Dreaming in Technicolor (38 page)

“Sure,” I said, “but there's got to be at least a spark of chemistry.”

Like you had with Alex? Look how well that turned out.

It was my turn to sigh. “Actually, I've decided that dating is highly overrated,” I said with a sniff. “So I'm now entering a date-free phase of my life. From here on out my focus is going to be on God, work, family, and friends.” I stood up to leave. “And getting in shape for a certain upcoming wedding. I think I'll go take my walk now.”

The sun was just setting behind Therman Munson's stock pond as I headed out from Karen and Jordy's. Since returning home from England, I'd discovered that usually I managed my best times of quiet reflection just before or after sunset, and walking really helped. The cares of the day slipped away, and the rhythm of walking generated a lovely peacefulness that helped me sort my muddled thoughts, which were especially muddled tonight.

As I walked and prayed, I replayed my earlier conversation with Lins and realized I really did miss writing on a regular basis.

Leave it to my best friend to call me on it.

Running the bookstore and everything was cool, and I had thought I'd really like the tea part since I'd loved the tea ritual so much in England. But enjoying a relaxing cuppa in the afternoon was one thing, and putting on a full-fledged tea complete with atmosphere and all those little finger sandwiches, scones, and stuff was another. Plus a lot of hard work. And if I was completely honest with myself, I had to face the fact that I wasn't all that good at it.

I certainly hadn't inherited my mother's culinary abilities. Or desires. All the time I was chopping celery, slicing cucumbers, or dicing chicken, my fingers were itching to be flying over the keyboard instead, crafting just the right phrase or sentence.

So what exactly am I supposed to do about that now? Kind of late in
the day to realize this, Ms. New Business Owner.

I looked at my watch. Time to head in. I had an important date.

And no, it's not what you think.

Showering quickly, I put on my jeans and headed over to Mary Jo's, where I helped her rearrange her couch, love seat, and
Frasier
recliner. Afterward, we kicked back with a bowl of popcorn and some M&M's and watched
Bridget Jones's Diary
.

“Now, this is the life,” I said, purring with man-free contentment.

Hey, even Thelma and Louise need a little downtime.

A week or so later, I got two phone calls that rocked my contented—well, mostly contented—little corner of the world.

It had been a slow day at Read a Latte. Well, slow for me. As usual. Mom was busy baking, Karen was busy waiting on customers, and Jordy was still at school. (He did the bookkeeping for the store in the evenings.) Redmond was busy stocking shelves—with Ashley's help.

And I was busy doing absolutely nothing, as I so often did these days at the store. One can only wipe down the same counter so many times. And refill the hot water carafes. And adjust the window display.

I know! Maybe the restrooms need cleaning.

I had gotten pretty darned handy with a toilet brush and pumice stone after a brief stint—very brief—at Happy Holly Housecleaning in Cleveland last year. So humming under my breath, I pulled on my yellow rubber gloves and gathered up cleaning supplies to attack the loos.

Only someone had already beaten me to it. Both the men's room and the women's room were pristine and sparkling. I sighed and went home early, feeling restless and out of sorts.

And I wasn't the only one.

When I opened my apartment door, Herman streaked down the stairs to rejoin his siblings in Karen and Jordy's backyard. If I'd had an alley, he'd have spent all his time there. I watched him disappear around the corner of the house.

“Domesticated much?”

Hungry, but wanting to be healthy, I grabbed the lone yogurt in the fridge and spooned up a mouthful. Bleeech! I spit the sour clots into the sink, then checked the expiration date: three month ago. Major ick. I grabbed my mouthwash, but the lonely drops at the bottom took too long to make their way to my curdled taste buds.

In a frenzy, I yanked my crumpled toothpaste from the medicine cabinet and squirted it into my tongue, then grabbed my toothbrush and furiously scrubbed, trying not to gag in the process.

That's when the phone rang.

I spat and answered, coughing a little as I did. “Hello? . . . Yes, this is Phoebe Grant . . . Uh-huh. Yes, that's right.” I nodded my head, then gripped the receiver tight. “Say what?!”

Ten minutes later, I hung up the phone in a daze.

An editor friend of Gordon's was calling from San Diego. Seems she liked my online columns. Liked them a lot. So much that she was offering me a full-time writing position at her major daily newspaper—with a once-a-week column geared toward women.

At more money than I'd ever made from my writing.

A full-time writing job with a weekly column? And in sunny Southern California, no less, with nary an emu in sight.

Why couldn't she have called just a couple of months earlier, Lord—
before I went in with everyone on Read a Latte? Now what am I supposed
to do?

I told her I had a major commitment coming up—I did, Lindsey's wedding—and asked her for a couple of weeks to consider.

While I was still staring at the phone in my hand, it rang again.

“Pheebs,” Lindsey's voice on the other end sounded strained. “I have something to tell you . . .”

“You're pregnant?”

“No!” She sucked in her breath and got all huffy. “You know we're waiting 'til we get married.”

“I'm only kidding, Lins. Sheesh. Guilty much?”

She laughed. “As charged. It's
getting harder and harder to wait. Now I know why so many Christian couples have short engagements. Or even elope. There's a lot to be said for that.” Lindsey sounded wistful.

“Excuse me. Let me just get the wax out of my ears. I don't think I heard you right, Ms. Star Jones has got nothin' on you, wedding planner.”

“I know. I know. But who knew planning a wedding would be so stressful?” She giggled. “And we don't even get the benefit of sex as a stress releaser, like the rest of the world.”

“Hang on, Lins. Only a little while longer.” I studied my thighs in the mirror and sucked in my stomach. “I'm going to have to step up my exercise plan if I want to look good in that slinky pink bridesmaid's dress.” I drained my Diet A&W. “But back to what you need to tell me. If you're not pregnant, then what is it?”

She hesitated.

“Lins,” I put on my best stern voice. “You're not going back on your promise to give me a waiver from the bouquet toss, are you?”

“Never. I want to live to make it to my honeymoon.” She gave a shaky laugh, then sighed. “There's no easy way to tell you this, Pheebs, but Alex and that lady lawyer—and I use the term
lady
loosely—well, they're dating.”

Full body slam to the solar plexus.

Breathe, Phoebe, breathe.
Relax.
I don't know why I'm reacting this
way. I thought I was so over Alex.

“So George finally got her claws into him, huh? I knew it was just a matter of time.” I gave a wry half laugh. “His dad should be happy.”

“Yeah, but is Alex? I wonder,” Lindsey said, growing thoughtful. “Phil said he's a changed man—all stressed and everything. Not fun and easygoing like when we knew him.”

“It's that stiff upper lip she requires him to maintain. Plus, she's so skinny she probably cuts him with her cheekbones when he hugs her. That's gotta hurt.”

“Pheebs, you are evil, and you must be destroyed.”

“Aw, I bet you say that to all your best friends.”

There goes the last nail in the Alex coffin,
I thought as I hung up. I called Mary Jo to tell her the news, but she already knew. I suspected a little birdie from across the Atlantic had been singing.

“Are you okay, Pheebs?” she asked.

“I'm fine. If he's with George now, then he was
so
not the right man for me. Oh well. Just wasn't supposed to be. Besides, they have that whole shared-neighbor-history thing. Kind of hard to fight that.” I glanced out my window at the grassy field behind Jordy and Karen's. Just two months ago, that field had been dotted with clumps of golden daffodils.

Your history was so much shorter . . .
“Wonder if they'll send their kids off to boarding school too?” I mused. “And Oxford. Keep that Spencer family tradition going.”

Spencer. Wonder how Grace feels about all this? And Delia?

It had been a while since I'd written Alex's sister. We'd kept in touch pretty regularly since my return to the States, but I hadn't heard from her lately.

Now I knew why.

To: Learschild

From: Movielovr

Hey Delia, you can come out of hiding now. My friend Lindsey just let the lawyer out of the bag; I know Alex and George are a couple. And I hope they'll be very happy. Just like Cameron Diaz and Dermot Mulroney in My Best Friend's Wedding. Anyway, thanks for keeping
your promise not to tell me.. But it's okay. Really. I've moved on.

I know you're really busy with work these days (any word about your promotion?). But Mary Jo and I really hope you'll find time to come out for a visit soon so we can play tour guide. We're already fighting over whose place you'll stay at. Hers is bigger, but mine is cuter.
Decorating's really not her thing.. Maybe we'll take turns.

How's Ian? Does he talk about Mary Jo all the time? She plays it cool, but I know she's enjoying their e-mail connection. Say hi to your family—yes, even Alex, if you think it's appropriate. And ask your mom if she's done any ladder rolling lately.. (BTW, you don't need to pass on my regards to George.) All the best. —P.

Logging off, I flopped down in my toile-covered easy chair and mulled over my new job offer. Definitely head and shoulders above the last one I'd received, the one from Phil. Instead of finances and boring numbers stuff, I'd be writing about what I knew.
All too well.
And every writer since Jo March in
Little Women
has had that drummed into her: Write what you know.