Georgia on Her Mind (18 page)

S
unday morning I back out of the garage on my way to church and see Drag perched on my front stoop. At least, I think it’s Drag. I do a double take.

His long blond locks are buzzed and styled with just the right amount of gel. The white oxford he’s wearing is crisp and tucked into a pair of dark dress slacks. And he’s got the world’s biggest Bible tucked under his arm.

Grinning, I slide down my window with a touch of a button. “What are you doing?”

“Going to church with you.” He passes by the back of my car to the passenger door, his dress shoes thudding against the cement.

I’ve never, ever seen him like this. “When did you get home?” I shift into First and drive west over the causeway.

“Last night.”

I reach out and pat his hand. “You look fantastic. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to be seen.”

I enjoy introducing him around church, because he’s proof that God is a God of miracles. It’s funny how quickly we forget that fact.

During worship, Drag belts out each song at the top of his lungs. At first I’m a little embarrassed. His timing is off and his raspy voice is not in the right key. But his noise is joyful and before long, I’m caught up in his enthusiasm.

After the service, a group of us troop over to Bennigan’s for lunch. Several of the younger single ladies invite themselves along, giggling over the “new guy.”

While we’re ordering waters and iced teas, Drag’s gaze catches mine and I suck in a deep breath. His eyes are so blue. I think it’s my imagination, but he looks remarkably like Brad Pitt.

He whispers in my ear, “That’s why I grew out my hair.”

I wrinkle my face and squint at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I look like Brad Pitt when my hair’s cut.”

“Really?” I hide behind my menu, embarrassed to be caught staring. I mutter, “I guess, maybe, yeah, a little.”

Poor Drag. He’s doomed. If I noticed the BP look, so did the single chicks. They’ll be circling like hungry sharks.

In the middle of lunch my cell chirps. Dad is on the other end. “Hey, Pop, what’s up?”

“Can you come up to Beauty?”

“Um, why? When?”

“Today?”

“Now?” My stomach lurches. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll see you when you get here.”

At a quarter to midnight I cruise past Beauty’s city limits and down Jasmine. The shops are quiet and dark, asleep until Monday awakens them for a new business day.

There’s Jasmine’s Gallery, Mabel’s Country Christmas & Crafts, the post office and courthouse and all the other quaint shops that make Beauty Beauty. Freda’s Diner is at the end of the row right as I turn down Laurel for Mom and Dad’s. Her outside deck, tucked away under the pine and oaks, is a dreamland with a thousand tiny white lights.

I slow down as I round the corner. I remember when Freda hung those lights ten or eleven Christmases ago. Every April she says she needs to take them down, but every August she says, “What’s the use—Christmas is just around the corner.”

She inspired me one year to think about stringing lights around the perimeter of my back porch. I bought a slew of tiny white lights at an after-Christmas sale. Six years later they’re still in the box, in the dark, under my bed.

That screams volumes about my life. I’m so preoccupied with my pursuits, with corporate ladders and whatnot, I never took time to string pretty white lights around a fifteen-by-twenty-foot porch.

I press gently on the gas and shift gears. In the whole vast scheme of things, what does it matter? Does it have an impact upon my destiny? Probably not. But it has an impact on my soul. I must take time for the beautiful things like white lights dangling from my porch ceiling, investing in el
derly neighbors and millionaires masquerading as surfer dudes.

Beauty, I conclude, is about discovering contentment and realizing with every part of my being Jesus is my soul’s satisfaction. I can find beauty in Chicago. I can
make
beauty happen. Plan, schedule, live by the PDA.

I turn onto Laurel Street. Five houses down on the right, my parents’ home is lit up like the aurora borealis. I roll into the driveway and prepare to enter the zone.

“Macy.” Dad steps off the veranda. “Welcome.” He reaches for my single bag.

“You guys are up late,” I say. This is spooky. The last time my parents were up this late on a work night, Cole came screaming into the world.

“Waiting for you. Come on in—your mom is making cookies.”

“At midnight?” I trail Dad from the front foyer through the family room into the kitchen with a big question mark on my brain.

“Hi, Macy, darling.” Mom motions to me with a spatula in her mitt-covered hand. “Earl, take her suitcase on up to her room.”

“Good idea, Kitty.” Earl trots away like a good little bellman.

“Would you like some cookies? They’re fresh from the oven.”

I perch on a stool at the breakfast bar. “S-s-sure.”

She slips a couple of chocolate chip, peanut butter chip cookies onto a plate.

“How ’bout some milk?” she asks. “Oh no, you’re a Diet Coke girl.”

“How’s it going in here?” Dad enters with a clap of his hands.

“Earl, can you run out to the garage? Get some Diet Cokes for Macy.”

“Sure thing. Back in a jiff.” He disappears through the side garage door and returns a few seconds later. “You want a glass with ice, Mace?”

“Hold it!” I hold up my hands. “Who are you people and what have you done with my parents?”

“Oh, Macy.” Mom chortles and shushes me with a wave of her spatula-wielding hand.

“No, seriously. What are you two doing up so late? Dad, don’t you have to work tomorrow? Mom baking cookies at midnight? Growing up, you wouldn’t let me microwave popcorn after eight.”

“Things change.” She slides another sheet of cookies into the oven.

“I’ll say.” I bite hard into a warm cookie. “But mutate into weird? I don’t know.”

“Here ya go, kiddo.” Dad hands me a glass of ice and pops open a can of soda. He perches on the stool next to me and asks Mom for his own plate of cookies, which she supplies.

I take a long sip of my drink and consider my next move. If these people are in fact my parents, and not aliens, how am I to respond to this? Usually they are responding to me, my idiosyncrasies, my oddball notions.

“How was your drive?” Dad shoves a whole cookie into his mouth, then goes to the fridge.

“Fine.” I watch him take a swig directly from the milk jug. That confirms it. An alien has replaced my dad.

“Oh, Earl, here. Use this glass.” Mom shoves a tumbler into his hand and plants a kiss on his lips.

I almost slip off the stool. A public display of affection? “What is going on here?” I pound the countertop.

“Eat your cookies.” Dad alights on the stool next to me.

“Is one of you sick, dying, ravaged with cancer?”

“What?” Mom stands up from where she’s bending over the oven, shuffling cookie sheets around.

“Cancer?” Dad echoes.

“Yes, cancer.” Have they gone deaf, too? “Either of you dying in six months?”

“No, no, darling. No one is sick or dying. At least, not that we know of.” Mom comes over and pats me on the arm as if that news would be the last straw.

“Then why did you call me up here? Why are you making cookies at midnight and running around like teenagers?”

Dad’s hearty chuckle rumbles from his chest and Mom tee-hees behind her mitted hand.

“Should we talk now or wait until the morning?” Dad addresses Mom.

“We can wait until morning.”

“Absolutely not,” I protest. “Are you trying to kill me? You made me drive all the way up here, so you’re gonna tell me, now.”

“Let’s just put it on the table, Kitty.” Dad motions for her to pacify me with more cookies.

“Whatever you want, Earl.” Mom drops a chewy, gooey cookie onto my plate.

“Out with it, Earl,” I say, tipping my head and eyeing him from under my brows.

He claps his hands together. “We want you to come up and take over the business.”

I choke and swallow. “That’s what this is all about?”

“Yes.”

“I told you I’d pray about it.” Their gazes are locked on me and I’m feeling a little squeezed.

“And?” Mom asks, her voice like a first soprano.

“I don’t know.” Am I yelling? ’Cause it sounds to me as if I’m yelling.

“How did the Chicago interview go?” Dad inquires.

“Great, actually. They offered me a ton of money and a grab bag of corporate perks.”

“I see.” A shadow of disappointment falls over his face.

“What’s the rush about the business, anyway, Dad? You’re not going to retire, are you?”

“Your mother and I found out today we have an opportunity to go to England.”

Mom’s eyes light up like a firefly, her round cheeks rosy from the heat of the oven.

“So? Go to England. Sharon can manage the business for a few weeks.” I pick up the last cookie on my plate, my absolute
last
cookie. The five I just ate will be moving into my hip area any moment now and it’ll take a month of Sundays to jog them off.

“Not a few weeks,” Dad says. “Six months. At least.”

“Six months?” I echo, flabbergasted. “You just signed a deal with
The Food Connection
and you want to leave the business?”

“
The Food Connection
agreement has been in the works for a long time. I just saw it through.”

I’m baffled. “What will you do for six months?”

“Be missionaries,” Mom blurts out with a small squeal.

“Since when did you want to be missionaries?”

“We’ve been praying about what we should do in our senior years, after we retire. We don’t see ourselves playing shuffleboard in Florida or puttering around the house.”

I laugh. “Me neither.”

“Your mom’s been e-mailing her old friend Rita about a prayer ministry in England.”

I hold up my hands. “Dad, there are prayer ministries in this country. Stay here and pray if that’s what you want to do.”

“We thought of that.” Mom stands by Dad, her arm around his shoulders. “The ministry in England also shelters refugees from the Middle East. We want to be a part of that work. Rita called after church to tell us about a staff opening….”

Dad takes up the story in his pragmatic, businessman’s voice. “Frankly, this is the only door that has opened to us. My spirit tells me it’s the right choice.”

I sigh, actually a little envious of their confidence. “I’m proud of you. It takes guts to make such a major life change.”

“But?” Dad reads my hesitation well.

I slide off the stool. “I just can’t see myself moving back to Beauty.”

Lucy’s, Adriane’s and Dylan’s advice,
Return to Beauty
is a distant reverberation in my head, like the thunder from the other night. I plug my internal ears.

“Not what you pictured yourself doing at thirty-three?” Dad glances at Mom. “Macy, if you don’t want to come back, we understand. You do what the Lord calls you to do—that’s
certainly what we’re doing. But we wanted to offer you the business first.”

“First? Who’s second?”

“Selling it.”

“What? Sell Moore Gourmet Sauces?” I’m yelling now and I don’t care. He’s crazy. He can’t seriously consider selling his life’s work.

Dad nods. “Sell it.”

I
lie in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight peeks through my window and highlights certain aspects of my room. My Georgia pennant, a gold medal from the year the debate team won regionals, frayed pep-squad pom-poms from my junior year.

I smile, remembering. I let Lucy talk me into the pep squad because I thought I’d see Dylan more—him being the star quarterback and all. The pep squad was the closest I’d ever get to being a cheerleader, so I gave it a go.

Way too much stomping and clapping and shouting, “Go, go, go, Eagles!” for my taste.

I stuck it out that year, but ran the other way when the pep squad’s draft team bounced my way the fall of my senior year. Life is just too short. It’s against natural law for a
debate team member to moonlight on the pep squad. Besides, shouting “Dylan, Dylan, he’s our man…” did nothing to boost my esteem in his eyes. Or so I thought.

Of course, umpteen years later I find out he did notice me, but did nothing about it. It’s odd to know how Dylan felt now that we are so far away from high school and college. I wonder how my life would be different if he had expressed his feelings for me back then.

I sit up in bed, plump my pillow behind my back and recline against the headboard. In a way, I’m glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t be me, the person I am today. Weaknesses and failures aside, I like my life so far.

My thoughts segue to Dad and Mom’s news. Moving to England, wanting me to take over the sauce business. The notion gnaws at the deepest part of me.

Unable to stand the mental swirling, I get out of bed and click on the light. A soft white glow warms the room and the monsters of choice retreat under the bed.

I pace. “Lord, Lord, Lord. What do I do here?”

Waiting, I try to listen to my spirit. My head is no good to me now. The past few hours of mental debating warn me not to believe any thoughts I “hear.”

“God, You speak in a still, small voice. Forget the thunderclaps and bolts of lightning. You have my attention. What do You want me to do? What do I
need
to do?”

I sit on the floor, my back against the bed and I reach for my Bible. I don’t advocate spiritual roulette, but I take a chance and toss out a fleece. “Lord, let me open to Your answer for me. Your Word is my light.”

I close my eyes, let my Bible fall open and jam my finger
on a page. I hope it’s not a verse about the curse of Edom and the fall of Moab, or the recompense for the wicked.

I glance down and read. “Your nose is like the tower of Lebanon which looks toward Damascus.”

I laugh. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? I think for a sec, then flip over to the only verse resident in my mind at the moment. Isaiah 61. I skim down to verse three. “To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes.”

What time is it? Is it too late to call Lucy? Surely she’s awake at…I squint at the clock. Yeah, surely she’s awake at 4:00 a.m. Not.

Unable to distract myself with a call to Lucy, I talk to Jesus about the meaning of beauty for ashes.

Several hours later I wake up to a tap, tap, tap on my bedroom door. I’m curled on the floor, hugging my open Bible.

“Macy?” Dad sticks his head in the door.

“Yep, come on in.” I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. I touch my hand to my hair. A rat’s nest, I can tell.

“Did you sleep on the floor?” He steps inside and props his hand on the edge of my little-girl desk.

“Long story.” I hate it when my hair looks like a rat’s nest.

“I’m going over to the church. Want to come?”

“Um, okay.”

“Meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

The image in the dresser mirror is not pretty. Hair ratted and frayed, ends flying away, mascara residue under my eyes as if I hadn’t bothered to wash my face before going to bed, which I did. Lovely. Just lovely.

My outer self appears to be in disarray, but in a strange turn
of events, my inner self is at peace, sensing resolve. I haven’t decided what to do yet, but my answer is on its way. I’m sure.

Driving to church with Dad, I decide. Chicago. In the clear light of day it makes sense. Right? The Windy City. My kind of town, Chicago is. I’ll make it work. I’ll make time for friends, family and the beauty of the Lord.

How can I turn down Myers-Smith? Macy Moore, Director, Myers-Smith Webware. Yes,
that
is the Macy Moore I want emceeing Beauty High’s class of 1991’s fifteen-year reunion.

Holding my head high, I follow Dad into the sanctuary. Halfway down the aisle, I hear someone whisper my name. It’s Dylan. Oh, gag, I didn’t plan on seeing him here. I don’t need him mucking up my senses.

“Sit.” He jerks me down into the pew.

I have no idea where Dad snuck off to, but I’m betting he’s beseeching heaven on my behalf.

“You’re a million miles away,” he says, his eyes searching mine. He smells wonderful, like—I don’t know—the morning breeze. Fresh and clean.

“Chicago.” I dip my head, intent on praying and not furthering this conversation.

“Still Chicago?”

I peer up at him. “Yes.”

“Did your dad talk to you?”

I nod, but keep my head down.

“And?”

“Shh, I’m trying to pray.” I peek over and my gaze meets his. Bad move. Oh, bad move on my part. Orbs of greenish blue are gazing at me with an expression I can’t explain. My
heart is moved and for ten or fifteen seconds I am clutched in his visual embrace.

I break the magic by bowing to pray again, but it’s too late. All I see is Dylan’s face. All I sense is the warmth of his presence.

He sits peacefully next to me. This feels like the stance of a seasoned married couple, mature in love, grounded in mutual admiration.

He leans my way. “Piper and Angus Purdy are selling off the second story of their old mansion. It’s gotta be 2500 square feet.”

I
love
the old Purdy mansion on Whisper Willow Lane. It’s an old place with high ceilings and hardwood floors. Chicago is slipping away by the second.
Excuse me, Lord. Be right with You.

“Why are they selling?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

“Angus says it’s too big, too much to keep up.”

“How much do they want?” I can’t believe I’m asking, but I am.

“You know Angus, Macy. He’d give it away if Piper would let him.”

Ack! I
must
get out of here. I press my hand on his arm. “See you.” I jump up and out of the pew.

Crystal Lake is a few blocks away, so I jog over, my mind reeling with the idea of Angus and Piper selling. They’ve talked about it for years, but never, ever actually put it on the market.

Until now.

I collapse on the bench under the oak, winded. I really do need to start exercising more.

“You hurried out of there fast.”

I look up to see Dad standing over me.

“Pressure,” I say, staring at the smooth surface of the lake.

Dad chuckles. “Decisions can be hard.”

“And this is a hard decision.”

Dad sits, resting his elbows on his knees. “Macy, if you truly feel the job in Chicago is for you, then take it.”

I pluck at the moss swinging from the trees. “It’s just that I’ve worked ten years for an opportunity like Myers-Smith.”

“I understand.” Dad is calm and collected, and it’s really irritating me. I’d prefer a lecture or sighs of disgust. Then I’d be justified in my decision.

We sit in silence for a minute, then Dad stands. “We better get you home so you can head out before I-95 traffic gets too bad.”

When we pull up at home, Mom meets us at the front door with an anxious smile.

“Well?” She’s clutching a dish towel and her eyes are alive with expectation.

“Chicago it is,” Dad tells her as if that is the answer they wanted.

“Good for you, Macy.” Mom kisses me on the cheek, but I can’t help but notice her death grip on the dish towel.

“Thank you, Mom.”

We stand in the foyer in awkward silence until I glance at my watch and say, “Look at the time. I need to get going.”

I run upstairs for my things. Below, Mom and Dad wait
for me. I’m dazed by their demeanor. I’m saying no to Moore Gourmet Sauces. They will have to sell.

I sit on the side of the bed. Am I making them sell? Isn’t this their choice? I can’t build my life around them. Right?

Guilt. I feel guilt.

I definitely gotta get out of here. I grab my suitcase and sweep the bathroom for my toothbrush and contact lens solution.

“I’ll see you.” I pass Dad and Mom standing in the foyer exactly as I left them. Mom’s hand still has a vise grip on the dish towel. I’m not sure, but I think I see a few tiny threads break off and fall to the floor.

“Drive safe, darling.” Mom kisses me on the cheek.

“Of course,” I answer, giving her a hug that lets her know this decision is nothing personal. When we break away, I point to the towel. “Be kind.”

“Oh,” she says with a simple laugh and releases the terry cloth. I regard her for a second, noticing how young she looks for fifty-nine.

“Bye, Macy.” Dad’s goodbye is loaded with emotion, and when he wraps his arms around me, tears flood my eyes.

“I’ll miss you guys when you go.” I step toward the door with a covert swipe at my tears. “But Chicago is a quick flight.” Forget I’ll be too busy to vacation for the first year or two, or five, or ten.

“Absolutely.” Dad takes my luggage and motions that he’ll walk me out.

I pause by the driver’s door, head hanging. “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Dad.” My vision blurs with unshed tears.

“You haven’t disappointed me, Macy. Your mom and I took a chance in asking you. We knew that.”

I force myself to look at his face. “Don’t sell the business.”

“I don’t want to worry about the business while I’m away. We feel our life is in a new season and sauce-making is a part of the past. Time to press on.”

I acknowledge with a nod. “Now it’s your turn to run away from Beauty.”

He laughs. “Beauty is beautiful. You should try it.”

I open the car door. “On that note, I’ll say goodbye.” I kiss him on the cheek.

As I drive away, Dad stands in the yard, hands buried in his pockets, watching and—if I know him—praying.

I press a little harder on the gas.