Georgia on Her Mind (17 page)

A
driane paces around the coffee table, then stops with hands on her hips. “Got anything to eat?”

“What’s gotten into you?” I want to laugh, but I can tell she’s really bugged about something.

“Let’s go out. My treat. Wendy’s is around the corner.”

She starts for the door, but I grab her arm and pull her back. “Sit down.”

She plops onto the ottoman. I sit across from her on the edge of the coffee table. “What is going on?”

“This.” Adrian sticks her hand in my face. I’m practically blinded by her herculean diamond.

I examine the ring. “Did you do something to it?”

“I accepted it. I can’t get married, Macy. What was I thinking? I’ve known him for five months. Five months. I dated Travis for three years before I found out about him.”

“Eric is not Travis.”

“I know that.” Adriane drops her head against the back of the couch. “But what secrets does he have?”

“You want a perfect man? One with no secrets? Please, Addy. You know Eric is not going to be perfect, but at least you two are starting out on the common ground of your faith in Jesus.”

“Okay, that’s a good point.” She lifts her head and narrows her eyes at me. “What about Wendy’s? You up for that?”

Normally this kind of offer would be too much for my weak, I-love-food flesh. I can’t count the number of fasts I’ve started, resolved and resolute at 8:00 a.m., only to weaken and plan my lunch by ten.

But tonight feels different. I squelch the rebellious rumble from my middle with pressure from my hand. “I’m not eating. But I’ll ride along with you if you want.”

“Not eating?” Adriane furrows her brow.

“Not tonight.” I go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Oh, I see, fasting,” she says. “And listen to me, complaining to you when you have life-changing decisions to make, too.”

“Thus the no-eating thing.” I take a glass from the cupboard. “You want some Diet Coke, or water, or tea?”

“Diet Coke sounds good.”

I pour her a glass of soda and fill mine with water. “What do you love about him most, Adriane?” I set her glass on an end table coaster.

A warm smile touches her lips. “It sounds silly, really.”

“Tell me.” I curl up on the couch next to her.

“He’s kind, sincere, with the most soulful brown eyes
and the sweetest smile. And he loves me. I know he does. He loves me.”

I nod with understanding. “Those are great reasons to get married.”

Adriane sips her drink, still smiling. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Honest?”

She’s usually so confident. It’s odd to see her behave like a scared little girl. I slip my arm around her. “Honest.”

Adriane takes a deep breath. “I feel better. I guess I panicked.”

I rest my head on the back of the couch. “I understand.”

She turns to me. “So what’s going on with you?”

“Myers-Smith called me again.” My words are slightly slurred. Nine hours of fasting and I’m a little light-headed already.

Adriane makes a frowny face. “What do they want?”

“They offered a five-grand signing bonus.”

She leans forward to set her drink down. “What did you say?”

“I told them I’d let them know.”

“Tell me why you’re hesitating.” The Adriane I know comes to life and drills to the core of the issue.

“I’m almost a hundred percent sure they only want me because they are launching a Web product that rivals Casper’s.”

“And you want them to hire you because you’re a corporate genius?”

She has such a knack for putting me in my place. I guess
I did it for her—she can do it for me. “No.” My stomach rumbles, so I cradle a throw pillow in my lap to muffle the sound.

“If you want to live in Chicago and work for a major corporation, then you accept their offer.” Adriane rises with her empty glass in hand. “I’m getting another soda. You want one?”

I look at my bland glass of water. “Yes.”

When she returns, I ask, “Why can’t they hire me because I’m good at what I do? Because I’m a leader, a decision maker?”

“Macy, you’re missing the forest for the trees.”

I swat at her with my pillow. “That’s profound, Professor.”

“It’s like dating, right?” she says, clearly an expert after five months.

“How so?” I pop the top of my Diet Coke and pour it over the melting ice in my water glass.

“Women want men to love them for their mind and heart, what’s on the inside.”

“Absolutely.”

“But sometimes it’s the sweet-smelling perfume, the pretty face, or the lovely dress that draws a man close enough to
see
all the beauty on the inside.”

I’m astounded at her analogy. How true, how true. “I interviewed in jeans and a T-shirt, and they’re pursuing me like paparazzi.”

“The forest, Macy. Look at the forest. They want you because you can give them an edge on the competition. That’s the perfume and pretty-face part. You go in and show them the real Macy Moore.”

I like her thinking. “I want to say yes, but I don’t know…”

“What are the pros?”

“Great money. Incredible bennies.”

She nods.

“A chance to build and lead the customer service department of a major corporation.”

“Excellent.” Adriane hops up, striding for the kitchen. “Got any peanut butter and jelly?”

“Yes, but no bread, only saltines.”

“Perfect. Any more pros?”

“Travel. Opportunity for advancement. Living in Chicago. Great culture and shopping.”

She laughs. “Great shopping. A must for every female corporate executive.”

“Exactly.” I take a sip of my soda before all the ice melts.

“So, what are the cons?” Adriane comes in with a plate of crackers, the peanut butter and jelly jars and a knife. To my starving eyes, it’s a king’s feast. My stomach screams, “Feed me.”

“The cons are working a gazillion hours a week. Stress. Starting over with a new company, new friends and new church. Did I mention stress?”

I slide to the edge of the couch. “I’ll be married to the job. My friends, my love life, my relationship with God, everything will take a backseat. At least for the first few years.”

“That should tell you something.” Adriane puts peanut butter on a cracker.

“What do you mean?”

“Plenty of good Christian men and women run successful, high-powered businesses and maintain a deep, personal
relationship with God. But listening to you, there doesn’t seem to be grace for it. Not in a Chicago kind of way.”

I twist my lips, thinking. “I never thought of it like that, but…” Adriane brought the forest into view. I can see it now instead of the trees. So does that mean I don’t move to Chicago?

Pillow to my face, I mutter, “Nothing feels right.”

“What about your dad’s offer?” Adriane asks.

I move the pillow away. “It’s a consideration. And very generous. Nice money. Be my own boss.”

I tell her all about Drag, aka Peter Tidwell, taking my résumé to his father.

“So, that’s a possibility. I always thought Drag was a druggie on the lam.”

I shake my head. “We all did, but he’s on his way to being a communications exec.”

“You can never tell a book by the cover,” she says with a glint in her eye.

“Said like a true author.”

Adriane waves the knife at me. “Exactly. That’s what I mean about Eric. What if there’s some hidden layer?”

So we’ve come full circle. I knock her leg with my foot. “Stop. He’s marvelous. Fabulous. If you have any concerns, you’re going to have to go to the Lord with them. And talk to Eric.”

She makes a face. “I hate when you’re right.”

I laugh. “Okay, now tell me what to do with my life.” I’m half kidding, half serious.

She answers without hesitation, with authority. Downright freaks me out. “Return to Beauty.”

Return to Beauty? How did Adriane conclude that from our pros and cons conversation? And so quickly. Her words haunt me the rest of the night and all day Saturday.

I continue my fast, prayerfully going about my weekend chores. I mull over the Lord’s verse to me the past few months, “…beauty for ashes.” Couple that with Adriane’s profound statement,
Return to Beauty,
and I’m befuddled.

I can’t put my finger on it, but these two ideas are the same, but different. That’s right, the same but different. Clear as mud.

On one hand, I understand Jesus is the beauty in the ashes of my life. But do I literally return to Beauty, Georgia? Do I get a
city
for my recent ashes?

That is the million-dollar question.

Mrs. Woodward calls in the afternoon to tell me she bought a new refrigerator and it just arrived.

“Come over, dear, and see it.”

I rush across the street to celebrate with her.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Her hand rests on her pearl necklace, her eyes bright.

“If you’re into refrigerators, yes.” I wink down at her.

“Do you mind?” Mrs. Woodward motions to the piles of frozen food, meats and vegetables on her counter.

“No, not at all.” I arrange her refrigerator while she tells me stories of her youth. Another time, another era, Mrs. Woodward would have been a spunky member of the Single Saved Sisters.

With the kitchen all cleaned up, she makes tea and we sit on her davenport, talking about my Chicago interview.

“Well,” she says with a light pat on my knee, “I shall miss you if you go.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

I hate goodbyes.

Lucy telephones around five Saturday evening. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” I fill a tumbler with water.

“Eating yet?”

I hesitate a moment to consult my spiritual barometer. “I’m ready for dinner.” The fast is over.

“Chinese? Pizza? Salad?” She knows me so well.

But I don’t want Chinese. “How about Wendy’s?” See, the last food I hear mentioned during the fast is always the first one I want when the fast is over. Speaking of that…did Adriane eat all the crackers?

“We’ll meet you at the one by your house. Six o’clock?”

We hang up. I take stock of my refrigerator and decide I need to make a supermarket run. Diet Cokes are running low and ice cream sounds like a yummy late-night snack.

I check to see if I need anything else, like toilet paper. I’ve been caught on that one before. I’m about to dash out the door when the phone rings again. I reach without checking caller ID.

“I’m making a run for ice cream.”

“I like double chocolate chip mint.”

I steady myself against the kitchen counter. “Dylan, hi.”

“H
ello.” His tone is intimate.

My limbs go weak and I hold on to the counter. My pulse is doing the salsa and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Feeling woozy, I reach for the saltines. “How are you?”

“I’m good. And you?” he asks.

Crackers are a bad idea. “Fine,” I mutter, spewing cracker dust, fumbling for a glass of water.

“How was Chicago?”

“Umm.” I take a gulp of water. “Great.”

“You think you’ll take the job?”

The rhythm of my heart slows a little. “Thinking I might.”

“You have a second to talk about the reunion?” Ah, the true point of Dylan’s call. I’m disappointed. I don’t know what I wanted the call to be about, but I can guarantee I didn’t want it to be about the reunion.

“Okay.”

“If you take the Chicago job, will you still be able to emcee?”

Well, Macy, there you go—your chance to resign just waltzed in. But deep down, I don’t want to say no. “I’m sure I can make the weekend.”

“Good.”

I shove my hair away from my face. Maybe it’s the fast, maybe it’s Dylan, or maybe it’s the anticipation of Wendy’s, but I’m trembling and ready to bare my soul.

“Dylan, I’m a failure. You should know. I’m not the big success you and Joley think I am.”

“What are you talking about?”

I let the tears come. “I got fired from Casper, my boyfriend dumped me for another girl, and my bank account is empty. It’s June already and my credit card is still maxed with Christmas cheer. And the only reason Myers-Smith wants me is because I worked for Casper, their competition.”

I sniffle and wipe away tears with the bottom of my shirt.

“So what?” He exudes confidence the way most people exude fear or insecurity.

“So what?” I parrot. “What does all that spell, Dylan? Failure.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not for the Macy Moore I know. Isn’t she the one who turns lemons into lemonade?”

“That is so corny I’m tempted to hang up on you.”

He laughs. A sound I like a lot. “Don’t hang up,” he says. “Look at all the new opportunities you have now. Pioneering a new career just like you did ten years ago. The thrill of finding a new love, and joys of learning to live on a budget.”

Now he’s got me laughing. “I guess you’re right. But find
ing a new love?” I move to a kitchen chair. “Last time I went fishing, there weren’t many biting.”

“Maybe you’re fishing in the wrong pond.” There’s no missing the smile in his voice.

“What pond do you recommend?”

“I hear they’re biting just fine in Beauty.”

His comment rockets my heart right out the top of my head. “You don’t say?” My knees go soft.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Next time I’m in Beauty, I’ll have to check it out.”

“You should.”

Well, I’m stumped. Since I don’t know where else to go with the pond thing, I steer back to the reunion. “So, in light of all I just confessed, you still want me to be the emcee?”

“Absolutely.”

His confidence gives me courage. If my classmates whisper behind their hands about the Most Likely To Succeed failing, then so be it. Whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger.

Whoever came up with that slogan obviously wasn’t dying at the time.

“Good. And, hey, just to clarify, you know what I meant when I said they’re biting in Beauty, right?”

“Just to clarify, why don’t you tell me what you meant?” I go over to the refrigerator with my water glass. This ought to be good.

“Me, perhaps.”

I drop my glass. It crashes to the floor, but doesn’t break. Water runs under my bare feet. If I’d had socks on, he’d have blown them off. “You?”

“Yeah, me. But we can talk about that some other time.
Just wanted you to know there’s at least one fish in Beauty waiting to be hooked.”

I’m almost undone by his brazen honesty. “Good to know. What kind of worms does the fish like?”

He laughs. “Ones that come from Melbourne.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you considering your dad’s partnership offer?”

I swallow hard. “You know about that?”

“Your dad and I golf once a week together.”

Dad
golfs?
How did I not know that? “You and Dad?”

“He’s a good friend.”

“What do you think I should do?” I hadn’t planned on asking him, but now that I have, I really want his input.

“Ah, Macy, don’t ask me. I’m prejudiced.”

Can a girl fall in love over the phone? I think I am. “Tell me anyway. I want to know.”

“Return to Beauty, Macy.”

“What did you say?”

“I said return to Beauty.”

His answer raises the hair on my arms, and goose bumps run down my spine. “A friend of mine said the exact same thing to me last night.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

A lightning bolt, a clap of thunder? How about a shooting star or maybe a rare comet bearing my name?

Adriane tells me to return to Beauty at the beginning of my fast, and now Dylan says it at the end? More than mere coincidence?

But where’s the booming confirmation to move to Chicago? Hmm? Come on, God.

Returning to Beauty, a place I couldn’t wait to leave, would be like doing a mile on the treadmill when I know I can do two, maybe three. Jogging a mile is good, some days downright amazing. But pushing my body to jog two is an accomplishment. Jogging three is outstanding. Chicago is like the three-mile jog.

“Macy?” Dylan calls me, his voice full of soothing intonations.

“I’m here. Just thinking.”

“Are you thinking you can’t move back to a place you couldn’t wait to leave?”

Creepy. How does he do that? “Well, sorta. I don’t want to take the easy way. Chicago is unbelievable, Dylan. My dream job. If I move back to Beauty, am I quitting?”

“Quitting what?”

“My life. My dreams.” I stoop to pick up the water glass.

“What dreams do you think you’re giving up, Macy?” He leads me, draws me out.

“Life beyond Beauty. Being a successful businesswoman.” I grab a wad of paper towels and mop up the floor.

“Maybe it’s time to see life from Beauty.”

“Maybe.” I toss the wet paper towel in the trash.

“Look, focus on what God is saying now. Life happens in stages. Sometimes you’re running at Mach ten, other times you’re sitting on the front porch watching the sun set.” He sounds so experienced and wise. “And Mace, from what I can tell, running Moore Gourmet Sauces would make you a very successful businesswoman.”

“Good point.” The more he talks, the better I feel. “Thanks for your sound advice.”

“Anytime.”

Dylan’s advice echoes over the valleys of my mind as I grab my wallet and car keys.

My heart and head are all over the place by the time I get to the grocery store. I couldn’t be more wired than if I stuck my finger in a light socket and drank a gallon of coffee. I’m in the checkout line with three gallons of ice cream (indecision reigns), two cases of Diet Coke, a bag of celery and a bag of apples (cancels the guilt from the ice cream) when Lucy rings my cell.

“Where are you?”

“Supermarket. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“What’s taking you so long?” In the background Jack asks her what she wants to eat.

I give her the quick explanation of my call with Dylan, to which she responds, “Ooh, la, la.”

“Stop,” I retort. “I have to run home first. I bought ice cream.”

“Good grief, girl. We’ll talk when you get here.”

Over dinner, Lucy and Jack come to the same conclusion as Adriane and Dylan. Return to Beauty.

I sigh and snap the lid off my chicken salad. “Chicago is too incredible to turn down.” I’m being stubborn, I know.

What I need is challenging what I want.

“If you ask me, Beauty is too incredible to turn down. You have way more opportunities there, Mace. The six-figure salary can’t buy love, or peace, or contentment.”

I concede with a soft “Maybe.”

Lucy grins. “Sometimes it’s okay to let your heart decide. It’s not about appearances, or climbing the corporate ladder
or living up to your reputation. Say yes to your heart. Return to your first love.”

I get what she’s saying. It’s what she told me months ago when Chris and I broke up. Returning to my hometown will enable me to return to a deeper relationship with Jesus. The rest is gravy.

By eleven, I’m exhausted, stuffed and ready for bed. I pick up my journal from the day I tried to get a tan and burned myself to a crisp. I open to the list,
the
list.

I dig for a pen in my nightstand drawer. Reading the list one more time, out loud, I add another item. In big bold letters: “Dylan Braun.”

Shocked by my self-confession, I rip out the page, and there is my other list.

Oh, wow. I’d forgotten about this list. I read it again. It sounds way more like Beauty than Chicago.

Okay, God, what are You saying to me? Do I return to Beauty? Please…clap of thunder, bolt of lightning here.

I kid you not. In the distance I hear the rumble of thunder. I scramble out of bed and peek out my window, clutching a pillow. It’s dark, I can’t see much, but the stars do not twinkle along the horizon.

Somber, I crawl back into bed, the choice of Chicago or Beauty ricocheting around in my head. I’ve pondered this decision so much I ache. Yet somehow I know that it is mine to make. Chicago if I want. Beauty if I want. God in His loving kindness will back me up either way.