Dreaming in Technicolor (32 page)

We headed west to the moors—Brontë country—where I found myself longing to follow in the footsteps of Jane Eyre and Heathcliff.

Minus all the torment, of course.

And not in my Manolos—or even my Clarks.

No, trudging across the wild moors called for some very specific British footwear: Wellingtons, affectionately known as Wellies. These strong, green rubber knee-high boots were perfect for mucking through rain and mud and traipsing through the countryside.

Not terribly attractive, but wonderfully functional and an English institution.

Fortunately, the hosts of our B&B outside of Haworth—home to the Brontë parsonage—kept a ready supply of Wellies for guests in their mud room. Mary Jo's fit like a glove, but mine were just a tad too big. It was sort of a Goldilocks encounter as I sat on the stone steps trying on pair after pair . . . too little, way too big, and finally, although not “just right,” close enough.

Once we'd been properly equipped, we made our way up the grassy fell that swooped down just behind the B & B. Once over the crest we were out of sight of town—we might as well have been a million miles away. The wind whipped our hair and sliced into our faces, and mud kept sucking my right boot off my heel at regular intervals.

The funny thing was, I didn't even mind. It was the best not-so-quiet time I'd had in a while.

Tramping along behind Mary Jo, I replayed all that had happened on our trip—the sights we'd seen, things we'd done, people we'd met. And I found myself returning again and again to my friend's assertion that I lived in Neverland.

She wasn't, of course, the first person to make such an observation.

I know I tend to be a bit flighty, God, and walk around with my head
in the clouds. And yes, I know I need to be responsible. I
want
to be responsible.
But can't I be responsible and dream a little too? Does being mature
have to mean being boring and predictable and living without imagination?

We topped another rise, looking back down over the town, and then down in a dished-out little valley. I kept on slipping and sliding in my slightly too-big boots. Then, part of the way down the next little valley, an answer floated lightly into my heart.

Unless you become like little children, you will not enter the kingdom
of heaven.

At just that moment the heavens opened and a torrent of rain spilled forth. Slipping again, I grabbed at my traveling companion. “Hey, Mary Jo,” I yelled over the wind, “time to become like little children.”

We tumbled down the muddy hill, laughing all the way.

We arrived back at our cozy, warm B&B, sodden and soaked through—except for our feet. I gladly returned my ill-fitting Wellies.

But all the rest I'm taking with me—except for the blood-clot tomatoes,
of course.

Back in London, Mary Jo indulged my need to check out the world-renowned Harrod's. We goggle-eyed our way through the immense food halls, wishing we could bring back one of the massive wheels of cheddar cheese or Stilton, but opting not to since we didn't want our clothes to smell.

My Thelma pal had to pull me out of the shoe department before I drooled on all the Italian leather. We did, however, nip down to the bargain basement that Grace and Delia had recommended, where I picked up several tins of tea and tea biscuits to take home to my family.

All my shopping at last accomplished, I turned to my traveling companion. “Well, Thelma, what else do you want to do in this marvelous city before we leave for home tomorrow?”

She didn't hesitate. “I'd like to go on the London Eye at dusk. That way we can watch the sun set and see the whole city light up.”

It wasn't the most exciting Ferris wheel I've ever been on—can you say slow?—but it was definitely the biggest. All of London lay sparkling below us.

What a perfect way to say good-bye to this amazing city. And as dusk turned to night, I looked across at the illuminated Big Ben and thought of Esther. And how right she'd been about traveling.

You do discover who you are and what you're made of when you're on
the road. Sometimes you even get a hint of where you're going.

“Second star to the right, my friend,” I whispered as the big wheel started its slow descent, “and straight on 'til morning.”

[chapter eighteen]

Sweet Home California

s
ure feels great to be back in warm California again.” Mary Jo lifted her face to the sun as we stepped out of the air-conditioned coolness of Sacramento's airport.

“Enjoy it while you can.” Gordon chuckled. “Supposed to get up to sixty-eight today, but weather man says we're due for a cold snap this weekend. Might get down to forty-five.”

Mary Jo hooted. “You don't know the meaning of cold 'til you've spent a few days in the English countryside in what they call spring.” She shivered in remembrance. “There was one day when it got down to thirty degrees.”

We'd arrived in Washington, D.C., from London that morning as scheduled but discovered that our connecting flight to San Francisco had been canceled due to mechanical problems. That meant we'd have to spend the night in our nation's capital and continue on to San Francisco the following day. I'd called Mom, who was planning to pick us up, and told her to stay put.

But then we learned that, if we hurried, there was a flight to Sacramento we could catch, arriving late that same afternoon. Eager to get home and more than ready to sleep in our own beds again, we ran for it. As we were boarding, I called Gordon on my cell and asked him to make the one-hour drive from Barley to pick us up.

“Don't say anything to my family, though,” I'd warned him. “I want to surprise them.”

“Mum's the word.”

Now at the airport, Gordon looked down at all our bags. “Did you buy out the whole country, or what, Phoebe?”

“Well, the airline lost my luggage, so I had to buy a new bag,” I said with an injured air. “And then, just as we were about to fly out, we discovered they'd had my old one in a stray corner all along. So I have them both now. But,” I sniffed, “I'll have you know that many of those bags belong to Mary Jo.”

“Thought you weren't a shopper.” He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

“I'm not.” Mary Jo grimaced. “But shopaholic Louise there managed to pull me over to the dark side with her.”

She held up a placating hand. “Not to worry, though. It was just a case of temporary insanity. Now that I'm back on American soil, I see no reason to repeat the offense.”

Driving home, Gordon kept up a constant stream of chatter, wanting to hear all about our trip but never making direct eye contact with me.

Sensing his discomfort, I finally broached the subject he was doing his utmost to avoid. “You can mention his name. It's okay.”

He fidgeted in his seat, then clenched the steering wheel tighter and stared straight ahead. “Phoebe, I owe you a big apology. I'm sorry I pushed you to go to England and see Alex and that things didn't work out between you two.”

I laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Gordon, I'm glad you pushed me to go to England.”

“You are?”

“Yep. Wouldn't have traded the experience for anything in the world.”

Gordon stole a cautious glance my way. “But what about Alex?”

I twisted around and shot a wry grin at Mary Jo in the backseat.

“Well, I must admit that wasn't my favorite part of the trip. Neither was meeting Gorgeous George, the family lawyer. But everything else was wonderful.”

“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?”