Georgia on Her Mind (7 page)

T
he date starts slowly and awkwardly, but that’s to be expected. He opens the car door for me, bumping my shin with the door’s edge. The metal end scrapes across my sunburn and I breathe through my teeth, wincing. “Ow.”

Austin apologizes. Of course he didn’t mean it.

On the way to dinner, he compliments me without even glancing my way. “You look nice. I love your cologne. What is it?” He sniffs.

“My
perfume
is Chanel number five.”

“Very nice.”

His words flow like memorized lines from
Dating for Dummies
and do not give me the warm fuzzies. My sunburn feels cozier. But I chalk it up to first-date jitters.

In a nice turn of events, he chooses a place for dinner
without taking a ride on the where-do-you-want-to-eat merry-go-round, and I’m adequately impressed when he drives to Bella’s in downtown Melbourne. How did he know I am in the mood for scrumptious Italian food?

We exchange the expected small talk as we walk in—the weather, what he did today, what I did. Which is not hard to guess, since I’m still as red as Bella’s tomato sauce.

We are seated at a cozy table for two by the window. The waitress takes our drink order, but when she walks away, so does our ability to converse.

He stares out the window at the street. I stare at the dessert menu. The cannoli look great. After a few minutes I remember a tidbit Beka told me.

“Beka tells me you like to fish.”

“Yes.” He looks at me for a nanosecond, then back to the street.

“Interesting. I know nothing about fishing other than that it requires hooks and worms. Ha, ha.”

He doesn’t laugh or say another word until the waitress returns with our drinks and a basket of garlic knots and we order our main course.

“So, Austin Ramirez,” I say after ordering stuffed shells. “Where is your family from?” I sip my Shirley Temple and reach for a garlic knot.

“Around here.”

I study him for a sec. Well, of course. “I mean originally, Spain, Mexico?”

He shrugs. “My dad and mom were born in Puerto Rico.”

“I hear Puerto Rico is beautiful.”

He nods with a shy smile. “Yeah.”

We fall back into an awkward silence. I get nosy and probe some more. Do you know your grandparents? Have you traveled to other Latin American countries? Et cetera, et cetera. As it turns out, my boy Austin, thirty-two years old, has never traveled outside Florida besides Puerto Rico. He lives with his parents and from what I can tell, always will.

His mom does his laundry and cooks his meals. Marriage, he claims, is a mystery and children are a quandary.

“Don’t you have any goals or aspirations?” I am so frustrated. What kind of thirtysomething lives at home and lets his mom do his washing?

“Sure. Fish, work on my boat, go to the gym.”

“What about your job? Do you want to advance? Earn more money?”

He shrugs. “Not really, unless I want to buy a bigger boat.”

When the food arrives, I’m relieved. Now I can use my mouth for something besides this incessant questioning. I have absolutely no response to his last answer—a bigger boat. Wow. I never dreamed.

Nevertheless, dinner smells marvelous and I’m starved. Asking a bazillion questions does that to me.

While I’m shoveling in the creamy cheese-covered shells, Austin barely touches his dinner.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask.

“I’ve had a stomachache for several days.” He wrinkles his nose and rubs his belly. “I almost called to cancel, but my parents insisted I go.”

I fall against the back of my chair and set my fork down. “Are you okay?” I can’t believe it. Going on a date with me has made a man ill.

He eyes his car just outside the window and claims, “I’ll be fine.”

This is a new low. The Single Saved Sisters will not believe it. As a collective group we’ve had our share of awful blind dates, no-show dates and he-tried-to-grope-me-all-night dates, but this is a whole new category. How could Beka and Rick not warn me?

Our waitress breezes by with a smile and I motion for the check. Might as well release Austin from his misery. Since tonight barely qualifies as a date, I offer to go Dutch.

“What?” He furrows his brow in confusion. “Go Dutch?”

Ooh, I hope he’s not insulted. “I know it’s not what the night started out to be, but…?”

“What do you mean, ‘go Dutch’?”

I’m shocked. I shouldn’t be, but I am. “It means we each pay for our own dinner.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that.” He insists on paying the bill. Seems his father coached him in the fine art of bill paying and tipping. At least the waitress is one girl Austin took care of tonight.

With his food boxed up, the two of us standing on the street corner, Austin asks, “Where to now?”

I can tell he’s in pain—if not physical, mental.

“Listen, I love hanging around downtown. Why don’t you go on home? I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Are you sure?” He smiles with relief, a beautiful, sweet, empty smile. What a waste.

“I’m sure.” I back away, indicating he doesn’t have to kiss me good-night or tell me he’ll call sometime. I want this night over, cut clean. Done.

“How will you get home?”

“Cab, friend. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way.” I shoo him with my hands. How I’m getting home is a good question. Not sure I thought this one through. Call Lucy, I guess. Oh, man, she’s going to love this.

As he drives away, I chat with the Lord. “Take care of that one. He’s going to need it.”

At the Sun Shoppe Café, I order a large latte and sit outside. It’s a chilly but enchanting night, despite my bomb of a date. I pull my sweater close and sip the hot latte.

The moon is bright and beautiful and all the stars are plugged in and twinkling. All around me the old downtown shops are illuminated with strings of tiny white lights.

Sigh. A night made for lovers and here I sit, kissing a coffee cup.

In the chronicle of bad dates, tonight has to rank among the worst. An inductee into the Hall of Fame of Worst Dates Ever. And it happened to me, Macy Moore. I decide to dial up the sisters.

First Lucy. “I’m at the Sun Shoppe.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not.”

“What?”

“Austin went home to his mommy.”

“No-o-o.” She almost hyperventilates begging for details.

“Meet me down here. I’ll give you every last juicy tidbit.”

She hesitates. “I’m sorta in the middle of something.”

“The middle of what?” Is it me or has she been acting strange lately?

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Don’t use my line on me. What are you in the middle of?”

“I guess I could come down there if you really need me.”

“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.”

“Macy, I—”

“Never mind. Do whatever it is you’re doing. I’ll catch a cab home.”

“A cab. No, I’ll come get you.”

“Lucy, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Call if you need me.”

I just did. Look where it got me. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

I tap my phone against my palm, deciding what to do next. I dial Adriane. “Darling, I’m up to my eyeballs in edits. They are due next week and my heroine took a wrong turn in the jungle on page 102.”

“Well, then, better rescue her.”

“How’d the date go?” she asks, hurried.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Yes, lunch after church. Pray I wake up in time for services.”

I grin. “Will do.”

She hangs up without a goodbye. Next I call Tamara, to find she’s at work.

“On a Saturday night?” I make a face.

“IT upgraded the computers and I want to make sure everything is working before Monday morning. We’re near the quarter’s end.”

Well, aren’t we a pitiful lot. Two of the SSS are working, one is recovering from a bad date and the other…who knows—up to something dubious.

“Macy? Hello.”

I look around. Oh crud, it’s handsome Dan emerging from the shadows with Perfect Woman. Another sophisticated-looking couple follows them.

“Hi, Dan.” I stand to shake his hand.

“You remember Delia.” He motions to Perfect Woman.

“Certainly.” I give a little half wave and a nod. “Nice to see you.”

She smiles. “And you.” I squint at her in the glow of the Sun Shoppe’s lights. Nope, still no visible imperfections.

Dan introduces the other couple. “This is my boss, Quentin Harper, and his wife, Kelly.”

“Boss? You’re a partner now, Dan,” Quentin Harper corrects in a deep voice, stepping toward me with a meticulous smile, hand extended.

To me, Dan explains, “I made partner at the firm this week.”

“Congratulations.”

Perfect Woman links her arm with his and purrs. “We had a lovely dinner at that new little French restaurant.”

“Wonderful,” I say. I didn’t even know there was a new French restaurant.

“So,” Dan says, eyeing me. “What brings you to downtown Melbourne on a Saturday night?”

I fiddle with my latte cup. No use lying. “A date. He felt ill and went home.”

Dan looks startled. “Went home?”

I nod and sit down before I fall down. Why does honesty have to be so embarrassing?

“Do you need a ride home?” Perfect Woman asks.

“Oh, no, no. I can call a cab.” A cab? Why didn’t I say
friend? A friend. I can call a friend. Cab sounds so lonely and desperate.

“Nonsense. We’re on our way home now. Ride with us,” Dan insists.

I wave them off as if sitting downtown, alone, is actually fun for me. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“We insist,” Perfect Woman says.

Refusing now would just look stupid. “Okay, thank you.”

The Harpers go their way while I follow Dan and Perf—I mean Delia to Dan’s white Mercedes.

I didn’t think this night could get any worse. I’m grateful for the ride home, but did it have to be with Mr. Success and Miss Perfect?

Dan takes the scenic route to the Gables, driving along the river. Moonbeams sparkle like diamonds on the water. He and Delia talk quietly for a few minutes, so I make myself at home in the backseat, nestled against the cool posh leather, and think thoughts to God. I decide not to fret anymore about my crash-and-burn date.

By the time we drive home, my disappointment over Austin Ramirez has gone the way of moondust.

I
search my purse for my keys.

“Can you get inside?” Dan calls.

I wave. “Yes, thanks again.” Go on, now—I’ve had enough humiliation for one night. The white Mercedes disappears into Dan’s garage.

I find my keys, unlock the door and step inside to hear the house phone ringing. Probably Lucy. I check the clock on the stove as I answer. Eight-fifteen. And date day is over.

“Hello?”

“Macy, it’s Dylan Braun.”

My bag drops to the floor. “H-hi.”

“Are you up for some company?”

“Who?”

He laughs low. “Me.”

Yowza. My heart starts the tango. “Um, sure.”

“It’ll take me about an hour to get there. I’m in Daytona.”

“G-great.” We talk directions for a few minutes before we hang up.

With the portable dangling from my hand and my feet bolted to the kitchen floor, I figure I must be dreaming. Dylan Braun is coming to visit me. I slap the side of my face lightly.
Wake up, Macy.
The sting of my burned skin tells me I’m awake. Very awake.

The next hour is a blur. I remember checking the downstairs bathroom for clean hand towels and switching on a few ambient lights, but after that, I’m not sure what I did.

Suddenly I’m opening my door to Dylan Braun. “Hello.”

He’s propped against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Hi.”

“Come in, please.” I stand aside for him to pass, breathing in sandalwood and spices as he walks through the door. I feel light-headed. Sandalwood and spices. My new favorite scent.

“This is beautiful, Macy,” he says, observing my home.

“Thank you. So what brought you to Daytona?” I move to the couch.

His blue-green eyes smile at me. “Dad and I came down for Bike Week.”

“Bike week?”

He sits next to me. “We started making custom motorcycles last year. Braun Bikes. Bike Week is a good place to advertise.”

“Custom bikes. Wow.”

We fall silent and stare at each other for a few seconds.

But not at all like the silence between Austin and me during dinner.

“Coffee?” I ask, breathing in his presence.

“Sure. As long as it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble,” I say, getting up. Unless I don’t have any coffee—then it would be trouble.

From the kitchen pass-through I look out at him. He’s watching me, so I move away. His gaze makes me feel exposed and vulnerable as if he can discover all my private thoughts.

He’s such a curiosity to me. He’s a man’s man, but the kind who smiles easily and helps elderly ladies across the street. He’s athletic and competitive, yet compassionate and caring.

I look out again. He winks. I duck back into the kitchen with a shiver. Must be the sunburn. Has to be.

I reach for the coffee filters, absorbing the reality of Dylan Braun driving down from Daytona to see me. This is the perfect ending to my rotten day.

“I hope I’m not imposing on your evening, Macy,” I hear him say.

“Oh, not at all.” I peek around the door. He’s standing, shedding his jacket, moving toward the kitchen.

My knees wobble. “Good. I thought you might be on a date or something.” He boldly enters the kitchen and straddles one of the chairs as if he’s been to my house a hundred times.

“Well, I
was
on a date,” I admit with a laugh, reaching for the mugs that dangle from the mug tree. Dripping coffee fills the kitchen with the aroma of hazelnuts.

He stiffens. “Oh?”

I make a face. “The night ended early. He didn’t feel well.”

He relaxes with a grin. “Lucky for me.” His comments feel deep and personal.

“Let’s have coffee in the living room,” I suggest when the pot is perked. I pour the coffee, offer Dylan the remains of toffee-flavored creamer and shove the sugar bowl his way.

While we doctor our coffee, my mind swirls. Dylan, in my home. I’ve known him most of my life, but we’ve never really
hung out.

Once in a while, when our moms got the families together, we played table tennis in the Braun basement or watched a movie in the Moore living room. But our high school and college social circles rarely intersected. This is a monumental moment in the life of Macy Moore. Earth-shattering. Should I call NBC, maybe Oprah?

Following me to the living room, Dylan asks, “Do you mind if I light a fire?” He motions toward the fireplace. “I’m a little cold from the ride down.”

“Not at all.” I smile and set my coffee on the end table. Frankly, Dylan Braun is all the warmth I need, but I’ll keep that as my little secret.

Dylan sets his mug next to mine, then lights the fire as if he spent every Saturday night in my living room. Whew, it’s warm in here. I fan my face with my fingers.

“So,” Dylan says when he joins me on the couch.

“So,” I echo, smiling. My gaze catches his and for a long moment it’s as if we’re the only two people on earth.

“Are you still with Casper?” Dylan asks.

I nod. “Yep, and you? Still torturing Beauty High students with math and science? Didn’t you coach track and football, too?”

He laughs, cupping his mug between his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “I gave up
torturing
last year.”

“Really? The bike business is that good?”

He grins. “It’s getting there, but I’m also doing some bronze and pewter sculpting. I have a few large sculpture commissions this year.”

I’m shocked. I’d always pictured Dylan as the steady job, Toyota or Honda kind of man. Leaving teaching for the elusive world of art shows guts and belief in himself. If possible, he’s soared even higher in my admiration stratosphere. At this rate, I’ll never reach his heights. “It must feel great to follow your dreams.”

He leans my way. “I learned it from you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

The phone rings before I can think of a snappy reply. I step to the kitchen, where I left the cordless.

“You made it home.” It’s Lucy.

“I did.”

“Did you call a cab?”

“No.” I peek at Dylan from the kitchen. He smiles and nods. I duck behind the wall and lower my voice.

“Someone’s here. I can’t talk now.” I hang up before she can say another word. I don’t want to tell her about tonight over the phone. Besides, she’s got a secret—so do I.

Back to the sofa and Dylan. When I sit, my leg touches his. Did he move? Am I in the right spot? All my nerve endings are snapping and firing at once.

“I like your sunburn,” he says, his voice reminding me of melted chocolate.

“Th-thank you.” I giggle with an awkward quiver. “It was an accident.”

“Usually is.” He slides a little closer.

I can’t breathe. Is he going to kiss me? I think he might kiss me. Why are all the colors in the room fading to purple?

His hand lands on mine. His thumb strokes my fingers and I’m sure the tingle in my right arm is indicative of the heart attack I’m about to have.

I want him to kiss me, I think. Ever since eighth grade I’ve wanted him to kiss me.

But oh, please, don’t kiss me. I don’t know if I’ll survive. What kind of kiss would it be? Just for fun? Just for friends? A kiss to begin? A kiss to end? Dylan’s visit can’t mean anything, really it can’t. He lives in Beauty. I live here.

I can’t believe this. I want a dissertation before a simple stupid kiss. No, no! It’s not a simple stupid kiss. It’s a kiss from
him
—Dylan.

His eyes search mine. Is he asking for permission? How do I make my eyes give him an answer? Right eye say yes, left eye say no.

“Macy…” he starts.

Yes. No. Yes. No.

“Dylan,” I say, grabbing his hand. “I—”

The phone rings and I pop up off my seat like a jack-in-the-box. “Excuse me. Ph-phone.”

“So I hear.” Dylan eases against the back of the couch, his shirt unable to hide his muscular frame. He has a come-hither look on his face.

My knees buckle when I try to walk and I have half a mind not to answer. Let the machine get it. No! What if
it’s Lucy? What if she starts talking about Austin? Better answer.

I bark, “Hello?” I’m half out of my mind with indecision.

“Hello, Macy, it’s Elaine.”

I soften my tone and come to my senses in an instant. “Mrs. Woodward? Are you okay?”

“The pain is real bad this time. Can you come over?”

I look at Dylan. Her timing is incredible. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

She moans and hangs up. Elaine Woodward, like it or not, just shot a dose of reality into my heart’s fantasy.

I tell Dylan, “My neighbor isn’t feeling well and wants me to come over. She lives alone.” I slip on my flip-flops.

He stands, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Not sure, but she’s going to the doctor next week if I have to throw her over my shoulder and haul her there myself.”

“Can I help?” He stands close, regarding me.

“I don’t think so, but thanks. I’m sorry we got interrupted.”

“Me, too.” He runs his hand over his blond hair. Is it possible he’s more handsome than he was a few weeks ago?

I smile. “I’m glad you came.”

“You’re still planning to emcee our reunion, aren’t you?”

A brick of disappointment hits me. Is that why he came down? Is that why he leaned my way? I’m waiting for “can I kiss you” and he’s thinking “are you still the emcee?”

Figures. There will never be a Macy Moore-Dylan Braun romance. Never.

“I said I would, so I will,” I hear myself say.

“Good.” He smiles, hesitates, then steps toward the door.

I grab my house keys and walk out with Dylan.

“Which way you heading?”

I motion. “Right there. One door down and over.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“Thanks again for coming down,” I say when we stop at the edge of Mrs. Woodward’s walkway.

“Thanks for having me.” He reaches for my hand. I’m trembling from the cold, or perhaps his touch, but either way if I speak my teeth will clatter like old bones. He hugs me for a good long second, kisses my forehead and says, “I’ll see you soon.”

I nod and say something clever like “Mmm-hmm.” Does he realize the power he has over me?

He steps off the sidewalk and disappears into the darkness.

“Mrs. Woodward, please let me take you to the emergency room or call 911.”

“No, sweetie. No.”

“All right, but listen to me, woman…” I wag my finger. “I’m calling your doctor Monday morning, making an appointment and carting you there myself.”

She chuckles at me. “All right. My doctor’s number is on that notepad by the phone.” She reclines against the back of the couch, breathing deeply between each word. I can tell she is in pain.

I’m at a loss here. I’ve huffed and puffed and stuck out my chinny-chin-chin, but she refuses to go to the E.R.

“Do you want some aspirin or Tylenol?” I have to do something.

She shakes her head. Her face is pale and lined and her hand is pressed between her ribs.

With nothing else to do, I sit next to her and whisper prayers. I know God heals, so I ask Him to do that for Mrs. Woodward. Finally she rises and excuses herself to the bathroom. “I need to vomit.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Really?”

She nods. “It helps.”

I aid her to the bathroom. “Do you need me to stay in here with you?”

She shuts the door on me, which I take as a no. I sit on the edge of her bed and wait. A few minutes later she emerges.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” she says. “I think I’ll curl up here, on my bed.”

“Good idea.” I fold back the covers and she climbs under, snuggling against her pillow.

I position myself next to her, propping my head against the old headboard, and slip my hand under hers. It’s warm and soft, like my grandma’s. She exhales without moaning, so I know she’s feeling better. After a few minutes she’s snoring.

I make sure she’s tucked in and click off the light. Gently I kiss her cheek. “Sweet dreams.”