Dreaming in Technicolor by Laura Jensen Walker

aloud.
    Bonjour former boss,
    Hey, these Frenchies sure know how to kick up their heels! Ooh la la! Millie and I had a grand time checking out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Élysées. The food’s great. Eating lots of croissants and crepes. They have crepe stands the way we have hot-dog ones. Even tried snails! (They call it escargot.) I’m going to come home so fat and sassy you won’t recognize me.
    Au revoir, Esther
    P.S. The Louvre is amazing, but I sure don’t get what the big deal is about the Mona Lisa.
    Gordon’s downcast mouth curved into a fleeting smile. “That’s Esther. Always calling it like she sees—saw it.”
    â€œShe did that, all right.” Mom gave him a small smile and patted his hand.
    â€œBut . . .” I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall. “She was coming home in three days. I was looking forward to hearing about all her adventures.”
    Mom hugged me tight. “She’s already home, honey.”
    I picked up my postcard again and stared at Esther’s handwriting, imagining her writing the words.
    â€œSomething else Millie told Alex,” said Gordon. “I can’t quite figure it out, though. Seems the tour group had arrived in London last night, passing by Big Ben. As they drove past the illuminated clock, Esther murmured, ‘Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning.’”
    Mom looked puzzled, but I smiled through glistening eyes. “It’s from Peter Pan . That’s what Peter said when he flew Wendy off to Neverland. In the Disney movie, they flew right past Big Ben.”

    Alex took care of all the arrangements in London, and two days later, Millie flew home with Esther’s body. Gordon wrote up a beautiful front-page obituary on his long-time friend and former employee, and the Bijou Theater board decided to mount a plaque in her honor. If not for Esther’s financial rescue, after all, the theater would have been torn down.
    There was a lovely service at the Methodist church where Esther had been a lifelong member—two pews on the right were filled with purple-clad ladies in red hats—and Gordon, who hadn’t been all that at home in a church until recently, delivered the eulogy. He ended by saying, “Don’t feel bad that Esther died so far from home. She was where she wanted to be—and having the time of her life. Besides”— he glanced at Mom—“as a dear friend reminded me, actually she is home.” He coughed and blinked. “Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. See you in the morning, Esther.”

    A week after the funeral, I’d just finished writing my latest movie preview for Wednesday’s Black-and-White Night at the Bijou. They were showing one of Esther’s favorites and mine, Mrs. Miniver, the poignant World War II story about the impact of the war on one English family and town. Greer Garson had won a well-deserved Academy Award in the title role.
    Gordon was out on an interview, so I had the office to myself. Turning over the delicate snow globe from the Alps that Millie had delivered to me as a final gift from Esther, I cranked the key. The lilting strains of “Edelweiss” tinkled in the office air. As I watched the fake snow fall, I thought of Austria and all the places Esther had seen.
    Then I thought of Esther and her Norman and how they were now reunited—even though she never got a chance to visit his memorial.
    Much better than thinking about the article I was supposed to be writing about Bobby Randolph’s pet guinea pig.
    The phone rang. “Phoebe Grant.”
    â€œHey Pheebs, remember that woman with the spiky platinum hair who wrote a book in the nineties called Stop the Insanity ? You don’t happen to have a copy I could give my fiancé, do you?”
    â€œPhillie, that book was about fitness and weight