by Rachel Hauck
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 concentrating 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 navigating 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 thin
k 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 asking 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.
Chapter Six
“Macy, 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.