Georgia on Her Mind (15 page)

“It’s a good business, Macy. A good life. I’d like to see the tradition continue.”

“What about Cole?”

Dad shakes his head and pooches his lips. “He’s working with Regis Gellar in the surveying business. He’ll inherit that someday.”

There is a sad echo in his words. I’m his only hope for keeping Moore Gourmet Sauces in the family. His only hope for maintaining the stellar reputation he’s built with the business.

I ponder his recent deal with
The Food Connection
and feel queasy.

“This is really out of the blue, Dad.” I fiddle with the lid on my cup before deciding to take a sip. Blech. It’s black. No sugar, no cream. Doesn’t Dad know I like my life with, er, my coffee flavored with sugars and creams? “Why now, Dad? Do you want to retire?”

“Mom and I have been praying about some things we want to do. I’ve always wanted you to have the business.”
Whoa! News to me.
“With you between jobs and, well, not committed to your own family, it seemed like a good time to bring it up.”

“I see.” My own father, capitalizing on my failure. Pfft and huff. I stare out over the water and squeeze my coffee cup until I feel hot liquid on my thumb.

“And to make it a legit offer…” Dad pulls out his pen and little spiral notepad, and jots down a number. “This would be your annual salary.”

Sly fox, my father. I peer at the paper he holds under my nose. I laugh. “That’s more than I made at Casper.”

Regarding me, he says, “Well, that does include your bonus, but it’s a nice living. Of course, as
The Food Connection
sales kick in, the bonuses go up. A lot.”

My heart thumps. “Right, of course.”

“Do me a favor.” He rips the paper from the little pad and stuffs it into my purse. “Please pray about it.”

Oh. My. Word. I never, ever suspected Dad and Mom had built that little business into a cash cow.

And Dad wants to give it to me.

T
he drive home to Melbourne takes forever. I stop every two hours for a rest stop or to buy a Diet Coke. I’m tired and frustrated.

What is it about this time in my life that keeps giving rise to transition? Dad’s little job offer looms like a giant California redwood over my thoughts and emotions. And is it the wind or do I keep feeling Dylan’s kiss on my lips?

Focus, Macy, focus. You’re a big girl. Not a giggly teen. Is Beauty, Georgia, part of God’s plan to give me beauty for ashes? Does he actually mean Beauty—literally? In the back of my mind is there some dormant idea about Dylan? I hope not, because each encounter with him contained no promises, held no strings.

I pound the steering wheel. “God, I can’t make this decision. I can’t. You make it for me.”

Cruising down I-95, the wind in my face, the sun behind me, I make a mental list of the pros and cons of moving back to Georgia.

It’s my worst nightmare realized. Maybe it’s my pride, but I can’t do it. I picture myself telling Dad, “No, I choose Chicago,” and it hurts my heart.

Why did he do this to me? I bop the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

I squirm and grip the wheel a little harder. A peek at the speedometer tells me I’m topping ninety, so I back off the pedal.

Okay, here’s the deal. Decide after Chicago. Once I give Dad a glowing report on the Myers-Smith job, he’ll pop his Proud Papa buttons and say, “That’s fantastic, Macy. You must go to Chicago.”

By seven-thirty I’m home, unpacked, showered and waiting for a pizza. A light knock sounds on my door and when I answer, Drag stands there.

“Hi.” His hands are buried in his jeans pockets and his typically wild hair is combed and contained in a ponytail.

“Come in.” I step aside.

“How was your weekend?” He pulls up a chair at the kitchen table.

“Quiet, relaxing. I drove up to see my parents in Georgia.” I lean against the counter, unable to take my eyes off his face. He’s practically radiant.

“That’s nice,” he says.

“How are you?” I half expect to hear he’s been caught up and taken to heaven for a visit. He’s provoking me and he hasn’t said ten words.

“I called my dad this week.” He fiddles with the napkin holder absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the kitchen wall.

“Is that good?”

“It’s the first time we’ve talked in almost two years.”

“Really?”

“I’m moving back to New York to join him in the family business. He’s always wanted me to.”

His confession pierces my heart with the force of a thousand arrows. This cannot be mere coincidence. Not today.

As I listen to his story, I fuss in the kitchen, retrieving the cleaner from my cleaning bucket, powdering the already spotless sink and scrubbing with vigor. I ask, “How did you decide?”

He shrugs. “It’s time to go home. After meeting my heavenly Father, my earthly dad didn’t seem so intimidating.”

I marvel at his insight. With a damp sponge in my hand dripping dirty green water, I join him at the kitchen table. “Is moving to New York what you want, though?”

“I haven’t wanted much of anything, especially New York. But now I have this desire to make a difference in people’s lives.” He sticks his finger into a drop of greenish water. “But now that I have eternity in the bag, I figure I can venture out, take a chance.”

“I’m proud of you, Drag,” I say, returning to the sink to rinse away the green grit. I toss the sponge back under the sink considering the parallels of our lives. Me and Drag. I would never have imagined.

“My name’s Pete Tidwell.”

I smile. “Tidwell? Any relationship to Tidwell Communications?” What are the odds?

He grins. “That’d be my father.”

“You’re kidding.” I dry my hands on a paper towel, my mouth open.

“Not kidding.” Drag reclines with his arms over the back of the kitchen chair.

“You’re a millionaire?”

“Well, my dad is.”

For a split second I have this sense of destiny. My life intersecting with Drag’s long enough for me to introduce him to Jesus. Wow.

Drag stands to leave. “I was wondering…”

“Yes.” My eyes are wide. Is he going to ask me out? Doesn’t every date invitation start with “I was wondering…?” I like Drag, maybe even love him in a sisterly way, but nothing more.

“Can I take your résumé to Dad? I can’t promise anything, but…”

“Absolutely!” I throw my arms around him, smack his cheek with a kiss and run upstairs for one of my résumés.

I wake up the morning of my Chicago interview with a gargantuan zit on my right cheek.

I stumble into the bathroom, not quite awake, flip on the light and moan. “Ah, come on.” This is not fair.

A stress blemish, I’m sure, though I can’t discount the excessive junk food I’ve been consuming.

I sit on the toilet lid and slouch against the tank. Who stole my perfect life? I want it back. “Lord, I want my blemish-free, moneymaking, upwardly mobile, independent life back, please.”

I figure if He returns it now, there will be no questions asked. We’ll just shake hands, act as if nothing happened and move on.

I wait a few minutes. When the earth doesn’t quake, I conclude I’m in the exact life God intended for me whether I like it or not. Who am I to argue with the Almighty Who loves me?

Think, Macy, think. My flight isn’t until noon. It’s a little after seven now. I have a few hours to combat the blemish before I have to be at the airport.

First I hop into the shower and steam my right cheek until it’s sunburn-red. Next I zap the area with half a bottle of acne cream and pray for healing by the laying on of my hand. “Lord, make it go away. Please.”

While the cream does its work, I dry my hair and slip into my flying clothes—a pair of jeans and a bell-sleeved top with a scoop neck.

I pack my wad-’n-wear Chico’s suit for the interview and scoop the contents of my dressing counter into my toiletries bag. Keeping focused, I haul them down to the garage and toss them into the passenger seat of the car. I will not interview in my street clothes this time.

I flip through the morning talk shows and check e-mail while eating my breakfast of toast and Diet Coke. I have another message from Kathy. Shannon Parks is coming to the reunion, too.

Do you think we could have a debate-team minireunion? Maybe pick a topic to debate?

Yeah, sure. Let’s debate my life. Resolved: Macy Moore is not a failure. Kathy can take the affirmative—she’s good with the positive side. I’ll take the negative.

Back upstairs, the only thing left to do is put on my makeup and go about my day as if this enormous imperfection did not light up the whole right side of my face.

At nine-thirty I run a mental checklist.

Interview clothes. Check.

Nightshirt. Check. Don’t want to be sleeping naked in a downtown Chicago hotel.

Makeup and hair spray. Check.

Toothbrush, paste, perfume and deodorant. Check.

Clean socks and clothes to wear home. Check.

That about covers it. I settle at the kitchen table for a few minutes of prayer, though I’m too antsy to concentrate. At nine forty-five I grab my Birkin.

The phone rings as I open the garage door. “Hello.” Please, don’t be Mrs. Woodward. Not today.

“Macy, it’s Adriane.”

“What’s up?” The SSS didn’t meet on Tuesday because Adriane had some book business, Lucy was designing a special summer edition of the paper and Tamara got volunteered for a special work project.

They have yet to hear about Dad’s job offer, Drag’s true identity and the kiss.
The
Dylan kiss.

“I just called to say I hope you don’t get the job.” Ah, the real Adriane Fox stands up.

“Funny.”

“I’m serious. What will we do without you?”

“You’ll fly to Chicago and we’ll have SSS reunions in a wonderful little bistro.”

“Not the same,” Adriane laments.

“I know. But this might just be impossible to turn down.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

My eyes water. “Me, too.”

The flight to Chicago is uneventful. I pay special attention to the leg from Atlanta, since I might be flying this route
often in the days to come. It’s a short flight, as flights go, and on a bad day I could be in Beauty in less than five hours.

The moment I see Chicago from the air, I get that airy feeling of excitement in my middle and wonder if there is anything about this city I won’t love.

It offers hundreds of amenities that Beauty or Melbourne could never, ever offer: theater, fine dining, art, the Cubs, museums, Oprah.

From the airport, I catch a cab to the Sheraton downtown. As the driver weaves through city traffic, I autodial Lucy from my cell.

“I’m in Chicago.”

“How is it?” Genuine excitement reverberates in her words.

“Amazing. I’ve been here fifteen minutes and I love it already.”

“Did you remember your clothes this time?”

“Yes. I didn’t even check my bag. All carry-ons.”

She laughs. “Good thinking.”

I hear clicking in the background and know she’s typing a story while talking to me. The cab pulls up to the hotel, so I bid Lucy goodbye and give Tamara a super-quick call.

“Can’t talk. I’m here.”

“Go get ’em.”

The cabbie pulls up to the hotel and holds my bags while I find my cash stash. “Enjoy your stay,” he says when I pay him for the ride, including tip.

“Oh, I will.” But when he drives off, an odd alone-in-a-crowd sensation creeps over me.

Hello, cabbie, come back! You drove off with all my aplomb.
I only brought one with me, and for some strange reason it’s in your cab.

Suddenly a gigantic, Lurch-like uniformed bellman is next to me. “Make I take your luggage, ma’am?”

I jump aside. “You scared me.”

Emotionless, he says, “Step this way.”

Well, then. He takes my luggage inside and waits while I check in. I glance over my shoulder. He watches me. I snap around to face the desk clerk.

“All right, Miss Moore. You’re in room 222. If you need anything, please let us know.” She smiles and slides the room key across the counter.

“Thank you.” I move for the elevators, and Lurch follows with my two little bags. He gets into the elevator car with me.

“Two,” I say.

He pushes the button for the second floor and the doors close. “Did you have a nice flight?”

I inhale and clear my throat. “Yes, thank you.” I look up at him. He must be seven feet tall.

Ding.
The second floor.

Lurch leads the way to my room. When we arrive, I slip my key into the slot and push the door open.

“All set.” He backs away with a slight salute.

“Wait.” I reach into my purse and pull out a few singles.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He takes the folded bills.

“Thank you.” I notice his dark blue eyes are framed with thick lashes and topped with fuzzy gray brows. His name tag reads Gabriel.

“Don’t worry,” he says as he tucks away his tip.

I view him from the middle of the hallway. “W-wh-what
did you say?” The door to my room closes, but I clutch the room key in my hand.

“God is with you.” Gabriel tips his hat.

Tears puddle in my eyes and blur the straight angles of the hallway. Gabriel waves and disappears around the corner.

The Lord is with me. Take that, you zit of discouragement. He sent that tall, pale, gray-haired, albeit kinda scary, bellman to remind me He’s watching out for me.