Georgia on Her Mind (6 page)

W
ith 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.

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, prom
ising 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.

“Whatever 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.

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.

Maybe tonight’s date is the beginning of something beautiful, I don’t know. But God does and I’m leaving it up to Him. If I’ve learned anything this spring, it’s to lean on Jesus. I’ve lived the results of my handiwork. Not so pleasant.

I decide it’s just too gorgeous a day to stay inside. Standing on my screened porch, I gaze out toward the complex pool.

I haven’t sat by the pool and soaked up rays in years. Wouldn’t that be fun and relaxing? Nothing like a little kiss from the sun to make me look radiant.

I hurry inside to get ready, but my trip is delayed when I can’t find my bathing suit.

I call Lucy. “Where’s my bathing suit?”

“How should I know?” She sounds sleepy.

“Are you just waking up?” I look at the clock. Ten-thirty.

“I stayed up until two reading.”

“Ooh, pass it to me when you’re done.” Anything that keeps Lucy awake that late must be spectacular.

“Why are you looking for your bathing suit?” Her question is punctuated by a big yawn.

“I’m going to the pool.”

“What? Macy, don’t. You’ll get burned.”

“Get burned,” I echo. “Hello, I’m not twelve.”

“Whatever. Did you look under that pile of stuff in your laundry room?”

I check the “to be dealt with later” pile and find my suit under a stack of wrinkled clothes. Fortunately, it’s clean.

“Are you excited about tonight?” Lucy asks.

“Actually, I am.” I anchor the phone between my chin and shoulder and wriggle into my suit.

“I’m coming over to help you get ready.”

I laugh. “You just want to check him out.”

“Well, I don’t have a date tonight.”

“First time in what, forever?”

“Please. I didn’t have a date last weekend either.”

“Okay, forget this weekend and last. How many dates have you had since January first?” I run upstairs for my beach towel and flip-flops.

She evades my question with one of her own. “What time shall I come over? Four-thirty?”

“If you insist.” I let her off without an answer, but I know she’s been on at least five or six dates this year.

I grab the novel I’ve been reading, which by no means keeps me awake until 2:00 a.m., my journal and a pen just in case inspiration hits.

I jerk my minicooler from under the sink and stock it with water, Diet Coke and grapes. At ten forty-five I head for the pool.

By eleven o’clock I’m slathered in coconut-scented oil with an SPF of four. I plan to be out here only an hour or so. The low SPF should get me a nice glow while protecting me from those nasty UV rays.

I recline, slip my shades into my hair and welcome the warm sun and cool breeze on my face. This is the life.

Two minutes later I sit up. Now I remember why I never sunbathe. It’s mind-numbing.

I pick up the novel, drop my sunglasses over my eyes and start to read. One sentence later I trade the book for my journal and pen. I am not in the mood for other people’s words.

Opening to a blank page, I wait for inspiration to hit, though it’s all around me. Blue skies, golden sun, thriving oaks and green palms. The breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms, the song of the birds and the laughter of children. I realize how blessed I am, even in light of recent events.

I open my journal and scribble at the top of the page, “Things I want in a husband.”

Thumping my pen against the paper, I ponder just what exactly makes a man husband material. What qualities did Chris have that made me consider him for a lifetime commitment?

Well, he’s handsome, intelligent and has money. Shame on me for not digging deeper. I write my first requirement.

“Committed to Jesus.” I underline it for emphasis. Deaf,
dumb and blind by the ringing of my biological clock, I overlooked that aspect with Chris. But I won’t the next time.

I pause and review. While Chris fit most of the requirements I jotted, I’ve learned to go deeper and ask the hard questions. Sometimes we can want something so badly we refuse to look at what we see.

I’m in a list mood, so I turn to a new page.

There. Straight from my heart. I like my lists. They make me feel content and focused. I settle back and close my eyes. The sun is warm and the breeze refreshing. In a few minutes I’ll take a dip in the pool….

I wake with a start. Something’s not right. Why is the sun on the other side of the pool? I snatch up my watch.

Two o’clock. I scramble to my feet. Oh. My. Word. I’ve been out here for three hours. And the spring sun is the worst—I am
so
burned.

I slip my feet into my flip-flops and stoop to gather my unread book, unopened cooler and unused towel when Drag strolls by in his wet suit, surfboard tucked under his arm.

“Whoa, Macy. You
are
fried.” He falls against the pool gate and I see pity in his eyes. “You really should use sunblock.”

“No kidding.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to be out here so long.”

“You look like a candy cane.” Drag points out, laughing like Goofy. “The red is red, and man, the white is white.” He shakes his head and pushes his sunglasses down over his eyes.

I offer a crushing retort. “Har, har!” and I shuffle home
in pain, the cooler banging against my burned thigh. When I fumble through my front door, the air-conditioning in the condo hits me like an arctic blast. I drop my stuff in the foyer and run to the downstairs bathroom mirror. Oh, no.

I look like a slice of red velvet cake. Worse yet, I fell asleep with my sunglasses on and white rings circle my blue eyes. Everything else is red. Lucy will never let me live this down.

I go upstairs, hop into the shower hoping to wash away the redness. But after toweling off, smearing on what’s left of a two-year-old bottle of aloe lotion, I am redder than ever. And freezing. I turn the air up to eighty.

I slip into my pink robe and, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror, I can’t tell where the robe ends and my skin begins. I hope Austin likes this color, because he’s going out with Pinky Moore tonight.

By four-thirty when Lucy rings my doorbell, I’ve put the pool gear away, eaten a light lunch and paid a few bills.

She falls against the door, laughing. “Oh, Macy, I don’t want to say I told you so!”

“Then don’t.”

“I told you so!” She just couldn’t leave well enough alone. “You’re brighter than Rudolph’s nose.” She makes no effort to contain her merriment, which only irritates me more.

“I’ll have you know, I’m in pain.” I ease down to the couch, wincing.

“I’ll bet. What happened?” She kicks off her sneakers and goes to the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open and close.

“I fell asleep.”

“Classic move.”

“But I did accomplish something today.”

“Besides that brilliant sunburn?” She collapses on the couch next to me sipping bottled water.

“I made a couple of lists.”

“What kind of lists?
The
list?”

“One list for my dream job. And yes,
the
list.” I wriggle my eyebrows at her.

She made her list years ago, but I refused. How unromantic is it to look for a man the way one shops for groceries? But today somehow it seemed like a fun idea.

“Well, I’m impressed. Let me see it.” She holds out her hand.

“Forget it. It’s between me and God.”

“What? You’ve seen my list!”

“Whose fault is that?”

She looks shocked. “I’m your best friend.”

I offer to show her my job list, which she reviews begrudgingly. She’s sure I can find a better boss, but doubts I have the guts to do it.

“Why not?” I demand.

We banter back and forth until Lucy happens to notice the time. “Macy, it’s five-thirty.”

“Rats.” Now I’m scrambling to get ready. Fortunately my hair is thick and straight, so it’s easy to style.

I lose the robe to the bedroom floor and stand in front of the closet. Lucy is calling out the time from the living room, where she’s flipping through TV channels. “Five forty-five.”

I skim through my wardrobe. Ah-ha, just as I suspected. “I have nothing to wear,” I yell out my bedroom door and down the stairs.

“Are you insane?” Lucy yells back. “Your closet is so stuffed you can’t push the clothes aside to see what they look like.”

“I’m telling you, I have nothing.”

She stomps up the steps to help me, laughing again when she walks into the room. “I can’t help it.” She motions to my face. “It’s so red.”

Since I’m so burned, we decide I should dress warm to combat frigid restaurant temperatures.

“Here, try this.” Lucy jerks a white top out of the closet, one with three-quarter-inch sleeves and a scoop neck.

“I forgot I had that.” I slip it on and decide it looks fabulous against my red skin.

“And this.”

Lucy tosses me a soft purple sweater, and a pair of jeans with the tags still on them.

Last but not least, she pulls out my pair of vintage red Mary Janes.

“Ooh, I love those shoes.” I slip gingerly into the jeans and I try to button them. Hmm, a little snug. I suck in my breath and try again.

“Didn’t you try them on?” Lucy asks, hands on her hips, head tilted in disbelief.

“Well, I was in a hurry. Normally this size fits me fine.”

“Oh, they must be sizing down these days.” She’s so sarcastic.

“I’m sure of it.” I squat and walk duck-style around the room. The material rubs against my burned legs.

“Or maybe all those large fries have come home to roost on your backside.”

I duck-walk from the bed to the bathroom hoping to relax the gripping threads. But when I stand, a tiny roll of flab pooches over the waistband.

Lucy gives it a pinch. “No way. You can’t go out in those. They are too tight.”

I unbutton with a loud exhale. “They were killing my legs, anyway.” The jeans slide to the floor.

“Wear this skirt.” Lucy hands me a cotton flared skirt with a purple pattern that matches the sweater. “And these mules.”

The skirt does not irritate my sunburn and is the perfect look for a spring date. Now I feel pretty and skinny.

“Hurry with your makeup. I’ll go downstairs and wait for Austin.”

I smack Luce’s cheek with a kiss. “Thank you.”

Austin rings the bell at 6:02. Lucy hides in the kitchen while I open the door and invite him in. He declines, saying he’d rather get going.

“Fine.” I peek at Lucy as I grab my bag. She gives me the he’s-gorgeous expression and I’m off on a date with Austin Ramirez.