Dreaming in Technicolor (41 page)
“But what about Read a Latte? Don't you want me at the bookstore?”
Jordy and Karen double-hugged me. “Of course we want you there.” My brother winked. “As long as you stay away from the cash register.”
“You'll still be a partner, Pheebs,” Karen said.
“Just a silent one.” Jordy grinned at me. “As if you could ever be silent.”
A thought suddenly hit me. “But what about my apartment? I've already said yes to the paper, and they want me to start in two weeks.” I bit my lip. “I'm not giving you much time to find a new tenant.” My voice trailed off.
“Not to worry, Pheebert. God will provide. He always does.”
Just then the kitchen door flung open and an excited Mary Jo burst through, waving a letter. “Pheebs, guess what? Ian's applied to the veterinary program at UCâDavis! He's coming to California in a week or two for interviews!”
I gotta give You Your props, God. Once You decide to move, You really
do it fast.
On the Road Again
t
he next week, Mary Jo and Ashley were helping me pack while Mom and Karen held down the bookstore. I was in serious purge mode, wanting to start my new life without too much to weigh me down.
Ashley held up a stuffed giraffe I'd won at a carnival in Cleveland. “Keep or toss, Aunt Phoebe?”
“Toss.”
She smiled and put it in the box marked “Ashley.”
Mary Jo held up a baggy, stretched-out, rainbow-striped sweater. “Keep or toss?”
“Toss.”
She put it in the box marked “Mary Jo.”
Ashley held up something green and glittery. “Uh, what is this, Aunt Phoebe?”
Mary Jo turned and stared at the strange item. “Yeah, what exactly is it?”
I snatched it from Ashley's hand, stretched it across the front of my T-shirt, and adopted the John Travolta
Saturday Night Fever
dance pose. “It's a tube top from the days when disco was king. I found it at a little thrift store in Cleveland and wore it to disco night at Lone Rangers a few years ago. Isn't it cool?”
Mary Jo looked at Ashley. Ashley looked at Mary Jo. “Toss,” they chorused.
“You'll be sorry, Ash. Vintage clothes are really hot, and I hear disco's going to make a comeback. You'd probably be the only girl on your block to have one.”
“That's okay. But thanks for thinking of me.” She shot me a sweet smile. “I think we should send it to someone who really needs it.”
“Yeah. Like Cher,” Mary Jo said, and they both dissolved into giggles. I took the top from them and chunked it into the “toss” box.
Now came the hard part. Shoe time. What to keep and what to get rid of? My new place didn't have a built-in shoe hive like the one my sweet brother built for me here, so I had to be ruthless.
My low-heeled Kenneth Coles?
Definitely keep.
My Jimmy Choo wannabes?
Get rid of.
My classic black pumps?
Keep. Same for the practical Clarks clogs.
My Manolos?
I picked them up and drank in the rich leather smell, remembering how I'd walked all around London in themâand gotten the blisters to show for it. Then I glanced over at my fashion-conscious niece, whose head was bent over a box. “Ash, what size shoe do you wear now?”
“Eight.”
“Here's something you might want to add to your box.” I tossed her the boots.
She looked and screamed. “Your Manolos?! Aunt Phoebe, those are so expensive!”
“I know. Which is why you'd probably better not wear them to school. Save them for special occasions, okay?”
“More than okay.” She body-slammed me, and we fell to the floor together, laughing, while Mary Jo gave me a thumbs-up.
There was a loud knock at the door.
“I hope that's Jordy with more boxes.” I got up to answer it, still giggling, while
a beaming Ashley pulled on her new boots.
A mass of daffodils filled the doorway, obscuring the person holding them. But this time when the flowers were lowered, it wasn't a teenage delivery person.
Alex Spencer stood there with a sheepish grin and said, “Frankly my dear, I've been an idiot.” He thrust the daffs at me, and those gorgeous lips curved into an apologetic smile.
“I'm sorry I missed your birthday party, Phoebe. I really wanted to be here, but I had to tie up some loose ends back in Britain. Once I did, I flew all night from London and drove here straight from the airport.” He gave me a pleading smile. “I was hoping we could start again.”
Behind me I heard Ashley gasp.
Mary Jo, too.
This was what I'd longed for.
And dreamed of.
And prayed for.
And spent countless hours thinking about.
And three months ago, this moment would have been a dream come true.
Except I wasn't living in a dream world these days. The new Phoebe was beginning a new job, a new life, and a new adventure rife with possibilities. Real possibilities, not fantasies. Sure, she planned to take frequent vacations to Neverland, but she wasn't going to live there anymore.
“I'm sorry, Alex, but you're a little late.” I turned and gestured to the box-strewn room. “As you can see, I'm moving on.”
He glanced behind me and noticed Ashley wearing the boots he'd given me. Alex's eyebrows raised. “You gave away your Manolos?”
“I outgrew them.”
Two days later, my Bug was packed and ready to go. My family and friends clustered around to say good-bye.
“I still can't believe you got a dog,” Mary Jo said, shaking her head.
“Well, I just decided Herman would be happier staying here with his cat family. And you're the one who told me dogs are good company to snuggle up to.” I cuddled Sam, the three-year-old terrier I'd found at the pound. I thought he looked a lot like Dorothy's Toto.
“But you're not an animal person.”
“And you're not a dating womanâor at least hadn't had a date in four years.” I cut a glance at Ian, who had arrived the day before and was playing with Jacob. “Things change.”
Moments later, I drove off into the sunset to my new adventure, humming my old air-force anthem:
“Off we go into the wild blue
yonder
. . .”
Then I cranked up my stereo. I'd stocked my car CD holder with a lot of strong-women CDs: Bette Midler, Martina McBride, Shania Twain, and even a little Aretha, in homage to Mary Jo. But for now, on my way to sunny San Diego, this California girl turned on the Beach Boys full blast and flew along the coastal highway with the sunroof open and the wind in my hair, singing along at the top of my lungs.
In the backseat, strapped into his Toto basket, woman's best friend howled along. “Want me to play it again, Sam?”
I was Melanie Griffith in
Working Girl,
beginning an exciting new career.
Minus Harrison Ford.
Just You and me, God. And Sam too.
Note to Self: Who needs a man anyhow? It's great to be male-free.
Pulling into a gas station a couple of hours later, I filled my tank. And at the pump next to me, I noticed a man. A tall, attractive man, in that rumpled-professor sort of way. He was helping an old woman into her car. After his Good Samaritan bit, he jogged back to his Bugâcherry red, with a golden retriever in the front seatâand drove away, flashing a brilliant smile at me as he did.
Mmm. Nice lips.
Amended note to self: Or not . . .
S
incere thanks to:
Dr. Henrietta Blackmore, for answering endless e-mails and for your eyes-and-ears insights on Oxford, the church, and being a twenty-something single in England.
Davis and Isabella Bunn, for introducing me to Henri.
Patricia Smith, my dear Dorset friend, for her explanation of Christmas pudding, fox hunts, British slang, and other things English.
Brian Morris, for his London insights.
Sue and Roger Garlick of Grey Gables for the “wau-tuh, not wa-derr” lesson.
Kari Jameson, who helped refresh my memory on important details from our England trip. We'll always have
Les Miz
. (Ditto to her mom, Sheri.)
The Martinusen family, for letting me stay at their wonderful dream home. Cindy, thanks for reading an early draft and for your gentle suggestions to “introduce more conflict” without causing a conflict between us. You're the best!
Annette and Randy Smith, for my Texas writing getaway. And for catfish, homegrown steaks, and Ruby Faye. But most of all, for your friendship, Annette.
Pat and Ken McLatchey, longtime friends and fellow Anglophiles, who graciously let me stay in their beautiful and quiet room with a view during another much-needed getaway.
Anne Peterson, for the witty, sarcastic, single-woman's perspective. You rock!
My writing pals, Jan Coleman and Judi Braddy, as well as our Monday night Acts2U group and my Westside family for praying me through this one.
Chip MacGregor, my friend and agent, for making it possible to use those two words in the same sentence. And, as a former visiting professor at Oxford, for jogging my memory about Evensong, Blackwell's, and the Eagle and Child pub.
I thank God on a regular basis for my brilliant editor, Ami McConnell, who makes the book-birthing process such a joy even through the editing pain and my descents into neurosis. Your encouragement, gentle guidance, and belief in me mean the world.
Anne Christian Buchanan, fellow movie lover and excellent line editor. If God is in the detailsâwell, you're not God, but He's certainly working through you. Thanks, wonder woman!
Allen Arnold, Amanda Bostic, Rebecca Seitz, and the rest of the gang at WestBow Press, for the prayers and the partnership.
Mom, for always cheering me on.
And as always, Michael, my beloved, who puts up with an absent, neurotic wife and acts as the guardian at the deadline gate, turning away distractions. Thanks for the PG Tips in the morning and the sustenance in the evening, honey. Without you, I couldn't do this. Thank you for your sacrificial love and for your artist's heart and soul. Je t'adore.
To contact Laura,
visit her Web site at
www.laurajensenwalker.com
