Georgia on Her Mind (4 page)

“M
acy, you sighed.” Mom’s radar is blipping over Macy Land and picking up way too much activity.

Silent sigh.
“Just tired.”

I want to tell them what’s going on. I do. But I can’t. How does one tell her parents she’s failed in her career and doesn’t know why? That the one steady relationship she’s maintained in a dozen years ended with her man in another woman’s arms. And that he was a “settle” boyfriend anyway.

Do I say, “You raised an idiot”? No, not the words they want to hear. Not the words I want to say.

“Cole and Suzanne will be excited to see you.” Mom weaves the conversation with gentle, casual threads.

“What have they been up to?” Cole is my younger brother. Five years, to be exact, and Suzanne is his best friend and wife.

“Suzy is about to finish school and Cole’s joined her father in his business.”

“Good for him,” I say.

“He’ll have a fine surveying career with Regis.” Dad acts cool, but I can tell he’s disappointed by Cole not wanting to make sauces for a living.

“Our fifteenth class reunion is this year,” I offer by way of news-from-Macy. Not much else to tell yet. I tip my cup for a piece of ice, leaving out the idea that I might not attend the reunion.

“Wonderful. Chris will be able to meet your friends.”

I’m confident now that she knows something is wrong, but isn’t sure how to get it out of me. She’s chipping at the wall hoping to find the crack.

“Maybe.” I refuse to crack and continue munching on my ice.

The conversation takes a detour down a side country road. We talk easily back and forth about life in general and I avoid details about my life in Melbourne.

Dad picks up the check, leaves Sarah Beth a healthy tip and waves at Freda. Everyone, it seems, knows everyone in Beauty.

At home Dad carries my suitcase up to my old room. It looks exactly the way it did the day I left for college, the day I came home from college and the day I ran away to Florida.

Flopping onto the bed, I close my eyes, pretending I’m sixteen again and the world is still my oyster.

“How’s the old room feel?”

I lift my head to see Dad leaning against the door frame. “Peaceful.”

He chuckles. “You couldn’t wait to get outa this room, as I recall.”

“I felt pinned up in this town like I’d never been anywhere but north and south Georgia.” I stare at the ceiling while reminiscing out loud.

“I was teaching you the ropes of the gourmet sauce business when Lucy called to say she’d read in the paper that Casper & Company was hiring.”

“I ran home to pack.”

Dad juts out his chin. “Right in the middle of my riveting account of how we bottle the sauce.”

I lift my head. “Sorry about that.”

He laughs, giving me the Father Knows Best eye. I hug one of the many pillows on my bed. “It worked out well, don’t you think?” Until now, but I leave that part out.

“That it did.”

Dad steps inside my room and straddles my desk chair. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.” I scoot against the headboard and hide behind the pillow. Is saying “nothing” a lie? I don’t want to lie.

I realize I’m doomed. With Mom zeroing in on Chris issues and Dad snooping around with questions about Casper, I just might crack Humpty Dumpty-style. Calling all the king’s men.

He pats the chair rungs. “I can still see you bumping down the stairs with, what, five or six suitcases, ready to move to Florida.” He skips the palm of one hand over the other. “Vroom!”

The idea of running away from home at the ripe old age of
twenty-three sounds silly. But, oh, how desperate I was to bust out of Beauty and move out from under the shadow of the Moore family, and the legend of my third-grade Christmas solo.

Dad regards me for a moment. “Mrs. Riley still mentions your solo. She insists there hasn’t been another one like you.”

Can he hear my thoughts? “Yeah, I broke the mold.” How does she remember that night? If I were Scrooge, Mrs. Riley would be my Ghost of Christmas Past.

Look, Macy Moore, look. There you are, singing your Christmas solo, “Away in a Manger.” Such a sweet child.

I shake the image from my head. It gives me the willies. I sang off-key for fifteen minutes because every time the crowd applauded, I started the song all over again.

“So, how’s business?” I ask.

“Rhine Flagstone of
The Food Connection
is featuring our new barbecue on his show.”

“No kidding! Big time, Dad.” In fact, it’s huge. Good for Moore Gourmet Sauces.

“We’re talking with QVC, too.” He lifts a brow and waits for my reaction.

I love QVC. He knows it. Lisa Robertson is my favorite host. She could sell me a box of melted crayons and leave me with the notion I got a good deal.

But I give him a moderate reply. “QVC, eh? Interesting.” My heart palpitates.

“Yep. You know, there’s room for family….”

“How’d you manage to get in with Rhine Flagstone?” I ignore his thinly veiled hint.

I’m not ready to jump my corporate cruise ship for a dinghy in the middle of the Atlantic. Dad has a great business, sure, but I pined for years to get a life out of Beauty—I can’t imagine returning. It’d be like double-crossing myself. And there’s enough of that going on already.

Be true to you, I always say.

Dad outlines the details of
The Food Connection
deal. I smile, half listening and half analyzing my life up to now. It’s been a good life, so why do I feel so bland and beige? I have great friends. I’ve trotted the globe for Casper, managed a staff of trainers and tech support. I’ve stuffed my closet with designer clothes and parked a BMW convertible in my garage.

Other than my recent career smack down and breakup with Chris, shouldn’t I have some sense of achievement and satisfaction? What’s missing?

“We’re having a little launch party the first weekend in May. I’d love for you to come.”

I tune in to Dad. “Come? To what?”

“The launch party for
The Food Connection
and Moore Gourmet Sauces. Rhine will be here, along with some of
The Food Connection
executives.”

“Good for you.”

“You’ll come? May sixth.”

“I’ll check my calendar.”

Mom calls up the stairs, “Earl, it’s chilly tonight. How about a fire?” Her Southern lilt is intertwined with hints of her childhood in England.

Dad slaps his knee and rises. “Be right down, Kitty.”

“Macy, you want some hot chocolate or tea?” Mom calls to me.

“Hot chocolate, please. With whipped cream.”

“If I have any.”

“See you downstairs.” Dad tweaks my toes. “And think about coming May sixth.”

“Okay.” I flop onto my belly and rest my chin on the edge of the bed.

Peering into the present from the window of my past, I understand now that my problem wasn’t this house at 21 Laurel Street, the city of Beauty, or the state of Georgia.

Nope. The problem was me, Macy Moore, and my state of mind. I thought life’s answers were out
there
somewhere. Now I realize the answers are in me, in my faith in Jesus and His love for me.

Sunday afternoon Dad, Mom, Cole, Suzanne and I trail the after-church lunch herd to Sizzler. We’re last in line because Mrs. Riley caught me after the service and wanted to know
all
the latest news. She’s storing up so she can haunt me the rest of my life.

I gave her the view from twenty thousand feet: clear skies and smooth sailing.

She cackled, patted me on the arm and meandered down memory lane as if she hadn’t heard one fluffy word I’d said. First stop, my third-grade Christmas solo. Dad, talking to Pastor Gary, heard Mrs. Riley mention “Away in a Manger” and beckoned me.

“Time for lunch, Macy.”

So here I am, mooing my way down the Sizzler salad bar. Suddenly Joley McGowan, a former classmate, scurries over.

“Macy, I thought that was you in church this morning.”
She wraps her svelte arms around me as if we were long-lost friends. I almost drop my plate into the coleslaw.

“Hey, Joley.” I regard her casually—you know, just to see if she’s sagging or bulging. Rats! She’s as gorgeous as ever.

“Look at you!” she gushes, and hugs me again. “A big-time career woman. You’ve heard about our fifteenth class reunion, right? Of course you have. Well, I’m on the committee this year.” Joley is animated and vibrant. I didn’t like her much in high school, since she dated Dylan Braun, my high school heartthrob. Think fabulous smile, gentle voice, athletic, blond and hunky.

“Good for you.” I continue down the line. Joley strolls beside me like a gazelle—graceful and long legged. I’m losing my appetite.

“Macy, would you please be our emcee this year?”

“What?” I stop gathering lunch. Joley’s almond-shaped green eyes are locked on me.

“Well, you
were
voted most likely to succeed.” She sweeps her hand in the air over my head like reading an imaginary headline. Macy Moore Makes It After All.

I grimace. “I’m a regular Mary Richards.”

Her glow fades. “Huh?”

“You know,
The Mary Tyler Moore Show?
Her character was Mary Richards. Don’t you watch TV Land?”

She beams again. “Oh, yes, of course.”

I’m holding up the salad bar line, so I step forward. “Are you sure you want me? What about Lucy O’Brien? She’s a reporter for one of Florida’s biggest newspapers. Or John Friedman? Isn’t he a millionaire?”

“Don’t be so modest. You’re perfect for the job.” She taps
the side of my arm. “Skip is a millionaire, but we wouldn’t ask him to be emcee.” She tee-hees behind her hand. “Can you see Skip talking in front of a mike?”

I make a face. “Skip who? Skip Warner?”

She smiles and holds up her ring hand. “Yes, I’m Joley McGowan Warner now. We’ve been married for two years.”

“Really. Well, congratulations.” Good grief. Joley McGowan and grease-under-his-nails Skip Warner? Is no one’s life turning out as I’d planned?

Joley and Skip Warner. Wow. Hold it. Did she just use the words
millionaire
and
Skip
in the same sentence? I covertly give her the once-over again. Her Sunday dress is pretty, but simple. Her shoes? Go-with-everything taupe pumps. I peek at her left hand again and see a simple gold band coupled with a modest diamond. Skip, a millionaire? Is she sure?

She’s still talking. “John Friedman is a fuddy-duddy. Come on, be our emcee.” She smiles her perfect smile. “You’ll be great.”

“Let me think about it.” I can’t promise more than that, really I can’t. I grit my teeth to keep from blurting out the truth right then and there, confessing in front of the entire Sizzler congregation that Macy Moore is not a success after all, but a failure.

I can’t emcee our high school reunion when my life is on a carousel. I can’t. I won’t.

“I saw you talking to Joley Warner.” Dad eyes me from the other end of the table.

“She wants me to emcee the class reunion.”

“Wonderful. You should do it.” He sips his iced tea.

I lean his way. “You never told me she married Skip Warner and that he’s a millionaire.”

“You never asked.” He spears a piece of steak with his fork.

“Are you going to tell me how he’s a millionaire or do I have to ask twenty questions?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Macy. He’s into cars.” Mom flutters like a mad hen. She hates this kind of table talk. “He owns a fancy, imported car dealership. Lots of rich clients.”

I shove my salad around on my plate. He asked me out once in our senior year, but I turned him down. Not my type, I told Lucy.

More and more I want to run home, crawl into a hole and surface sometime after a nuclear attack.

I gather my wits and look at my salad plate. Apparently I wasn’t paying attention. Two leaves of lettuce, a smattering of shaved carrots, and a mountain of bean sprouts. This won’t do.

I hop up, get back in line and add tomatoes and cucumbers to my plate with some ham bits, grated cheese and a ladle of dressing.

Back at the table, Suzanne is telling Mom about her current class schedule. Across from me, Dad and Cole are in an intense discussion about an upcoming NASCAR race.

“Jeff Gordon.”

“No, Dale Junior.”

NASCAR is not my kind of Sunday-lunch chatter. I join Mom and Suzanne’s discussion, desperate to focus on something besides me. My whine is getting a little sour.

“Ten years of part-time school and finally I see the light at
the end of the tunnel,” Suzanne says fervently, her chestnut bangs falling across her Sandra Bullock-like face. “I can’t wait.”

“I’m proud of you, Suz,” I say, meaning it.

She presses her hand on my arm, squeezes up her shoulders and wrinkles her nose. “Thank you. I’m so excited and relieved. Now I can get a real job, like you, Macy.”

I smile. “Hopefully better than me.”

By two o’clock the family waddles out to the parking lot discussing the insanity of all-you-can eat food bars. I catch sight of Skip and Joley climbing into a shiny silver Hummer.

Figures.

I face the family. “I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss my flight. Can’t change my ticket again.”

A
s I fiddle with the gas nozzle at the 7-11 near Sizzler, I console myself. So I’m not married to a millionaire. Okay, I’m not married at all, nor do I have any prospects. Forget the fact that I’m temporarily a failure.

I top off the tank, put the gas nozzle back in the thingy and screw on the gas cap. I head inside to pay.

From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of red. I turn. Lo and behold, Dylan Braun is at the pump across the way. Propped against the side of his red Dodge Ram, arms folded across his chest, his white shirt collar open, his dark tie loose, he looks like an image from the cover of
GQ.
And he’s looking at me.

Zing!

I wave as I stroll, gliding like a runway model. “That thing got a hemi?” I call out. Light, airy, cute.

I don’t see the next pump island rising out of the pavement. My toes jam into the concrete and I fall face-first into the trash bin. My right hand and face are buried in greasy paper, half-full soda cups and candy wrappers. I knock an “oomph!” out of me as I spin and hit the ground.

Oh, please, say this isn’t happening.

“Macy! Are you okay?” Dylan runs to my rescue.

I bounce around, rubbing my knees and flinging soda from my hand. “I’m all right.” I make an effort to gather my cool while my voice squeaks up an octave or two.

“You went down face-first.” His eyes never leave my face.

“Any other way and you’re a coward.”

He laughs. A good, hearty, that’s-funny laugh.

My right knee is throbbing and my pride stinging. I prop my hand on my hip, then drop it by my side, then on my hip again. I’m not sure what to do with my hands.

Worse, I’m not sure what to do with myself. Dylan’s blue-green eyes watch me. Oh no, please tell me I plucked that one dark hair from my chin this morning.

“You’re looking good, Macy,” Dylan finally says.

Yes, I yanked it. I borrowed Mom’s tweezers. “Thanks.”

Hard to imagine I once loathed Dylan. In fourth grade he wrote a haiku about me that the class chanted for a month. In those days I was a little pudgy due to my affinity for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup.

I can still hear him read his stupid little ditty before the entire class.

I went out to play

And I saw Macy Moore

She’s fat.

The class howled. I slid under my desk and despised him.

I carried a small grudge—okay, a huge grudge—until junior high. By then, Dylan was incredibly popular, athletic and handsome. He breezed through puberty unscathed. All the girls liked him. I, however, couldn’t get beyond “she’s fat.”

But during church camp the summer after seventh grade, I forgave his dumb haiku when our counselor described the crucifixion of Jesus for
my
sins. It had me in tears and I could no longer justify seething over Dylan’s poetry.

I stole a peek at him during the closing prayer and caught him wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. My heart melted a little.

By the time we started high school, I fell face-first in love—pure, unrequited love. Any other way and you’re a coward. But he never knew.

“I think you’ll live,” Dylan says, reaching for my hand to examine the scrapes. He brushes away the dirt and gravel. I feel light-headed. For a man built like a Mack truck, his touch is tender.

“And not die of embarrassment? Please, give a girl her due.” Perhaps a swoon is coming on. This is definitely a swoon moment.

“Never let it be said I kept a girl from her due.” He laughs low and peers deep into my eyes.

Well, well. Dylan Braun. “I thought you would be fat and bald by now.” My senses start to solidify and my composure returns.

“That was the plan, but some things just don’t turn out.” His grin is still his best feature—rakishly Clark Gable.

“Married?” I flirt, knowing he’s not. His mother, Margaret Braun, and my mother are birds of a feather, descendants of blue-blood Europeans with dukes and duchesses in their lineage. If Dylan married, I’d hear about it.

“Not yet. You?”

“Not yet.”

“Haven’t met Mr. Right?”

I laugh. “Oh, sure I did. Turned out to be Mr. Wrong.”

He stares at me for a long second. “I saw you talking to Joley in Sizzler.”

He was in Sizzler? “She wants me to emcee the class reunion.”

“Will you? I told her to ask you.”

“You?”

“I’m reunion coordinator this time. Don’t ask me how I got roped into it. Did you get Alisa’s flyer?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.” I regard him for a moment, seeing a new side to him. “Why me as emcee? And don’t say because I was voted most likely to succeed.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, rolls his big shoulders forward and looks away. “I wanted to have the prettiest and the smartest, that’s all.”

The prettiest? Did he just say prettiest? Is there room
to swoon? Can I swoon without it looking like another pratfall?

“We’re proud of you.” He regards me openly.

We? We who? We as in the plural of Dylan, we?

“I wasn’t the smartest, Dylan.”

“No, but the smartest
and
the prettiest.”

That’s it. I’m swooning. I glance around, but can’t find a place to light. “When is the reunion again? I may have a business trip scheduled.”

“Fourth of July weekend. Surely you’re not booked then.”

Surely I’m not, but I just can’t say yes when my life is sagging. If I could get a new job, I could emcee with dignity, but who knows what the next few months will bring. “I just don’t know, Dylan.”

“Say yes.” He grips my hand again and peers right into my eyes.

I blurt out, “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.” I’m an idiot.

“Good. And by the way—” he nods toward his truck “—it has a hemi.” He winks.

Meltdown complete.

Monday morning I stride toward my sunny corner office with my confidence reservoir up a fraction. My trip to Miller Glassware was a moderate success, I had a nice weekend in Beauty and—blow the trumpets—Dylan Braun called me pretty.

I dock my laptop and boot up, carefully store my bag in the bottom desk drawer and flop into my chair. Despite recent upsets, being in my office gives me a sense of normalcy, as if the world is right side up again.

Wearing a pair of rustic red capris, I feel light and breezy. This is the feeling I wanted yesterday when Dylan watched me tumble into a pile of trash. I wince at the mental instant replay. Bless Dylan for not letting loose with a knee-slapping belly laugh.

Attila the Hun pops her giant blond head around my door. “Hello, Macy.”

“Roni.” Her presence makes me queasy.

“Be sure to file a report on your Miller trip, and we need your input on the Holloway proposal.” She waits for my okay.

“Sure,” I say without looking up. I’m feeling very passive-aggressive today. Sure, I’ll do it. Next week. Maybe.

Once Roni is out of earshot, I autodial Lucy. One ring and she picks up. “Lucy O’Brien.”

“Hey.”

“How was Beauty?”

“Believe it or not, great.” I peruse work e-mail, reading and deleting.

Holloway Proposal. Delete.

“Wonders never cease.”

“Oh, you of little faith.”

I click on the Delete folder and retrieve the Holloway proposal. So Roni is a self-promoting shrew—it doesn’t mean I should stoop to her level. I do
not
want to be like her when I grow up.

“I never understood why you were so desperate to leave home. Beauty is a wonderful, cozy little town,” Lucy says.

“I talked to Joley McGowan at Sizzler.” I smile, knowing she’s going to die when I tell her the news.

“What’d she want?” Lucy, sweet Lucy who loves every
one, never cared much for Joley on account of my crush on Dylan and the fact that Joley dated him.

“She wants me to emcee the class reunion.” I recline back in my desk chair and gaze out the window. I see nothing but blue skies and the tops of green palms.

“Are you going to do it?”

“I told her maybe.” Never mind what I told Dylan. I attended reunions five and ten strutting around like a proud peacock over my Casper career. The girl most likely to succeed
did.

The fifth reunion came right after my trips to Madrid and London, and right before my trip to Florence. Not South Carolina either—Italy.

I bragged and gloated. Snubbed those stay-at-home moms with their two-year-olds. I regaled the room with my “travel abroad” stories.

The tenth reunion came right after I’d been promoted to team leader. Two years later I made manager.

Serves me right. Pride goes before a fall. Now look.

“Macy, be the emcee,” Lucy says with resolve. “You’re perfect for the job.” While she is no way as alluring as Dylan, she is my best friend and that has to count for something.

“Maybe,” I say. “But never mind that. Guess who’s a millionaire?”

Open bomb-bay doors.

“Besides John Friedman?” She’s dying to know, I can tell.

“Skip Warner. And he’s married to Joley McGowan.” Bombs away!

“What? I knew that. Tell me something I don’t know, Macy.”

“You knew?” I shoot out of my chair. “Then why don’t I know? What kind of friend are you?”

“Oops, I meant to tell you. I guess I forgot.” She sounds sheepish and repentant, but I’m not letting her off that easily.

“Then I guess I forget to tell you what Dylan said to me yesterday.”

“What? You can’t keep Dylan news a secret. Details, details.” She’s yipping like my aunt May’s toy poodle.

“Nope, too bad. You’ll have to wait.”

“Fine, but I want all the details, every last tidbit, right down to the brand of his T-shirt.” Her normal voice, thank heaven, returns.

I laugh at her desperation. “Okay, details it is.” I’m actually dying to tell her.

I stretch and walk over to the window. The day is so gorgeous. Procrastination is beckoning. I look out at my car in the parking lot, wondering if I can escape. Um, hey, there’s Roni getting into her car with Mike.

“Lucy.” I whisper.

“What?” She whispers back.

“Attila is leaving with Mike Perkins.”

“Really?”

“Do you think—”

“Stop. Don’t go there, Macy. It’ll only pollute your mind. You don’t know and you can’t assume.”

I watch Attila’s burgundy car exit the Casper campus and head south. “You’re right.”

“Doesn’t help your feelings, though, does it?” Lucy says softly.

“Not really. But you know, I hope it’s not true. Mike is married with little kids.”

I feel burdened. Not only for me, but for Mike Perkins and Roni Karpinski. She lives one sad life, but she believes
she has it all. One day she’ll be forced to retire, and Casper & Company won’t care that she sits alone in her house on the river with no one to visit.

Fear of being another lonely Roni blinded me somewhat about Chris Wright, along with the incessant ringing of my bio clock.

Lucy breaks in to my thoughts. “Mace, I have a phone interview in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I need to get to work.” I glance at my desk. “See you tonight? I feel like shopping.”

“Old Navy’s having a sale.”

“Now you’re talking. What time? Six-thirty?”

“Better make it seven. I’ve got a lot to do.”

Without manager duties plaguing me, I don’t have a reason to stay late anymore. “I’ll be there already. Look for me.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow night, either.”

I think for a second. Ah, yes. “Tuesday. The infamous gathering of the Single Saved Sisters.”

“We miss you.”

The Single Saved Sisters, well, well. I haven’t met with the Sisters since my third month with Chris. “Same time, same place?”

“Of course.”

“Thank goodness some things never change.” I hang up, grab a soda from my mini fridge and double click on the Holloway proposal.