Dreaming in Technicolor (8 page)

Handing her a tin of Christmas cookies from my mom's supply, I noticed all the postcards and souvenirs displayed around the room. “Esther, you've become quite the traveler.”

“Yep, but I waited way too long to start, and now I'm too old to do everything I want.” Esther turned her latest scrapbook toward me.

“Esther, you'll never be old.”

“Cold?” She wrapped her sweater tighter about her and snuggled deeper into her wingback chair, glancing at my Manolos as she did. “You bet your uncomfortable-looking high heels I'm cold. That's what happens when you get old. Especially if you're skinny. Not enough flesh to keep a body warm.” She shot me an approving glance as she pried the lid off the cookie tin. “You won't have that problem. You're a nice, healthy girl, Phoebe. Not skin and bones like most of these young girls today. You want one of these?”

“Sure,” I said, deciding that if I already had the “healthy girl” look, I might as well keep it up. “So what is it you want to do?”

“Huh? Speak up. You'll never make it at the
Bulletin
if you're soft-spoken.”

Ah, but do I really
want
to make it at the
Bulletin
?
That was the question. And the answer, of course, had a lot to do with Alex.

I raised my voice. “You said you wished you'd started traveling earlier because now you can't do everything you want. Like what, for instance?”

Esther wolfed down one of Mom's Mexican wedding cookies. “Like climb the Dome in Florence, ski the Swiss Alps, and go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.” She threw me a sharp look over her trifocals. “And don't you make the same mistake, young lady. Don't get so wrapped up in your job and your
relationships
that you lose the opportunity to see what the rest of this big, wide world has to offer.”

“But I did that already, remember? I enlisted in the air force right after high school so I could leave Barley and see the world.”

“And what exactly did you see?”

“Well . . . San Antonio, Texas; Biloxi, Mississippi; Dayton, Ohio. And Cleveland.”

“Like I said.” Esther snorted. “But have you ever been out of the good ol' U.S. of A.? The good Lord created the entire world, remember, not just America. I love my country, I truly do. And I'll fight anyone who says something bad against her. But we Americans have a tendency to get insulated in our little corner of the world and forget that our brothers and sisters live beyond our borders too.”

She sighed. “I'm not tryin' to give you a hard time, Phoebe. Fact is, I'm talkin' to myself as well as you. Before September, I'd never left the States in my entire life.” She plucked another cookie from the tin. “But even though I'm old, my hearing's goin', and I don't move as fast as I used to, I'm not going to shuffle off to some old folks home, watch paint dry, and reminisce about the good old days from my rocking chair.” Esther grinned at me. “That's why I'm starting the New Year off right with a trip to Europe.”

“
Europe?
When?”

She settled back in her chair, an expectant gleam in her eyes. “Me and Millie, one of my purple ladies, are leaving Tuesday for a three-week tour. These old bones may not be able to ski in the Alps anymore, but I can sure enjoy the view while I'm drinkin' hot chocolate and eatin' some Sacher torte inside a nice, warm chalet.”

Her eyes danced behind the thick glasses. “I've wanted to do this all my life but kept puttin' it off for one reason or another—not enough money, too many obligations, and just plain old
fear, I suppose. But no more. That's another thing gettin' old does for you. You become fearless. Or fearful, depending on your outlook.”

“You've always been fearless, Esther.”

“Hah, a lot you know. I just put on a good front. But that's the past, and from now on I'm livin' in the present.” She straightened. “We'll start out in Austria and Germany, then head down to Italy, where even though I can't climb the Dome, I can still see the
David
and the Sistine Chapel. 'Course, I'll have to watch out for those Italian men—I've heard they're real pinchers .” She gave me a sly wink. “But they'd better watch out. I'll pinch 'em right back.”

I choked on a cookie. Then gulped my hot chocolate to wash down the crumbs.

After making sure she didn't need to do the Heimlich maneuver, Esther continued. “Going to the City of Lights too. Hemingway said Paris is a moveable feast, and I plan to eat with gusto.”

“I'm jealous.” I sighed. “Wish I could be part of your red-hat club and go along.”

“No you don't.” Esther snorted again. “Bunch of old women wearing funny clothes and silly hats. Besides, you gotta be at least fifty. You'd have more fun with someone your own age.” She leaned forward eagerly. “We'll wind up our trip in London, where we'll see Buckingham Palace. And who knows? Maybe the Queen'll invite me in for a cup of tea.” She chuckled. “I want to see the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens too. That was always one of my favorite stories.” Saw the musical in San Francisco, too, a long time ago—not Mary Martin, but pretty good. Even liked that Disney version.”

“I'd love to see the original stage play,” I murmured, thinking of a showing of
Finding Neverland
I'd caught in Sacramento the week before. But Esther hadn't heard me.

“And of course, St. Paul's Cathedral is a must,” she said softly. Her faded denim eyes took on a misty, faraway look. “There's something special there I need to see.”

“What?”

“When they rebuilt part of the cathedral that was destroyed during the Blitz, they included a memorial to American soldiers,” Esther said. “They have this book called the Roll of Honor with all the names of the U.S. military who died over there.” She wiped her eyes. “One of those names is of a boy I loved, Norman Howard. We were high-school sweethearts and wanted to get married before he shipped out, but my parents said I was too young. He was eighteen. I wasn't even seventeen yet. So we decided to wait until he came home.” She gave me a sad smile. “Only he never came home.”

“Esther, I never knew. You never said anything . . .”

“That's because it was a long time ago, a lifetime ago. But before I end this life, I want to see his name in that famous place and lay a rose at the altar for him.” Esther sniffled, then gave herself a little shake. “Land sakes, I'm gettin' all weepy in my old age. Norman's gone to Glory and I'll see him again, but I ain't dead yet! This is an excitin' time, and I plan to enjoy every minute of my grand European adventure.”

She shot me another sharp look. “You just make sure you don't wait as long. You should enjoy these things while you're still young and can move around freely. Besides, travelin' helps you learn more about yourself—discover who you really are and what kind of stuff you're made of. You hear what I'm sayin'?”

“I hear you.” I didn't want to rain on her travel parade. “I think it's wonderful you're doing this, Esther, but why go now when it's so cold? Why not wait until spring?”

“It's called money, honey.” She cackled. “I'm no Donald Trump. Besides, the good Lord's opened these doors, and I'm not about to refuse to walk through them. Besides, I've always wanted to see the Alps in the wintertime.”

“The hills are alive . . .” I said softly, thinking of
The Sound of Music.

Esther stared at me. “No, I'm not going to let Millie drive.” She snorted again. “Woman's a slowpoke behind the wheel. No, sirree, we'll go by train or bus, and let someone else do the navigatin'.”

I was working on my attitude. I really was.

But I was also beginning to suspect I was not only a terrible friend, but a spiritual loser.

For the fourth day in a row now, I'd reneged on my New Year's resolution. I'd failed to get up in time for my daily quiet time in the Word like all good Christian girls do.

Well, maybe not everyone. Lindsey, who is not a morning person either—although she forces herself on gym days—also struggles in this area. And when I lived in Cleveland, we'd commiserate about our shared spiritual failing over double nonfat mochas from Starbucks. But Lindsey, Cleveland, and Starbucks were a world away—well, at least several states and four time zones—and Lindsey was way too busy to buck me up now. I was on my own here.

Note to self: No matter what, will actually get up early tomorrow
morning.

But when the buzzer sounded at the crack of dawn the next morning, I slapped down the snooze button and buried my head beneath my pillow.

Ten minutes later it rang again.

“Jus' nine more minutes.” I hit the snooze button.

Nine minutes later I hit it again. And again. And again. By the time I finally got up, my devotional hour had shrunk to seven minutes. Yawning, I flipped my Bible open to Proverbs: “The sluggard's craving will be the death of him.”

All right, God. I get the message. Time to get serious about this.

That night, I moved the alarm out of my bedroom. When it clattered like machine-gun fire against the tile kitchen counter the next morning, my long trek to slap it down effectively woke me up. I filled a mug with some French roast, grabbed my Bible, and curled up on the couch under a quilt, at long last ready to spend an hour with God. My newly acquired daily devotional pointed me to the fourth chapter of Philippians and one of my favorite verses: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

I resolved to incorporate this ancient directive on a more regular basis into my daily life. Like when someone cut me off on the freeway. Or when the idiots at the fast-food drive-through gave me the wrong taco
again
. Or when Mom forgot and called me dumpling, the childhood nickname I abhorred.

Ten minutes after this profound spiritual resolution, however, I was fast asleep, Bible on my chest. (For what it's worth, I was
dreaming
about excellent and lovely things.) But when I woke up, I only had fifteen minutes to shower and get ready for work.

I'm a miserable, pathetic excuse for a Christian,
I thought as I shampooed my hair and slapped in some gel so it could dry on its own.
Good
Christians get up early every day of the week to have their quiet time. Mom
does. Karen does. I'm positive that Mary Jo does. And so do all those faithful
women who speak in stadiums around the country. Don't they?

I toweled off and looked up. “But Lord, what if you're just not a morning person?”

“Amy, I have a confession to make.” I shot a surreptitious glance around Books 'n' Brew, making sure no one was in earshot. I was talking to my associate pastor's wife, who did double duty behind the pastry counter of Barley's only bookstore.

“I don't think I'm a very good Christian.”
I bit my lip. “I'm finding it really hard—actually impossible—to have a quiet time in the mornings.”

She handed me my mocha and muffin. “So who says you have to?”

I gasped at such sacrilege. From a pastor's wife, no less.

“Well, all these books say it's best to start your day with the Lord in study and meditation on His Word. That's what all the leaders of the faith and the WOGs do.”

“Wogs?”

“Women of God. You know, those strong women with strong faith—Bible study leaders, pastors' wives, my mom, Mary Jo . . . even my sister-in-law, who has five kids!”

“Guess I'm not a WOG then.” Amy gave me a gentle smile. “Phoebe, God's not going to mind if you don't spend an hour every morning in quiet time.”

“I can't even spend ten minutes, though,” I wailed. “I keep falling asleep.”

“So pick a different time of day. Me—I kind of move it around. Sometimes I may have my quiet time at four in the afternoon, sometimes I have it midmorning, and sometimes I have it at home while dinner's cooking.” She leaned over the counter with a mischievous glint in her eye. “And some days I don't even have a quiet time at all. Sometimes I take a bike ride and just revel in the Lord's creation and praise Him in a meadow.”