Dreaming in Technicolor (31 page)

Mary Jo slathered hers with jam and cream as Delia had taught us, took a bite, and swooned. I followed in her swooning lead. “This is the most amazing scone I've ever had in my life. We should get the recipe for Mom so she can serve them at Books 'n' Brew.”

I took another sip and sighed. “I could really get used to this afternoon tea thing. So much more leisurely than gulping down a mocha in the car.”

“I know.” Mary Jo drained her tea. “I've got to say that I prefer this place to Brown's Hotel, though. It's cheaper, and I'm not expected to dress up. Plus, here I don't feel like I need to crook my little finger.”

“Are you sure?” I shot a surreptitious glance around the tearoom and lowered my voice. “I think maybe they have etiquette police planted.” I cut my eyes to a stout, well-dressed woman two tables over. “If you're not careful, they may stick your hands in some of those medieval stocks until you crook your finger properly.”

Mary Jo snorted. The stout woman gave us a snooty look, which made my Thelma pal snort all the more.

Rolling our way out of the tearoom, we wandered through the Shambles, a crooked, traffic-free street crammed with ancient, narrow buildings, fabulous shops, and an Internet café where I could write my next column and send it to Gordon.

“How long do you think you'll be, Pheebs?”

“An hour or so,” I said, looking up from the computer to my fidgeting friend. “Why?”

“I want to do a little more shopping and just wondered how much time I had.”

My fingers stilled. “Did you really just say
want
and
shopping
in the same sentence?” I peered behind her and looked all around. “Where's my friend, and what have you done with her?”

She stuck out her tongue, waved, and set off—a woman on a mission. I pulled out my travel journal, typed up my column to Gordon, and then sent my mom an e-mail care of Karen and Jordy:

To: KGrants7
From: Movielovr

Karen, this one is for Mom. Please tell her when it arrives. Thanks.

Hey there, working mom. How's it feel to be back in the job ranks again after all this time? Congratulations! I'm thrilled for you, and I know everyone in town's equally thrilled with all your yummy goodies. Looking forward to seeing all of you again—miss you! Lots to talk about when I get home. Lots. We took scads of pictures—wait'll you see! Give the kids my love, especially that little namesake of ours. See you soon. Love, P.

P.S. You've probably already heard from Gordon that Alex won't be returning to Barley. C'est la vie. Easy come, easy go. Right? (Don't worry. I'm fine.
)

BTW, Alex's mom and sister are darlings. You'd love them.

Late that afternoon, Mary Jo and I attended Evensong at centuries-old York Minster, where young choirboys sang in Latin and the sinking sun blazed in through centuries-old stained glass.

Closing my eyes, I let the glorious music wash over me, and I thought of all the saints who had worshipped there throughout the centuries, listening to the same music, looking at the same stained glass, loving the same God. Then I opened my eyes and gazed at the vivid Technicolor windows, remembering the little church in Fairford. Once again, an uncanny sense of peace and reverence filled me. And suddenly that familiar line from
Casablanca
seemed to take on a whole new meaning.

“It doesn't take much to see that the problems of three [in our case, two]
little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world . . .”

And the next phrase that flew through my imagination took me completely by surprise.

“Seek first the kingdom of God . . . and all these things shall be added
to you.”

Mary Jo and I walked back to our bed-and-breakfast in silence, each intent on our own thoughts. And once in our room, I sequestered myself in a Radox bath for a little more one-on-one time with God. I was surprised to find myself humming a hymn I'd learned as a child at our family church. That was odd. For years I'd been more of a gospel-chorus, praise-music sort of girl. But something felt like it was changing, shaking loose in me, and I was hearing God in completely new ways.

Okay, God, I'm all ears. What's next?

When I finally emerged from the bathroom an hour later, all wrinkled and pruney, my roommate handed me a small gift-wrapped box.

“What's this?”

“What's it look like?” She crossed her eyes. “It's a present. Open it.”

Inside was a miniature replica of the Minster's stained-glass rose window. Carefully I removed the delicate glass circle and held it up to the light. “But we didn't even stop by the cathedral gift shop afterwards . . .”

“I know. I got it while you were at the Internet café earlier. Something, or someone”—she smiled—“compelled me to buy it for you.”

That night I slept peacefully without one thought of Alex.

“How cute is that? It's the same car Charlize Theron drove in
The
Italian Job
.”

MJ, who'd watched the heist caper with me on DVD, walked around the tiny Mini Cooper in the car rental parking lot, a skeptical expression on her face. “Except this one's a lot older.”

“Don't be a spoilsport. Come on, get in. I'm a very good driver,” I said in my best
Rain Man
voice as I slid behind the wheel.

On the right-hand side of the car, no less.

“This feels too weird; sitting on the driver's side without a steering wheel.” Mary Jo buckled her seat belt in preparation for our day trip through the Yorkshire countryside.

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh what?” She shot me a wary look.

“This isn't an automatic.” We glanced down at the stick shift between us. “And I'm not left-handed.

“But that's okay.” I shrugged my carefree shoulders. “It will be one of our final Thelma-and-Louise adventures in England.”

“Final?” Mary Jo dug her nails into the seat. “I'm glad this isn't a convertible.”

I grabbed the gear stick and shifted into reverse. Grind. Grind. I tried again, but my little-used left hand refused to obey the signals my brain was giving it.

“Allow me,” MJ said, shifting with her right hand while I pushed in the clutch.

“Right, then. By George”—
no, not George, anyone but George
—“I think we've got it.”

Then we encountered my first roundabout—the Brits' answer to stop signs. The intersecting roads all feed into a little traffic circle—you just drive around the circle and take the road you need.

Except how exactly do you get in? Cars whizzed by from all directions, blaring their horns.

Holding my breath, I took the plunge.

But then I couldn't get out. It was like Chevy Chase in
National
Lampoon's European Vacation
—only we didn't have to stay in the roundabout all night. But we did drive around in the same circle seven times until at last Mary Jo yelled, “Now! Go for it! To the right, to the right!”

Problem was, I always get my right and left confused. In air-force basic training, they'd had to tape a big
R
on my right shoe and an
L
on my left when they taught me how to march. Now here I was; sitting in the wrong side of the car, driving on the wrong side of the road, trying to shift with the wrong hand . . . and trying to remember which way was right.

In city traffic.

Can you say stressful?

At last we were out of the city and on a hedge-lined stretch of country road.

After trying in vain to pick up a decent radio signal with music we liked, we finally gave up. Instead, we sang Martina McBride's “This One's for the Girls” at the top of our lungs as we rode through the pastoral countryside, surrounded by thick hedges on either side.

“Wow, these country roads sure are narrow, huh, MJ?”

“Watch out!” All at once, a huge truck came barreling into view from around a curve—straight at us.

“It's just a one-lane road!” I shrieked. “What do I do?”

The truck slowed down.

So did I.

Then he idled a truck length away from us and gestured.

“Any idea what he's trying to tell me?” I glanced at Mary Jo.

“I think he wants you to move.”

“To where?” I looked around wildly. “I'm boxed in on either side by these stupid hedges. And I read somewhere that beneath all this pretty greenery they've got thick stone walls. If I hit them, they'd crumple this baby like an accordion.”

At last the truck driver gave an exasperated shake of his head. He revved his engine and backed all the way to the curve, pulling over to allow me just enough room to pass.

Which I did at a snail's pace.

“Sorry,” Mary Jo yelled as we drove by.

He yelled something too. Something about Yanks and blood. And made another gesture.

We continued on our oblivious American way. After a couple more close calls, however, we finally realized that the unwritten law of the road was to pull over as close as possible to the lethal hedge when another vehicle approached. If there still wasn't enough room, then one of us would back up until we found a slightly wider spot.

So much for our idyllic day of driving through the English countryside. By the time we arrived in Thirsk and parked in the town square, we were both basket cases.

“I'm driving when we leave,” Mary Jo said.

I didn't argue.

Thirsk was the hometown of Mary Jo's favorite author/vet,
James Herriot. His house is now a museum, and I snapped a trembling-with-excitement Mary Jo's picture in front of the gleaming red door. Once inside, we made our way through a warren of rooms; my animal-loving friend clucking in delight at each one we passed.

All of a sudden she stopped short. “Phoebe,” she said in awe. “This is the
dispensary
.”

I peered into the small room and looked around. “What? It's a bunch of old bottles.”

“But this is where the real James Herriot worked and dispensed medicines to his animal patients.” Her voice caught. “I never thought I'd really be here.”

Glancing at my traveling companion, I noticed tears in her eyes—a first for practical, no-nonsense Mary Jo. At least since I'd known her.

“I've got an idea,” I told her as we exited the museum. “Let's stay here in Yorkshire an extra night instead of heading back to London.”

Her eyes lit up momentarily. “But you wanted to see another show before we go home. You've got reservations.”

“Which can be canceled.” I looked at my friend's happy face and off into the distance.

“Besides,” I added, “I like it here too. And I don't want to be this close and miss the moors.”

“S'mores?” Mary Jo said with a mischievous gleam. “Not sure they have those here.”

I rolled my eyes. “Very funny, Esther.”