Dreaming in Technicolor (13 page)

“That's great, dear.” Mom passed Gordon another slice of cake. “Are you going back to Cleveland so you and Lindsey can work on wedding plans together?”

Incoming! Watch out. Friendship guilt, friendship guilt.

“No. She doesn't need me this soon. Actually, I'm going to . . .” I made the sound of a drum roll on the table with my hands,
“London!
With Mary Jo. For two weeks.”

“What?” Ashley squealed.

“London—as in England?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yep.” I smiled. “Gordon turned me on to some cheap flights he saw in the
Chron,
and Mary Jo and I jumped at the chance.”

Everyone peppered me with questions while Mom gave Gordon a thoughtful look.

Later, after he had left and all the kids were watching a video, Mom looked at me across the dining room table, a worried frown puckering her forehead. “Men don't like to be chased, dear,” she said gently.

“I'm not chasing. I'm seizing the opportunity to go to Europe, just like Esther did.” I examined my nails. “Getting to
see Alex is just an added bonus.”

Careful. Breaking one of those Ten Commandments now.

I'm not lying,
I assured my Sunday-school conscience.
I've always
wanted to go to Europe. Besides, I need to complete Esther's unfinished
mission.

Interesting timing, though.

So I'm killing a few birds with one stone. Shut up, already.

Jordy shared Mom's concern. “Pheebert, if you want a little brotherly advice . . .” (My big brother had given me that nickname when we were little and I was enraptured with Bert and Ernie on
Sesame
Street
. He was the
only
one allowed to call me that.)

“I don't.” I gave him a warm smile. “But thanks for caring. Don't worry,” I added. “I'm a big girl. I know what I'm doing.”

In preparation for our English adventure, I tore through my closet, trying to put together a wardrobe that would befit the cosmopolitan world capital we would soon be visiting, yet also retain my own California-girl stamp of individuality.

Clearly I'd have to do a little shopping.

I invited Mary Jo to come along when I went to the Sacramento malls, but she said she had all the clothes she needed.

That's what I'm afraid of.
Mary Jo is a fabulous person, great singer, good Christian, and an inspiration to all. But a clotheshorse she's not.

“Besides, Pheebs, can you really afford a shopping trip?” my frugal friend asked. “I thought one of your New Year's resolutions was to be more careful with finances . . .”

Yes, but you don't have to remind me of that now, thank you very
much. Besides, that was before I knew I'd be going to England! Plastic was
invented for such a time as this.

“. . . and I don't think Alex would care whether you have new clothes or not,” she continued, rubbing her dusty, scuffed boot on the back of her faded cords.

It was times like these that I really missed Lindsey.

More a froufrou, girly-type girl like me, she understood the importance of clothing, especially in the mating-dance ritual.

I ended up taking Ashley shopping with me instead. She might be fourteen—but
that
girl can shop!

Although I couldn't talk Mary Jo into shopping, she did consent to come over and watch all my English-setting DVDs as part of our pretrip preparations:
Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion, Howard's
End, Shakespeare in Love
,
Notting Hill
, plus a couple of recent Shakespeare adaptations
.
And my latest acquisition,
Calendar Girls,
based on an actual group of middle-aged women in Yorkshire who posed nude for a fundraising calendar
.

When the credits rolled after that one, Mary Jo set down her microwave popcorn and snorted. “I'm not taking off my clothes for any cause, no matter how noble it is.”

“Me either. Not to worry, MJ.”

I'd begun calling Mary Jo “MJ” lately. For one thing, it's shorter, which is what I told her. But it's also a little more hip and European sounding than Mary Jo—which I didn't tell her.

Mary Jo—I mean MJ—in turn made me watch
Becket, Anne of the
Thousand Days, A Man for All Seasons,
and the more recent
Elizabeth,
with Cate Blanchett, so I'd have at least a vague historical awareness of this land of kings and queens we'd be visiting. Actually, I didn't mind. Those all turned out to be great films. But I was mystified when she started rereading a bunch of books by some English country vet-turned- author that she loved but I'd never heard of.

“Exactly who is this James Herriot guy?” I asked, picking up one of her well-worn paperbacks and thumbing through it.

MJ gave me an incredulous look. “Only the greatest writer of animal stories ever.” She smiled a little shyly. “He's kind of my hero.”

To educate me, she insisted I watch her DVD collection of the BBC series,
All Creatures Great and Small.
I found it charming . . . but a little too realistic. “Eew, what's he doing to that cow?”

“Checking the position of her calf. Isn't that cool?”

Remember. You'll be mostly in London. Theaters, galleries, shopping.
No four-footed creatures.

I looked over at my shoe hive, where my Manolos ruled proudly.
Focus on the boots. Focus on the boots.

I hadn't had a medical checkup in a while, so I'd decided it might be a good idea to have one before we headed over to Merrie Olde—although the real reason was to keep a nervous MJ company when she went in to get her Xanax prescription. Unfortunately, checkups invariably involve getting weighed. The bad news was . . . I'd gained five pounds over the holidays.

This called for drastic measures.

“That's only seventeen,” Ashley said, holding my feet down in my apartment as I did sit-ups.

“Nope—nineteen.” I wheezed. “I've been counting.”

“Sorry, Aunt Phoebe. Only seventeen. I've been counting too.”

Elizabeth agreed. “Yep. Me too. Only three more to go. C'mon, you can do it!”

What's that scripture again about children being a blessing from the Lord?

The next day I tried the sit-ups routine again while baby-sitting the kids, but Lexie and Jacob jumped on me every time I got on the floor.

So much for getting in shape.

Besides, sit-ups won't do much for thighs that whisper together when
you walk . . .

I did manage to squeeze in a little more of a spiritual workout late that night though. Only seven minutes' worth, but who was keeping score? Besides, God spoke to me immediately in the words of Psalm 139: “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

With this spiritual confirmation in place, I e-mailed Cordelia, Alex's twenty-three-year-old half sister, about our plans—asking her to keep mum. She thought the visit was a “smashing” idea. Even came up with a great way to surprise Alex.

Always knew I'd like that girl
.

Mary Jo had been right; she wasn't a very good flier. She took one of her three physician-prescribed Xanax, clutched the armrest in a death grip, shut her eyes, and tried to listen to her copy of
Seabiscuit
on tape. And when we hit a little turbulence, she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and began murmuring the Lord's Prayer.

Finally! Something I'm better at than Mary Jo. I don't believe it.

“It's okay, MJ.” I patted her hand with my seasoned traveler one. “This is all normal. Don't worry. Why don't you try to get some sleep?”

I sat there praying for Mary Jo's fears to subside. Then, when I heard her breathing deeply, I picked up my
Jane Eyre
. For the next eight hours or so, when I wasn't reading about Jane and Mr. Rochester in the Gothic mansion on the Yorkshire moors or eating
cardboard food or standing in line for the restroom—which involved removing my Manolos from the overhead compartment where I'd gingerly stowed them three hours into the flight and donning them for the walk down the aisle—I was flipping through the travel guide and highlighting must-see English monuments and points of interest, planning all the amazing things we'd do and see once we arrived.

Including Alex, of course.

I'd waited more than three months for that New Year's kiss, and soon my wait would be over.
Wonder if he'll cup my face tenderly
between his hands the first time. Or will he go straight in for a serious
Rhett Butler lip-lock?

I took a long drink of my bottled water.

Or maybe it'll be a John Wayne Quiet Man one.
I shivered with anticipation. What a glorious, definitely-not-quiet kiss that was—in full, gorgeous Technicolor.
Yes, I know it was set in Ireland, but England was
right next door.