Dreaming in Technicolor (29 page)

The tea, complete with Grace's homemade scones and clotted cream, was scrumptious but stilted. MJ tried to dispel the awkwardness by regaling us with the story of Delia and David hoisting her up into an antique sidesaddle—in which she had elected not to ride. “I'm glad you weren't there with your camera, Pheebs,” she said with a laugh. “I looked more than ridiculous.”

“Oh, Phoebe, didn't you get a chance to ride?” George looked me up and down. “What a shame.”

Before I could answer, Grace stepped in. “I asked Phoebe to keep me company. After all the wonderful things my son had told me about her, I wanted to get to know her better.” She cast a warm smile my way. “I'm so glad I did.”

Delia grinned, and George leaned in closer to Alex, who tugged at his collar. My heart did another little lurch as I took in his dear, familiar face. He really was a wonderful-looking man. But I kept my cool.

During our farewells, Alex hugged Mary Jo and said, “I'm glad I got the chance to see you both again before you leave.” He frowned. “Just sorry we weren't able to spend much time together. So much going on, you know, and . . .” Then he turned to me with what seemed like a wistful look—I was probably just imagining it—and gave me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Have a great flight home, and please tell your mom and everyone in Barley hello.”

He lowered his voice. “Here's lookin' at you, Pheebs.” But he couldn't seem to look me in the eye.

I was misinformed. Way misinformed.

When Grace hugged me good-bye, she lingered a little longer to whisper in my ear, “‘And this is my prayer, that your love may grow ever richer and richer in knowledge and insight of every kind, and may thus bring you the gift of true discrimination.'”

[chapter sixteen]

More Surprises

b
ack at Delia's flat, an interesting message awaited us from Ian.

Asking Mary Jo out. On a
date
. That same evening.

She was gobsmacked.

I was thrilled. So was Delia. We danced around the room and serenaded MJ with “Tonight” from
West Side Story.
(Turns out Delia had played one of the Jet girls in a school production, so she knew all the songs from the show.) Our serenade screeched to an abrupt halt, however, when MJ told us, “I'm not going.”

“What? Why not?” I frowned. “You thought he was nice.”

“And smart,” Delia chimed in. “And sweet.”

“
And
he loves history and horses,” I reminded her.

“But it doesn't make sense.” My practical friend ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “First, he's just a kid. Second, I don't even know whether he's a Christian or not. And third, we're going home in a few days. What's the point?”

“Oh, I don't know, let me think.” Fist under my chin, I struck a “Thinker” pose. “To have a little
fun
, maybe?”

“Besides, Ian's no kid,” Delia said. “He may be younger than you in years, but he's more together than most thirty-year-olds I know.” She smiled. “And just for the record, MJ, he
is
a Christian. And loads of fun.”

“Besides, it's just a date.” I kicked off the spiffy-but-comfy Clarks clogs I'd snagged during one of our Cotswold shopping sprees, along with a replacement suitcase for the new clothes I'd bought. “It's not a proposal. It's not meeting the parents. It's just a fun evening. Go and have a good time.” I shrugged. “Of course, if you'd rather stay here with us, we're planning some fun too. Delia, weren't you saying we could give one another facials tonight? And when we're finished with that, pedicures?”

“Don't forget the leg waxing, Phoebe. We have to do that before the pedicure.”

Mary Jo shuddered and punched in Ian's number. “All right. I get the picture. But it's been so long since I've been on a date, I won't even know how to act.”

Delia grinned. “Don't act. Just be your natural self. That's what he was drawn to in the first place.”

Once she hung up, after agreeing to go to dinner with Ian, I pounced. “Makeup time!”

MJ shrank back. “But I don't usually wear makeup.”

“You don't usually date either.” I grinned and led her to a chair at the kitchen table, grabbing my cosmetics bag on the way. “This is a night of firsts.”

“Do you need concealer?” Delia asked.

“Nope.” I dotted my cover-up stick beneath the faint circles under MJ's eyes and rubbed it in. “But do you have any foundation? Mine's the wrong shade for her coloring.”

Delia passed me a small bottle. “How about lipstick?”

“Got it. Blush too. But do you have any eye liner?”

Mary Jo put her fingers in her mouth and let loose with an ear-piercing whistle. “Now, just hold on a minute.” She directed her attention to Delia. “Didn't you tell me a little while ago to just be my natural self?”

“Yes, but—”

She swiveled her head to me. “And aren't you the one who told me to just go and have a good time?”

“Yes . . .”

Mary Jo shoved herself away from the table and yelled, “Well, I can't be natural or have a good time with all that gunk on my face.”

“Okay, okay. Settle down.” My eyes widened. I'd never heard my laid-back friend yell before.

“Yes, MJ, don't get your knickers in a twist,” Delia said.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have yelled.” Her face reddened. “Look, I really appreciate what you're both trying to do here, but . . . it's just not me. I'm just not the girly-girl type.” She lifted her shoulders. “He'll have to just take me as I am or not at all.”

“He'd be lucky to get you,” I said. The heat climbed up my neck.

“I'm sorry too, MJ. Guess I got a little carried away.”

“Me too,” Delia said.

“Don't worry about it.” Mary Jo pushed her hair behind her ears and slid a tentative smile our way. “I could use a little help figuring out what to wear, though.”

Later that night, I was channel surfing and happened upon one of my favorite Julia Roberts comedies. Delia had already gone to bed—we'd skipped the whole facials-and-pedicure ritual, which had just been for Mary Jo's benefit—and MJ was still out kicking up her heels with Ian. So I settled in to enjoy the last half hour of
My Best Friend's Wedding
, disappointed that I'd missed the “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” restaurant sing-along.

I did, however, catch the scene near the end where Julia is chasing after her best male friend, the seriously hot Dermot Mulroney, whom she thinks she's in love with, but who is engaged to Cameron Diaz. She's
literally
chasing him, in a delivery truck—while Dermot careens after Cameron Diaz in a regular car.

I've seen that chase dozens of times, and it's hilarious. But this time, watching Julia's frantic maneuvers, it suddenly hit me:
That's what I've
been doing.

No, I hadn't been tailing Alex through the streets of Chicago. But I'd been chasing him just the same, no matter how I tried to tell myself otherwise.

Then Rupert Everett, Julia's other male friend, says something to her on the cell phone as she screeches around a corner, barely missing traffic and parked cars.

What he says is this: “Who's chasing
you
, Jules?”

And when he said it, I had a full-blown epiphany:
That's it. That's
how it should be.

Like most of my friends, I'd always hated those platitudes about “don't chase guys” and “play hard to get.” I mean, we're in the twenty-first century now; we don't need all that romantic game playing, right?

But now I saw the real problem with chasing after a man. It wasn't a matter of being unseemly or socially unacceptable or not playing the game right. It was just this: if I chase him, I'll never really know if he cares enough to chase
me
.

How nice to know beyond a doubt that you're really the one he wants—that he's not just letting you catch him because he's tired or doesn't have anything better to do. And I really don't know that about Alex. Or I didn't know it until recently.

Sigh.
So much for staying in England and attending Oxford.

It was a night for surprises.

“Guess what, daughter? I've got a job!”

I spit out my tea when I read those words from my mother on Delia's laptop.

Mom wrote (using Karen and Jordy's e-mail) that Jeff and Amy from Barley Presbyterian, who also ran Books 'n' Brew, had left a couple of days earlier to move to Oregon. Jeff had been called to a full-time pastorate at a small church who needed him immediately.

I didn't even get to say good-bye,
part of me wailed.

Never mind,
the other part answered.
Just be happy for them. This is
what they wanted.

I continued reading. My mother was taking over Amy's place as resident baker for the bookstore and coffee bar. Karen was working there too, handling the book end of things with the help of a local boy named Redmond, who had worked for Jeff and Amy. “Everyone always likes my pies and pastries,” Mom wrote. “So instead of giving them away, I'm going to earn a little money off them from now on. Best of all, this will mean a little extra money for Karen and Jordy, which we hope will relieve some of the stress on your brother. We've been really worried about him with all the extra work he's taken on. He's pushing himself way too hard. And I can't help thinking about your father.”

My stomach clenched when I read that. I knew that Jordy was doing too much and that Mom and Karen were worried about him. I'd just conveniently forgotten about it while I was over here having fun.

And chasing after Alex.

Déjà vu flashback to my senior year in high school. My dad had taken on a part-time job in addition to his full-time teaching position in an effort to help make ends meet for our family.

Six months later, he'd died of a heart attack.

Chastened, I fell to my knees and whispered a fervent prayer for my brother. “Please Lord, watch over Jordy and keep him safe. We love him and need him.”

I stayed there for a long time, alternately thinking of my family, praying for them, and sort of chatting with God about what was going on in my life. Then I reached under the table for my trusty carryall and unearthed my travel Bible.

Lord, show me what to do.

Opening to Philippians, I found the verse Grace had quoted in my ear: “So that you may be able to discern what is best . . .” I continued reading. “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.”

I closed my Bible, lost in thought until the TV intruded. I started to hit the off button on the remote, but Mr. Spock caught my attention in one of the early Star Trek movies—
The Wrath of Khan
, I think. Spock was behind glass in a sealed chamber filled with some kind of toxins or radiation that, if released, would kill the entire crew. He was absorbing the poison into his own body instead and clearly dying, with his friend Captain Kirk on the other side of the glass, unable to prevent it.

Spock gasped the beginning of a Vulcan proverb, which the characters had earlier argued about: “The needs of the many—”

Kirk, almost in tears, finished his sentence, “outweigh the needs of the few.”

“Or the one,” Spock added and placed his hand on the glass, fingers spread in the Vulcan salute.

Before I knew it, I was having a major PMS meltdown over the onscreen death of the logical guy with the pointy ears. But I wasn't too hormonal not to realize there was a message there for me.

All right, God, I know I asked for some guidance. But
Star Trek?

Wiping my streaming eyes with my fist, I got up and went in search of tissues . . . and chocolate. Then I went back to Delia's laptop and finished reading my e-mail.