Dreaming in Technicolor (9 page)

“Sounds like a
Brother Sun, Sister Moon
kind of thing you've got going there.” The seventies-era Zeffirelli movie about Saint Francis of Assisi had had a lasting spiritual impact on me—that and
Chariots of Fire,
with its missionary Scotsman with the great accent, who ran like the wind.

Amy looked confused for just a minute, then laughed. “Oh, yes—I remember that one. We saw it on video when Jeff was in seminary.

Beautiful film in a hippie-dippy kind of way—and I loved the part near the end where the pope kneeled before Francis to show his humility. But seriously, Phoebe. Our relationship with God doesn't have to be rigid and tied to a set of rules. In fact, it shouldn't be. That's why they call it grace. I mean—watch out!”

I had stood up to get another napkin, stumbled over my purse, which I'd set near my feet, and spilled my coffee, barely missing my Manolos.

“Well,” I said, “I've never had a lot of grace.” We giggled together as we mopped up the mess. Then, setting my muffin and purse on a table out of the way of my klutzy feet, I began browsing the racks of books. Bookstores are my second favorite kind of place in the world—right after movie theaters. And though I'm a rabid cinemaphile—very rabid, my family says, pointing to my frothing mouth whenever I talk about movies—I can even think of ways that a bookstore is
better
than a theater.

The movie's over after a couple of hours. A bookstore doesn't have such constraints. You can lose yourself in a good book and not come up for
days
!

Scanning the glossy jackets of the hardcover best sellers, my eyes were caught by the hot-pink, in-your-face cover of the latest offering from one of the hip, sarcastic, contemporary female authors I enjoy. I picked it up and read the back cover. Intrigued, I opened to the first page and was instantly hooked. But checking the price tag, I groaned. Too steep for my small-town reporter budget.

Next came the classics. I'm determined to read at least three a year to become more of a Renaissance woman. Since I began this higher literary quest on my thirtieth birthday, I've read
A Tale of Two Cities
(Can you say long? But such great beginning and ending lines.),
Pride and
Prejudice
(If I was Elizabeth Bennett, I'd have smacked Mr. Darcy.),
Wuthering Heights
(I wonder if Heathcliff might have been bipolar?), and
Oliver Twist
(Whenever I eat oatmeal, I always want to say in a forlorn English accent, “Please sir, I want some more.”).

My fingers trailed across the paperback classics, trying to decide what to read next:
Anna Karenina, The Brothers Karamazov, Jane Eyre,
Moby Dick
, or
War and Peace.
Since I hadn't read any of the great Russian ones yet, I picked up
War and Peace
.

And nearly sprained my wrist in the process.

Note to self: Remember not to read books that can hurt you. And work
out more so as to be able to lift heavy, important literature tomes.

In a more romantic, English frame of mind, I finally selected
Jane
Eyre
. Although I'd seen part of one of the movie versions when I was younger—with George C. Scott and Susannah York—I'd fallen asleep partway through and never found out how it ended.

As usual, I quickly bypassed most of the nonfiction titles. I've always preferred to lose myself in a story rather than submit myself to a barrage of facts or nosy advice. I have to confess, however, to having bought one or two—or fifty—of those Christian dating or how-to-be-content- in-your-Christian-singleness-while-not-succumbing-to-lust books. But now that Alex and I were together—I cast a reassuring look down at my Manolos—I didn't feel the need for the how-to-be-content-without- a-man scenarios. And since my particular man was in a whole different country for who knew how long, steering clear of lust wasn't exactly an issue.

I sighed and headed to the counter to pay Amy and order another mocha to go with my muffin. On my way, I passed by the animals section and noticed a book on emus. Ugh. Thanks to a recent assignment at a nearby farm, I now know more about those distant cousins to the ostrich than I ever wanted to.

That's the one downside to my job.

I thought of my salary. Okay,
one
of the downsides. The way things were going this week, most of my
life
was a downside.

When I majored in journalism, I never dreamed I'd be writing about emus, pigs, goat roping, and pigeon racing. (Yes, pigeons race. And if you really want to know more about that sport, although I can't imagine why you would, Google it.) Loving
His Girl Friday, Teacher's
Pet,
and
All the President's Men
, I'd always fantasized about being an investigative reporter going after a big scoop.

What I got was a job writing obits. Then I'd graduated to covering livestock . . . and craft fairs . . . and restaurant openings. And I was fast learning that politics wasn't really my thing either—at least not the small-town variety. You try attending water boards, school boards, and cemetery district board meetings on a regular basis and tell me they're not boring with a capital
B.

What I really longed to write were movie reviews and “lifestyle” columns. The movie reviews I was already doing, though on a limited basis, and they were my favorite part of my job.

Next to seeing Alex every day, of course.

Which was
so
not happening at the moment.

Back home, I powered up my laptop and checked my messages. Nothing from the man I loved. Heavy sigh.

But wait, what was this?

To: Movielovr
From: Etraveler

Hi, Phoebe, I'm writing from an Internet café in Munich. How's Barley? I'd say I missed you all, but I'd be lying. Having too much fun. Although Millie, my traveling buddy, is about to drive me up the wall. She's the slowest person I've ever met. Never knew it took so long for a body to get ready in the mornings. The time she spends on her hair and makeup is enough for me to have finished my breakfast and then some. But aside from that, my trip's been WONDERFUL. Don't know why I waited all these years. Had some schnitzel with mushrooms—called Jaeger schnitzel—that just melted in my mouth. The country is beautiful. So clean. Tomorrow we're off to Austria. I'll think of you when I'm eating my Sacher torte.

Auf Wiedersehen, Esther

I tried not to be jealous of my globetrotting, seventy-something friend, but it was difficult. Of course, everything seemed difficult these days. Something to
do with the man I adore being so far away, and now Esther too, while I was still stuck in Barley. Oh, and let's not forget my best friend grabbing the happily-ever-after engagement ring either . . .

Envious, much?

Sorry, God. Guess I really need those quiet times to help me with such
unchristian attitudes as envy and resentment and discontent.

But the quiet times were difficult too!

Thinking back on my conversation with Amy, I decided I'd try an after-dinner quiet time. I closed my laptop, pulled out my devotional and Bible, and curled up in my chair to read. But I just couldn't concentrate. After fiddling around for fifteen minutes, I finally gave up and flipped open my computer again.

Hooray! Finally, a reply from Alex.

To: Movielovr
From: Filmguy791

Hi, Barley girl. Sorry to be so long getting back to you—things have been impossibly hectic here. I already knew about Phil and Lindsey. Phil e-mailed me to tell me he was going to propose.

What? How come Phil didn't tell me? We've been friends longer.

Now don't go and get all in a huff that he didn't confide in you. Phil knew there was no way you'd be able to keep it from Lindsey—she'd have heard it in your voice. So he decided the info had to be classified FMO—for men only.

Dad's doing better. Thanks for asking. Our colleague George is a huge help at the office. Delia, too. Don't know what we'd do without them.

I miss you too, Phoebe. I miss everyone there in Barley. Every time a bell rings here, I think: An angel just got his wings, and somebody just opened the door at the Barley Bulletin.

Must run, though—lots going on. Talk later.

I signed off the Net with a smile on my face.
Whenever a bell rings
here
—he really was thinking of me. For a few minutes I lost myself in a dream of the time when we'd finally be together again.
I'll meet him at
the airport, and he'll run when he sees me, and I'll finally get my kiss . . .

But the next minute my smile slipped a little.

He forgot to say when he's coming home.

Two weeks later, Alex still hadn't said.

He e-mailed often, but mostly about work-related stuff, letting Gordon and me know he still needed to stay and help his Dad out with the business and entrusting us to keep the
Bulletin
running smoothly in his absence. Over time, his personal e-mails to me grew less and less personal and more and more brief. He was always having to rush off to a meeting or family event or something.

But I understood. Or tried to. After all, Alex was a busy, important executive with a major newspaper empire to handle. He didn't need selfish, neurotic me hanging on his every e-mail. Right?

The trouble was,
Lindsey
was e-mailing me daily. Several times a day, in fact. And she was driving me crazy.

To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog

Hey maid of honor, what do you think would be better for the reception—a sit-down dinner or hors d'oeuvres?

I'd give her my two cents:

To: LinsRog
From: Movielovr

Depends on how many people you're planning to invite. Dinner can get pretty expensive per plate. So you've decided definitely on an evening wedding then?

But by then she'd have moved on to something else.

To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog

I'm thinking of going with magnets with our name and wedding date on them and bubbles for the wedding favors. They have these cute little bubble containers in the shape of two hearts. What do you think?

Before I'd even have a chance to respond to that, another e-mail would arrive:

To: Movielovr
From: LinsRog

Definitely going with the bubbles. But I saw the coolest favor on this celebrity wedding special recently—cookies with a picture of the bride and groom on the frosting for each guest! (That way you could bite Phil's head off and not get in trouble.
)

I'd like to bite your head off.

Bad maid of honor, bad,
my best-friend self said.

I can't help it,
my distressingly single, boyfriend-across-the-ocean self whined.

If Lindsey didn't e-mail, she'd call. About more wedding stuff. Often she'd call and e-mail the same day. Every conversation, every e-mail, every single word out of her mouth revolved around the wedding—which just served to highlight all the more dramatically how unengaged
I
was.