Georgia on Her Mind (9 page)

I
t’s a Monday in mid-April when I head for my Casper office, having survived a week at Carrington’s Western Warehouse.

Amos gave me a parting gift—a pair of luscious deep red leather boots. He said, “Macy, I trust the good Lord knew what He was doing when He gave you brown hair, but if you ask me, you’re a redhead at the roots.”

So this morning I felt a little feisty as I jerked on my Carrington boots. How do you like me now, Attila the Hun?

Humming a chorus I heard on the radio, I thump around the corner to my office, thinking ahead to tonight’s dinner with Lucy and Jack.

Suddenly Jillian jumps in front of me.

I bang into the wall trying to get out of her way. “Jillian!”

“Sorry to scare you, Macy.” As always, she’s hiding behind a manila folder. I take a deep breath and start walking again.

Jillian walks backward in front of me. “Welcome back. How was Kansas?”

I stop. “It was a one-horse town, and the horse recently died.”

She tee-hees. Something’s up. “Little bird, what have you been up to now?”

“Me? Nothing.” Her expression is strained and out of shape. “Gorgeous boots, Macy! Did you get those at Carrington?”

“Yes, and you’re not getting these.” I step around her. “You get the Guccis.”

“Sure, whatever.” She shuffles in front of me, blocking my path again.

“Okay, out with it.” I stare down at her.

“There’s something you should know.”

“Obviously. Did Roni fire me?”

“Oh, no,” she says with a giggle. “She’s not that crazy. Just paranoid.”

“Then what?” I push past her.

“Your office has been moved.” There, she said it.

“What?” I ask, as if I really need her to repeat it. I heard her loud and clear the first time. “Where?”

“Over…there.” She motions with her pen to a black hole beyond her shoulder.

I peer around her. “Can you be more specific?”

She twists her arm back and points down the hall. “Down there. At the end.”

“I didn’t even know we had offices in this part of the building.” I’m trying to be cool about this. I am, but to what Borg cube have they banished me? I have Carrington red boots. I refuse to be assimilated.

“We do now,” she says.

“Lead on.” I motion to the “wherever” of my office.

We walk and we walk and we walk. This is like the opposite end of the universe. I resist the idea that I’m the unwanted stepchild and try to maintain professional dignity in front of Jillian, but I admit, my bottom lip quivers.

“Did Mike move into my office?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Jillian stops in front of the janitor’s closet. “Here you go.” She steps aside for me to pass.

“The janitor’s closet?” I shriek.

“No, there.” She points to a second door.

The door creaks when I shove it open. Sure enough, my stuff is crammed into this hole-in-the-wall. Literally.

“This was the only office available,” Jillian explains, hiding half of her mouth behind the folder.

“This pillbox qualifies as an office? There are no overhead lights!”

“I’ll call maintenance.” She dashes away.

Light from the hall filters into the tiny room. I step inside with caution. I let my laptop case slip from my shoulder to the floor and drop my purse on the desk. It plops onto a big pile of loose papers and topples to the floor, taking half the stack with it.

Great. Just great.

My too-large desk is wedged into a too-small office. My floor lamp is tucked into a corner and my retro ’60s chairs sit on either side of the filing cabinet—which I don’t need anymore.

There’s barely enough room to turn around, let alone work. Ten years of pictures, mugs, travel souvenirs and
knickknacks are strung all over the office floor, along the wall and in the chairs.

What a mess. Should’ve dropped most of it off in the room next door.

I inch around to the minifridge. What this moment needs is a nice cold Diet Coke. I crack my knee against the desk’s edge and yelp. Since I’m in outer space, I figure no one can hear me. So I yelp again.

I pop open the little door with the toe of my red boot. Warm air floats up and water sloshes all over my fine-leathered toe.

“Ah, no!” The smooth, beautiful top of my boot is awash with defrosted ice. “Drat.” Do what you will to me, but do not harm my new red leather boots.

I stare at the fridge with my hands on my hips. When they moved it, they forgot to plug it in. Imbeciles. The iceberg wrapped around the minifreezer melted. I drop to my hands and knees, looking for a plug.

“Welcome back, Macy.”

I lift my head to see over the mountain of junk on my desk and hit the edge. I don’t yell this time, but grit my teeth and press my palm against the pain.

Mike Perkins stands in the doorway. “Hi, Mike.” I crawl into my chair. My morning confidence and cheeriness are deflated.

“Veronica wanted my old office for a small conference room, so…” He steps inside, trying to act casual, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Can’t ever have too many conference rooms,” I murmur. I dig around under the pile on my desk for the tissues. I need to dab the water from my boot.

“How was your trip?”

“Grand.” I wipe my boot dry, wad up the tissue and toss it to my trash basket—which is not there, so the blob falls to the ground. My head throbs from the desk banging and I desperately need my wake-up Diet Coke.

“We haven’t had time to reroute your phone number yet.”

“Okay.” It’s all I have heart to say. I feel nervous, as if I might cry.

Mike motions to the piles of stuff on my desk, on the floor and along the wall. “I guess I’ll leave you to this.”

“Thanks.” Ten years of my life with Casper & Company piled into a cubicle next to the janitor’s closet.

By midmorning I’m squared away. Maybe it is out of spite, maybe out of discouragement, perhaps out of weariness, but I shove the pile on my desk to the bottom of the trash bag I grabbed from next door. Copies of personnel reports, old documents, customer records, five-year-old tech notes, outline of my plans for the department in the New Year, all trash.

I don’t need it. Don’t want it. I know full well why I’m in this dinky, dank room. Roni is mad, threatened over Peyton Danner’s call. Well, sticking me in the Borg cube isn’t going to discourage me.

Getting rid of stuff is liberating. Should have done it long ago. When all the junk is cleared away, I find the laptop’s docking station and pop my computer in and boot up.

I discover my new office has no network connection. How am I supposed to work without a network?

I pick up the phone to call IT, but of course there is no dial tone. I have no phone. I have no network.

Laugh or cry, laugh or cry. Laugh. I should laugh. Suddenly a brilliant idea hits me. Pray, Macy. Pray for grace, for wisdom, for peace.

I close my eyes and put my lips into silent motion. I pray to stay focused on the beauty in my ashes—Jesus. I pray for grace. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I open my eyes, and I admit I’m slightly disappointed to see my prayers didn’t shatter the Casper walls.

Then Mike appears at my door again. “Call for you in my office.”

“Thanks.”

In my old office I pick up the blinking phone line. It’s Lucy.

“Macy, was that Mike?”

“Yes. It’s his phone now.”

“No-o-o-o!” she says in a deep voice.

“I’ll tell you about it later.” It’s creepy to be in my office, my old home, now permeated with Mike’s presence. “He’s got a framed picture of Lucy Lawless as Xena.”

Lucy laughs. “His poor wife.”

“Yes, on many levels.”

“Lunch at Steve’s Hoagies? One o’clock?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely.” As I hang up, Mike comes in and shuts the door. My heart lurches. Too many doors are shutting behind me, in front of me, all around me these days.

“Got a second?” He motions for me to sit.

“Sure.” An adrenaline surge causes my heart to race. I fold my hands in my lap so tight the ring on my right hand bites into my flesh.

Mike smiles as he searches his desk drawer for something.
This does not feel like a smiley moment. It’s awkward and weird. My gut is telling me, “Beware.”

Ooh, what if he’s heard all my rude comments about his Xena obsession?

(Mental note 1,001: keep mouth shut.)

My feisty, red-boot confidence from this morning and the peace I had from my prayer is gone.

“I have your review.” He pulls a paper from a legal-size envelope.

Ah, I
am
wrong. This
is
a big smiley moment. Now you’re talking, Mike. I’d forgotten it was review time. Well, isn’t this a nice boon to my day.

“As you know, things have changed around here.”

“Obviously,” I reply. I click my red heels together, thinking there’s nothing like a raise.

“Kyle, Roni and Dave Weiss feel that since your job change, your position does not warrant any more salary at this time.”

I’m on my feet. “What?” Hands on his desk, I glare down like a hungry vulture. “This raise isn’t about my supposedly
new
position. It’s about my last year’s performance. My overtime alone is worth a six-percent raise.”

Dave Weiss, our CFO, is supposed to be a friend of mine. I expected this from Roni, but not Dave. Not even Kyle. I gave him credit for having more integrity.

Mike hems and haws. I shouldn’t berate him—he’s simply following marching orders. How could Roni be so indignant about the headhunter when she knew this was coming?

He clears his throat and parrots the rehearsed answer. “You are a salaried employee. Overtime is part of the job.”

“Corporate baloney, Mike. Merit raises are also a part of the job. Salaried employee doesn’t mean abused employee.”

“Your current position doesn’t warrant any more money. You make one and a half times the highest-paid tech.”

Mike’s song and dance to the company tune resounds like a bad vaudeville routine.

I pound the desk. “Roni shoved me into this position. My raise should not reflect where I am now, but what I’ve done.”

“I hear you—”

“Do you, Mike? Do you really?”

“It is what it is, Macy.” He shuffles papers around.

It is what it is?
“What kind of answer is that?” I crack the heel of my boot against the floor.

Mike silently slips my performance evaluation across the desk and asks me to sign.

I burn a hole in the thing with a single glance. I can see it’s all filled out, without any of my input, and signed by the powers that be. A sticky yellow arrow reads “Sign Here” and points to my signature line at the bottom of the page.

I stab my finger on the cheesy arrow and say to Mike with a pound of conviction, “I’m not signing anywhere.”

“I can’t believe you.” Lucy shakes her head as we slide into a booth at Steve’s. We’ve ordered and paid. Now we wait for them to call our name.

“Lucy, the form was already filled out and signed. Like a prison sentence without trial.”

“They are your bosses.”

I make a face. “Bosses, not slave masters.”

“I guess that doesn’t excuse them from not doing it right.”

“My point exactly. I don’t have to sign if I don’t agree. And I don’t agree.” While ranting, I check my cell phone for messages. In the Borg cube I didn’t have cell reception, but I really want Peyton to call. Today of all days, I want Peyton to call.

“What are you going to do?” Lucy asks.

“Connect with Peyton Danner.” There are no messages or missed calls on my cell. “Right after lunch.”

“Do you feel right about that?”

I get Lucy’s subtle nudge. Is this where God is leading me? “Remember when I moved down here after college?”

She nods.

“I prayed and prayed, then finally a door opened and I leaped. Isn’t that the essence of faith?” I sound wiser than I feel.

“I suppose.” She smiles to remind me she’s for me. “It’s just sad to realize that this job search could change our lives forever.”

Lucy’s comment is sobering. “I know. But this situation at Casper is not working.”

“I agree. You’ve been at Casper too long already, but I don’t want you to move.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Casper lets me go.” I make air quotes around
lets me go.

“Then be faithful until they do.”

“It’s awful to feel this way about my job. After ten years, it boils down to this.”

“Let God defend you. He’ll take care of you.”

I smile. “I’m counting on it.”

“Macy!” The Steve’s Hoagies guy calls my name and tosses my chicken sandwich basket up on the counter.

“Lucy!” he belts out.

“I’ll get them,” I say.

When I return to the table we bow for a quick prayer before digging in.

Ignoring her sandwich, Lucy gushes, “Enough about you—let’s talk about me.” She’s beaming.

“All right. Talk.” I feel like eating instead of talking anyway. I brace for a flood of Jack this and Jack that to wash away the mire of my life’s trials. It’s good to see Jack Westin’s light in Lucy’s eyes.

“Macy,” she starts, “you’re looking at the new news desk assistant editor.”

I look up, my teeth buried in my chicken sandwich. She’s glowing and it isn’t even about Jack. “What?” I ask with my mouth full.

“I interviewed for the position before you went to Kansas. Remember? I competed against that
New York Post
reporter who just moved to Cocoa Beach.”

I nod, remembering. Between chews and swallows, I congratulate her. “Fabulous! Good for you.”

“I’m, like, dumbfounded. I can’t believe I got the job. I start next week. But brace yourself for this….”

If she says Jack asked her to marry him, I’ll scream. Right here. Right now. Promise. They’ve been dating for what—three, four weeks?

“I’m braced,” I say after fortifying myself with a slurp from my soda.

“The job is in a new salary category. I’m getting an eight-percent pay raise.”

I choke. “Eight percent. That’s incredible.”

“I’m in awe of what God is doing in my life. The publisher told me the salary on my way out the door to meet you for lunch.”

“Good for you.” I shove my half-eaten sandwich aside and fall against the back of the booth.