part.” I flashed my brother another triumphant smile. “I’ll still keep writing the column I started while I was in England—and I can write about whatever I want! How great is that?” I rushed on before he could raise another objection. “The thing is, it will only be a monthly column. Not enough work to keep me busy, and definitely not enough money to pay the rent, so I need another job—and I love the idea of working in the family business. At the very least, I could play janitor.”

  He sighed. “Do you know how many mom-and-pop businesses fail every day? Especially with all the giant megastores and chains to compete with? It’s not easy getting a business off the ground. Most don’t see a profit for at least two years.”

  Mom stuck in her two cents. “Jordy, the Books ’n’ Brew has been going strong for nearly four years now. It’s not going to go belly up all of a sudden because three women have taken it over. Right now, it’s the only bookstore and coffee bar in town, and business has been booming—especially with the influx of all these Bay Area folks moving to the area lately. People like a good cappuccino and pastry”—two spots of color appeared on her cheeks—“and if there’s one thing I know how to do well, that’s bake pastry!”

  Karen tackled her husband next. “And thanks to Phoebe’s new awareness of all things English, once a month we’re going to offer an afternoon tea—a literary tea.” She clapped her hands in delight. “Women will love it! My friends and I have been saying we wish we had a tearoom closer than the one in Sacramento. Please, honey,” she implored her husband. “This is something I can do to contribute financially to our household again, so you won’t have to work so hard. This would be great for us.”

  Her voice grew stronger. “The kids miss you, I miss you, and we’re all worried about you. Besides, this can be a whole-family venture; something we can take pride in and have fun with at the same time.” She shot him a sly grin. “And it will give Ashley a positive outlet for all that teenaged hormonal energy.”

  “She’s right about that, son.” Mom chimed in.

  Jordy glanced from his wife to his mother, taking in their shining eyes and hopeful looks. Then he looked at me. “And you thought this up, little sister?”

  “Yes-s.”

  He hugged me, his eyes bright. “Sounds like a great idea. Where do we start?”

  Checking e-mail before I went to bed that night, I was delighted to find messages from both Cordelia and Grace.

  To: Movielovr

  From: Learschild

  Hello, Phoebe. How was your flight home? Hope it wasn’t too bumpy. Did Mary Jo have to take another Xanax? Too bad Ian wasn’t along; he’d have calmed her nerves. The man is absolutely besotted! It’s really quite sweet, actually. He talks about her incessantly. (She’ll probably have several e-mails in her inbox from him.) I’m glad to see that at least one man in my life isn’t a great idiot when it comes to women. My brother can be so thick at times. But I won’t go there.

  I have a bit of good news: Dad’s actually asked me to take more responsibility in the company—he’s even talking about a promotion. I think he’s finally beginning to realize that my being young doesn’t mean I’m stupid. (The conservative clothes and hair color help, and I keep my little tattoo under wraps. )

  Must run. Give my love to Mary Jo and write soon.

  Cheers, Delia

  I decided to hold off on answering Delia’s e-mail until I’d had a chance to read her mom’s as well.

  To: Movielovr

  From: Gspencer

  Dear Phoebe, I wanted to drop you a brief note to say again just how lovely it was to meet you when you were here in England. I’m delighted you had the time to visit us, and I hope your journey home was smooth. Do know that you’re welcome here anytime. (I don’t know anyone else who will give me a push on the library ladder.) I think you’re a warm and lovely young woman, and I wish you only God’s best in your writing and in your life.

  Warmly, Grace Spencer (Jeremiah 29:11)

  I sent thank-yous to both Delia and Grace and told them of our new family business idea. Then, as I snuggled beneath the covers, I repeated the familiar words from Jeremiah that Grace had referred to in her note:

  “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD. ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

  Interestingly enough, that same verse was part of the sermon at church the next morning. Usually I find myself zoning out during the services at Holy Communion Lutheran, counting the minutes until I can zip over to Sunday school at Barley Pres. But when I returned to Holy Communion with my family that first Sunday home, something felt different.

  It was still the same traditional Lutheran service
I’d grown up with—the same hymns, the same plastic gladiolus arrangement on the altar, the same elderly Mr. Soames snoring in the back pew. Only this time, for the first time, as we sang the familiar hymns, I recognized the beauty and the reverential, contemplative attitude of the service.

  I closed my eyes and was back at Evensong in Oxford, back in the stained-glass light of St. Mary’s and York Minster.

  When the minister began to preach, I actually paid attention.

  And it wasn’t the church that was different. It was me.

  Another thing that was different was Sunday school at Barley Pres. Things simply weren’t the same since Jeff and Amy had moved to Oregon. Since their departure, I learned, different church members had taken turns leading the class in teaching and worship. And today, one of the elders, a man in his late sixties who’d been married since he came out of the womb, had decided he’d do best with an antisex message. (After all, he was teaching singles, whose minds are filled with nothing but lustful thoughts twenty-four/seven.)

  “Remain pure!” he thundered at us from the lectern. “And if you can’t, remember what Paul says in Corinthians: ‘It is better to marry than to burn with passion.’”

  I glanced around the estrogen-heavy class, then leaned over and whispered to Mary Jo. “And who exactly are we supposed to marry? Seventeen-year-old Ryan or Hubert the Horrible?”

  “I’ve got dibs on Ryan,” she whispered back. “I like ’em young, remember?” She grinned. “So you go for the H-man—although you’ll have to fight Sylvia Ann for him. But I’m not worried; I think you can take her.”

  We ended the class singing “Create in Me a Clean Heart.”

  Afterward, Sylvia Ann, clad in leopard print from head to toe, made a beeline for me. “Phoebe, I was so sorry to hear about Alex.”

  “What—has something happened to him?”

  She fluttered her false eyelashes and pasted on what I think was supposed to be a solicitous look. Instead, it made her look as if she’d eaten one too many prunes. “No, I mean that you’re not together anymore.” She patted my arm. “I’m sure that must be so hard for you.”

  “It’s fine, Sylvia. We were just casually dating,” I said. “No strings.”

  She tut-tutted. “You young girls today—so independent and thinking you’ve got all the time in the world.” Sylvia leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Let me give you a little advice from someone who’s been around a little longer than you, sweetie. Strings are essential if you want to hold on to your man. You just need to make sure he doesn’t see them—”

  “Sylvia? I hate to interrupt, but I think Bruce could use your help.” Mary Jo nodded her head in the direction of the far corner. “He’s over there talking to that new waitress who just started at the Barley Twist.”

  Sylvia peered over the top of her leopard-print bifocals at the curvy thirty-seven-year-old divorcee who’d just moved to town—and who was currently engaged in an animated conversation with Sylvia’s one-and- only.

  “Excuse me, girls,” she murmured lethally. “As one of the leaders of the singles hospitality team, I must go make our visitor feel welcome.”

  She sprinted toward the couple; her leopard-print slingbacks click-clacking furiously the entire way.

  “I have a feeling Bruce will be feeling that unseen string around his neck pretty soon.” I grinned at Mary Jo. “Thanks for getting my back, Thelma.”

  “Anytime, Louise.” She stretched her arms and wriggled her fingers. “And now I think I’ll go home and e-mail my friend Ian. With great purity, of course.”

  “I’m really sorry about Alex, daughter.”

  Mom carried a stack of dirty plates into the kitchen, and I followed with silverware and glasses. It was late in the afternoon, and everyone else had gone home after enjoying one of her famous Sunday dinner pot roasts.

  Her forehead wrinkled and she threw me a concerned look as she began rinsing the plates. “I know how much you cared for him and how difficult it must be for you knowing he’s staying in England.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Really.” I began loading the glasses into the dishwasher. “I mean, I miss him, and all. But clearly, Alex and I getting together wasn’t what God wanted for us, so who am I to argue with that?”

  She stopped in midrinse to turn and stare at me. “Well, my goodness, Phoebe Lynn, you’ve come home all wise and spiritual.” She handed me a plate. “This trip was a good thing for you.”

  “I found myself in Paris,” I said in a dreamy tone.

  “Huh?” Her brow furrowed. “I thought you and Mary Jo didn’t have enough time to go to Paris.”

  “We didn’t. Julia Ormond said that to Harrison Ford in the Sabrina remake. Remember? She’d gone to Paris to get over her obsession with Greg Kinnear, who played Harrison’s younger brother—the part William Holden played in the original . . .”

  I realized Mom was looking at me with an amused smile. I took the plate from her hand and sighed. “Anyway, that’s how I felt about England. I found myself there.”

  “I didn’t know you were lost.” Mom smiled and handed me another plate. “I am glad to see that you haven’t lost your movie madness, though. Otherwise I’m not sure I’d recognize my only daughter.”

  “Not to worry. Just listen for a pair of thighs that whisper when they walk.” I grinned. “And speaking of not recognizing someone . . . you look a little different yourself, Mother dear. What put that rosy glow in your cheeks? Or should I say who?” I put my hands on my hips. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

  Her hands fluttered, but she morphed the flutter into a fanning motion in front of her face. “Nope. Just my hot flashes, dear.” She snapped the dish towel at my hips. “But I want to talk about our new business venture some more. I don’t know when I’ve been so excited!”

  [chapter twenty]

  Family Business

  arriving ten minutes early at Barley High on Tuesday afternoon for the one-on-one girl time I’d promised Ashley, I slid into an empty space near the school end of the parking lot, rather than the far end as I’d told her. And while I waited for my niece, I checked out the kids getting out of my old high school.

  Some things never change, I sighed. There’s still the jocks and the cheerleaders, the nerds and the bad boys, the goody two-shoes, and—

  All at once I saw my niece. My sweet, innocent freshman niece with her thick Julia Roberts mane . . . wearing a very short skirt that I doubted her mom or dad had even seen. Ashley was talking to one of the bad boys, who sported a large dragon tattoo on one arm and what looked like a bunch of snakes twisting down his leg beneath the bottom of his baggy gangsta shorts.

  This kid was no freshman. Sophomore, either. Probably a senior. And even from this distance, I could sense my niece’s excitement that an older boy had deigned to talk to her. An older, cool boy. She giggled and looked up at him like he was all that. Then she looked at her watch, gave him a little wave good-bye, and headed toward the parking lot. He stared after her with a look I didn’t like and said something to his buddies, who all laughed.

  Shading her eyes while she looked for my car at the far end of the parking lot, Ashley didn’t notice me almost right in front of her. As she drew near, she glanced again at the other end of the lot. Then her hands snaked beneath her new Notting Hill T-shirt, and she unrolled the waistband of her skirt. Twice.

  I honked the horn. She jumped and looked up at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look.

  You are so busted, sweetie.

  Ashley approached the car sullenly, a scowl marring her pretty features. Yanking the door open and sliding into the passenger seat, she said, “I guess you’re going to tell mom—”

  “Ash, if you’re going to do the skirt trick, you should at least be a little more discreet.” I pointed to the old storage shed at the edge of the parking lot. “I always unrolled my skirts behind there where no one could see.”

  She looked up at me and grinned. I was still cool Aunt Phoebe.

&n
bsp; Careful. Proceed with caution. “But what I want to know is, how do you hide the short skirt from your dad, seeing as how he’s one of your teachers?”

  Ashley buckled her seat belt. “I just roll it back down before his class.” The scowl returned. “Besides, Dad’s been so busy these days, he wouldn’t even notice.”

  I backed out of the parking lot, keeping my voice light. “So, was that the guy you like?”

  Her face lit up. “Yeah. That’s Jesse. Isn’t he cool?”

  “I couldn’t really tell from this distance. You should bring him over sometime.”

  The light went out of her face. “Uh, he doesn’t really do the family scene.”

  “Does he do the church scene?” I asked gently. “Is he in your youth group?”

  “Not even.” My niece stuck out her chin in a mutinous pout. “All the guys in youth group are geeks—all four of them. Especially this one guy, Caleb, that Mom and Dad really like; Mom’s always pushing me to do things with him, invite him over and stuff. But he’s a total dork. I mean, yeah, he can quote the whole Bible backwards and forwards, but he picks his nose!” She shuddered. “Gross.”

  I shuddered too.

  “And he’s been homeschooled his whole life, so he has no idea how to act around cool kids,” Ashley continued. “He never watches TV—except for G-rated videos. And he only listens to Christian music and thinks I’m sinning ’cause I listen to regular radio and have read Harry Potter.”

  “Sweetie, lots of kids are homeschooled today,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, studies have shown that many home-schooled teens score higher on SATs and get into better colleges.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know, Aunt Phoebe. I’m not saying home-schooling’s bad. My friend Kari’s homeschooled too, but she’s cool. I mean, her parents don’t keep her in this tight little Christian cocoon and isolate her from everything else, like Caleb’s do.” She sighed. “He doesn’t know what music is hot, how to dress, or anything about movies, other than G-rated ones. And his favorite TV show is Little House on the Prairie—his family has all the videos.” She tossed her hair. “He’s such a geek.”