Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

“Scout’s honor.”

  “Next time I’m in Beauty, I’ll have to check it out.”

  “You should.”

  Well, I’m stumped. Since I don’t know where else to go with the pond thing, I steer back to the reunion. “So, in light of all I just confessed, you still want me to be the emcee?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His confidence gives me courage. If my classmates whisper behind their hands about the Most Likely To Succeed failing, then so be it. Whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger.

  Whoever came up with that slogan obviously wasn’t dying at the time.

  “Good. And, hey, just to clarify, you know what I meant when I said they’re biting in Beauty, right?”

  “Just to clarify, why don’t you tell me what you meant?” I go over to the refrigerator with my water glass. This ought to be good.

  “Me, perhaps.”

  I drop my glass. It crashes to the floor, but doesn’t break. Water runs under my bare feet. If I’d had socks on, he’d have blown them off. “You?”

  “Yeah, me. But we can talk about that some other time. Just wanted you to know there’s at least one fish in Beauty waiting to be hooked.”

  I’m almost undone by his brazen honesty. “Good to know. What kind of worms does the fish like?”

  He laughs. “Ones that come from Melbourne.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Are you considering your dad’s partnership offer?”

  I swallow hard. “You know about that?”

  “Your dad and I golf once a week together.”

  Dad golfs? How did I not know that? “You and Dad?”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  “What do you think I should do?” I hadn’t planned on asking him, but now that I have, I really want his input.

  “Ah, Macy, don’t ask me. I’m prejudiced.”

  Can a girl fall in love over the phone? I think I am. “Tell me anyway. I want to know.”

  “Return to Beauty, Macy.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said return to Beauty.”

  His answer raises the hair on my arms, and goose bumps run down my spine. “A friend of mine said the exact same thing to me last night.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  A lightning bolt, a clap of thunder? How about a shooting star or maybe a rare comet bearing my name?

  Adriane tells me to return to Beauty at the beginning of my fast, and now Dylan says it at the end? More than mere coincidence?

  But where’s the booming confirmation to move to Chicago? Hmm? Come on, God.

  Returning to Beauty, a place I couldn’t wait to leave, would be like doing a mile on the treadmill when I know I can do two, maybe three. Jogging a mile is good, some days downright amazing. But pushing my body to jog two is an accomplishment. Jogging three is outstanding. Chicago is like the three-mile jog.

  “Macy?” Dylan calls me, his voice full of soothing intonations.

  “I’m here. Just thinking.”

  “Are you thinking you can’t move back to a place you couldn’t wait to leave?”

  Creepy. How does he do that? “Well, sorta. I don’t want to take the easy way. Chicago is unbelievable, Dylan. My dream job. If I move back to Beauty, am I quitting?”

  “Quitting what?”

  “My life. My dreams.” I stoop to pick up the water glass.

  “What dreams do you think you’re giving up, Macy?” He leads me, draws me out.

  “Life beyond Beauty. Being a successful businesswoman.” I grab a wad of paper towels and mop up the floor.

  “Maybe it’s time to see life from Beauty.”

  “Maybe.” I toss the wet paper towel in the trash.

  “Look, focus on what God is saying now. Life happens in stages. Sometimes you’re running at Mach ten, other times you’re sitting on the front porch watching the sun set.” He sounds so experienced and wise. “And Mace, from what I can tell, running Moore Gourmet Sauces would make you a very successful businesswoman.”

  “Good point.” The more he talks, the better I feel. “Thanks for your sound advice.”

  “Anytime.”

  Dylan’s advice echoes over the valleys of my mind as I grab my wallet and car keys.

  My heart and head are all over the place by the time I get to the grocery store. I couldn’t be more wired than if I stuck my finger in a light socket and drank a gallon of coffee. I’m in the checkout line with three gallons of ice cream (indecision reigns), two cases of Diet Coke, a bag of celery and a bag of apples (cancels the guilt from the ice cream) when Lucy rings my cell.

  “Where are you?”

  “Supermarket. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “What’s taking you so long?” In the background Jack asks her what she wants to eat.

  I give her the quick explanation of my call with Dylan, to which she responds, “Ooh, la, la.”

  “Stop,” I retort. “I have to run home first. I bought ice cream.”

  “Good grief, girl. We’ll talk when you get here.”

  Over dinner, Lucy and Jack come to the same conclusion as Adriane and Dylan. Return to Beauty.

  I sigh and snap the lid off my chicken salad. “Chicago is too incredible to turn down.” I’m being stubborn, I know.

  What I need is challenging what I want.

  “If you ask me, Beauty is too incredible to turn down. You have way more opportunities there, Mace. The six-figure salary can’t buy love, or peace, or contentment.”

  I concede with a soft “Maybe.”

  Lucy grins. “Sometimes it’s okay to let your heart decide. It’s not about appearances, or climbing the corporate ladder or living up to your reputation. Say yes to your heart. Return to your first love.”

  I get what she’s saying. It’s what she told me months ago when Chris and I broke up. Returning to my hometown will enable me to return to a deeper relationship with Jesus. The rest is gravy.

  By eleven, I’m exhausted, stuffed and ready for bed. I pick up my journal from the day I tried to get a tan and burned myself to a crisp. I open to the list, the list.

  Things I want in a husband

  Committed to Jesus

  Handsome (at least to me.)

  Sense of humor

  Sense of seriousness

  Kind

  Rich

  Poor

  Somewhere in between rich and poor

  Love fast food

  Love my family

  Nice teeth (I have a thing about teeth. Ever since junior high hygiene class.)

  Loyal (Chris was not)

  Smart; common sense

  My best friend

  I dig for a pen in my nightstand drawer. Reading the list one more time, out loud, I add another item. In big bold letters: “Dylan Braun.”

  Shocked by my self-confession, I rip out the page, and there is my other list.

  Things I want in a job

  Attila-free zone

  Mike-free zone

  Respect

  Respect (worth repeating)

  Opportunity for growth

  Challenging and creative environment

  More money

  Good money (as long as the work is satisfying)

  Cozy office

  Decision maker

  God first, work second

  Oh, wow. I’d forgotten about this list. I read it again. It sounds way more like Beauty than Chicago.

  Okay, God, what are You saying to me? Do I return to Beauty? Please…clap of thunder, bolt of lightning here.

  I kid you not. In the distance I hear the rumble of thunder. I scramble out of bed and peek out my window, clutching a pillow. It’s dark, I can’t see much, but the stars do not twinkle along the horizon.

  Somber, I crawl back into bed, the choice of Chicago or Beauty ricocheting around in my head. I’ve pondered this decision so much I ache. Yet somehow I know that it is mine to make. Chicago if I want. Beauty if I want. God in His loving kindnes
s will back me up either way.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sunday morning I back out of the garage on my way to church and see Drag perched on my front stoop. At least, I think it’s Drag. I do a double take.

  His long blond locks are buzzed and styled with just the right amount of gel. The white oxford he’s wearing is crisp and tucked into a pair of dark dress slacks. And he’s got the world’s biggest Bible tucked under his arm.

  Grinning, I slide down my window with a touch of a button. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to church with you.” He passes by the back of my car to the passenger door, his dress shoes thudding against the cement.

  I’ve never, ever seen him like this. “When did you get home?” I shift into First and drive west over the causeway.

  “Last night.”

  I reach out and pat his hand. “You look fantastic. It’s good to see you.”

  “Good to be seen.”

  I enjoy introducing him around church, because he’s proof that God is a God of miracles. It’s funny how quickly we forget that fact.

  During worship, Drag belts out each song at the top of his lungs. At first I’m a little embarrassed. His timing is off and his raspy voice is not in the right key. But his noise is joyful and before long, I’m caught up in his enthusiasm.

  After the service, a group of us troop over to Bennigan’s for lunch. Several of the younger single ladies invite themselves along, giggling over the “new guy.”

  While we’re ordering waters and iced teas, Drag’s gaze catches mine and I suck in a deep breath. His eyes are so blue. I think it’s my imagination, but he looks remarkably like Brad Pitt.

  He whispers in my ear, “That’s why I grew out my hair.”

  I wrinkle my face and squint at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I look like Brad Pitt when my hair’s cut.”

  “Really?” I hide behind my menu, embarrassed to be caught staring. I mutter, “I guess, maybe, yeah, a little.”

  Poor Drag. He’s doomed. If I noticed the BP look, so did the single chicks. They’ll be circling like hungry sharks.

  In the middle of lunch my cell chirps. Dad is on the other end. “Hey, Pop, what’s up?”

  “Can you come up to Beauty?”

  “Um, why? When?”

  “Today?”

  “Now?” My stomach lurches. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’ll see you when you get here.”

  At a quarter to midnight I cruise past Beauty’s city limits and down Jasmine. The shops are quiet and dark, asleep until Monday awakens them for a new business day.

  There’s Jasmine’s Gallery, Mabel’s Country Christmas & Crafts, the post office and courthouse and all the other quaint shops that make Beauty Beauty. Freda’s Diner is at the end of the row right as I turn down Laurel for Mom and Dad’s. Her outside deck, tucked away under the pine and oaks, is a dreamland with a thousand tiny white lights.

  I slow down as I round the corner. I remember when Freda hung those lights ten or eleven Christmases ago. Every April she says she needs to take them down, but every August she says, “What’s the use—Christmas is just around the corner.”

  She inspired me one year to think about stringing lights around the perimeter of my back porch. I bought a slew of tiny white lights at an after-Christmas sale. Six years later they’re still in the box, in the dark, under my bed.

  That screams volumes about my life. I’m so preoccupied with my pursuits, with corporate ladders and whatnot, I never took time to string pretty white lights around a fifteen-by-twenty-foot porch.

  I press gently on the gas and shift gears. In the whole vast scheme of things, what does it matter? Does it have an impact upon my destiny? Probably not. But it has an impact on my soul. I must take time for the beautiful things like white lights dangling from my porch ceiling, investing in elderly neighbors and millionaires masquerading as surfer dudes.

  Beauty, I conclude, is about discovering contentment and realizing with every part of my being Jesus is my soul’s satisfaction. I can find beauty in Chicago. I can make beauty happen. Plan, schedule, live by the PDA.

  I turn onto Laurel Street. Five houses down on the right, my parents’ home is lit up like the aurora borealis. I roll into the driveway and prepare to enter the zone.

  “Macy.” Dad steps off the veranda. “Welcome.” He reaches for my single bag.

  “You guys are up late,” I say. This is spooky. The last time my parents were up this late on a work night, Cole came screaming into the world.

  “Waiting for you. Come on in—your mom is making cookies.”

  “At midnight?” I trail Dad from the front foyer through the family room into the kitchen with a big question mark on my brain.

  “Hi, Macy, darling.” Mom motions to me with a spatula in her mitt-covered hand. “Earl, take her suitcase on up to her room.”

  “Good idea, Kitty.” Earl trots away like a good little bellman.

  “Would you like some cookies? They’re fresh from the oven.”

  I perch on a stool at the breakfast bar. “S-s-sure.”

  She slips a couple of chocolate chip, peanut butter chip cookies onto a plate.

  “How ’bout some milk?” she asks. “Oh no, you’re a Diet Coke girl.”

  “How’s it going in here?” Dad enters with a clap of his hands.

  “Earl, can you run out to the garage? Get some Diet Cokes for Macy.”

  “Sure thing. Back in a jiff.” He disappears through the side garage door and returns a few seconds later. “You want a glass with ice, Mace?”

  “Hold it!” I hold up my hands. “Who are you people and what have you done with my parents?”

  “Oh, Macy.” Mom chortles and shushes me with a wave of her spatula-wielding hand.

  “No, seriously. What are you two doing up so late? Dad, don’t you have to work tomorrow? Mom baking cookies at midnight? Growing up, you wouldn’t let me microwave popcorn after eight.”

  “Things change.” She slides another sheet of cookies into the oven.

  “I’ll say.” I bite hard into a warm cookie. “But mutate into weird? I don’t know.”

  “Here ya go, kiddo.” Dad hands me a glass of ice and pops open a can of soda. He perches on the stool next to me and asks Mom for his own plate of cookies, which she supplies.

  I take a long sip of my drink and consider my next move. If these people are in fact my parents, and not aliens, how am I to respond to this? Usually they are responding to me, my idiosyncrasies, my oddball notions.

  “How was your drive?” Dad shoves a whole cookie into his mouth, then goes to the fridge.

  “Fine.” I watch him take a swig directly from the milk jug. That confirms it. An alien has replaced my dad.

  “Oh, Earl, here. Use this glass.” Mom shoves a tumbler into his hand and plants a kiss on his lips.

  I almost slip off the stool. A public display of affection? “What is going on here?” I pound the countertop.

  “Eat your cookies.” Dad alights on the stool next to me.

  “Is one of you sick, dying, ravaged with cancer?”

  “What?” Mom stands up from where she’s bending over the oven, shuffling cookie sheets around.

  “Cancer?” Dad echoes.

  “Yes, cancer.” Have they gone deaf, too? “Either of you dying in six months?”

  “No, no, darling. No one is sick or dying. At least, not that we know of.” Mom comes over and pats me on the arm as if that news would be the last straw.

  “Then why did you call me up here? Why are you making cookies at midnight and running around like teenagers?”

  Dad’s hearty chuckle rumbles from his chest and Mom tee-hees behind her mitted hand.

  “Should we talk now or wait until the morning?” Dad addresses Mom.

  “We can wait until morning.”

  “Absolutely not,” I protest. “Are you trying to kill me? You made me drive all the way up here, so you’re gonna tell me,
now.”

  “Let’s just put it on the table, Kitty.” Dad motions for her to pacify me with more cookies.

  “Whatever you want, Earl.” Mom drops a chewy, gooey cookie onto my plate.

  “Out with it, Earl,” I say, tipping my head and eyeing him from under my brows.

  He claps his hands together. “We want you to come up and take over the business.”

  I choke and swallow. “That’s what this is all about?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I’d pray about it.” Their gazes are locked on me and I’m feeling a little squeezed.

  “And?” Mom asks, her voice like a first soprano.

  “I don’t know.” Am I yelling? ’Cause it sounds to me as if I’m yelling.

  “How did the Chicago interview go?” Dad inquires.

  “Great, actually. They offered me a ton of money and a grab bag of corporate perks.”

  “I see.” A shadow of disappointment falls over his face.

  “What’s the rush about the business, anyway, Dad? You’re not going to retire, are you?”

  “Your mother and I found out today we have an opportunity to go to England.”

  Mom’s eyes light up like a firefly, her round cheeks rosy from the heat of the oven.

  “So? Go to England. Sharon can manage the business for a few weeks.” I pick up the last cookie on my plate, my absolute last cookie. The five I just ate will be moving into my hip area any moment now and it’ll take a month of Sundays to jog them off.