Georgia on Her Mind (16 page)

A
t eight-thirty the next morning I meet Steve Albright in the hotel lobby. I’m dressed up, hair properly coiffed and makeup applied with professional standards and taste.

I look for Gabriel, to tell him how much his words encouraged me, but two other bellmen work the lobby this morning.

“Macy Moore?” A sleek, tailored man with dark hair and narrow eyes approaches me with his hand extended.

“Steve?” I shake his hand. He’s pleasant looking, but a cliché “suit.” Right down to his manicured nails and Italian leather shoes.

“I have a car outside.”

By car, he means limo. I climb into the backseat and sink into the very luxurious leather.

“Do you mind if we stop for a cup of coffee?” Steve asks,
reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out a little packet of Tums.

“No, not at all.” But I’m not drinking any. Coffee breath combined with the look-at-me zit would be my undoing.

Steve pops a couple of chalky tablets and conducts a cursory interview on our way to the Myers-Smith Webware office on Michigan Avenue, detailing the fabulous career I would have with Myers-Smith Webware.

“We’re the industry leader,” he says proudly. I know better, but I respect his loyalty. “It would be the perfect move for someone like you. Experienced and ready to blaze her own trail. The New York office will let the Chicago customer service director run things the way she sees fit.”

“She?” Did I impress him with my attention to detail?

“I’ll be honest. I set up this interview for my benefit.” He keeps his eyes on me as he sips his coffee.

“Oh?”

“I wanted to meet the gutsy woman in jeans who bowled over the New York team. Plus, you need to see Chicago, meet the staff, understand what a great opportunity we’re offering.”

Hmm, smoothing it on a little thick, Steve. “Always good to meet the staff,” I say.

From what I can tell, this job is mine to lose. All I have to do is be cool. I’ve heard of these things happening to other people, the ones with gold dust in their hair and golden starlight in their eyes of blue, but not me.

Steve continues, “Now that I’ve met you, I can see why they were so charmed.”

I almost glance over my shoulder to see if he’s talking to
someone else. I flash an awkward grin and focus on the Chicago landscape passing by the limo window.

In a few minutes the limo driver eases to a stop in front of a glassy high-rise. He opens our door and Steve leads me inside.

The office suites are amazing, overlooking the lake on one side and the city on the other. All the offices are modern and bright with lots of windows.

I try not to twitch like a kid at Christmas, but a small “wow” escapes my lips.

Steve grins, hands on his Italian-belted waist. “It’s a nice setup.”

“Very.” I walk beside him, careful to keep that embarrassing blemish away from the unforgiving light of day.

“This would be your office.” Steve walks me into a large corner office with a polished boardroom table at one end and a matching desk and credenza at the other.

One wall is windows, and another contains floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It’s decked out with all the amenities a director would need, including a flat screen computer monitor, leather chairs and a minifridge.

“You have your own private bath, too.” Steve motions to a room behind the desk and credenza.

I look him square in the eye and stick out my hand. “Hello, I’m Macy Moore, formerly of Casper & Company. Are you sure Myers-Smith wants me for their director?”

“I’m sure.” He smiles, shaking my hand. His hand is smooth and soft, but his grip is firm and sure. “We want a customer service director who can lead, who has experience
and ideas. My guess is you’ll be running the whole customer service show from New York in a few years.”

“That would be my guess, too,” I say like a true braggadocio.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” His eyes smile.

Why not run the whole show from New York? My biggest frustration with Veronica Karpinski demoting me was not being able to lead anymore. Being in the field is honorable work, but I want to lead, be in charge and empower others. I’m born to run the show.

Steve ushers me into the office of the Chicago vice president, whom I met and interviewed with in New York.

“Nice to see you again.” I shake Paul Winter’s hand.

“We’d love to have you join us here in Chicago.” He’s all smiles.

“Me, too,” I blurt out, catching Paul cut a quick glance to Steve. Hmm, what’s that about?

Next Steve directs me through a maze of cubicles and introduces me to various people. At a corner office he leaves me alone with the lead Web developer, Sonia Larkin.

“Sit,” she says to me as if I’m a puppy.

I can’t take my eyes off her. Around my age, she’s locked in her teen Goth years. Her hair is dyed a flat black and her eyes are heavy with black eyeliner and mascara. Her lips are black, as well as her fingernails. To complete the death-warmed-over ensemble, she wears a black tank and black jeans.

I drop my pen to the floor so I can peek under her desk. As I suspected, she’s wearing black army boots.

“So, what are your responsibilities?” I hold a serious expression, but fear I sound as if I’m trying out for the pep
club. All I need is pigtails and a lollipop to ensure her complete and utter disdain.

“I’m in charge of all engineering projects. I’m head of development and product design for E-Z-Web.” She resents telling me this, I can tell.

“E-Z-Web?” I jot it on a piece of paper Steve gave me earlier. Need to look knowledgeable. “What development tools do you use?”

She flops against the back of her chair, her expression asking
Are you kidding me?
Out loud she says, “Whatever’s best for the product—Java, C Sharp or .NET.”

“I see.” Jot some more. “What tools are provided to the service techs to help in product support?”

She hooks her upper lip. “Whatever they need.”

So goes our interview. I ask questions. She gives me stoic answers. I’m not an imbecile, but I’ll never convince Sonia.

Steve bounces into Sonia’s office twenty minutes later as if he didn’t mean to leave me with her so long.

“She’s lovely,” I say to him as he steers me to the next cubie.

“You can handle her.” He seems assured, but how does he know? I don’t know if I want to handle her. Life is just too short for dealing with the Sonia Larkins of the world.

The rest of my meetings go well. I talk with a guy in marketing, a woman in sales and two people from the customer support team. They are a young, eager group.

“What are the goals for the Midwest office?” I ask Steve as we wind our way through the halls back to reception.

“Get our Web products in the hands of every person who uses the Internet. We want to take the fear out of using the Web and creating Web sites. We want our prod
uct in every small business in America. In the hands of the housewife who keeps the family newsletter, or the grandma who wants to put her grandbabies’ pictures on the Web for her friends. If you can type, you can use E-Z-Web. No XML, no HTML, just our fine Web processing software.”

Cold chills prickle over my scalp. Those words are replicas of Casper’s W-Book marketing pamphlet. Almost exactly. Now I know why a jeans-clad girl gets a nod for a Myers-Smith director position.

They don’t want me. They want Casper. Not my abilities, leadership or experience. Run the show? Ha! They want someone intimately acquainted with the competition.

Steve stops in front of the elevator. “Ready for lunch?”

“Sure.” I force a smile. This is unbelievable. What do I do? I would love to stick it to Attila the Hun and Casper for treating me so callously, but deep down I don’t want vendettas to govern my life.

But this is a career move, right? Myers-Smith knocked on my door first.

Steve tells me a little about Chicago on the ride down to the first floor, where the limo waits for us. Steve directs the driver to take us to a swank restaurant on La Salle Street as he retrieves the Tums tube from his vest pocket again.

A little heartburn, Steve?
I ask a few questions about the Chicago office, hoping I don’t sound as befuddled as I feel, wondering about their motive for hiring me. That glance between Paul and Steve was more than
Is she having a nice day?

At the restaurant I excuse myself for the ladies’ room and talk to God while freshening up.

“What do I do?” I powder my face and reapply my lipstick. “Do I join Casper’s competition?”

My reflection in the mirror tells me I’ve returned to my savvy businesswoman appearance. The Chico’s tunic and slacks are slimming and sleek. Even the right-cheek blemish has dissipated.

This is the Macy Moore I know and love. But I’m so conflicted. My thoughts are in disarray. Myers-Smith is offering me the job of a lifetime. They are picking up where Casper left off. I think I can do the job without disclosing Casper secrets, but you just know that’s exactly what they want from me. I lean toward the mirror and shake my head. “They want you for all the wrong reasons.”

I hurry back to the table where Steve waits. “I ordered you a glass of wine. Thought we could celebrate.” A tall glass of milk sits in front of him, next to the wine.

“None for me, thanks.” I spread my napkin across my lap. “I’m strictly a Diet Coke girl.”

“My apologies.” He motions for the waiter. “Cancel the lady’s wine and bring her a Diet Coke.” He glances at me. “Twist of lime?”

“Sure, why not?” I smile, but my insides tremble.

The waiter trots off and Steve zeros his energies in on me. “What do you think?” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a packet of Tums.

I lift my hands, searching for words. “It’s a fantastic job.” I mean, right or wrong, they are offering the position to me.

He pops two tablets into his mouth and washes them down with a sip of his wine. “I’d love to phone New York with your acceptance.”

Such a simple statement packs so much pressure. I stall. “Steve, what
is
the final offer?” He’s painted a picture for me with broad strokes, mentioned a potential salary when we talked on the phone and baited me with a fabulous office, but…

He pulls a proposal package from his attaché case. “Here’s the complete package. Salary, bonus, benefits, vacation and terms of employment.”

My eyes stumble over the numbers and words on the page. My head spins. Almost double my Casper salary with a signing bonus. Add to that a 401K plan with 5 percent matching, stock options and a gracious three weeks of vacation for the first three years, then it bumps up to four weeks.

Unbelievable. I regard Steve, searching his face for the layer beneath. What’s the true offer, the true catch?

“We feel we get what we pay for,” he says as if reading my expression.

Ah, there’s the catch.

Woo the client knocking their socks off, then work them to death.

Lunch is ordered and I review the package one more time and pretend I could actually move in next to Oprah.

“Do you have any questions?” Steve asks over our salads.

I shake my head. “I’d like some time to think about the offer.” I sip my soda.

Steve holds out his hands and shrugs as if I’m an idiot. “You shouldn’t pass on this opportunity. Casper would never give you the chance we are, Macy. Join us. Show them what they let go.”

Okay, there it is, just as I suspected. Myers-Smith wants
Casper and I’m just the pawn they need. Yet, isn’t this business? Isn’t that how empires are made? How empires are crumbled?

Right in the middle of our main course and discussion of Myers-Smith, the maître d’ approaches.

He stoops over and says my name with a French accent. “Miss Moore?”

“Yes?”

“You have a telephone call.”

“I what?” He must have the wrong Macy Moore.

“You have a telephone call.” He gestures with a white-gloved hand for me to follow.

“Excuse me,” I say to Steve.

“Certainly.” He rises from his seat.

Weirded out, head still spinning from the morning’s revelations, I follow the maître d’ to a plush parlor where I’m sure they serve cocktails to their more prestigious guests. The Frenchman motions to the only phone.

“Hello?”

“Macy, dude! It’s Drag.”

I smile and drop to the velvet seat next to the antique phone stand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m in New York, thought I’d give you a call.”

“How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” he says with a solid, mature laugh.

“I see. The power of Tidwell is at your fingertips.” His call comforts me like a home-cooked meal.

“It’s both scary and amazing.”

“How’s New York, your dad?” I glance at my watch. I don’t want to keep Steve waiting.

“Hard, but good. I pray a lot.”

“Too bad you’re moving to New York and me to Chicago.”

“Just a flight away, Macy.”

“Right, of course.” I’m encouraged by Drag’s confidence.

“Listen, I did have a reason to hunt you down. Your résumé impressed my father, which, believe me, is no small feat.”

“Are you serious?” I’m on my feet.

“Would I hunt you down in Chicago if I wasn’t?” Drag’s surfer-dude accent has dissipated and he speaks like a seasoned tycoon.

“I have a great offer here. What would I do at Tidwell Communications?”

“Well, we’d have to discuss that, but Dad liked what he read. And that you are partly responsible for bringing his son back into his life.”

“The Lord did that, Drag. I can’t take any credit. Look at my life—part disaster, part ash heap.” I fidget with the hem of my blouse.

He laughs. “Whatever. Anyway, I just wanted you to know Dad is interested just in case Myers-Smith tanked on you.”

“Thanks, Drag. I appreciate it.”

“See you at home in a few days.”

“Yeah, see you at home.” I drop the receiver on the hook, take a second to gather my thoughts, then make my way back to the table, Steve Albright and the offer at hand.

A
s my plane taxis to the gate at the Melbourne airport and the captain gives the okay to turn on our electronic devices, my cell phone rings.

“Macy, you home yet?” Lucy is on the other end, animated and vibrant.

“Just landed.” I’ve been gone two days, but it feels like forever.

“I can’t wait to hear about Chicago.”

“You won’t believe their offer.” I unclick my seat belt, stand and reach for my bag in the overhead bin. I pull it down and knock the guy behind me on the head. I wince and mouth,
Sorry.

“Extra SSS meeting tonight at House of Joe’s,” Lucy informs me. “Can you be there?”

I fumble to look at my watch. Six-thirty. “Sure, but I’ve been there the last two times
alone.
” I step onto the passenger ramp and head for the terminal. “And last week we didn’t even meet.”

“Adriane is engaged,” Lucy blurts out. Bombs away without even opening the bomb-bay doors.

“What!”

The guy behind me, whom I accidentally knocked on the head with my bag, bumps into me—on purpose, I’m sure. My phone flies out of my hand and he
accidentally
kicks it across the aisle.

“Have a pleasant evening.” He looks back at me with a snarky face.

Jerk.

“Macy, are you there?” Lucy’s voice, small and far away, beckons me.

My cell is under a row of chairs. I scurry over to retrieve it. “I’m here.”

“What happened?” She sounds concerned, which I appreciate.

“Never mind. What’s this about an engagement?”

“House of Joe’s. You can hear the details tonight at seven.”

“Wild horses won’t keep me away.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says.

I hitch my bag onto my shoulder. “Me, too.”

“Are you moving to Chicago?” She sounds sad.

“Details at seven.”

“Hear ye, hear ye, I call this meeting of the Single Saved Sisters to order.” Adriane raps her knuckles on the table as we gather around.

“Girl, get out.” Tamara laughs and knocks Adriane with her shoulder. “Hear ye, hear ye…”

“Are you writing a book set in the eighteenth century?” I ask, settling down with my latte.

“No, just trying to be funny.” Funny doesn’t work with Adriane. Sarcasm and pessimism? Yes.

I look around the table with a feeling of melancholy. With Lucy and Tamara in serious relationships, Adriane engaged and me about to move to Chicago, it doesn’t take a NASA scientist to figure out the era of the Single Saved Sisters is coming to a close.

“I’m sad,” I say.

“Darling, don’t fret.” Adriane grabs my hand and gives it a concerned squeeze. “Your man will come.”

“Not about that, Adriane. About the end of the SSS.” I look at each of them. “The end of a great era.”

“But a better era is before us,” Lucy says. But by the look in her eye, I know she feels what I’m feeling.

We’re quiet for a few minutes, then Tamara pierces our gloom with a vivacious “Let’s see that ring of yours.”

Adriane lifts her left hand, where an enormous diamond sparkles on her ring finger.

“You’re joining the HEA club,” I say, gripping her fingers for a better look.

“It’s over a carat.”

I gaze at her pretty, radiant face. “It’s beautiful.”

The conversation around the table is about diamond rings. Adriane promises up and down that she didn’t want one, but how could she turn Eric down when he proposed with such a gorgeous princess-cut diamond set in platinum?

I’m jubilant and cheery at first, but when Lucy and Tamara gush about Jack’s and Sam’s latest romantic moves, I sulk in my chair.

A few short months ago Adriane practically despised all men. Now she’s going to share a bed with one.

“Adriane, how’d Eric win you over?” I ask my dark-headed friend with the bright eyes.

“He just did.” She sounds matter-of-fact, hand cupped around her coffee mug instead of propped for an imaginary cigarette. Her expression is dreamy.

“Did he do or say something?” I can’t believe love happens in a vacuum.

“Yes, I suppose he did.” Adriane sips her coffee. “He loves me. No matter how rude or trite I am, he loves me.”

“Sam makes me feel so at ease, like my worst day is nothing to him,” Tamara says, all smiles. “God knows what we need.”

“He does,” Lucy agrees. “Jack is my quiet strength. When he’s around, I feel safe.”

“That’s how my dad is,” I interject, not zeroing in on the fact they are talking about their future husbands and I’m talking about my dad.

But Tamara’s comment gets me thinking. What do I need? Not what do I want, but what do I need? I don’t think I’ve ever asked that before.

Now the couples chatter starts. How often can they get together? Jack is this, Sam is that. Eric just did such and such. Blah, blah, blah.

What I need is a double mocha with whipped cream. I leave the table to order. I’m the last-standing single of the
Single Saved Sisters, and I’m standing in the valley of decision.

Everything is changing. The Sisters are moving on with life while I run around in the backfield trying to recover a fumble. I have the Chicago offer, and Dad’s. But is moving to Beauty and taking over Moore Gourmet Sauces the same as settling for a field goal when I could punch in for a touch-down on fourth and goal?

I drop my head to the café counter. “Macy, your double mocha.” Zach nudges me.

“Thanks.” I rejoin the ladies.

Lucy tosses me a bone and asks for a Macy Moore update. “What’s the skinny on Chicago?”

I can’t help but smile. “Well, the offer is amazing.” I give them the high-level details, to which they ooh and aah.

After they settle down, I tell them about Dad’s Moore Gourmet Sauces offer, to which they umm and ohh. Finally I tack on the news of Drag’s identity, at which they utter nothing. Just stare.

“Unbelievable. What are you going to do?” Tamara asks.

“Beg God for wisdom,” I say with a pound of conviction. “But there’s more.”

“Do tell.” Lucy prods me under the table with her pointy shoe.

“When you all were gone that first weekend in June, I drove up to Georgia. It’s Saturday In The Park month…” I pause while Lucy explains the Beauty Days tradition.

“I ran into Dylan after he won the pie-eating contest.”

“And?” they chorus.

“His face was covered with whipped cream.” I look
around the table. “He walked right over to me and kissed me. Cream and all.”

Lucy slaps my arm. “You waited this long to tell?”

“What did you do?” Adriane gushes, leaning my way. Now that she has this romance thing bagged, she’s into everyone else’s stories.

“I said I’m moving to Chicago.”

“Oh, now wait a minute.” A debate over my life starts, which gives me a rip-roaring headache.

“You can’t give up on Dylan. Not after all these years,” Lucy says.

“I can’t give up on Chicago. Not after all these years.”

Then Tamara turns to me. “Tell me, was it a good kiss?” she asks, as if the question might help me determine an answer.

“The best.”

“This is unbelievable,” Adriane says. “I have to turn this into a book. But Macy, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, even if they were thousand-dollar Pradas.”

“It’s not that bad,” I protest. “Look, really all I have is two solid offers. Moore Gourmet Sauces and Myers-Smith.”

“And Dylan?” Lucy kicks me under the table again.

I glare at her. “No, not Dylan.” I kick her back. “I can’t make my decision based on a simple kiss. He’s, well, fabulous. But he’s the past, not the future.”

“Only God knows, Macy,” Tamara says with authority.

I give them all pleading glances. “I could really use your prayers right now.”

Adriane touches my arm. “We’ll pray. Promise.”

When the clock strikes ten, Lucy gathers her purse. “I hate to do it, but I’ve got to get going.”

“Me, too.” Tamara scoots her seat back.

“Shall we meet again?” Adriane grabs my hand and Tamara’s. “Before Macy moves away?”

“Before you all walk the aisle?” I add.

We agree. “Yes.”

Three years of great conversation and genuine laughter. My heart is sick. Tears burn in my eyes.

“To our time. Who we were, who we are and who we will become.” Adriane raises her cup.

“To the Single Saved Sisters who follow after us,” Tamara toasts.

“Hear, hear,” we say in chorus and down the last of our coffees.

Feeling sentimental and weepy, I can’t resist. “God bless us, every one.”

It’s June in Melbourne, Florida, and it’s hot. But my condo is quiet and cool. I flip on a lamp and collapse onto the couch. I let my flip-flops drop to the floor and wriggle my toes in the fringe of the throw pillows.

In the silence, without the distraction of my friends, the dilemma of my life comes screaming into view.

Do I move to Chicago? Do I compete against Casper? Do I move to Beauty? Do I stay here in Melbourne and keep looking? Is Tidwell Communications a viable possibility?

Will I ever get married? Is there a man out there to love me? The memory of Dylan’s kiss sends a shiver down to my toes. His kisses just might be worth the price of a Chicago job.

I bury my face in one of the throws and pummel the sofa cushion with my fist. Dylan cannot be a factor in my career decision, to which playground I take my marbles. I can’t think of his lips on mine, that he said I’m beautiful or that he’s 100 percent yummy and available.

“Lord,” I say softly, “what do I do? What do I need?”

I think of Drag and his confidence. I get up and pace the length of my living room, praying, mulling it all over until the sun is tucked away beyond the western horizon.

Around eight, Lucy calls. “We’re going to the movies with Tamara and Sam. Wanna go?”

“No, thanks. I’m praying over some stuff.”

“Big decisions ahead, I know.” Her voice is rich with sisterly concern. “Jack and I prayed for you today.”

I tear up. “That means a lot to me.” I can’t imagine moving away from her. She’s been my friend, my family and my confidante the past ten years. I wouldn’t even be in Melbourne with a chance at a major corporate director job if it weren’t for Lucy.

“Can we stop by later with a midnight pizza?”

“Thanks again, but no. I think I’ll skip eating for a few days.” I notice her fast-food ban has lifted since Jack entered her structured, sanitized world.

Lucy gasps. “What?”

“I need to hear from God, Lucy. My soul is making too much noise. I think I’ll starve it into silence.” I sink onto the bottom step of my oak staircase.

She muffles the receiver and says to Jack, “She’s fasting.”

“Lucy.”

“Sorry,” she says. “Call me tomorrow.”

“Have fun. Hi to Jack and Sam. Kiss Tamara for me.” I drop the phone to the floor. Chin in hand, I sit on the steps, pondering. I’ve had a good life in Melbourne, Florida. A great life. While I don’t know if it’s Chicago, Beauty or perhaps a chance at Tidwell’s in New York, the Melbourne chapter of my life is coming to a close.

Tears slip down my cheeks and splatter onto my hand. They are tears of sadness, tears of goodbye, tears of hope.

“Okay, Macy, enough.” I duck into the guest bathroom for a tissue. I blow my nose and wipe the mascara from under my eyes.

I’m relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Good, a distraction.

“Who is it?” I holler, tossing my tissue into the trash and padding across the living room to the front door.

“Adriane.”

I check my appearance one last time in the mirror over the couch. No mascara remains under my bloodshot eyes.

I swing the front door wide and sing in my best opera voice, “What’s up?”

“Oh, Macy, what have I done?” Adriane barges in, wringing her hands.