Dreaming in Technicolor (30 page)

To: Movielovr
From: GGreen

Hi, Phoebe. Things at the Bulletin are running smoothly. Ryan, the intern, is doing a great job. And talking about jobs, I suppose your mother's told you her exciting news. Wait 'til you see her! She's having the time of her life—took to that job like a duck to water. Karen too.

By the way, getting lots of good feedback on your column. Even Lou Jacobs has said nice things. I'm forwarding an e-mail that recently came to the Bulletin for you.

Dear Phoebe,

Hope you don't mind my being so familiar, but I feel like I know you after reading your column. Girl, I laughed myself silly when I read the story of you and Mary Jo and your search for a potty in a tube station! (The very same thing happened to my best friend Sharlene and me. My name is Bobbi Lou Miller, and I live in Lodi, but I'm originally from the great state of Texas. I'm a little bit older than you. Okay, a lot. I turn the big five-oh next month, so I guess that means I could be your mama.
) But for my fortieth birthday, Sharlene and I spent ten days in England and had a ball. She still lives in Dallas, but I've told her where to find your column on the Net, and we both love reading about all your hilarious misadventures across the pond. You kind of remind me of that travel guy who writes funny stuff about going to Australia or just for a walk in the woods.

Keep up the good work!

Bobbi Lou

Wow. My first fan letter.

I read it again. Then I thought about my job, my family, and the direction of my life.

Lord, what should I do with my career? I know you've given me the gift and ability to write, but I also know there's not much money in it—which is why most writers have a backup plan. Should Phil be my back-up? Or do you have something completely different in mind?

I reread both Mom's and Gordon's e-mails again, prayed some more, then turned off the computer and went to bed, my mouth curving into a smile as a completely unforeseen plan began to unfurl in my mind.

“Tell all, MJ!” I demanded the next morning. “How was your date? We've been dying to hear.” I wiggled my eyebrows, Groucho Marx–style. “Did you kiss?”

Hope so. That way at least one of us would be getting a little lip action.

“Did you have a good time? He wasn't too young then?” Delia asked innocently.

Mary Jo poured a cup of coffee and yawned. “I'm so tired. I haven't stayed up that late in a long time.” She blew on her coffee before taking a sip.

“You're killin' me here,” I said, putting my head in my hands. “Don't keep us in suspense. Where'd you go? What did you do? Come on—'fess up.” I exchanged a glance with Delia. “You must have had a good time, or you wouldn't have gotten in so late.”

Mary Jo buttered a piece of toast, then took another sip of coffee and smiled. “Yes, I had a good time. We went to dinner at this great Italian restaurant, then we walked around a little and Ian pointed out some really cool things about Oxford.” She turned to me, eyes alight. “Did you know that Christopher
Wren
helped design the chapel at St. Mary's Church here? It looks completely different from the little St. Mary's in Fairford.”

I groaned. “Skip the architecture lesson already and get back to the date.”

“Well”—the corners of her mouth turned up—“then Ian took me to this club where they had karaoke . . .”

“I'll bet you blew him away!” I turned to Delia, eyes dancing. “MJ rocks! She's got pipes like Aretha. Our girl can sing.”

Mary Jo blushed. “So can Ian. He's kind of a cross between Paul McCartney and Sting.”

“Did you do any duets?” Delia asked with a sly grin.

She blushed again. “‘Just My Imagination' and Smokey Robinson's ‘Cruisin'. It was fun.” She finished her toast and smiled at me. “Thanks for pushing me to go, Pheebs. You too, Delia. I had a good time. Made a nice end to our Oxford visit.” She looked at her watch. “And now we'd better finish packing if we're going to catch that train.”

I shook my head. Ever-practical Mary Jo. No romance in her soul.

Delia took us to the station, and we all hugged good-bye. “Thanks for everything,” I said. “And come visit us in Barley anytime.”

“Yeah,” Mary Jo said to Delia. “Then I'll take
you
riding.” She grinned. “Don't have a sidesaddle, though.”

Just as we were boarding, we heard a shout.

“Wait!”

Ian came running down the platform, coat flapping, gangly legs
flying, a bunch of freesia clutched in one hand and a small package in the other. He thrust them both at Mary Jo just as the train began to move.

I shrugged as the platform receded behind us, Ian and Delia waving good-bye.

Guess I got that romantic train-station send-off that I wanted after all.

Wrong guy, of course, but that's all right.

To my amazement, I found that it almost was.

[chapter seventeen]

The Wild Moors

t
hese English people sure have the gift of hospitality,” Mary Jo said, sniffing her flowers as the train sped toward York. “First Alex's mom, then Delia, and now Ian.”

“Ian's not being hospitable.” I looked her straight in the eye. “He's
wooing
you.”

She snorted. “I don't think so.” Then she sighed. “Phoebe, I don't want to belabor the point or anything, but this isn't Hollywood. People don't fall in love that quickly.”

“I'm not saying he's in
love
with you”—
yet,
I added to myself—“but that man has got a serious case of heavy-duty like going on.”

“May I remind you that we just met? And that an ocean will soon be separating us?” Mary Jo shook her head. “He's simply doing the proper, polite English thing. They probably learn that stuff from the cradle.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” I glanced at the still-wrapped package in her lap. “So why don't you open that and see what Mr. Proper and Polite gave you?”

“Probably just a little something to remind us of Oxford.” The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a CD of
Motown's Greatest Hits
—including “Cruisin'” and “Just My Imagination.” Mary Jo stared at the plastic case in her hand. And didn't notice a card flutter to the floor.

I snatched it up and read aloud:

Dear Mary Jo,

I had a wonderful time last night and am hoping it wasn't just my imagination that there was a connection between us. I've never met anyone like you before. You're so different from most of the English girls I meet! So open and natural.

I do hate that you're leaving so soon. I'd really like to spend more time with you exploring this connection. May I write you in California, please?

Hopefully, Ian

“Yep. I'd say that's the kind of stuff they teach 'em from the cradle.” I passed the note to her.

As she reread the card, I replayed Mary Jo's comments in my head.
This isn't Hollywood. People don't fall in love that quickly.
I had a funny feeling that not too far down the Ian-road, she might find herself eating those very words.

But as far as Alex was concerned, though, had I really been in love? Had I known him well enough to be in love? Or (big embarrassed gulp) was I just in love with the whole idea of love?

Maybe a little bit of both?

Don't forget the lust factor,
my puritan conscience reminded me.

All right already. So I went a little overboard on the kiss thing. What
can I say? It's been a while.

I knew there were notable exceptions to the people-don't-fall-in-love- that-quickly rule—off the silver screen, I mean. Take my parents: One look at my mom on that Miss Udderly Delicious Dairy Pageant float, and my dad had been a goner.

Which is why I guess I'd expected the same.

But that's not the norm,
my internal voice of reason reminded me gently.
And when it does happen, you both have to be on the same page.

Alex obviously wasn't on the same page. I'm not sure he was even reading
the same book.

“Look at the sheep.” Mary Jo pressed her nose to the window and bleated, “Maaaa, maaaa.”

I giggled. “You may not be able to get the plums in your mouth down, but you've sure got those animal accents licked.”

“Brrr. Not quite California weather, is it?” Mary Jo pulled her fleece jacket close and power-walked to warm up as we walked the two miles of medieval walls that surround a portion of the ancient city of York and offer stunning views of the cathedral, which they call York Minster. “I'd kill for a hot cup of tea.”

“Ditto.”

Ten minutes later found us inside Little Betty's, a quaint tearoom with creaky, sloping floors and a wonderful cozy ambience. We ordered a standard full tea but also took our guidebook's recommendation and asked especially for a “Fat Rascal” scone, Betty's signature offering.

Fat indeed. That puppy was
huge
and bursting with currants and raisins.