Dreaming in Technicolor (7 page)

It
was
a ringing. My phone. I snatched it up. “Alex?”

“Sorry to disappoint you. It's just me, your best friend. Happy New Year!”

“Lins!” I looked at the clock. Twelve fifty-eight. “It's three in the morning back there in Cleveland! What are you still doing up? Don't tell me the singles bash went this late.”

“Nope. Well, actually, I don't know.” She giggled. “We didn't go to the party.”

“You didn't?” Phil and Lindsey were the consummate partygoers. And party planners. For the past three years running, without fail, they'd organized the annual No More Lone Rangers New Year's Eve singles party at church. Well, Phil and Lindsey and I had planned it, back before they were a couple. Before Alex.

Things change so fast . . .

“So what did you guys do instead?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing much. Went out to dinner, dancing, took a moonlit drive along the lake. Got engaged. Ate some ice cream . . .”

“Engaged?!” I screamed across the miles.

Lins shrieked right back. “I know. Can you believe it? Me and Phil?”

“What I can't believe is that I'm here and you're there so far away,” I whined. “I need details. Give me the whole 411. And start at the beginning. How'd he propose? And where? Did he give you a ring? When's the wedding?”

“Slow down, Pheebs.” Lindsey laughed. “We haven't set a date yet. You know I need at least a year to plan my dream wedding. And I promise I'll give you all the details, but before I do, let me officially ask you to be my maid of honor. You'd better, or else you're dead meat.”

“Of course I'll be your maid of honor. I'd kill you if you asked anyone else.” We blubbed happy-girl tears together for a minute. “Who's
the best man?”

“Scotty, naturally. Even though Phil and Alex have become good friends, he wanted his baby brother to stand up for him,” Lindsey said. “But not to worry, Alex will be a groomsman, so you'll still get to see him in a tux.”

“Mmm. Can't wait for that.”

“Speaking of wedding attire, Pheebs . . . I found this great shiny peach taffeta Southern-belle bridesmaid dress, complete with hoop skirt and scalloped white trim at the bottom, that will make you look like a giant Creamsicle.”

“It's what I've always dreamed of.”

We snorted together across the miles. “I promise you'll get a killer dress in a gorgeous color that makes you look absolutely fabulous, dahling,” she said.

“Without upstaging the bride, of course.”

“Given.”

“So what
are
your colors going to be?” I adjusted the throw pillow beneath my head. “Still pink and cream?”

“Nah. After Trista and Ryan's wedding I got a little pinked out.”

We'd both sat glued to the TV together when the first reality-show bachelorette married her hunky, poetry-spouting fireman in one of the most lavish weddings we'd ever seen—preceded by a couple of prime-time specials where the spotlight couple taste-tested several cake selections, sampled a variety of menus, and sought the perfect locale for the “celebrity wedding of the year” (or decade, as some ad pundits pro-claimed). We'd drooled over the dresses, the decorations, the masses of pink flowers, and the to-die-for fifty-thousand-dollar diamond-encrusted shoes designed especially for the bride by Stuart Weitzman.

“Pink is no longer mah signature color.” Lindsey parroted Julia Roberts in
Steel Magnolias
. (After hanging out with me for a while, my friends are starting to spout movie lines like I do.) “Of course, it also depends on what time of year we choose, what the setting will be, whether it's a morning or evening wedding . . .”

I could just see her furrowing her brow across the miles.

“I'm thinking if it's evening I might go with silver and white and splashes of fuschia. Or maybe very sophisticated, black and white all the way, with just a hint of red? What do you think?”

“Either works for me. As long as you don't put me in orange or yellow, I'm happy.” I bounded up from the couch, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, and took a swig. “So, has Phillie agreed to sign the prenup?”

Lindsey and I had come up with our own version of the celebrity prenuptial agreement—except ours had nothing to do with money. Our prenup included, among other stipulations, that our husbands must never say yes when asked, “Does this make me look fat?”; that they must only have eyes for us, no matter how many hard-bodied
Baywatch
babes parade into view; and that they must lovingly say “yes, dear” when we presented them with our multipage honey-do lists.

“I haven't brought that up yet,” Lindsey said. “Thought I'd better ease into it.”

“Good plan. So you still haven't told me how he proposed. What are best friends for if not to live vicariously through?”

She expelled a romantic sigh. “Well, we had this wonderful dinner at that little French restaurant downtown . . .”

“What'd you eat? You know me—I need every gastronomic detail.”

“For an appetizer we had baked brie with almonds, then for our main course I had coq au vin and Phil had rack of lamb. For dessert, delicious crème brûlée. Then we went dancing for a little while, did the whole midnight-kiss thing . . .” her voice trailed off.

“Save the kiss memories for later,” my lonely, kissless self ordered. “I want the proposal. Setting and words, please.”

Lindsey released another romantic sigh. “We drove along the lake, and he pulled into this quiet spot and wanted to get out. Well, you know what Cleveland weather is like in December. I wasn't about to get out of the car! But he pleaded, said it would only take a minute. By this time I had an inkling, so I agreed.” She took a breath. “It was a gorgeous crisp night; the stars were out, and the lights were shimmering on the water. Phil led me over to this little bench—he put a blanket on it first.” She sighed again. “Very chivalrous.”

I sighed right along with her.

“He sat beside me, looked in my eyes, and told me he loved my goofiness, my relationship with God, the dimple in my left cheek when I laugh, the way I move my food around my plate in circles when I get nervous, even my shopaholic tendencies.” She giggled.

“Then he knelt down in the snow, pulled out this gorgeous vintage diamond-and-emerald ring, and proposed. Said he wanted to start the New Year with me as his fiancée and knowing that before the year was over, I'd be Mrs. Phil Hansen.”

“Very
When Harry Met Sally
. Who knew Phillie was such a romantic?”

“I
know
!” Lindsey said in her Monica-from-
Friends
voice.

“You'll get married at First Pres, right?”

“Of course. We're going to ask Pastor John to marry us.”

“How many bridesmaids are you going to have?” I stretched back out on the couch. “And who?”

“I don't know yet.” She wailed, “Why'd you have to go and move all the way to California? I wanted to go through all this bride stuff with you—looking for a dress, checking out reception sites, choosing a D.J., deciding on favors—you know I don't want any Jordan almonds at my wedding.” Lindsey sniffed. “It's not going to be as much fun with you there and me here.”

I could just see her pout. “I know, Lins, but there's this wonderful invention called e-mail. Plus we both have picture phones, so you can send me photos of everything. And I'll make sure I come out the week before the wedding so I can do all those maid-of-honor things: throw you a shower, give you a bachelorette party, take you to the spa for a head-to-toe beauty treatment.” I adopted a stern tone. “And make sure you get to the church on time, Ms. Always Late.”

Her sigh of relief came through loud and clear. “Thanks, Pheebs. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always. All for one and one for all, remember?” I chuckled. “I can't wait to call our third musketeer and congratulate him.”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to,” Lindsey said. “Wait, I mean. Phil's already home and is probably fast asleep by now. Poor guy . . . I think he was so keyed up with anticipation that it totally exhausted him. His eyes were really drooping when he drove me home.”

“My, my. You already sound like a little wifey, taking care of her man. Just as long as you don't turn into a desperate housewife,” I teased. “Okay, Mrs. Hansen-to-Be. I'll just e-mail your fiancé instead.”

“Good plan.” Lins changed course abruptly. “So what's up with Alex? I know he's still in England, but any idea when he's coming back to Barley?”

“Nope.” I hurried to explain. “He's got so much to do, what with his dad and the family business and all. And I really admire the way he's helping out his father in his time of need . . .”

“Of course you do, but 'fess up, Pheebs. You still wish he'd hurry up and get his hot self back to town, right?”

“You know me too well.”

“Best friends usually do.” I heard her take a sip of her Sleepy Time tea. “So how's it going at work without him there?”

“Not as fun.” I sighed again. “I mean, I love Gordon and everything—don't get me wrong. He's a great boss.
But he's definitely not as nice to look at as Alex. Plus I miss our movie banter . . .”

“I'll bet you do. You must be going through withdrawal without anyone to play Silver Screen Trivial Pursuit with.”

“I'm trying to teach my nieces, but they're even worse than you are. They think
all
black-and-white films are boring.”

She laughed. “So, do what you did with me, Ms. Movie Nazi. Force feed them
Casablanca
until they cry uncle.”

“Good idea.” I looked at the clock. “Yikes! Do you know what time it is? You'd better get your beauty sleep. You don't want Phil to take back his proposal when he sees your bloodshot eyes in the morning.” I stretched and sat up. “Love ya, Lins. And I'm so happy for you. Both of you. We'll talk soon.”

She giggled. “You got that right. 'Night, Pheebs. Love you too.”

I hung up and bawled my eyes out.

[chapter four]

A Grumpy New Year

i
'm an awful best friend.

I should have been so happy for Lindsey and Phil. And I was, I really was.

Only . . .

I know You brought them together, God. But is it ever going to be my
turn for the happily-ever-after? Or am I going to be single for the rest of
my life?

Would that be so bad?

Yes!

“Oops. Sorry, God. Didn't mean it. I take it back.”

Smart move, Pheebs—way to antagonize the Big Guy. That's all
you need right now. Get Him mad at you and make sure you never
get married.

Okay, I know that's bad theology, but it's hard to think straight when you're lonely and miserable—which was the way the new year was shaping up right now.

But January's a time when you're supposed to get a good start on being a better person, right? So I repeated the single woman's lifeline Psalm: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Then, wiping my eyes, I powered on my laptop—determined to forget my pity spree and do the good-friend thing.

To: Phansen
From: Movielovr

Hey Phillie, what are you doing sleeping? Lins just called me with the great news. I'm thrilled! Congratulations! Rejoicing across the miles with you. If I know Lindsey, your wedding's going to be amazing. You'd better take good care of my best friend, bucko. Remember, I know where you live.

Next I dropped a quick note to Alex.

To: Filmguy791
From: Movielovr

Happy New Year. Have I got some news for you, Filmguy. Guess who's getting married? Phil and Lindsey! She just called. Pretty exciting, huh? Although they haven't set a date or anything yet—she says she needs a year to plan. Hope your dad's feeling better every day and things are going well. All's fine here, but I'm longing to see you soon. I really miss you. —P.

Wait. Is that too pushy and clingy?

I reread the words again, then deleted “But I'm longing to see you” and instead wrote, “I'm looking forward to seeing you.” I also deleted “really”—though I really did miss him.

I surfed the Net for a while, checking out a few bridal sites and losing myself in all the satin and lace. But not wanting the tears to start up again, I grabbed my Bible and decided to read the seventh chapter of Paul's first letter to the Corinthians: “It is good . . . not to marry . . . I would like you to be free from concern.”

And that, of course, cheered me right up.

The next day, after church, I dropped by Esther's for a visit, thinking it would be nice to bond in singles solidarity with a fellow spinster—someone who'd been unmarried her whole life and seemed none the worse for it.