Dreaming in Technicolor (5 page)

We were putting the last batch of Mary Jo's chocolate-chip contribution in the oven when my weary brother arrived.

“Daddy!” Lexie flung herself at Jordy's legs.

“Hi, pumpkin. You been making cookies?” He scooped up his daughter and gave her a big kiss.

She nodded. “But we're done now. Let's go play.”

“Not now, baby girl. Daddy's really, really tired.”

Mom and Karen exchanged worried looks. Jordy had begun moonlighting as a carpenter nights and weekends to help make ends meet for his family. That work on top of his full-time teaching and coaching job was taking its toll.

“Honey, sit down and relax.” Karen, carrying my newest niece and namesake, Gloria Phoebe, on her hip, planted a kiss on her weary husband's cheek. “I'll bring you a cup of coffee and some fresh-from-the-oven cookies.”

Jordy sank gratefully into Mom's recliner and shut his eyes. “Sounds good.”

Concerned, I shot up a silent prayer.
Lord, please help me win the
Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes so I can shower my family with
money and Jordy won't have to work two jobs anymore—or any job at all,
for that matter.

A small smile tugged at my lips.
And after I take care of all of them,
I can splurge on myself, too, and finally get a pair of Manolos.

“Don't eat that, Bruce.”

Sylvia Ann Woodring, her Dolly Parton curls bouncing against the fake white-fur collar of her red jumpsuit, playfully slapped her boyfriend's hand away from the plate of cookies I'd brought to our singles Sunday-school class.

Although for my mother's sake I attended earlier services at Holy Communion Lutheran Church—our Lutheran family's church for generations—I always scooted over to Barley Presbyterian afterward for Sunday school. Holy Communion didn't have anything resembling a singles group. And I craved the fellowship—though I couldn't quite get used to addressing fifty-something Sylvia Ann and Bruce Hubert as peers. Sylvia Ann was Barley's resident beautician, owner of The Bobby Pin. And Bruce had actually taught me in high school, though I knew him back then as Hubert the Horrible.

“Remember what the doctor said about your cholesterol,” Sylvia Ann was warning her beau. “This looks loaded with butter and sugar. Have one of my low-fat, sugar-free oat-bran-raisin
cookies instead.” She batted her heavily mascaraed lashes. “I made them especially for you.”

Jeff, our singles pastor, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Okay, everyone, time for praise and worship.”

His copper-haired wife, Amy, strummed a few chords on her acoustic guitar, then launched into a beautiful guitar solo of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” followed by several contemporary praise songs.

As always, Mary Jo really got into the music. She swayed in her seat, eyes shut, hands raised, her Aretha Franklin–style voice shaking the rafters.

My voice shook a few things too. Dental fillings. Fingers on chalkboard. Great Danes two counties over. But I sang. I always sang.

Another reason that I came over to Barley Pres for Sunday school was that I enjoyed the livelier, more contemporary style. For years I'd been trying to break free from my staid Lutheran upbringing—we weren't called the frozen chosen for nothing—but old habits die hard. During my air-force days, when I was stationed in Biloxi, Mississippi, I'd attended a black Pentecostal church with my roommate, Shondra, and been shocked when she and all the other members of the congregation kept interrupting the pastor with “Go on, now!” and “Preach it, brother!” and a host of amens.

I was even more shocked when Shondra and everyone else—including the minister—started dancing in the aisles. I tried to join in, but have always been a little rhythm challenged, so wound up doing the female version of what Billy Crystal called the white man's overbite. And the whole raising the arms thing lost much of its praise-the-Lord impact due to worry over whether I'd remembered to shave my pits.

However, at the Presbyterian church I'd attended in Cleveland and now Barley, I'd discovered a great compromise: raising one discreet arm up, bent at the elbow.

After Sunday school, Pastor Jeff came up behind Amy and encircled her tiny waist with his hands. “Great job, honey.”

Oh, to have a husband's arms round my waist like that. If he'd even
be able to make it all the way around . . .
I sucked in my stomach.

Sylvia sidled up to us with Bruce in tow and a knowing gleam in her eye. And dropped a bombshell: “So Jeff, Amy, I hear you two want to leave us.”

“What?” Mary Jo and I chorused.

Jeff shot a look at his wife. “I'm just putting out feelers. We've been praying about my having my own church. God seems to be leading us in that direction, but right now we're just waiting on Him.”

My face fell. But Mary Jo, who's less selfish and way more spiritually advanced than me, threw the couple a happy grin. “That would be great! You guys do a great job here, but I could really see the Lord using you in a larger ministry.”

Note to self: Practice being more like spiritual giant Mary Jo, who can
even wish the best to people about to desert us. The brat.

Sylvia turned to me with a bright smile. “Where's Alex today, Phoebe?”

Not to worry, Sylvia. He hasn't dumped me. But if he does, I'll alert
the media—after I tell you, of course. Oops. Sorry, God. I know I just
resolved to be more gracious and loving like Mary Jo.

“Oh, he's visiting a newspaper colleague in San Francisco.” I bestowed a sweet smile in return for Sylvia's nosy one. “He hated to miss church, but his friend was only in California for one day. But he'll be back soon,” I added. “Very soon.”

Note to self: Buy mistletoe.

[chapter three]

Alone Again, Naturally

q
uestion: What's worse than not having a boyfriend to kiss on New Year's Eve?

Answer: Having an actual boyfriend and still having no one to kiss.

This year, I'd thought that for once I wouldn't be a pathetic loser, all alone except for my double date with Ben and Jerry on the second most romantic holiday of the year. Alex and I had plans to attend the all-town party at the soon-to-be refurbished Bijou Theater. It was kind of a kickoff party for the renovations we'd raised money for. And I just knew it would be the night Alex finally kissed me.

It was the perfect time, after all. The perfect place—the site of our first real date. And I was ready. My lips and I were more than ready.

As it turned out, though, we would have to wait a little longer.

Two days before Christmas, Alex had received a call from overseas that his father had had a heart attack and had raced over to England to be with him. Thankfully, it had turned out to be only a mild attack. But this meant that instead of spending Christmas and New Year's with me, Alex (and his lips) had spent it with his family over in Merrie Olde England.

Leaving me here—still kissless—on New Year's Eve at the Bijou. It was enough to make a girl lose heart. Almost.

If it hadn't been for the Manolos, I don't know what I would have done . . .

I'd still managed to have a wonderful Christmas, even without the man I loved—
at least I think I love him
—at my side. It was, after all, my first holiday at home in three years. And I'd forgotten how fun it was to be around kids at Christmas. They got so excited opening their gifts.

But their excitement wasn't even in the same stratosphere as mine when I opened the present from Alex that he'd sneakily arranged for Gordon—who was rapidly become a fixture at our family gatherings—to put under the tree.

My jaw dropped as I lifted out the pair of black stiletto boots, and Shirley Temple returned. “Oh my goodness! Manolos!”

“Gesundheit,” Jordy said.

I raised the soft leather to my face and inhaled.
Who needs sex? Or
even a kiss, for that matter?
The
Casablanca
love song began to play in my head, then abruptly screeched to a halt.
All I got him was a clock
and that paltry paperweight . . .

“Wow, Aunt Phoebe, he must really like you,” Ashley, my fashionista niece said. “Manolo Blahniks are
expensive.”

“I know!”

Note to self: Begin planning wedding. After a gift like this, surely it
won't be long now. Wonder if I can wear them under my wedding dress?

Mom looked at my boots and frowned. “How expensive?”

“At least five hundred dollars,” Ashley blurted out before I had a chance to stop her. “Probably more.”

My mother frowned again. “Doesn't seem a very appropriate gift from someone you've just started dating. A little too intimate, I'd say.”

“Well, they
are
special. But remember, five hundred dollars to Alex is like twenty bucks to us. And it's not like he gave me lingerie or anything.” I slid my feet into heaven. “They're even the right size! How'd he know?” I looked at my mother.

She shrugged. “I certainly didn't tell him.”

My head swiveled to Karen and the girls, who were shaking their heads. “Not us.”

“Don't look at me, Pheebert,” Jordy said. “I have no clue about your sizes and wouldn't even attempt to guess.” He grinned at his wife.

“That's one thing I've learned over the years.”

The mystery of the right-size Manolos was finally solved when Lindsey called later to wish me Merry Christmas and wasn't at all surprised by my gift. “I should have known it was you, Lins. Thanks, best friend.” I flexed my boot-clad foot and preened. “The man really has great taste.”

“We
already knew that. He's dating you, isn't he?”

Oh, Lindsey, why are you there and I'm here?

And why, for goodness' sakes, is Alex Spencer way over yonder?

On the evening of Christmas day, after all the food was eaten, the eggnog drunk, the wrapping paper cleared away, and tired, happy kids put to bed, I'd gone home to my little garage apartment to e-mail Alex—and was thrilled to find an e-mail from him already waiting.

To: Movielovr
From: Filmguy791

Happy Christmas, Phoebe, as we say over here. Hope you and your family had a wonderful time celebrating the birth of the King of kings. They released my father from hospital last night, so we kept things simple and had a nice quiet holiday at home—with the best Christmas pudding, I might add. Sorry you missed it. Know you'd have loved it.
Must run; more food and carol singing still to come. Give everyone my best. And God bless you every one.