Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

“Not a few weeks,” Dad says. “Six months. At least.”

  “Six months?” I echo, flabbergasted. “You just signed a deal with The Food Connection and you want to leave the business?”

  “The Food Connection agreement has been in the works for a long time. I just saw it through.”

  I’m baffled. “What will you do for six months?”

  “Be missionaries,” Mom blurts out with a small squeal.

  “Since when did you want to be missionaries?”

  “We’ve been praying about what we should do in our senior years, after we retire. We don’t see ourselves playing shuffleboard in Florida or puttering around the house.”

  I laugh. “Me neither.”

  “Your mom’s been e-mailing her old friend Rita about a prayer ministry in England.”

  I hold up my hands. “Dad, there are prayer ministries in this country. Stay here and pray if that’s what you want to do.”

  “We thought of that.” Mom stands by Dad, her arm around his shoulders. “The ministry in England also shelters refugees from the Middle East. We want to be a part of that work. Rita called after church to tell us about a staff opening….”

  Dad takes up the story in his pragmatic, businessman’s voice. “Frankly, this is the only door that has opened to us. My spirit tells me it’s the right choice.”

  I sigh, actually a little envious of their confidence. “I’m proud of you. It takes guts to make such a major life change.”

  “But?” Dad reads my hesitation well.

  I slide off the stool. “I just can’t see myself moving back to Beauty.”

  Lucy’s, Adriane’s and Dylan’s advice, Return to Beauty is a distant reverberation in my head, like the thunder from the other night. I plug my internal ears.

  “Not what you pictured yourself doing at thirty-three?” Dad glances at Mom. “Macy, if you don’t want to come back, we understand. You do what the Lord calls you to do—that’s certainly what we’re doing. But we wanted to offer you the business first.”

  “First? Who’s second?”

  “Selling it.”

  “What? Sell Moore Gourmet Sauces?” I’m yelling now and I don’t care. He’s crazy. He can’t seriously consider selling his life’s work.

  Dad nods. “Sell it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I lie in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight peeks through my window and highlights certain aspects of my room. My Georgia pennant, a gold medal from the year the debate team won regionals, frayed pep-squad pom-poms from my junior year.

  I smile, remembering. I let Lucy talk me into the pep squad because I thought I’d see Dylan more—him being the star quarterback and all. The pep squad was the closest I’d ever get to being a cheerleader, so I gave it a go.

  Way too much stomping and clapping and shouting, “Go, go, go, Eagles!” for my taste.

  I stuck it out that year, but ran the other way when the pep squad’s draft team bounced my way the fall of my senior year. Life is just too short. It’s against natural law for a debate team member to moonlight on the pep squad. Besides, shouting “Dylan, Dylan, he’s our man…” did nothing to boost my esteem in his eyes. Or so I thought.

  Of course, umpteen years later I find out he did notice me, but did nothing about it. It’s odd to know how Dylan felt now that we are so far away from high school and college. I wonder how my life would be different if he had expressed his feelings for me back then.

  I sit up in bed, plump my pillow behind my back and recline against the headboard. In a way, I’m glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t be me, the person I am today. Weaknesses and failures aside, I like my life so far.

  My thoughts segue to Dad and Mom’s news. Moving to England, wanting me to take over the sauce business. The notion gnaws at the deepest part of me.

  Unable to stand the mental swirling, I get out of bed and click on the light. A soft white glow warms the room and the monsters of choice retreat under the bed.

  I pace. “Lord, Lord, Lord. What do I do here?”

  Waiting, I try to listen to my spirit. My head is no good to me now. The past few hours of mental debating warn me not to believe any thoughts I “hear.”

  “God, You speak in a still, small voice. Forget the thunderclaps and bolts of lightning. You have my attention. What do You want me to do? What do I need to do?”

  I sit on the floor, my back against the bed and I reach for my Bible. I don’t advocate spiritual roulette, but I take a chance and toss out a fleece. “Lord, let me open to Your answer for me. Your Word is my light.”

  I close my eyes, let my Bible fall open and jam my finger on a page. I hope it’s not a verse about the curse of Edom and the fall of Moab, or the recompense for the wicked.

  I glance down and read. “Your nose is like the tower of Lebanon which looks toward Damascus.”

  I laugh. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? I think for a sec, then flip over to the only verse resident in my mind at the moment. Isaiah 61. I skim down to verse three. “To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes.”

  What time is it? Is it too late to call Lucy? Surely she’s awake at…I squint at the clock. Yeah, surely she’s awake at 4:00 a.m. Not.

  Unable to distract myself with a call to Lucy, I talk to Jesus about the meaning of beauty for ashes.

  Several hours later I wake up to a tap, tap, tap on my bedroom door. I’m curled on the floor, hugging my open Bible.

  “Macy?” Dad sticks his head in the door.

  “Yep, come on in.” I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. I touch my hand to my hair. A rat’s nest, I can tell.

  “Did you sleep on the floor?” He steps inside and props his hand on the edge of my little-girl desk.

  “Long story.” I hate it when my hair looks like a rat’s nest.

  “I’m going over to the church. Want to come?”

  “Um, okay.”

  “Meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

  The image in the dresser mirror is not pretty. Hair ratted and frayed, ends flying away, mascara residue under my eyes as if I hadn’t bothered to wash my face before going to bed, which I did. Lovely. Just lovely.

  My outer self appears to be in disarray, but in a strange turn of events, my inner self is at peace, sensing resolve. I haven’t decided what to do yet, but my answer is on its way. I’m sure.

  Driving to church with Dad, I decide. Chicago. In the clear light of day it makes sense. Right? The Windy City. My kind of town, Chicago is. I’ll make it work. I’ll make time for friends, family and the beauty of the Lord.

  How can I turn down Myers-Smith? Macy Moore, Director, Myers-Smith Webware. Yes, that is the Macy Moore I want emceeing Beauty High’s class of 1991’s fifteen-year reunion.

  Holding my head high, I follow Dad into the sanctuary. Halfway down the aisle, I hear someone whisper my name. It’s Dylan. Oh, gag, I didn’t plan on seeing him here. I don’t need him mucking up my senses.

  “Sit.” He jerks me down into the pew.

  I have no idea where Dad snuck off to, but I’m betting he’s beseeching heaven on my behalf.

  “You’re a million miles away,” he says, his eyes searching mine. He smells wonderful, like—I don’t know—the morning breeze. Fresh and clean.

  “Chicago.” I dip my head, intent on praying and not furthering this conversation.

  “Still Chicago?”

  I peer up at him. “Yes.”

  “Did your dad talk to you?”

  I nod, but keep my head down.

  “And?”

  “Shh, I’m trying to pray.” I peek over and my gaze meets his. Bad move. Oh, bad move on my part. Orbs of greenish blue are gazing at me with an expression I can’t explain. My heart is moved and for ten or fifteen seconds I am clutched in his visual embrace.

  I break the magic by bowing to pray again, but it’s too late. All I see is Dylan’s face. All I sense is the warmth of his presence.

  He sits peacefully next to
me. This feels like the stance of a seasoned married couple, mature in love, grounded in mutual admiration.

  He leans my way. “Piper and Angus Purdy are selling off the second story of their old mansion. It’s gotta be 2500 square feet.”

  I love the old Purdy mansion on Whisper Willow Lane. It’s an old place with high ceilings and hardwood floors. Chicago is slipping away by the second. Excuse me, Lord. Be right with You.

  “Why are they selling?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

  “Angus says it’s too big, too much to keep up.”

  “How much do they want?” I can’t believe I’m asking, but I am.

  “You know Angus, Macy. He’d give it away if Piper would let him.”

  Ack! I must get out of here. I press my hand on his arm. “See you.” I jump up and out of the pew.

  Crystal Lake is a few blocks away, so I jog over, my mind reeling with the idea of Angus and Piper selling. They’ve talked about it for years, but never, ever actually put it on the market.

  Until now.

  I collapse on the bench under the oak, winded. I really do need to start exercising more.

  “You hurried out of there fast.”

  I look up to see Dad standing over me.

  “Pressure,” I say, staring at the smooth surface of the lake.

  Dad chuckles. “Decisions can be hard.”

  “And this is a hard decision.”

  Dad sits, resting his elbows on his knees. “Macy, if you truly feel the job in Chicago is for you, then take it.”

  I pluck at the moss swinging from the trees. “It’s just that I’ve worked ten years for an opportunity like Myers-Smith.”

  “I understand.” Dad is calm and collected, and it’s really irritating me. I’d prefer a lecture or sighs of disgust. Then I’d be justified in my decision.

  We sit in silence for a minute, then Dad stands. “We better get you home so you can head out before I-95 traffic gets too bad.”

  When we pull up at home, Mom meets us at the front door with an anxious smile.

  “Well?” She’s clutching a dish towel and her eyes are alive with expectation.

  “Chicago it is,” Dad tells her as if that is the answer they wanted.

  “Good for you, Macy.” Mom kisses me on the cheek, but I can’t help but notice her death grip on the dish towel.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  We stand in the foyer in awkward silence until I glance at my watch and say, “Look at the time. I need to get going.”

  I run upstairs for my things. Below, Mom and Dad wait for me. I’m dazed by their demeanor. I’m saying no to Moore Gourmet Sauces. They will have to sell.

  I sit on the side of the bed. Am I making them sell? Isn’t this their choice? I can’t build my life around them. Right?

  Guilt. I feel guilt.

  I definitely gotta get out of here. I grab my suitcase and sweep the bathroom for my toothbrush and contact lens solution.

  “I’ll see you.” I pass Dad and Mom standing in the foyer exactly as I left them. Mom’s hand still has a vise grip on the dish towel. I’m not sure, but I think I see a few tiny threads break off and fall to the floor.

  “Drive safe, darling.” Mom kisses me on the cheek.

  “Of course,” I answer, giving her a hug that lets her know this decision is nothing personal. When we break away, I point to the towel. “Be kind.”

  “Oh,” she says with a simple laugh and releases the terry cloth. I regard her for a second, noticing how young she looks for fifty-nine.

  “Bye, Macy.” Dad’s goodbye is loaded with emotion, and when he wraps his arms around me, tears flood my eyes.

  “I’ll miss you guys when you go.” I step toward the door with a covert swipe at my tears. “But Chicago is a quick flight.” Forget I’ll be too busy to vacation for the first year or two, or five, or ten.

  “Absolutely.” Dad takes my luggage and motions that he’ll walk me out.

  I pause by the driver’s door, head hanging. “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Dad.” My vision blurs with unshed tears.

  “You haven’t disappointed me, Macy. Your mom and I took a chance in asking you. We knew that.”

  I force myself to look at his face. “Don’t sell the business.”

  “I don’t want to worry about the business while I’m away. We feel our life is in a new season and sauce-making is a part of the past. Time to press on.”

  I acknowledge with a nod. “Now it’s your turn to run away from Beauty.”

  He laughs. “Beauty is beautiful. You should try it.”

  I open the car door. “On that note, I’ll say goodbye.” I kiss him on the cheek.

  As I drive away, Dad stands in the yard, hands buried in his pockets, watching and—if I know him—praying.

  I press a little harder on the gas.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Steve Albright,” says the voice on the other end of my cell phone.

  “Steve, it’s Macy Moore.”

  “I thought I might hear from you today.” His tone carries a lilt and a confidence. A word comes to mind. Arrogant. I shove it aside. Why shouldn’t a man in his position be a little arrogant? He’s earned it.

  “Are you still looking for a customer service director for the Chicago office?” I take the humble approach.

  “Only if that director is you.” He’s pleased with himself.

  “Then you have yourself a director.” As the words flow, panic hits me.

  “Outstanding. We need you in Chicago on Monday. Midwest sales meeting and market planning.”

  “Next week? I was hoping for some time to get my condo on the market and…” And say goodbye. Tie up loose ends. Get my mind wrapped around the fact that I’m moving. Perhaps make sure I’m sure? I’ve been expecting change, but now that it’s here, it feels overwhelming.

  “Monday, Macy. I’ll e-mail the official offer letter today.”

  “I don’t have a place to live.” I toss my first wrench to see if I can stop up the works.

  “You’ll stay in the company apartment. We’ll sign a real estate agent to sell your Florida home. We have a contract with Century 21.” Ah, clever. He not only deflected my wrench tossing, but turned up the pressure a little.

  One verbal “I will” and they own me. Just like that. And women complain about marriage and men “chaining them down”? The institution of marriage has nothing on the institution of corporate America.

  “Time to hit the ground running, Macy. If you can’t handle it…”

  I answer with what he wants. “Monday it is.”

  “Good. You’ll have up to a year to live in the company apartment.” I hear desk drawers opening and closing. “Greta, where are my Tums? I need my Tums.”

  Egad. My stomach curdles. “A year?”

  “You’ll be pretty busy….” Steve is full of overwhelming information.

  Who placed this call? Steve or me? Ah, yes, I did. Gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white, I wonder if I just left the frying pan for the fire.

  But this is what you want, Macy. Go for it, face-first. Any other way and you’re a coward.

  “Arrange your flight for Sunday and we’ll reimburse you.” Steve is nailing down the details. He’s hooked his big fish and is twisting the barb deep. “I’ll have a limo take you to the apartment. It’s on North Lake Shore Drive, Macy. Stunning view of the city.”

  “Fabulous.” I exhale and make myself relax a little, adjusting to the new pressure and pleasures in my life.

  We exchange a few more details before hanging up. I toss my cell phone into the passenger seat. “I’m moving to Chicago.”

  A little before six I arrive home, exhausted from two days of driving. Before going inside, I stand on the edge of the garage and survey my Gables community. There’s a light coming from Mrs. Woodward’s window, while Dan’s place is dark and barren looking. I’ve barely seen him or Perfect Woman since the night they drove me home from the Sun Shoppe.

&
nbsp; I look to the spot on the pavement where Drag and I watched the stars, and where I met Lucy’s Jack Westin for the first time. Those are forever memories.

  From inside I hear my house phone ring, so I end the reminiscing and run to answer.

  It’s Lucy. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

  I laugh. I’m so going to miss her. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  “So, what’s going on? Why the rush to go home?”

  I sit on the step into the garage. “Dad and Mom are moving to England.”

  “Oh, wow. Jack and I are going to a couples’ home group, but we’ll be over soon afterward.”

  “Thanks, Lucy.”

  I unpack and change into a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt that has seen better days. I toss my clothes from yesterday into the laundry, contemplate doing a load, but change my mind.

  In the bathroom I wash my face and pull my hair back into a ponytail. When I lift my arms, I see the forgotten hole under the left sleeve.

  (Mental note 8,590: throw this shirt away. Too ratty for a Chicago executive.)

  In the kitchen I spread peanut butter and jelly on two slices of light bread and settle on the couch with the TV remote. Through the porch doors I catch a glimpse of the Florida horizon, ablaze with orange, red, gold and blue. I’m acutely aware that views like this are numbered and fading.

  I’m moving. Leaving. Ending a very long and wonderful chapter of my life.

  Something bothers me, but what? I mute the TV. Is it moving? Leaving Lucy? Rejecting Dad’s offer? Letting the family business go on the auction block?

  I recline on the couch and stare at the ceiling until the motion of the fan makes me nauseated.

  I know what bothers me. Antacid-chewing Steve Albright. I said I do and he said, “Here’s the ball and chain.” It’s fancy and gold plated, but it is a ball and chain nevertheless. I’ve sold myself into corporate slavery.

  I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m afraid of work making me hard. Steve’s declaration that I needed to be so dedicated it would take a year to find a place to live gives me great pause. If I don’t have time to find natural living quarters, how will I have time to find a spiritual home?