by Rachel Hauck
She tells me the news of our community, The Gables, and assures me she’s had no more stomach episodes.
“Nevertheless, you need to see your doctor.” I pop the last cookie into my mouth. I’m worried about her. Regal and lovely, she also seems fragile and frail.
“Perhaps, dear. We shall see.”
Did I say fragile and frail? Forget it. She’s stubborn and feisty.
At eleven-thirty she thanks me for the tea and announces she must go.
“Thank you for coming over.” I escort her to the door, realizing that in the three years I’ve lived here, I’ve never invited her inside until tonight.
“Your home is lovely, Macy.” I notice she shakes slightly when she speaks.
(Mental note 4: be a better neighbor, get Mrs. Woodward to the doctor, second reminder to rejoin the gym, find a place to write down dumb mental notes.)
I watch her walk home, making sure she’s safe before locking my front door and flipping off the porch light. Such an odd visit—no purpose, no reason. Just for company.
My heart is content as I wash my face, slip into my nightshirt and crawl into bed. Thinking of the Single Saved Sisters, my grocery-aisle epiphany and Mrs. Woodward’s visit, I’m reminded of the good things in life. I’ve been missing them for too long. I poured everything I had into Chris and Casper. Now I’m emotionally and spiritually bankrupt.
Clicking on my bedside lamp, I reach for my Bible. It’s covered in dust, an embarrassing discovery. I run for a damp cloth.
Has it been that long since I read my Bible? That’s like Christianity 101. I hop back into bed and flip to the verse Pastor Gary used Sunday morning at Beauty Community Church.
Isaiah 61:3. “To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes.”
I close my eyes and slip down under the covers. Change is in the wind. What, when, where, why and how? I’m not sure. But I’m ready for the path of beauty. I set my Bible aside and click out the light.
“Thanks, Lord, for Your love and patience, and that I still have a job. Thanks for my home and car.” I close my eyes, fading. “For the Single Saved Sisters, for Mrs. Woodward and for simple things like food—”
I bolt up in the darkness. Food. Supermarket. I scramble out of bed and tumble to the floor, my foot caught in the sheets. My groceries are still in the bags on the counter. And I bought ice cream!
Mike pops his head around my office door. “S-o-o-o, Macy…”
I eye him over my laptop. Nothing that starts out “S-o-o-o, Macy” is ever good.
Several weeks have passed since my Atlanta trip and I’ve adjusted well, if I say so myself, to my new role at Casper.
Not much has changed, really, other than that I report to Mike and he reports to Roni. Since he’s so clueless about how to manage anything but his TiVo machine, much less a customer service team, I graciously assist. I could be pigheaded about it—he and Roni deserve it—but in the end that will only make me look bad and there is enough of that going on already.
People stop talking when I pass by in the hall. Sometimes they meet my gaze and smile with sympathy. I hate that expression the most. I’d rather be the target of their gossip.
But seeing Mike in my office makes me churn with suspicion. I haven’t seen him ride off with Roni again and I’m glad I don’t have any more of those scenes added to my arsenal.
“What can I do for you?” I ask in my most professional tone.
“I put a couple of trips on your schedule. Suddenly the sales team is frantic for W-Book installations.”
“We knew it’d be a hit.”
“It’ll put Casper & Company on the map.”
“Kyle Casper gets what he wants.” I finish the e-mail I was typing and click Send.
Kyle, a contemporary of Bill Gates, seethes to this day that Bill beat him to the market with his everyman’s computer company. Then he invested a chunk of change in search-engine technology and spent a night in hospital with heart palpitations when the Google guys launched their search engine six months before the Casper engine was ready. He had to scrap the whole project.
“Check your schedule. Let me know if you have questions.” Mike pounds his palm with his pen.
I double click on the shortcut to the company Intranet to check our schedule.
“I might need some vacation days.” There’s Dad’s launch party, and the reunion, though I haven’t decided if I’m going to either yet.
“Oh?”
I glare up at him. “I still get vacation, don’t I?”
“Um, well, I can check with Roni, but I’m sure you do.”
I feel a little sick to my stomach as the schedule opens. I find my name and check out my assignments. Lovely. Just lovely. Two weeks in Smallville, Kansas, another two in Podunk, Mississippi, and a week in Desert Town, Nevada.
I snap my head up. Mike continues to stand in the doorway. “And I get all the small towns because…”
“Just worked out that way.”
Yeah, right, it just worked out that way. Who’s he kidding? I see New York, L.A., Portland, Dallas, Seattle, St. Louis on the schedules of less senior people. Don’t I get some credit for hanging around for ten years?
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Mike—or Roni—was trying to get rid of me. Do they know I saw them out the window that day?
No. Besides, it’s all innocent, right? Roni promoted Mike because she wants someone to control. He’s got more loops for puppet strings than Pinocchio.
After Mike walks away, I study the schedule for a swap possibility. Aleta is going to New York City when I’m going to Desert Town, Nevada.
I dial her office. “Aleta, have I got a deal for you.”
“What?” She sounds skeptical.
I’m hoping my rank as her former boss holds clout. “How about you take Nevada, I’ll take New York?” Decisive. Bold. One would think I’m still in charge.
She laughs in my ear. “Are you kidding me? I have tickets to a Broadway show.”
“Come on.” I’m not above begging. “Do your old boss a favor.”
“Okay.”
My heart lightens. “Great.”
“But you have to give me your BMW.”
I slap the receiver to the cradle. I dial Mick next. His Portland trip fits my schedule just perfectly. He answers, “I’ll do it for your Beemer. And you have to have dinner with me.”
“Not in a million years.”
Mick was my last option. I’m stuck. I exit the schedule. Life on the road is bad enough, but life in one-horse towns is pure torture.
I have the urge to vent. I check the time. Five-thirty. The Single Saved Sisters are gathering tonight and I’m ready to unload.
Chapter Ten
With the workday technically over, I launch Monster.com and create an account. No harm in posting my résumé, right? And where’s Peyton Danner’s card? I dig in my laptop bag for her card.
A light knock outside my door interrupts my Monster mission. “Yes?” I look up, dropping Peyton’s card next to my laptop.
A handsome phone guy stands in my doorway. I sit up straight, minimize the Web page and toss my hair over my shoulder. I hope I look beautiful despite feeling rather obtuse.
“Excuse me, but I need to check your phone.” He steps into my office.
“Please, do.” I shove my phone to the edge of the desk. He’s really handsome. A manly man. Like a young Viggo Mortensen.
I go back to my computer and launch the Monster page, create an account and watch Phone Guy in my peripheral vision. He looks familiar. Wouldn’t that be the corniest line of all time? Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
With a click of this and switch of that, he finishes whatever business he had with my phone. “All set.”
Already? Macy, hurry. Think of something to say. “Have we met?” I blurt out. Blah! Not cool. Too desperate.
“You were at Beka and Rick Gainer’s wedding.” He shifts his attention from the phone to me for a second.
<
br /> Of course. “We ran into each other in the buffet line.” I recall. “I spilled punch on your meatballs.” I laugh.
He flashes a shy smile before turning to his toolbox. “I suppose you did.”
“Right.” Not how I want him to remember me. The punch slosher.
“It was nice seeing you again.” He lingers for a moment. Is he waiting for me to do something, say something?
“So, the phone’s all set?”
“All set.”
“Are you sure?”
He chuckles. “Positive.”
Okay, so I insult the man’s integrity and work ethic. That’s not worse than dousing his food with red punch, is it? Of course it is.
“Can I go?”
I sink down to my chair. “Sure. Thanks for…fixing my phone.
He disappears into the hall. I slap my hand to my forehead. Brilliant, Mace.
An hour later the phone rings.
“Macy Moore.”
“Macy, it’s Beka Gainer.” Her voice is airy and sweet, like always.
I sit forward. “Beka, hello.” Odd that she’s calling so soon after Phone Guy left my office. “How are things at the law offices of Gainer & Gainer?”
“Pretty good for newlyweds going into practice together.”
I grin. “As long as you don’t kill each other.”
“That’s the goal. He keeps to his tax law, I keep to corporate. And we never bring work home.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I know she did not call to discuss her law practice, so I wait.
“I had an interesting call a few minutes ago from Austin Ramirez.”
Ah! Austin Ramirez. “What did he say?” I drop my head against the back of the chair.
“Apparently you made quite an impression on him,” she says in a singsong, I-know-something-you-don’t-know voice.
“Yeah, we had a nice…chat.”
“He was asking me all about you. He asked for your number, but I wanted to check with you first. Are you still dating that guy?”
That guy. I lift my head. “No, I’m not dating Chris anymore. Austin wants my number?”
“He doesn’t date much, Macy, so you must have really made an impression on him. He’s very particular.”
We verify home, office and cell, then say goodbye, promising to get together for lunch soon. We know we won’t, but it makes us feel good to pretend.
I work until six forty-five on the Holloway proposal. It required a second review after Mike added his recommendations.
Tonight the Single Saved Sisters are meeting in the mall at seven for dinner. Adriane had a hankering for Barney’s Coffee and Asian Chow.
I shut down my laptop. So Austin wanted my number. I wonder if he’s called already. With my heart fluttering, I check my home answering machine. No messages. I double-check to make sure my cell phone is on and that the battery is charged.
Sigh. I grab my bag and click off my office light. I’m sure he’ll call. Right. Later. He’s probably busy.
Of course he’s busy. I like my men to be busy. He’ll call. I’m sure he will.
In the food court Tamara spots me and points to our saved table. She and Adriane are in line at Asian Chow buying our dinners and Lucy is at the Barney’s window.
I stand in line for a large Diet Coke to go with my garlic chicken and fried rice.
Once we are all seated and Tamara has offered thanks for our food, I lightly clap my hands to get their attention.
“I have news.”
“Good or bad?” This from Adriane. “It’s been mostly bad from you lately.”
Snarl, she’s right. “Good news. Austin Ramirez called Beka for my number.”
“Girl, no way. He’s gorgeous.”
“When did you see him? Have you been holding out on me?”
“Who’s Austin Ramirez?”
Lucy, Tamara and I gawk at Adriane. Tamara snaps her hands in front of Adriane’s face. “On the count of three, wake up and behold, life.”
Adriane spears a teeny miniature piece of chicken. She’s convinced there are fewer calories in smaller chunks. “Your sarcasm is really getting to me, Tamara.”
Lucy takes over. “Austin is that hunky Latino from Beka and Chuck’s wedding, A. You remember him. All the girls wanted to sit with him, but he picked the bachelor’s table.”
“So, he called you?” Adriane looks at me.
“Well, no, not exactly. But Beka said he wants to call me.”
Adriane lifts her chin. “Ah, so there’s really nothing to be excited over.”
“Well, no, not really.” And her point is?
Tamara hooks an arm around our friend’s shoulders. “I’m sorry for, you know, the sarcasm.”
Adriane looks over at her with a small smile. “I know. Look, you guys, I want to behold life again, but I can’t seem to get past the hurt of Travis.” Adriane reaches across for my napkin and dabs under her eyes.
“You’ll get past it.” Tamara brushes Adriane’s bangs away from her eyes. “Take all the time you need. And when I get too mouthy, just slap me or something. Gently.”
We laugh the laugh of relief. I get up for a fresh stack of napkins. We seem to be going through ours tonight.
“I know what your problem is, Adriane,” I say, plopping down the napkins.
“What?” She peels a napkin from the pile.
“You just haven’t met the right man.”
Tamara jabs her fork in my direction. “You’re right, Macy.”
“How’s meeting the right man going to fix my trust problem?” Adriane wads up her napkin and reaches for another.
I glance at Lucy before explaining. “Look, Luce and I have a friend back home, Emily. Beautiful girl. The kind with porcelain skin and sky-blue eyes.”
“Lovely person,” Lucy interjects.
I go on. “Guys flocked around her in high school and college. She’d go out with them one time, then dump ’em, breaking their hearts. When they passed her in the hall or across campus, she’d turn up her nose.”
Lucy takes up the tale. “Then she met Greg. One date and she knew.”
Adriane smiles. “She met the right one.”
“Exactly.” I pound the mall table. “They were engaged five months later and now they have three of the cutest little kids ever.”
“When you meet the man God has for you, the trust issue won’t be an issue,” Lucy says.
Adriane shoves the tiny cuts of chicken around her plate. “There’s no Emily, is there?”
Lucy and I gape at her. “Of course there’s an Emily.”
Adriane looks directly into Lucy’s eyes. “Emily who?”
Lucy, for all her reporter savvy, stammers, “Ah, Em-Emily Finkenstadt.”
I laugh, which blows the last lid on our cover. I flick Lucy in the arm. “Finkenstadt? That’s the best you could do?”
“I read it on a police blotter today. Adriane tricked me.”
I confess. “So we made it up, Addy. You think you’re the only storyteller in the group?”
“Yeah.” Lucy hoists her nose in the air. “We can make stuff up, too.”
Adriane shakes her head and laughs softly. “I guess you can.” She looks at us with gratitude. “Thank you, though. I hear what you’re saying. I just need trust in God, not myself.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Tamara says. “But, I gotta tell you what’s bothering me, ladies.”
We lean to listen. I anticipate one of Tamara’s esoteric conclusions about life and love, some sage snippet that I can ponder for the next few days.
“Why is it when I gain a pound or two it goes straight to my inner thighs?” Tamara smacks her hand on the top of her leg. “My jeans rub together—zip, zip, zip—when I walk.”
She is dead serious. Her confession and expression are so comical we burst out laughing.
“You think I’m joking?” Tamara hops up and walks around our table. Sure enough, her thighs rub together with a zip, zip, zip sound.
“Wh
atever you do, don’t buy corduroy,” Lucy advises with a cackle.
Tamara hasn’t let me down. I will ponder that sage snippet for the rest of the week, and laugh. We may be a sad lot of single, desperate sisters, but we can laugh.
Just as we settle down a bit and start talking about dessert, my cell phone chirps. I spill the contents of my bag trying to get to it before voice mail picks up.
“Macy Moore.”
“Is it him?” Tamara asks in a very loud whisper. I shush her with a finger to my lips.
“Macy, hi, it’s Austin Ramirez.” He sounds nervous, but I like the resonance of his voice.
“How are you?” I walk away from the group, since they are about to explode with squeals. Good grief. You’d think I was the ugly duckling getting a call from the prince.
“It was good to see you today,” he starts.
“Yes, good to see you, too.”
Pause. Hollow silence. Finally, “I—I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner.”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Saturday at six?” Decisive. How refreshing.
“Great.”
“I’ll call you Friday to confirm and get directions.”
“Perfect. Talk to you then.”
“Have a nice evening.”
“You, too.”
I push End and turn to the Single Saved Sisters ready for their squeals and yelps. Instead, they glare at me with sour faces.
“What was that? A business deal?” Tamara curls her lip in disgust.
“What? No. We were making a date.”
“Sounded like a sales call to me,” Lucy observes.
“If that’s dating, I’m content to stay out of the game,” Adriane laments.
“You guys. Come on. It’s our first real conversation. He was clear, decisive and courteous. What did you expect?”
“Amor,” Adriane breathes.
“Shiny eyes,” Lucy concludes.
“Blushing cheeks,” Tamara adds.
I shake my head. Lousy dreamers.
Chapter Eleven
I wake up Saturday with two words on my brain. Date day. Macy Moore has a day-ate. It’s a beautiful Saturday and only five short weeks since my devastating dump by Chris. He’s well on his way to becoming a distant memory.