Georgia on Her Mind (19 page)

“S
teve Albright,” says the voice on the other end of my cell phone.

“Steve, it’s Macy Moore.”

“I thought I might hear from you today.” His tone carries a lilt and a confidence. A word comes to mind. Arrogant. I shove it aside. Why shouldn’t a man in his position be a little arrogant? He’s earned it.

“Are you still looking for a customer service director for the Chicago office?” I take the humble approach.

“Only if that director is you.” He’s pleased with himself.

“Then you have yourself a director.” As the words flow, panic hits me.

“Outstanding. We need you in Chicago on Monday. Midwest sales meeting and market planning.”

“Next week? I was hoping for some time to get my condo on the market and…” And say goodbye. Tie up loose ends. Get my mind wrapped around the fact that I’m moving. Perhaps make sure I’m sure? I’ve been expecting change, but now that it’s here, it feels overwhelming.

“Monday, Macy. I’ll e-mail the official offer letter today.”

“I don’t have a place to live.” I toss my first wrench to see if I can stop up the works.

“You’ll stay in the company apartment. We’ll sign a real estate agent to sell your Florida home. We have a contract with Century 21.” Ah, clever. He not only deflected my wrench tossing, but turned up the pressure a little.

One verbal “I will” and they own me. Just like that. And women complain about marriage and men “chaining them down”? The institution of marriage has nothing on the institution of corporate America.

“Time to hit the ground running, Macy. If you can’t handle it…”

I answer with what he wants. “Monday it is.”

“Good. You’ll have up to a year to live in the company apartment.” I hear desk drawers opening and closing. “Greta, where are my Tums? I need my Tums.”

Egad. My stomach curdles. “A year?”

“You’ll be pretty busy….” Steve is full of overwhelming information.

Who placed this call? Steve or me? Ah, yes, I did. Gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white, I wonder if I just left the frying pan for the fire.

But this is what you want, Macy. Go for it, face-first. Any other way and you’re a coward.

“Arrange your flight for Sunday and we’ll reimburse you.” Steve is nailing down the details. He’s hooked his big fish and is twisting the barb deep. “I’ll have a limo take you to the apartment. It’s on North Lake Shore Drive, Macy. Stunning view of the city.”

“Fabulous.” I exhale and make myself relax a little, adjusting to the new pressure and pleasures in my life.

We exchange a few more details before hanging up. I toss my cell phone into the passenger seat. “I’m moving to Chicago.”

A little before six I arrive home, exhausted from two days of driving. Before going inside, I stand on the edge of the garage and survey my Gables community. There’s a light coming from Mrs. Woodward’s window, while Dan’s place is dark and barren looking. I’ve barely seen him or Perfect Woman since the night they drove me home from the Sun Shoppe.

I look to the spot on the pavement where Drag and I watched the stars, and where I met Lucy’s Jack Westin for the first time. Those are forever memories.

From inside I hear my house phone ring, so I end the reminiscing and run to answer.

It’s Lucy. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

I laugh. I’m so going to miss her. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“So, what’s going on? Why the rush to go home?”

I sit on the step into the garage. “Dad and Mom are moving to England.”

“Oh, wow. Jack and I are going to a couples’ home group, but we’ll be over soon afterward.”

“Thanks, Lucy.”

I unpack and change into a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt that has seen better days. I toss my clothes from yesterday into the laundry, contemplate doing a load, but change my mind.

In the bathroom I wash my face and pull my hair back into a ponytail. When I lift my arms, I see the forgotten hole under the left sleeve.

(Mental note 8,590: throw this shirt away. Too ratty for a Chicago executive.)

In the kitchen I spread peanut butter and jelly on two slices of light bread and settle on the couch with the TV remote. Through the porch doors I catch a glimpse of the Florida horizon, ablaze with orange, red, gold and blue. I’m acutely aware that views like this are numbered and fading.

I’m moving. Leaving. Ending a very long and wonderful chapter of my life.

Something bothers me, but what? I mute the TV. Is it moving? Leaving Lucy? Rejecting Dad’s offer? Letting the family business go on the auction block?

I recline on the couch and stare at the ceiling until the motion of the fan makes me nauseated.

I know what bothers me. Antacid-chewing Steve Albright. I said I do and he said, “Here’s the ball and chain.” It’s fancy and gold plated, but it is a ball and chain nevertheless. I’ve sold myself into corporate slavery.

I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m afraid of work making me hard. Steve’s declaration that I needed to be so dedicated it would take a year to find a place to live gives me great pause. If I don’t have time to find natural living quarters, how will I have time to find a spiritual home?

How can I make time for beauty if every ounce of “beauty” is bought and paid for by Myers-Smith? I’m cognizant of the corporate mind-set. They own you. They aren’t buying forty or fifty or even sixty hours a week. They’re buying your heart and soul.

I feel shaky and unsure. I let my relationship with God stay status quo for the past few years, but deep in my gut I don’t want to do that again. I want to discover the deeper layers of His word, understand the tender mercies of His heart.

A knock on the front door hauls me away from my mental discourse. Under the porch light is a distinguished man in an Armani suit (or I’m not Macy Moore).

“Can I help you?”

He offers me his hand. “Fallon Tidwell.”

Oh, wow. “How do you do?” I warble. I’m about to shake Fallon Tidwell’s hand when a breeze passes under my arm.

Whoops, my T-shirt. I tuck my left hand under my armpit, pressing the ripped edges of my shirt together. “Sir, come in.”

“Thank you.”

I close the door on the mosquitoes. “Was I expecting you?”

He chuckles. “No, forgive me. Pete told me where you live.”

Ah, yes, Pete. The real Drag. “Please sit down.” I’m desperate to run and change, but I can’t leave Fallon Tidwell sitting alone in my living room, not for one minute.

“My son’s in the hospital.” His voice weakens a little.

I sink slowly to the couch. “What happened?”

“He went surfing after the storm yesterday and a shark got his left calf.”

Bile forms in my throat. I feel green. “Is he all right?”

Mr. Tidwell settles into the lounger as if he’s commanding a boardroom meeting, elbows resting on the chair’s arms. “Hurting, but recovering.”

“Shark attacks can happen in turbulent waters.” I sit on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, afraid if I move without careful calculation, my ratty T-shirt will expose more of me to the communications tycoon than necessary.

“So I’m told. The doctors have patched him up, but the calf is damaged. It will take a while to heal.”

I press my palms against the sides of my face. “How painful, utterly painful. May I see him?”

“I’m on my way over now. Would you care to ride with me?” Mr. Tidwell stands.

“Yes, please.” Now I hurry to change.

Mr. Tidwell’s rental car is fragrant with the new car smell, and a hint of cigar smoke. I sink into the cool leather seats, acutely aware that I’m riding with one of the richest men in the country. But I try to keep my attention on whispering prayers for Drag.

“My son speaks highly of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tidwell. Drag, um, Pete is a good friend.”

“Call me Fallon.”

“All right.”

“Thank you for helping my son find his way home.”

In the dimly lit room I can see Drag’s pale face. His half-eaten leg is bandaged and elevated slightly. Tubes and wires connect him to blue-lighted monitors.

As I step toward him, he appears so calm and peaceful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d just woken up from a really great nap.

“Hey, Macy.” His voice is low and raspy, tired and bruised.

With tenderness, I clasp his hand in mine. “Hey, you’re not supposed to feed the sharks.”

He musters a grin. “I should have known better.”

“I’m glad you’re all right.” I squeeze his hand a little tighter.

He motions for me to draw near. Whispering, he says, “I saw Him.”

I pinch up my face. Are the meds talking? “Saw who?”

“Him. Jesus.”

I jump back and regard Drag—I know it’s not the meds talking. “You saw Jesus?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“Right after the attack, when I was tumbling in the water.”

“What did He do? Did He stick out His hand and say, ‘Take My hand, My beloved son’?” I used my best King James voice. “Or bonk the shark on the nose?”

Drag gives me half a chuckle. “No. He touched my heart with His hand.”

“Touched your heart?”

“Yeah.” Drag lifts his hand ever so slightly and settles it on his chest. “Right here.”

“Was He in the water with you? On top of the water looking down? How did He do that?” I flit and flutter, unsure what to think.

Drag shakes his head once. “I don’t know. Suddenly I see Him and He touches me.”

“Wow.” I sink onto the chair by the bed. Tears creep down my cheeks. “You really saw Him?”

“I’m undone, Macy. Undone. Tumbling in the waves, trying to find my way to the shore, I thought I was going to die. Then there He was.” He pats his heart once.

“What did He look like?” I picture the painting of Jesus that hangs in the foyer of Beauty Community Church.

“Radiant,” Drag says. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Full of goodness and light.” He pats his heart again. “I’m undone.”

I rest my chin on the edge of the bed, his hand still clasped in mine. I’m one degree of separation away from actually seeing Jesus with my eyes. Who cares about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? I’m touching a man who physically saw Jesus. And I’m jealous.

Drag’s known Jesus a few weeks and already he has this incredible encounter. I surrendered my life twenty-five years ago and I’ve seen Him only with the eyes of my heart. What’s it take for a girl to see her Lord face-to-face? A shark bite?

“Then what happened?” I plead. With a quick motion I glance over my shoulder toward Fallon, but he’s gone.

“My buddies pulled me ashore, my leg half gone, gushing blood like a fountain.”

“Will you surf again?”

“Better believe it. I’ll have a big dent in my leg, but the doc says I should be able to stand on the board—eventually.”

“But you saw Jesus. I can’t believe it.”

“I saw Him first with my heart. You showed me the way.”

His voice is weak and his words stick to the sides of his drying mouth. I offer to help him with a sip of water.

“Thanks,” he says after a long drink. “Dad’s been great.
When I leave the hospital, I’m flying to New York with him.”

“Good for you.”

“He and Mom want me home for recovery. And then I’ll start working at Tidwell Communications.”

“You’re doing the right thing.” More tears leak out and run down my cheeks.

“What about you?” Drag gives my hand a little squeeze and tug. “Chicago? Don’t forget my dad is impressed with you.”

“I accepted the Chicago offer.” Then I confess as if caught red-handed. “My dad wants me to move home and take over the family business.”

“Moore Gourmet Sauces?” He remembered.

“Yes.” I lift the water cup to give Drag another sip.

“Why don’t you take up that offer?”

I set the cup down and fall against the back of the chair. “Because it’s going backwards. I never, ever planned on moving back to Beauty. Maybe I’m being stubborn about Chicago, I don’t know.”

“Macy, look at me.” I sit forward. “Look how fragile life can be. One minute I’m catching the biggest wave of the season. Next minute I’ve got shark teeth ripping my leg apart.”

The imagery makes me quiver, but he’s right. Life is full of the unexpected. I don’t know what tomorrow brings.

“Choose what’s important to you, Macy. Not for the moment, but for eternity.”

I lean close. “How do I know?”

He taps his heart, then says, “What’s in here?”

I return to the chair, catching my reflection in the window. For years I’ve prided myself on my appearance (right
down to designer socks), my talents, my career status, even the type of car I drive and how much I pay for a haircut. I supported all my worldly achievements with a very shallow pool of inner beauty and in some cases, shallow character.

“My gut tells me taking over the sauce business will reap a different kind of reward than I’ve been seeking. Perhaps the Lord will touch my heart in such a way that I can say like you, ‘I’m undone.’”

I desire to be undone.

“There’s your answer.” Drag’s reply is barely audible, but I hear loud and clear.

Fallon returns with two large coffees in hand. “Visiting hours are over.” He motions to the door.

I lean over and kiss Drag on the cheek. “Thank you, friend.”

“See you soon.” His energy is zapped. Here I am wasting it on my problems.

Fallon hands me a coffee as we walk down the corridor together. “Pete tells me you’re looking for a job.” His gray eyes spark when he speaks and I can tell he is a man who sees as well as looks.

“Well, sir, I have a job.”

“Pete mentioned a possibility in Chicago.”

Without a thought or hesitation, I blurt out, “Not Chicago. Beauty. I’m going home to Beauty, Georgia.”

We stop at the elevator and I press the down arrow, feeling perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“All the best to you, Macy.”

I don’t care if he is Fallon Tidwell, communications tycoon. I celebrate my decision and throw my arms around him. “All the best to you, too.”

“Yes,” he croaks, backing away, straightening his collar.

I’m going home. Riding the elevator down, my heart soars. I’m returning to Beauty.