Georgia on Her Mind (3 page)

O
h. Yeah. My boss. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to call you at home, but you never came back to the office—”

“I had to take care of some things.”

“Mmm-hmm, right. Listen, Pete Miller called from Atlanta. He needs technical help with his Web software upgrade. He’s crunched for time on an e-business launch.”

“I tried to send him Tim Sorenson last month, but he refused. Didn’t want to pay for on-site support.”

“Well, he’s not refusing now. He’s demanding.”

Figures. “The schedule is full for the next few weeks, Mike.”

“Wel-l-l-l, Jillian booked you on the 7:15 a.m. out of Melbourne.”

I spring to my feet. “Me? Seven-fifteen!” My plate of moo
goo gai pan tumbles to the floor. Lucy fumbles with her plate trying to catch mine and tips the carton of wonton soup.

“Roni and I decided you’re the best one to calm Pete down. Do a little company campaigning. You can install W-Book. Get him excited about our new product.”

Company campaigning? The company that just demoted me? This is
s-o-o-o
Roni. Mike rattles off the trip details while Lucy mops up soup and fried rice and peas. Stunned, I listen to his instructions, confirming them with a series of “Mmm-hmms.”

By the time we hang up, my stomach is in tiny knots. I haven’t been on-site in aeons. But hey, it’s like riding a bike, right? You never forget. Wanted: a three-wheeler.

I pen a mental checklist of to-dos: pack, pay next week’s bills, print out my e-ticket. Oh man, my laptop is at work.

I give Lucy the lowdown. “Macy, why don’t you tell him you can’t go?”

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that? And when he fires me, can I move in with you after I sell the condo?”

“Right. Happy trails.”

Yeah, just as I thought. We continue discussing the weirdness of my day as I finishing cleaning up, taking our plates to the kitchen.

“Mace, I’m so sorry about today. I’ve been praying for you,” Lucy says, retrieving a can of carpet cleaner from under the kitchen sink. She grabs a clean dish towel and heads to the living room.

“Thank you, Lucy.” I peer at her through the pass-through. Where would I be without her friendship? She’s in there cleaning up my carpet as if it were her own, praying
for me, comforting me, encouraging me while I refuse to give up griping and complaining.

I can’t say that I deserved this day or that God is punishing me, but I can say that if I’d been walking a little closer to Him it might not sting as much.

“Are you going to quit?” Lucy asks, returning to the kitchen, replacing the carpet cleaner.

“No, I can’t afford to be a prima donna.”

She smiles, leaning against the doorway. “Good. I don’t want you to leave town.”

I pick up the pile of mail Lucy had brought in. “I’m willing to hang out a little while and see what happens.” I sigh. “But Lucy, life on the road is the pits.”

“I know, but give it a chance…. Oh, you got it.” Lucy points to a bright red flyer sticking out of the pile of mail.

“Got what?” I tug on the red corner and pull the piece away from the others.

“The announcement for our fifteenth class reunion.”

“Already?” There, in black and red, in the bubbly verbiage of our class secretary, Alisa Bell, is a reminder to put the July Fourth weekend on our calendars and “if your address has changed, let me know!”

Alisa has never given up the job of senior class secretary. In her mind, she was elected for life. In fifteen years I don’t think one of our Beauty High classmates has managed to come up MIA.

“I can’t wait,” Lucy says. “Reunions are so fun.”

Normally I’d agree with her, but in light of recent events, a reunion sounds dreadful. “I don’t know. I might skip this one. Wait for the twenty-year, where hopefully
I’ll show up married to a bazillionaire and running a Fortune 500 company.”

“Macy.” Lucy picks up her purse and digs out her keys. “You’re one of the most amazing women I know.” She hugs me. “I know today was hard, but you have to believe God has a plan for you.”

“I know. I know.” I spend the rest of my night getting ready to leave town. The laundry I meant to do over the weekend—but didn’t—has to be done. I load and start the washing machine, throw on my sneakers and drive to the office to pick up my computer.

I’m dreading this new assignment—a week on-site with an antsy, uptight customer. I mutter to God all the way to the office and back about this new phase of my life.

“Don’t understand what’s going on here…if You wanted my attention, You have it now…please, give me understanding…I promise to listen….”

It’s late when I finally collapse into bed. My thoughts are all over the place, yet not thinking of anything at all.

Just as I drift off to sleep, the phone rings. I toy with not answering. Who do I want to talk to at this hour? No one. But by the third ring, curiosity wins out.

“Hello?”

“Macy, sorry to bother you. It’s Elaine Woodward.”

Elaine Woodward. Mrs. Woodward? Her first name is Elaine?

“Hi.” I reach for the light.

“Can you come over?”

“Mrs. Woodward?” I call, cinching my pink robe and shaking water from my fuzzy green slippers.

The front door’s ajar, so I peek inside and step subsequently into 1954. The furniture, the lamp stands, the doilies resting atop the easy chair, the entire scene straight from a ’50s
Better Homes and Gardens.
I find it comforting and warm.

“Mrs. Woodward?” She’s lying on the couch, one hand over her stomach and one hand covering her eyes. “You okay?”

“Macy, thank you for coming. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“What’s wrong?” I ease down onto the edge of the sofa.

“Pain,” she says with a deep breath. “Right here.” She presses her middle, between her ribs.

Heart attack? Please, do not be having a heart attack. I am not EMT material. I faint at paper cuts.

“I’m going to call 911.” Just the idea makes my heart palpitate.

“No, no, I don’t want to bother them. I’ll be all right.”

“Bother them? It’s their job.” What is it with the senior set and their preoccupation with bothering people?

“No, let’s wait. I just didn’t want to be alone.” She sighs with a deep moan, her face pinched and pale.

Do not tell me this is a clever ploy to get me over for a visit. If she asks me if I’d like a spot of tea, or a bowl of soup, I’ll—

She moans again and I can tell she’s in real pain. I feel guilty over my lack of compassion.

“Does your chest hurt? Arm numb?” I slip my hand under hers. If she says yes, I’m
bothering
911.

“It’s not a heart attack,” she mutters. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

I dart to the kitchen, praying as I go. Despite the fact that I don’t know what to do for my ailing neighbor, it’s a relief to focus on someone besides myself.

Mrs. Woodward’s hand trembles as she reaches for the glass, so I help her take a sip.

I plead, “Let me call for an ambulance.”

“No, it always passes.”

“You’ve had these episodes before?” I take the glass and set it on a coaster. “What did your doctor say?”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“Mrs. Woodward, this could be serious,” I lecture. I rack my brain trying to remember what organ lives between your ribs in the upper stomach region. I have no idea. Well, there’s $170 gone to waste for that university anatomy class.

For a while I sit quietly and hold her hand. I start to get sleepy and can’t help but think how fast 4:00 a.m. will come. Then I hear the soft sounds of sleep from Mrs. Woodward.

“Mrs. Woodward?” I gently shake her arm.

She’s out. I get up without disturbing her and reach for the afghan draped over the back of the couch. I cover her and click off the lights except one in case she wakes up and wants to go to her bed.

Pushing in the lock button on the doorknob, I head for home, captured in the sudden emotion of Mrs. Woodward’s episode. Dark rainy night, an elderly widow all alone, overcome with pain. I would have called me, too.

The last time I saw visitors at her place was last…last…hmm, well, weird—I’ve never seen visitors. I don’t even know if she has children or grandchildren. I didn’t see any pictures on the wall or mantel.

“Hey, Macy.”

“Who’s there?” I tumble into a cluster of overgrown palmetto bushes, freaked. My fuzzy slipper sloshes into a pool of floating pine chips.

“Macy, it’s me, Chris.”

I peek between the palm fronds to make sure it’s really him. A girl cannot be too careful. Yep, it’s the weasel.

“What are you doing here?” I step out of the shrubs, losing a slipper. I stoop to fish it out, hobbling on one foot.

“What are you doing?” Chris asks.

“I asked you first.” I wring the water from my slipper and make a beeline for my place, one slipper off, one slipper on. My pink robe flows behind me like a cape.

“I want to talk to you.” He follows me.

“At one in the morning?” This day will just not end. It’s spilling over into tomorrow, which is now technically today.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He’s right on my heels, and I catch a whiff of day-old Versace Blue Jeans. I loved that fragrance until today. Until right now.

“Ah, is your conscience bothering you? Lousy cheater.” I plan to leave him standing on my front porch, stewing in his own guilt with my door slammed in his face, but when I twist the knob the door doesn’t budge. I shove it again.

N-o-o-o. I’m locked out—my keys are still at Mrs. Woodward’s. Hoist by my own petard. I beat the door with my soggy slipper. “I…can’t…believe…this….”

I drop my head against the cold exterior wall. How is this happening to me? What cosmic forces have aligned themselves to trap Macy Ilene Moore between the rock and
the hard place without so much as a crowbar to wedge her way out?

Chris puts his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

Laugh? Cry? Laugh? Cry? Punch Chris? Definitely, punch Chris. Oh, just one good punch. But I laugh instead.

“Macy, what’s going on?” He grabs my shoulders. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m locked out.”

“And that’s funny why?”

In the cold glow of the porch light I grit my teeth and say, “Actually it’s not funny. I’m just all out of tears for today.”

Oops, spoke too soon. A small reservoir floods my eyes.

Without a word he produces his keys and unlocks the door. I’d forgotten I’d given him one about a month ago, just in case. How ironic for him to rescue me now after squishing my heart like a pesky mosquito.

“What’s so important that you have to come creeping around at one in the morning?” I demand once we are inside. I toss the slipper into the laundry room before collapsing into my chair.

“I’m so sorry about today. I tried to call you, but you never answered.” He lurks on the edge of the living room.

“Long day.” I avoid direct eye contact.

“I’m sorry, Macy, about the restaurant and Kate.”

I flip off my other slipper. Hmm, lint in my toes. I concentrate on cleaning my foot as if that were way more important than what Chris is attempting to communicate.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen. Kate called a few weeks ago. We went out. One thing led to another….”

“Are you in love with her?”

He pauses. Dead giveaway.

“I see.” My mouth goes dry, my stomach contorts and picking the lint no longer seems important.

“I know we had a good thing going. This just caught me.”

“Chris, are you a Christian?” Suddenly I want to know.

He fidgets. “Well, that all depends on what you mean by Christian. I believe certain things.”

Enough said. “Key, please.” I rise out of the chair and hold out my hand.

“What?”

“Key. May I have my house key?”

“O-oh, right. Of course.” He slips the key off the ring. “I hope we can still be friends.”

“I don’t know.”

“Macy, don’t be like this.” Chris’s tired irritation shows.

“You dump me, break my heart and I have to make you feel better about it? Don’t put this on me, Chris.”

In the wee hours of the morning my tiny amount of tolerance seems justified. What do I have to lose? I’ve already lost it all.

“Listen, why don’t we have lunch? We can talk this out when we’re more rational.”

“I am rational. Besides, I’m leaving for Atlanta in a few hours.”

“Atlanta?” I can tell he wants an explanation, but I’m too tired and too crabby. Besides, it’s none of his business.

“Good night, Chris.”

One-thirty. I crawl into bed, spent. Finally the day is done.

I
fade in and out of sleep until my alarm beeps good-morning at four-thirty.

Why me, why now? resonates in my head. I feel shoved back to Go without collecting two hundred dollars. Did I cross wires with someone else’s life?

I rouse slowly and decide to call for a cab, since this is a Casper trip. Why should my pet convertible suffer outside in the elements on account of them?

A hot shower makes me sleepier. I feel thick and stupid as I blow-dry my hair, dress in a pair of khakis and a pale blue oxford and brush my face with foundation.

I finish packing, set my bags and computer by the door, then crash on the couch exhausted until the cabbie arrives.

At five-fifteen the cabbie’s horn beeps me awake. I hurry out and toss my stuff into the backseat.

Across the way, Mrs. Woodward’s kitchen window glows with golden light. I should check on her. Might as well pick up my keys, too. I locked up with Chris’s old spare, but I’m pretty sure it has cooties. I’d rather not travel with it.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the cabbie, and scurry across the street to rap lightly on Mrs. Woodward’s door.

She swings it open with a vibrant “Good morning, dear. Would you like some tea?”

I smile. “No, thanks. I’m on my way to the airport. I just wanted to see how you were feeling.” Good smells waft from her kitchen.

“I feel wonderful, thank you.”

“I’m glad.” I spot my keys on the end table. “Are you baking?” I slip past her to snatch them up.

“I made cinnamon crumb cake. Let me get some for you to take on your trip.”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten. I follow Mrs. W. into her kitchen. “I’m going to ask, um—”
who do I ask?
“—uh, Drag, yes, Drag to check on you while I’m away, okay?”

She turns to me with a large square of tinfoil. “Oh, don’t go to any bother. But Drag’s a nice boy.” Mrs. Woodward reaches out to hug me, surrounding me with the fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon. “Have a safe trip.”

I take the crumb cake. The bottom of the foil is warm on my hand. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“All righty.”

Now, to let our neighbor Drag know he has a mission. I dart past the waiting cabbie.

“Hey, lady, ain’t got all day,” he hollers when I cross over to Drag’s.

“One second,” I say. Teach him to be fifteen minutes late.

Drag lives next door to me, directly across from Mrs. Woodward. He’s a sweet guy with blond dreadlocks, and is the condo’s resident surfer dude. To our knowledge, he has no known employment and no last name. He’s simply Drag.

I ring his doorbell until he opens in a sleepy stupor. He looks the way I feel. Wild hair. Electric-socket wild. I didn’t know dreadlocks could stand on end. He’s wearing Winnie the Pooh pajamas and with eyes barely open, he mutters, “Wha’z up?” as if someone calls on him at 5:20 every morning.

I pinch my lips to keep from laughing. “I’m going out of town this week. Can you check on Mrs. Woodward a few times? She’s not feeling well.” I whip out a business card. “Call my cell if you need.”

He nods, takes my card and shuts the door.

Okay, then. “Don’t forget,” I holler through the steel.

Atlanta is cold, rainy and dreary. Perfect. Matches my present state of mind. Ten years to make manager, one e-mail and one Roni Karpinski to change it all. Lucy’s pointed comments about losing zeal for God while pursuing my career and Chris is a distant echo in my head moving closer, growing louder.

As much as it hurts, I’m glad it’s over with Chris. I can throw away those useless rose-colored glasses and admit he wasn’t the man I pretended he was.

Last off the plane, I drag my tired and depressed self to baggage claim. I’m about to yank my luggage off the conveyer belt when I hear my name.

“Macy Moore.”

I twist around to see Peyton Danner wheeling her suitcase my way, and there’s nowhere to hide. Rats. “Peyton, hello.”

“Good to see you.” She shakes my hand, looking alert and in command.

“Nice to see you, too,” I parrot, grabbing the handle on my bag, trying to slough away before she realizes I’m a zombie.

But she yanks the handle on her suitcase and steps in time with me, striding as if she can make the earth move under her feet. “How’s Casper these days?”

I’m too tired to fib. “Could be better.” Could I
be
any duller? I feel like a partially swatted fly.

“I see.”

“How’s Danner Limited, and the world of corporate head-hunting?” I ask, trying to speak as though I have half a wit. Peyton Danner’s company is
the
headhunter for software companies. Casper uses their services from time to time to scout new talent.

“Very, very good.” She emphasizes each word.

“Maybe I’ll call you.” Ethically she can’t ask me to call, but I can volunteer.

She flips me one of her cards. “Anytime.”

Rain deluges my rental car the entire drive down I-285 to Miller Glassware. When I pull into the parking lot, the rain tapers off. Goody for me. I was hoping to sit in the car for half the morning, procrastinating, waiting for the monsoon to stop. But no—can’t call the game on account of rain today.

I walk through the front door of Miller Glassware con
centrating on the click, click of my heels against the marble tile: I think I can. I think I can.

Mike and Attila don’t care that they sent me out in the rain with a paper umbrella. They wanted to appease Peter Miller, and I’m the only bone they had to throw.

I can do this. I have to do this. I have ten years’ experience. I have core knowledge. I have the company phone list. I plan to dial my way through the support of this customer.

Peter Miller greets me in the hall just outside his office. He’s short and balding with beady gray eyes, but exudes the aura of a giant. “How did we get the honor of your presence at our small site?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Peter regards me for a minute, probably deciding if he really does want to know. A few weeks ago, when I was manager, we’d gone around and around about support.

Fortunately for me, he’s all business, and without another word he drops me off with the IT guys. He doesn’t even ask if I want coffee—which I don’t, but I’d appreciate the gesture.

I greet Al and Leroy, remembering Mrs. Woodward’s crumb cake tucked inside my tote bag. This will get me through the day. I dig a dollar out of my wallet and ask, “Where’s the soda machine?”

“Right down that hall, first door on the left,” Al tells me.

I hustle away, returning in a few minutes armed and ready. Food and drink. What more could a drowning girl ask for, hmm?

By the end of the day I’ve upgraded Web Works One and I loaded the new product, W-Book on a test machine.

Around seven we call it a day. I’m exhausted from navi
gating Miller’s technical jungle and for some strange reason wondering if thirty-three is truly the black hole of old maid-dom from which there is no return.

The week at Miller Glassware is fraught with network difficulties, Web page hazards and technical snafus.

I spend so much time on the phone with Casper support techs that Peter Miller presents me with a four-inch gold-painted phone trophy while I pack up on Friday afternoon.

“Thanks for your hard work and support.” He hands me the trinket with a grin and a glint. Wise guy.

“Nothing but the best for you, Pete.” I’m sarcastic and not apologizing.

I jam the trophy into my computer bag with subtle satisfaction. It was a hard week and my guess is that Mike and Attila thought I’d fall apart, but I didn’t. Makes me wonder what plans they really have for my so-called career.

(Mental note 2: converse more with God about career.)

While I survived the week, even had a little fun toward the end, this is not the life I want to lead. Life on the road stinks.

But what can I do? Dig in my heels? Wait out Mike and Roni, and leap for the first crack in the glass ceiling? Do I bone up on my technical skills and become an indispensable guru? (Shudder!) Maybe it’s time to post my résumé on Monster.com? Take my toys to another sandbox. I remember Peyton Danner’s card in the bottom of my computer bag.

My head hurts. Too much pondering. By the time I pull away from Miller Glassware, twilight has painted golden hues across the winter sky. I’m hit with the desire for home, for Beauty.

My hometown is only an hour north of Atlanta. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? A surprise visit home. Dad and Mom would love it. And right now, so would I.

Instead of heading for the airport, I point my car toward home. (Mental note 3: change return ticket home.)

I call Dad’s cell phone as I approach the edge of Beauty’s city limits.

“Earl Moore.”

I love the sound of his voice. “Daddy, it’s Macy.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Meet me at Freda’s Diner in ten minutes.”

“Freda’s?”

“Yes. You know, corner of Jasmine and Laurel.”

“I know the place.”

“Ten minutes enough time? I’m getting off at the Beauty exit right now.”

“I’ll call your mother.”

We meet in the parking lot with hugs and kisses on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Macy.” Mom’s blue eyes twinkle when she smiles.

“Best thing that’s happened all year, seeing you.” Dad has a way of making me feel safe, that life is a grand play and I’m an Academy Award winner.

We pick a window table and Sarah Beth takes our order. Outside, the gentle routine of Beauty passes by while Mom wipes the table down with a wet wipe. Sarah Beth sets down brimming soda cups. Mom shifts them to the top right corner of the table until she’s sanitized our eating area.

I snicker, remembering when Lucy swooped into the
restaurant last week to save me from my fast-food feast. She wiped down the table just like Mom. I’ve long suspected we were switched at birth—despite the fact that we’re three months apart.

We make small talk until Sarah Beth brings the food. Burger and fries for me.

“Here we go,” Dad says, holding out his hands. “Let’s pray.”

I close my eyes and listen to Earl Moore thank the Lord for his wife, his daughter and our food.

Then I watch as he and Mom chatter, exchanging food particles. Mom gives Dad all her salad olives. He gives her all his purple onions.

Earl and Kitty Moore, hippies—they met at Woodstock—turned Jesus freaks turned Southern bourgeois capitalists. When they met Jesus, they got married and settled in Beauty, Dad’s hometown.

With Mom’s blue-blood inheritance, they launched a boutique business, Moore Gourmet Sauces, peddling Mom’s special barbecue and marinade sauces.

Within the first year Moore sauces had become a favorite at local restaurants and grocery stores. Then Dad went mail order, adding a recipe book. A few years ago, with me as his consultant, he launched the e-business arm of Moore Gourmet Sauces and sent Mom’s specialties into cyberspace.

I don’t ask much about their financial status. We lived comfortably growing up. My brother, Cole, and I had new clothes when we needed, braces and a tidy allowance. But last year the folks went to England and Greece for vacation. So the gourmet sauce business must be treating them well.

I tune in to Mom’s side of the conversation. Oh, she’s ask
ing God to remove all the calories from the salad and grilled chicken sandwich.

I laugh. “Mom, you’ve been asking Him to do that for fifteen years.” It’s comforting to be in Beauty, in the shadow of my parents’ routine.

“Yes, and I’ll keep asking. It’s worked out fine so far. I weigh the exact same as the day I married your father.”

I choke on my French fry. “Mom, how can a fifty-nine-year-old woman weigh the exact same as she did when she was twenty-two?” Isn’t there some scientific law against that?

“Don’t know how she does it, but she’s right.” Dad winks at me. “Within a pound or two.”

“Or five or ten,” I say before diving into dinner. The food tastes wonderful. Pete Miller all but chained me to a chair and ordered me to make his e-business deadline. I popped breakfast, lunch and dinner from the vending machine. I don’t want to see another bag of pretzels until the twenty-second century. Maybe not even then.

“What brings you to Beauty?” Dad sets his salad aside and asks the hard question.

I sip my soda. “Nothing really. I’ve been in Atlanta working. Since I was so close—”

“What’s wrong, Macy? Your eyes…” Mom grabs my chin and pivots my head her way.

“Mom.” I twist out of her light grip. “I’m tired, that’s all. Long week.” Mothers. Do they ever stop perceiving?

“Since when do you do fieldwork?” Dad’s a keen one, too, and he’s digging deep.

“I haven’t in a while.” I force a smile.

“How’s Chris?” Mom asks, biting a forkful of lettuce and tomato while neatly brushing her red bangs away from her eyes.

“He’s fine.” If you like creepy-crawly things.

They have no idea, but their questions shine a light on my internal sense of failure. It flashes across my mind like a tacky neon sign.

Failure!

Failure!

Failure!

Sigh.