Dreaming in Technicolor (10 page)

But the day my best friend took the wedding cake was when she told me she'd be doing the traditional bouquet toss.

I couldn't believe it. Whenever we'd attended weddings together—and we'd attended a
lot
of them, usually of couples who'd met at Lone Rangers—she and I had always escaped to the ladies' room when it came time for the ritual throwing of the bouquet. No way were we going to be a part of the pack of desperate, shoving single women all elbowing each other to participate in the passing of the floral bridal torch.

Now Lindsey had bought into it! It made no sense. The only thing I could figure was that she'd had a wedding lobotomy. I'd done my best to share in all her bridal excitement, but after several weeks of nonstop wedding discussions, I was a little weddinged out.

And tired of my job.

And missing Alex.

And envying Esther.

And still not doing so great with quiet times . . . at
any
time of day.

To be honest, January was not turning out to be my best month ever.

But then something happened that drove even my own misery out of my mind.

[chapter five]

Straight on 'til Morning

i
'd stopped by Mom's on my way home from work to show her a postcard Esther had sent me from Italy:

Hey Phoebe,

The Sistine Chapel is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. You can't believe the colors! Glorious. Such reverence. Also saw the Pietà. Brought me to my arthritic knees. If man can create such glory, how can there not be a Creator who created man? I said that to one of the purple ladies who doesn't believe. Got her to thinking. Next stop, party time in the City of Lights! After that, London and you know what. Can't wait! (I'm going to make one of those stiff-upper-lipped English guards crack a smile if it's the last thing I do.)

Ciao from Esther, the old world traveler

I tapped the postcard on the kitchen counter and grinned. “Do you realize Esther's seen more in the past couple of weeks than either of us have seen in our entire lives?”

“I know. And at her age too. Puts us to shame, daughter.”

There were times I was sure my Mom was part Amish. Or at least stuck in a fifties domestic time warp that her mom had placed her in. Not that she had ever done the Donna Reed thing with housedresses, heels, and pearls. Denim jumpers and hippie-type moccasins had been more her style—and for years, a long gray braid down the middle of her back.

That had changed about four months ago. After a very emotional letting-down-our-hair time that had brought us closer together, I'd talked her into updating her look and treated her to a makeover at Sylvia Ann's beauty shop, The Bobby Pin.

Now she looked more
like Liz Taylor in those perfume ads. Except for the diamonds, of course. And the fact that she can cook circles around anyone in town. And her strange little Amish-like turns of phrase—like calling her only daughter “daughter.”

Mom put the kettle on. “One thing's for sure, England will never be the same once Esther's through with it. If anyone can get one of those reserved English redcoats to smile, it's her.”

“Hope she doesn't pinch him, though.”

“What in the world are you talking about, daughter?”

We were still chuckling over my explanation when Gordon's car pulled into the driveway. Mom opened the back door for him, giggling. “Well this is a nice sur—”

She stopped short. Gordon's expression was bleak. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“It's Esther. She—she—” He gripped my mother's arm. “She's dead.”

“What?” I felt the color drain from my face, and I jumped to my feet. “That can't be. I just got a postcard from her today.”

“I'm sorry, Phoebe. Alex just called. Esther died last night in her sleep in London.” He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes.

Mom hugged him, but I stared in disbelief. “But how . . .”

Gordon wiped his eyes. “Her roommate, Millie, said Esther was usually the first one up in the morning, already showered and dressed and ready to go down to breakfast before she'd even gotten out of bed. But this morning when she woke up, Esther was still sleeping. But they'd gotten to bed late the night before, so Millie just figured Esther needed her sleep. She went ahead and took the first shower, but Esther was still in bed when she came out of the bathroom. Millie went to wake her and couldn't . . .”

Mom laid her hand gently on Gordon's arm, her eyes bright with tears. “How did Alex find out?”

“Esther had told Millie she was going to look him up while she was in town. She had his card in her purse, so Millie, who was naturally quite upset, gave the card to the hotel manager, who called Alex.” Gordon wiped his eyes again. “And Alex called me. They think she had a stroke and just passed away peacefully in her sleep.”

“Well, I'm glad she didn't suffer.” Mom handed Gordon my postcard. “And that she was doing something she loved.” She glanced at me. “Daughter, are you all right?”

I just shook my head. I could hear them both talking, but I still couldn't believe what they were saying.

Gordon fumbled in his pocket. “I got a postcard today too. From Paris.” He handed the card to Mom and she read it aloud.

Bonjour former boss,

Hey, these Frenchies sure know how to kick up their heels! Ooh la la! Millie and I had a grand time checking out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Élysées. The food's great. Eating lots of croissants and crepes. They have crepe stands the way we have hot-dog ones. Even tried snails! (They call it escargot.) I'm going to come home so fat and sassy you won't recognize me.

Au revoir, Esther

P.S. The Louvre is amazing, but I sure don't get what the big deal is about the Mona Lisa.

Gordon's downcast mouth curved into a fleeting smile. “That's Esther. Always calling it like she sees—saw it.”

“She did that, all right.” Mom gave him a small smile and patted his hand.

“But . . .” I still couldn't wrap my head around it. I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall. “She was coming home in three days. I was looking forward to hearing about all her adventures.”

Mom hugged me tight. “She's already home, honey.”

I picked up my postcard again and stared at Esther's handwriting, imagining her writing the words.

“Something else Millie told Alex,” said Gordon. “I can't quite figure it out, though. Seems the tour group had arrived in London last night, passing by Big Ben. As they drove past the illuminated clock, Esther murmured, ‘Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning.'”

Mom looked puzzled, but I smiled through glistening eyes. “It's from
Peter Pan
. That's what Peter said when he flew Wendy off to Neverland. In the Disney movie, they flew right past Big Ben.”

Alex took care of all the arrangements in London, and two days later, Millie flew home with Esther's body. Gordon wrote up a beautiful front-page obituary on his long-time friend and former employee, and the Bijou Theater board decided to mount a plaque in her honor. If not for Esther's financial rescue, after all, the theater would have been torn down.

There was a lovely service at the Methodist church where Esther had been a lifelong member—two pews on the right were filled with purple-clad ladies in red hats—and Gordon, who hadn't been all that at home in a church until recently, delivered the eulogy. He ended by saying, “Don't feel bad that Esther died so far from home. She was where she wanted to be—and having the time of her life. Besides”— he glanced at Mom—“as a dear friend reminded me, actually she
is
home.” He coughed and blinked. “Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning. See you in the morning, Esther.”

A week after the funeral, I'd just finished writing my latest movie preview for Wednesday's Black-and-White Night at the Bijou. They were showing one of Esther's favorites and mine,
Mrs. Miniver,
the poignant World War II story about the impact of the war on one English family and town. Greer Garson had won a well-deserved Academy Award in the title role.

Gordon was out on an interview, so I had the office to myself. Turning over the delicate snow globe from the Alps that Millie had delivered to me as a final gift from Esther, I cranked the key. The lilting strains of “Edelweiss” tinkled in the office air. As I watched the fake snow fall, I thought of Austria and all the places Esther had seen.

Then I thought of Esther and her Norman and how they were now reunited—even though she never got a chance to visit his memorial.

Much
better than thinking about the article I was supposed to be writing about Bobby Randolph's pet guinea pig.

The phone rang. “Phoebe Grant.”

“Hey Pheebs, remember that woman with the spiky platinum hair who wrote a book in the nineties called
Stop the Insanity
? You don't happen to have a copy I could give my fiancé, do you?”

“Phillie, that book was about fitness and weight loss.”

“I don't care,” he grumbled. “I don't know how else to get through to her. Lindsey's in this weird wedding zone. That's all she thinks about
all
the time. And all she talks about. It's driving me crazy. What do I care what color the tablecloths are?”

“You have to understand.” I smiled into the phone. “Most women dream of this day their whole lives. When we're little, we put pillowcase veils on our heads and Mom's high heels on our feet to walk across the backyard to our waiting groom—usually our brother—with grubby dandelions clutched in our hands.” I turned the snow globe over again. “Besides, you know how Lins likes to plan parties and events. This is the biggest event of her life, and she wants it absolutely perfect.”

“I know.” He groaned. “But she's gone off the deep end. You've got to talk to her, get her to chill out. She's like Bridezilla or something. I'm telling you, at this point a Las Vegas wedding chapel is looking mighty appealing—with an Elvis impersonator
to perform the ceremony.”

“Don't even go there. I can't handle those muttonchop sideburns on a man.” I sighed. “Okay, I'll try and talk to her, but I can't make any promises.”

“Thanks, Pheebs. I owe ya. So how's the job going?” He chuckled. “Still writing about emus?”

“Today it's guinea pigs.”

“That crocodile-hunter guy has nothing on you.”

“Nothing except he lives in Australia, loves animals, and makes the big bucks. And I'm stuck in Barley, am so not an animal person, and I don't earn squat.”

“I thought you had a cat.”

“The kids gave me a kitten. And he's growing on me—although he prefers the big outdoors to my little apartment. But I'm still not likely to have my own show on Animal Planet anytime soon
.
”

“Hey, I hear ya,” said Phil, then cleared his throat. “So . . . how'd you like to ditch the small town, earn three times what the
Bulletin's
paying you, and never have to write about emus or rodents ever again?”

“And how'd you like to get a Jag for your birthday?” I toyed with the snow globe. “Ain't gonna happen, Phillie.”

“What happened to the dreamer friend I know and love? Never say
ain't
, Pheebs. Aside from the obvious fact that it's bad grammar, that word shouldn't even be in your vocabulary.” He paused. “I'm offering you a job.”

“Say what?” I almost dropped the glass globe.

“You heard me. And I promise you, there are no animals involved.” He snickered. “Although some of the guys can get pretty wild when they close a new deal. C'mon Pheebs, whaddya say? Come be the PR director of my company.”

I stared at the phone. “But it's an investment firm.” A
Gone with
the Wind
scene flashed before my eyes. “I don't know nothin' 'bout no investment wheeling and dealing, Mr. Hansen.” I shook my head. “You know I'm no good with numbers—that's why Lins always had to help me balance my checkbook.”