Dreaming in Technicolor (35 page)

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

a
rriving 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.

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
any
thing 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.”

I can remember a time not too long ago that it was your favorite TV
show too.
“So aren't there any other boys in youth group?”

“At Holy Communion?” Ashley rolled her eyes. “No way. Well, there's a few, but they all have girlfriends.” She slouched in her seat, the mutinous frown reappearing. “I don't see why I have to hang out with only Christian guys anyway. I mean, they're not perfect either.” She stole a glance my way. “Look what happened to you.” Ashley rushed on. “I'm not trying to be mean or anything, Aunt Phoebe. But you met Alex at church, and he's a Christian and everything. And I thought he really liked you, that eventually you guys would get married.” Her face flushed with anger. “But then he left, and now you're all alone again. I don't want to wind up all alone.”

“Yeah. Like that's going to happen, Ms. Over the Hill. Ash, you're only fourteen,” I said gently as we pulled up to my apartment. “I think it's a little early to be worrying about that.” I grinned. “Besides, I'm
not
alone. I've got you guys. And Grandma. And God. What more does a girl need?”

“A guy.”

“Actually, that's not really a
need
, except when it comes time to program the VCR.” I sighed. “I'm not going to lie and tell you it didn't hurt when things with Alex didn't work out. It did. I liked him a
lot
.” I thought back to all the fun Alex and I had together and the special movie connection we'd shared. Then I thought back to my trip. “But Ash, I learned—actually, I'm still learning—that the only One who will never leave me or disappoint me is God.”