Free Dreaming in Technicolor by Laura Jensen Walker Page B

said that to one of the purple ladies who doesn’t believe. Got her to thinking. Next stop, party time in the City of Lights! After that, London and you know what. Can’t wait! (I’m going to make one of those stiff-upper-lipped English guards crack a smile if it’s the last thing I do.)
    Ciao from Esther, the old world traveler
    I tapped the postcard on the kitchen counter and grinned. “Do you realize Esther’s seen more in the past couple of weeks than either of us have seen in our entire lives?”
    â€œI know. And at her age too. Puts us to shame, daughter.”
    There were times I was sure my Mom was part Amish. Or at least stuck in a fifties domestic time warp that her mom had placed her in. Not that she had ever done the Donna Reed thing with housedresses, heels, and pearls. Denim jumpers and hippie-type moccasins had been more her style—and for years, a long gray braid down the middle of her back.
    That had changed about four months ago. After a very emotional letting-down-our-hair time that had brought us closer together, I’d talked her into updating her look and treated her to a makeover at Sylvia Ann’s beauty shop, The Bobby Pin.
    Now she looked more
like Liz Taylor in those perfume ads. Except for the diamonds, of course. And the fact that she can cook circles around anyone in town. And her strange little Amish-like turns of phrase—like calling her only daughter “daughter.”
    Mom put the kettle on. “One thing’s for sure, England will never be the same once Esther’s through with it. If anyone can get one of those reserved English redcoats to smile, it’s her.”
    â€œHope she doesn’t pinch him, though.”
    â€œWhat in the world are you talking about, daughter?”
    We were still chuckling over my explanation when Gordon’s car pulled into the driveway. Mom opened the back door for him, giggling. “Well this is a nice sur—”
    She stopped short. Gordon’s expression was bleak. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
    â€œIt’s Esther. She—she—” He gripped my mother’s arm. “She’s dead.”
    â€œWhat?” I felt the color drain from my face, and I jumped to my feet. “That can’t be. I just got a postcard from her today.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Phoebe. Alex just called. Esther died last night in her sleep in London.” He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes.
    Mom hugged him, but I stared in disbelief. “But how . . .”
    Gordon wiped his eyes. “Her roommate, Millie, said Esther was usually the first one up in the morning, already showered and dressed and ready to go down to breakfast before she’d even gotten out of bed. But this morning when she woke up, Esther was still sleeping. But they’d gotten to bed late the night before, so Millie just figured Esther needed her sleep. She went ahead and took the first shower, but Esther was still in bed when she came out of the bathroom. Millie went to wake her and couldn’t . . .”
    Mom laid her hand gently on Gordon’s arm, her eyes bright with tears. “How did Alex find out?”
    â€œEsther had told Millie she was going to look him up while she was in town. She had his card in her purse, so Millie, who was naturally quite upset, gave the card to the hotel manager, who called Alex.” Gordon wiped his eyes again. “And Alex called me. They think she had a stroke and just passed away peacefully in her sleep.”
    â€œWell, I’m glad she didn’t suffer.” Mom handed Gordon my postcard. “And that she was doing something she loved.” She glanced at me. “Daughter, are you all right?”
    I just shook my head. I could hear them both talking, but I still couldn’t believe what they were saying.
    Gordon fumbled in his pocket. “I got a postcard today too. From Paris.” He handed the card to Mom and she read it