Georgia on Her Mind (11 page)

“W
hat’s wrong?”

“I’m in so much pain.” I hear her wheezing and moaning.

“I’ll be right there.”

Adriane insists on going with me, and as we scurry toward Mrs. Woodward’s walk, I update Adriane on my neighbor’s recurring condition. “She was supposed to have gallbladder surgery, but for some reason it never got scheduled.”

I suspect Mrs. W. avoided confirming the date and time. The front door is unlocked, so we let ourselves in. Elaine Woodward is curled up on the couch, sweating and pale.

I make a command decision. “You’re going to the E.R.”

She’s in so much pain she can’t lift her head, but she has the moxie to protest. “No, no, it’ll pass. Just stay with me.” Mrs. Woodward’s hand trembles as she touches my arm. Her skin is hot on mine.

“Could be rupturing,” Adriane whispers in my ear.

“I concur, Doctor.”

She grins at me, then kneels in front of Mrs. Woodward, brushing a gray curl away from the older woman’s face, and speaks with extraordinary tenderness. This is a rare side of the wounded, pessimistic Adriane Fox. “Hi, Mrs. Woodward. I’m a friend of Macy’s. Your gallbladder could be rupturing. You need to go to the hospital.”

“Macy?” Mrs. Woodward strains to open her eyes. Her dull eyes search the room until she sees me.

“We’re taking you to the E.R. No questions,” I say.

She gives me a slight nod. “No ambulance. Macy, you drive me.”

“Fine.” I run home to get my car while Adriane helps Mrs. Woodward off with her slippers and on with her shoes. I’m so glad she is here to help. I’ve known Addy for many years, but never felt this close to her. I’m grateful for tonight. Amazing how the tragedies in our lives bind us together with cords of camaraderie.

They’re walking out as I pull up. Adriane holds Mrs. Woodward steady as she eases down into the passenger seat. She groans and gasps.

As I shut the door, Adriane whispers in my ear. “Let me take her. You’ve got the interview. I just turned in a manuscript and for once don’t have a looming deadline. Let me help.”

I slip behind the wheel and check the car clock. Twelve-fifteen. By the time I get Mrs. Woodward checked in and wait around, it’s going to be the wee hours of the morning. My flight is in six hours. Suddenly I don’t feel so good.

I smooth my hand on Mrs. Woodward’s arm. She feels so
thin and frail under my palm. “I’m supposed to fly to New York in a few hours. Would it be all right if Adriane takes you? She’s one of my best friends. She’ll take great care of you.”

She presses her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head.

Adriane kneels and offers, “It’s not a problem, Mrs. Woodward. I can stay as long as you need me.”

Mrs. Woodward shakes her head again. I’m about to make another command decision, since she’s sort of done this to herself. New York is the biggest opportunity of my life. I’m sorry she can’t have what she wants, but at least she’ll be taken care of in the hospital. And Adriane will be with her. It’s not as if I’m leaving her alone.

“Look, Mrs. Woodward, I have an important job interview—”

She touches my hand with hers. I’m shocked to find it wet with her tears. Suddenly I’m hit with how overwhelmed she is, how scared and lonely. I can’t do it. I can’t leave her. For once, it’s not about me.

“I’ll take her.” I start the engine.

“Macy, are you sure?” Adriane asks. “You’ll miss your flight, your big opportunity.”

I tip my head toward Mrs. Woodward. “No,
this
is my big opportunity.”

All the traffic lights are green and I make it to the hospital in record time. The E.R. staff tend to Mrs. Woodward with an uncanny swiftness and wheel her into surgery within an hour of our arrival. Adriane calls my cell for an update as I doze in the waiting room.

“She’s in surgery.” I yawn between each word.

“Do you need anything?” In contrast to me, Adriane is wide-awake.

“No, I’m good. I’ll just sleep in the waiting room until they tell me she’s okay and in her room.”

“Let me know what I can do. Really, Macy, I don’t have anything else scheduled and Mrs. Woodward is such a darling.”

“She is, isn’t she? I’ll call you later.”

By midmorning I drive home, exhausted and sore, as if I’d run into a brick wall. My hair is oily and stinky, my face grimy and my breath hideous.

My sweet, darling neighbor came through the operation without complication and is tucked away in a private room until tomorrow. She looked pale and weak when I said goodbye, but the shadow of the Grim Reaper no longer tainted her round cheeks.

“Thank you so much, Macy.” She warmed my heart with a kiss on my hand. “You missed your flight.”

“Not a problem. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

Being with her in a time of crisis reminds me what life is supposed to be about. It takes the edge off recent events and trumpets, “It’s
not
all about you, Macy Moore.” Mrs. Woodward is one of the precious diamonds I’ve found in the rubble.

“Can you take a flight tonight?”

“I could,” I said with a nod, “if you don’t need me.”

“I can manage. Perhaps Dan Montgomery can come by if I need, or that dear boy Drag.”

“I’d like my friend Adriane to pick you up tomorrow. Would that be okay with you?”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes, she’s lovely.”

“She thinks you’re pretty special, too.”

I pull into my garage. Exhausted, I prop myself against the kitchen counter and dial the airlines, hoping I can change my flight to the 7:00 p.m.

Fortunately, I can. With a stopover, I’ll arrive in New York in the early-morning hours, but I’ll make the interview.

With the excitement of emergency surgery waning, sleep beckons me. But there’s no time for a nap. I drag myself up to the shower, debating about calling a cab or leaving my car at the airport.

I condition my hair, which is in desperate need of a cut. Though I have plenty of time to drive to Orlando to get one of Michele’s masterpieces, I can’t justify spending the money these days.

I slip into a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and run down to Drag’s.

I knock three times, loudly. Once again he answers looking the way I feel.

“Macy…s’up?”

“I took Mrs. Woodward to the E.R. last night.”

“Dude, what happened?”

“Gallbladder.”

“Whoa, is she okay?” His uncombed, bleached-by-the-sun blond locks swing freely as he bobs his head.

“She’s fine, but I’m going out of town tonight. Can you look in on Mrs. Woodward again?” Waves of sleep surf over me.

“Absolutely.”

“My friend Adriane will pick her up from the hospital tomorrow, but you’ll need to look in on her until Wednesday when I get back.”

“No prob, Macy. I’ll watch out for the old lady.”

“Thanks, Drag.”

“Hey.” He leans against the door frame. “I’ve been reading about that dude King David.”

His declaration catches me off guard. “Really?”

“He was one bad dude, raiding and pillaging. Wrote a lot about God, though.”

“The Bible says he loved the Lord with all his heart.”

“He had a funny way of showing it.”

“Keep reading.” I’m curious how and when he picked up a Bible, but I don’t ask. It’s strange to think our pavement conversation had such an impact on him.

Back at my place, I call Adriane. “You’re on to pick up Mrs. Woodward from the hospital tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ve been praying for her all morning. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her tears when she was sitting in your car.”

“I know I won’t. Broke my heart. She called you lovely, by the way.”

“Isn’t she sweet? What about your flight?”

“I leave tonight.” I collapse on the couch. Maybe I have time for a quick nap.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, good for me.” I say goodbye and drop the phone to the floor. Close…my…eyes…for…just…a…minute.

I wake up to the serenade of my cell phone. The condo is shadowy with the light of late afternoon.

I scramble to my feet. “What time is it?” I dash to the kitchen. Five-fifteen.

I dig my ringing cell from the bottom of my purse. “Hello.” I dash up to my bedroom, peeling off clothes.

“I thought you were going to call me?” It’s Lucy. “How’s New York?”

“I’m not there. I’m here.” I stuff myself into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

“What?”

I bust into the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Hold on, Lucy.”

Seconds later I toss my toothbrush and paste into my waiting toiletries bag.

“Why are you still here?” Lucy asks, wailing a little.

“I had to take Mrs. Woodward to the hospital. Emergency gallbladder surgery.”

“Oh, Macy, is she okay?”

“She is now.” I grab my purple sweater and thunder downstairs. Pick up my purse, click on a living-room light to low and with one last glance around, I’m out the front door.

“What about your interview?”

“I’m taking the seven-o’clock flight out of Melbourne.”

“You’d better hurry.”

“Can you meet me there with some dinner? I’m starved.” I toss my toiletries bag and my purse onto the passenger seat and speed away to the airport. I’m a dimwit. How could I let myself fall asleep?

Lucy and I polish off our sandwiches while I keep an eye on the time. Melbourne’s airport is small, but I don’t want to risk getting tangled up with security and miss my flight.

“Isn’t it amazing how emergencies come at night, or when you’re on your way out of town?” Lucy stands and takes our wadded-up sandwich paper.

“I’m just glad we were able to convince her to go to the E.R.” I sling my purse over my shoulder. I don’t want to miss this flight. “Thanks for the sandwich, Luce.”

“Any time.” She walks with me to security, then waves goodbye, smiling her best cheerleader smile. She won cheerleader of the year three years running when we were in high school, so she has the expression mastered. “You’re good to go, right? Got your chic Chico’s outfit…”

I whirl around to face her from the other side of security. “Lucy.” Oh, I feel sick. “No, I don’t have my chic Chico’s. I left my bag at home.”

T
hree days after the Myers-Smith debacle, I drive to Beauty for Dad’s
Food Connection
launch party. The New York interview runs on a repetitive loop in my head.

The Myers-Smith human resource manager shook my hand and said, “You take business casual to a whole new level.”

I explained my dilemma in as few words as possible without sounding like a complete imbecile. I do want them to hire me.

He nodded and muttered that he understood as he walked me to my first interviewer. There were six interviews in all and Bob-the-HR-manager, as I came to know him, explained to each one why this candidate for director interviews in her street clothes.

It made for great first impressions.

Flying home on Wednesday, vacillating between relief and disappointment, I pondered the day while the stewardess poured me a Diet Coke and tossed over a third pack of peanuts.

Two months ago I was Macy Moore, savvy and smart in Anne Klein and Ann Taylor. Today I’m a dimwit in jeans and a T-shirt.

I concluded all I can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. If the Lord had a plan for me before I showed up to a New York City interview in my country-girl clothes, then He has a plan for me now. I just hope I didn’t botch it up too much.

But let me just say I am now a woman with a mission: float my résumé to every possible company. Get a job. Pure and simple. Lucy was right—I shouldn’t have put all my eggs in the Myers-Smith basket. I’ve lost two weeks of valuable job-hunting time.

I left Peyton Danner a message Thursday morning, hoping she didn’t hear about my Myers-Smith mishap until I talked to her.

Thursday evening, the SSS called a midweek meeting and we met at House of Joe’s for a Macy comforting.

Then, Friday morning I got up, packed, remembered my suitcase this time and drove to Beauty.

It’s late afternoon when I arrive home. As I pull into the driveway, I remember Mom’s affinity for napping. No sense waking her. I back out and head for the Moore Gourmet Sauces office.

I find Dad in the front office with his admin assistant, Sharon Lee.

“Macy, you’re here.” He holds out his arms to me. “I’m glad you came.”

“Hi, Daddy.” I fall into his embrace.

“How’d the interview go?”

I reach for Sharon’s chocolate candy jar. “I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Now, that’s a new approach,” he says.

I give him the whole, drawn-out story.

It takes me about three hours to tell it all, because Dad’s dealing with customers, his five-person staff and the event coordinator for Saturday’s launch party.

While he’s working with his new IT-network guy on a Web order entry problem, I sneak onto a computer and log on as the administrator. I check out the network and the local hard drives to make sure this new guy is keeping up with maintenance and security procedures I outlined for Dad when he started this e-venture.

Sure enough, he is. Good for him.

“How’s it feel to be back at Moore Gourmet Sauces?” Dad claps his hand on my shoulder when the busyness dies down.

“Weird. It’s been so long.”

“So, bottom line on the New York job?” He starts toward his office.

“I survived. End of story.” I step in time with his leisurely Georgia gait, hands in my hip pockets.

“You might have impressed them with your courage, confidence and ability to face difficult circumstances.”

I chuckle. “Too bad you’re not hiring me.”

“That can be arranged.”

I furrow my brows and pass on responding. “You know what’s really ironic?”

“No, what?” Dad opens his office door and moseys to his desk chair. I fall backward onto the old leather couch.

“I remembered my toiletries bag. From the neck up, I looked fantastic.”

“Now, there’s your silver lining.”

Staring at the slow-moving ceiling fan, I reminisce out loud. “I debated the whole flight up if I should even have gotten on the plane, knowing I didn’t have business clothes. I debated canceling the interview, or running through Bloomingdale’s and showing up late.”

Dad shakes his head. “That would be worse than showing up in jeans.”

“Exactly.”

Saturday morning, Dad and Mom run around the house, frantic, calling to each other up the stairs, down the stairs and I think even once out the window. “Earl, where are the gift bags?”

“Kitty, the country club’s on the phone. Did you order shrimp?”

I bury my head under my pillow and will myself to go back to sleep. The launch festivities, which include an all-out barbecue, don’t start until 2:00 p.m. I have time. Plenty of time.

“Earl, where’s my dress?” Mom bellows down the hall, her voice creeping under my closed door.

“I don’t know, Kitty. Did you pick it up from the dry cleaner?”

“Oh, land sakes. The dry cleaner.”

Right then, my door bursts open and I peer out from
under my pillow to see Mom standing there, legs apart, robe askew, head wrapped in a towel turban.

“You’ve got to run to the dry cleaner and get my dress.”

I sit up, shoving my hair from my eyes. “Now?”

She waves her hands frantically. “Yes, now. They close at noon.”

I move slowly out of bed. “There’s plenty of time.”

“It’s almost noon now.”

“Really?” I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed I met with a boardroom full of Myers-Smith executives while wearing a pair of cutoffs. Ooh, shudder.

“Please, Macy, will you go?”

“Yes.” I brush my teeth and put in my contacts wondering what the big deal is. It’s a launch, I know, but at the core, it’s a good ol’ Georgia barbecue.

I ask Dad about it on my way through the kitchen for a slice of coffee cake. “
The Food Connection
is sending a camera crew for a live remote. Wherever Rhine Flagstone goes, so do the cameras.”

A live remote? I brought a nice pair of shorts and flip-flops, but not television nice. More like it’s-okay-if-I-get-barbecue-sauce-on-them nice. Now I’m going to have to run into Wal-Mart to get something to wear.

And all my recent QVC purchases sit at home. Considering my life lately, this does not surprise me.

Before I leave the house I dial the dry cleaner so they know I’m coming.

“Mr. Pong?” I say, starting to feel a little frantic myself. Live remote? Rhine Flagstone? Shopping at Wal-Mart?

“Yes,” he says, clipped.

“It’s Macy Moore. My mom left her dress at your store. She desperately needs it for Dad’s business party. Can I please pick it up?” I hold my breath, scrunch up my eyes and brace for a brisk “No.”

“Be here in five minutes.”

I exhale and smile. “I’m on my way.” I buzz across town on a stunning May day. Golden sun, white, wispy clouds and a breeze scented with freshly cut grass and pine.

Mr. Pong meets me at the front door with the dress in hand, lips pursed, brow creased. “Here are the dresses. Have your father pay me next week.”

“Um, okay.” Why are there two dresses?

“Next week.” He shoves the dresses at me again.

“All right, all right.” I slip my hand under the hangers and examine the dresses through the cellophane wrap. “Mr. Pong, there’s two here.”

He sighs. I know I’m irritating, but I can’t leave with someone else’s dress.

“Two Moore dresses—see the tag.” He raises the tip of the tag with his forefinger. “One for the mother, one for the daughter. See?”

I check the tags. One reads Kitty, the other Macy.

“My wife hemmed the dresses and I pressed them. These are the ones.” He regards me with his hands on his hips. He may be only five foot four, but he’s towering over me right now.

I gawk at him with my mouth dangling. He waits less than a nanosecond, then shoves me out the door. “Have to go home and get ready for the party myself.”

“Well, okay. Thanks for your help. See you there.” I think Dad invited all of Beauty to this barbecue hoedown.

At my car I pop the trunk and lay the dresses flat. They are beautiful midnight-blue poplin summer dresses. I slip behind the wheel, whip out my cell and autodial Mom.

When she answers, I ask, “Why are there two dresses? Exactly alike.”

“Oh, right, yes. Surprise!” Uh-oh. She sounds a little too English.

“Surprise?” Dread washes over me. I have a feeling I won’t be visiting Wal-Mart after all, but wishing I was.

“I wanted us to look smashing,” she says nervously. Occasionally English expressions fire out of her mouth and bewilder us all.

“So we’re going as twins?” Why do I keep having these
Twilight
experiences? I’m working my way through life and next thing I know, I’m on
The Food Connection
dressed as Mini-Me.

“Oh, I thought it would be fun. I found two Marc Jacobs dresses on sale, you see. I had your hem dropped a little, because you’re so tall, you know—” yes, I’m aware “—and mine taken up a smidge.”

Is she serious? Does she really want to show up at a Moore Gourmet Sauces whoop-de-do dressed like Barbie and Skipper? I don’t think she’s thought this through.

“Mom, I appreciate you thinking of me and all, but—”

“You’re welcome. And, oh, I forgot. You have a manicure appointment with Ling at one, so don’t dillydally.”

I glance at my watch. “At one? And the party starts at two?”

“Yes, but bring the dresses home first.”

“Mom, there’s not enough time.”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching and get moving.”
Now
she sounds like a true Georgian.

It’s well after two when I slip through the polished oak doors of Beauty’s country club wearing the blue poplin Mom bought. The dress is actually fabulous, but I’m terrified of being caught standing next to her.

Dad catches my eye and waves me over to where he’s standing with
The Food Connection
crew and Rhine Flagstone.

“Rhine, this is my daughter, Macy.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Rhine says. He’s pleasant enough, with incredible blue eyes and an overly white capped smile, but not as egotistical as I thought.

“She’s the one I was telling you about,” Dad says.

I eye my father. “Telling him what?”

“How charming you are,” Rhine answers, a sneaky twinkle in his eye.

So help me, if Dad is trying to fix me up with Rhine…No, he wouldn’t dare. Rhine’s married. I’ve heard him talk about his wife and kids.

(Mental note 1,123: find out what Dad’s up to.)

“Macy.” My sister-in-law, Suzanne, touches my forearm. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know how busy you are, but no Moore party is the same without you.”

Is she the sweetest thing, or what? “I wouldn’t miss it.” I squeeze her hand. Never mind that my days are freer than a roaring river—it’s good to be here. For Dad. For the family. For the free barbecue.

“You and your mom look adorable dressed alike,” she says just as her husband—and my brother—Cole joins us.

“How’s it going, Skipper?”

I swat his shoulder. “Stop. Go ahead and call Mom Barbie and see what happens to you.”

He laughs. “I can’t believe she got you to wear the same dress she’s wearing.”

“Quit it, Cole,” Suzanne nudges him. “I think it’s sweet. Not many women have the ability to wear the same dress yet seem so completely unique.”

“Forget him, Suz—he’s just jealous.”

Cole scoffs. “Yeah, that’s it, Macy. I’m jealous.”

By now Rhine has moved into position, the camera and crew rolling around him, Dad smiling augustly at his side.

“Welcome everyone,” Rhine begins, a swashbuckling air about him that draws people in. Digital camera flashes snap and buzz.

“We’re here in Beauty, Georgia, with
The Food Connection’s
latest partner, Moore Gourmet Sauces.”

I fade out and watch Dad, whose grin is so wide I think his face might get stuck. He’s worked hard for this. I know there were dark days when he wanted to quit and work a nine-to-fiver like everyone else.

I like the fact that Rhine is treating him with respect. He’s putting his arm around Daddy now.

Very cool. You go, Rhine. Mom strolls over to me with two glasses of punch.

“Look at your Dad. He’s beaming.”

I take a step away. “So are you.” I sip some very spunky sherry.

“He’s achieved his goal with this business. It’s a sound, solid company.”

“You guys make a great team, Mom. Dad’s ingenuity. Your recipes.”

She turns to me with misty eyes. “Two silly kids meeting at Woodstock, of all places, led to this. The blessing of God overwhelms me.”

Caught up in the sentiment of the moment, I hug Mom. She’s worked as hard as Dad.

“Here’s Earl’s wife, Kitty, with their daughter, Macy.”

Mom and I jerk away from each other. Rhine and the entire
Food Connection
camera crew are coming right for us.

I smile and half wave, and giggle, I think. I hope not. Mom stands there with a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Relax,” I whisper out the corner of my mouth.

“I didn’t know I was going to be on national TV dressed like you.”

I knew she didn’t think this thing through.

“Kitty Moore,” Rhine says in his TV-man voice, slipping his arm around Mom’s shoulder.

“Good afternoon, Rhine.” Mom tilts her head and smiles at the camera, then politely, forcibly, shoves me out of the shot.