Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

I climb out of hiding. The pointy ends of the palm fronds scrape my burned arms and snag my skirt.

  Drag is lying flat on his back, smack in the middle of the condo’s guest parking slots.

  “For crying out loud, what are you doing?”

  “Shhh, get down.” He karate chops the back of my knee (not the sunburned side, thank you) and I collapse to the pavement. “Lie flat,” he whispers.

  I laugh as I tuck my skirt under my backside, draw my sweater closer and lie down. This is nuts.

  “What are we doing?” I whisper back. If he tells me we’re about to be invaded by alien creatures, I’m outa here.

  “Gazing.”

  Gazing? I can do gazing. I gaze at him for a second, wondering if he’s all right. Maybe he’s smoked some funny grass? I sniff. He smells like Irish Spring, and unless deodorant soap is more potent than I realize, Drag is lying on the pavement at midnight with a sane mind, and has managed to get me to do the same.

  After a second Drag waves his arms toward the expanse. “Look at all the stars.”

  “They’re beautiful.” I’ve seen the stars tonight, but not through Drag’s eyes. I’m captivated by his ability to see meaning in simplicity. Who in their right mind would make their bed on pavement and be in awe?

  “Makes you wonder who’s out there,” he whispers, as if he’s afraid “they” might hear.

  “God’s out there. Actually, He’s everywhere,” I say with confidence and conviction.

  “You’ve seen Him?” Drag asks right in my ear.

  “Not with my eyes, but with my heart.” I tap my chest. “The Bible says, ‘Christ in you, the hope of glory.’”

  “Then how can He be out there?” Drag points to the stars. “And live in you?”

  I laugh. He’s a twentysomething with the heart of a six-year-old.

  “Like I said, He’s everywhere.” I remember part of a Psalm. “‘If I ascend to the heavens, make my bed in Sheol, You are there. If I take the wings of the morning, or dwell in the uttermost part of the sea, Your hand will lead me.’”

  “Awesome. Shakespeare?” Drag asks.

  “No, King David.” Quoting the verse bolsters my own faith.

  “Sounds like Shakespeare.”

  “Perhaps Shakespeare sounds like King David.”

  “Where do I read King David?”

  “The Bible,” I say. “The Psalms.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  I bite back a laugh, contemplating how strange it is to be stretched out on the pavement with Drag talking about God and King David.

  “Drag, do you ever feel like a failure?” It’s a personal question, but it seems to fit the moment.

  “I’m a surfer, Macy.” He chuckles with an endearing yuck-yuck.

  I look over at him. Moonlight shines on his scratchy brown beard. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t worry about failure. Or success—just catching the next wave.” He weaves his hand up and down over my face.

  I laugh. “You must be joking.”

  “Nope. Life is about the wave.” He sighs, content.

  “Drag, you have to teach me to surf.”

  “You worry about failure?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, then confess. “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  Is he serious? Like Everything.

  “Career, relationships, love, money, life in general.”

  “Sounds like my old man. Gave himself a heart attack trying not to fail.”

  “Do you see your parents much?” I’m not sure if this question is over the line or not. Drag doesn’t talk much about himself.

  “They live in New York.”

  That’s all he offers and I figure that’s all I’m going to get. So I change the subject.

  “You did check on Mrs. Woodward while I was gone, didn’t you?” It’s been weeks, but I never thought to ask.

  “Sure I did.” He doesn’t sound defensive, as I would if someone questioned my integrity. “She’s a nice, sweet lady.”

  After that, Drag and I let time pass without a word. The wind blows softly and I pull my sweater tighter. It’s getting colder.

  I’m about to call it a night when out of nowhere a police cruiser rounds the corner and stops just shy of my big toe. Drag and I leap to our feet synchronously. My heart flies out of my chest and splats onto the pavement.

  Two of Melbourne’s finest slip slowly out of the squad car wielding two gigantic light-saber flashlights.

  “It’s Andy and Barney,” Drag whispers to me.

  I clap my hand over my mouth to block the laugh.

  “Sir, step away from the lady and put your hands behind your head.”

  What in the world?

  Drag clasps his hands behind his head. His face is contorted in a frightened expression and I think he regrets his Andy and Barney comment. He circles behind me. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?” I ask out the corner of my mouth.

  He steps away with a shrug. “Don’t know, but whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  The chubby officer—I’ll call him Andy—moves around to the front of the car and pulls Drag away. The skinny officer—I’ll call him Barney—addresses me.

  “Macy Moore?”

  Wow, his voice is loud. For a skinny guy he’s got large lungs. “I—I’m Macy Moore.” I dust pavement pebbles from my shirt and sweater, and tuck my hair into place.

  “Step toward the car, ma’am.” Barney spotlights my face with the flashlight. I consider breaking into a show tune. There’s No Business Like Show Business. Do a little soft shoe—anything to keep myself together as I stroll his way. But I reckon he wouldn’t find it funny.

  “What’s this about?” I ask, peeking to see if the lights are on at Dan Montgomery’s place. They’re not. Where’s a good lawyer when you need one?

  The officer lowers his flashlight. I blink away spots. “Are you all right?”

  That’s the question he asks me. Are you all right?

  “Of course I’m all right!” It’s snarky, and I mean it to be. What’s the big idea, scaring us half to death? Asking Drag to “step away” with his hands behind his head?

  “Can I have your name, sir?” Barney shines his gargantuan light on Drag’s face. Drag blinks and squints. I hope he’ll do his Goofy laugh.

  “Name’s Drag. I’m a friend of Macy’s.” His jaw is clenched, and he says his name like Clint Eastwood in Hang ’Em High.

  Name’s Drag. I look over at him. That’s it. Name’s Drag.

  “Is he a friend of yours?” Andy asks me.

  “Yes, he is. He’s weird, but my friend.”

  “What are you two doing out here on the pavement?” Barney asks.

  “Looking at the stars.” My nerves settle a bit. I pick my heart up off the pavement.

  Barney glances up. “It is a lovely night.”

  “Why did you come here?” I demand.

  “Someone called, a mutual friend. Asked us to drive by.” Barney hems and haws.

  “Mutual friend? Who?” As if on cue, Lucy’s yellow car squeals around the corner and screeches to a halt in front of my condo.

  Lucy! She called the police? Lucy O’Brien, investigative reporter, who’s paranoid about danger, destruction and devastation. It’s her one endearing flaw. She’s insane about it.

  Personally, I never watch the news, unless it’s Extra or Entertainment Tonight. Nor do I read the paper unless Lucy tells me about one of her exclusives. If I want despair and destruction, I can read the last chapter of my own life.

  If World War Three begins or if Madison Avenue resurrects whalebone corsets and hoopskirts, I’m sure I’ll hear soon enough.

  Lucy-the-Loon stumbles out of her car wearing an oversize T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans. Her flip-flops slap against her heels as she strides my way with her red ponytail swinging back and forth, back and forth.

  “You called the police?” My adrenaline rush ebbs and I start to shake. Drag moves next to me.r />
  “You hung up on me. You didn’t answer your phone for over an hour. Cell or house.” She faces me, hands on her hips as if I owe her an explanation. “And you were alone with someone.”

  “So you call the police?”

  “Well…”

  Hands on my hips, I dip my head Ricky Ricardo-style. “Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do.”

  “I didn’t think it would hurt for a squad car to drive by,” she confesses. “Just to check on you.”

  Drag laughs. Now he decides to do his Goofy impression.

  I scowl at Luce and motion to Andy and Barney. “I think you owe these two an apology.”

  Drag nods. “Yeah.”

  “Guess I let my imagination get away from me, but seriously, Macy, you know the kind of stories I’ve done. It’s always the nice, single, unsuspecting female who gets caught off guard.”

  “Give me some credit, please.”

  Lucy starts to say something, but I raise my hands.

  “It’s over. Let’s go inside.” I motion to my place. She doesn’t follow. I stop, and for some reason it registers for the first time that she’s standing mighty close to Deputy Fife, and wearing a Florida Gators T-shirt. “Why are you wearing a Gators T-shirt?”

  She’s a Georgia Bulldog. The Gators are our rivals. I don’t see the humor here. First she calls the police, then she shows up wearing a Gator T. I wouldn’t use one for a dust rag.

  “Oh, that.” She looks down at her shirt, then at me. “Macy, I’ve met somebody.”

  I lean her way. “Come again?”

  As if on cue, Barney puts his arm around Lucy. She smiles at him. Oh-oh. Do I see sparks? I’ve never, ever seen her look at a man the way she’s looking at Deputy Fife.

  Barney Fife. My best friend is dating Barney Fife. Lucy introduces me to him—real name Jack Westin—before he leaves with his partner, real name Brett Stuart.

  “I can’t believe you held out on me.” We’re inside my house now. Lucy kissed Barney, er, Jack Westin goodbye and Drag arranged to teach Officer Brett to surf.

  Nuking two mugs of coffee, I prod her to spill the beans.

  “You’ve been through so much lately, I didn’t want to make matters worse. Besides, we really didn’t know how we felt until today. We talked before his shift.”

  We sit at the kitchen table. “Lucy, I always want to hear this sort of news.” Is my life so rotten my best friend can’t tell me she’s in love?

  She crosses her heart. “I won’t hide it from you again.”

  The short version of their love story is they met last year while investigating a Melbourne Beach white-collar crime. He called her a few weeks ago and they went to a musical.

  Lucy and I talk until after two. I tell her about Austin, Dan and Delia, the surprise visit by Dylan, Mrs. Woodward and then lying on the pavement, quoting a Psalm to Drag, which boosted my faith.

  After Lucy leaves, I take a quick, hot shower, washing away the good, the bad and the ugly of the day. I fall into bed and picture Dylan’s face as he nears me for a kiss. (Okay, maybe he wasn’t going to kiss me, but I can dream, can’t I?) I linger there for a nanosecond, then move on before my mind throws a gutter ball and I end up in a place I don’t want to be.

  I jot a mental note to make a doctor’s appointment for Mrs. Woodward, wish I were more like Drag, laid-back and gazing at stars, and smile for Lucy and Jack. Why is it that in these quiet moments all of my emotions and thoughts surface and demand attention?

  Please, Lord, don’t let my gravestone read “Here lies Macy Ilene Moore. Second fiddle to a man obsessed with Xena, the ex-girlfriend of a rogue financier and Beauty High’s most successful failure.”

  I want the life of the beautiful, not the life of the overwhelmed.

  I slip under the covers as if hiding from the life I lead. I shouldn’t try to make sense of it all now, when I’m tired and my brain is sunburned. Yet underneath the layer of self-pity, I know the Lord is with me, and there’s beauty in my ashes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday morning I arrive at Casper with renewed vigor. Pastor Ted’s Sunday-morning sermon about trusting the Lord for our future knocked me out of my weekend doldrums.

  I settle in my office and get busy planning my next Casper excursion with a sense of destiny. Yeah, God and me. He’s in control.

  But by 1:00 p.m. the details for my trip remain at large. My sense of purpose is deflating a little. My destination is a Kansas town so small that even Jillian couldn’t find it on the map when booking my flight.

  Somewhere in no-man’s-land there is a thriving e-business in need of new Web tools and one W-Book application. Enter Macy Moore, the tool lady.

  Around two, I decide to break for lunch. Lucy’s comment about too many French fries coming home to roost on my backside leaps to mind, so I order a to-go grilled chicken salad from Pop’s.

  In thirty minutes I’m back at my desk, eating and reviewing the new W-Book installation manual, when a dark shadow falls across my desk. I glance up. Roni.

  “Hello.” I square my shoulders. She’s wearing a new Armani suit. Bonuses must have been good this quarter.

  “Do you have a moment?” she asks, walking back to shut my door.

  “Sure.” Heat surges through me and I can feel the salad croutons melding in my stomach into tiny lead balls.

  She perches on the edge of the desk with her arms folded, looking down her nose at me. She exudes the warmth of an iceberg.

  “I need to know where you’re at, Macy.”

  “Where I’m at?” I’m right here.

  “I’m wondering about your commitment to Casper.” She stands and paces, arms still crossed.

  “My commitment to Casper?” I slip on my sweater. Where is she going with this? Didn’t she see my renewed vigor this morning? I practically cartwheeled into the office.

  “Is your heart with us? Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

  What is she talking about? I pinch my lips to keep from calling her the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Roni, what’s going on?” I strain to modulate my voice.

  “You tell me. I just don’t see the energy and commitment in you I want to see. Where’s the old Macy Moore?”

  “Well, excuse me if I’m a little deflated after you took my job away.” There, I said it.

  “It’s more than that, Macy.”

  “What exactly is that, Roni?” I glare at her because she’s glaring at me. It’s uncomfortable, but if this is a shoot-out, I want my eye on her trigger hand.

  She bends down close to my face. “Don’t be coy with me. I’m watching you.” Without another word, she turns and sashays out of my office.

  I sit there with my mouth open. It’s not my best look—a dangling jaw—but I’m dumbfounded. What is she talking about? Watching me?

  “Lord, what’s going on?” Sigh.

  I take a deep breath and sense a little shower of peace, so I go back to work, shoving aside the exchange with Roni. I see Jillian flutter past my door, then a second later she bops into my office.

  “Was the Hun just in here?” she whispers.

  “Yes.” I focus on my computer screen.

  “Was she mad?” She stoops over to catch my attention.

  “Do you have a point here, Jillian?” I click on an unread e-mail about the Holloway proposal. Please not another revision. The hourglass cursor appears, so I wait.

  “Well…” She shuffles nervously. “Maybe a little bird sent your résumé to Danner Limited.”

  I stand. “What?”

  “A little bird sent your résumé to Peyton Danner.”

  “A little bird named Jillian.”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If you’re mad or not.” Wincing, she ducks behind a manila folder.

  “Why would you do such a thing without telling me?” I shove the folder away from her face.

  “I saw her card on your desk. I think you deserve better than t
he way Kyle and Roni are treating you.”

  “Where did you even get my résumé?” I tuck the tips of my fingers into the pockets of my chinos.

  “Roni has all the résumés in the personnel files. I found your old one and updated it.” She hides behind the folder again.

  I’m confounded. I don’t know whether to hug her or berate her. Her resourcefulness is impressive, while her audacity is galling. I regard her for a moment or two, thinking.

  “How did the Hun find out?”

  “She overheard me talking to Peyton when she called for you.”

  “Peyton called?”

  Jillian nods. “While you were at lunch. I didn’t know Roni was listening.” She’s still excusing her actions, crunching the manila folder and its contents between her hands.

  I wave off her worry. “Is Peyton going to call back?”

  The little busybody smiles for the first time since this conversation started. She hands me a folded pink message slip with Peyton’s office number.

  I bite back a grin and give my pesky admin a hug. “If this works out, those Gucci boots are yours.”

  Friday morning I pull up to Mrs. Woodward’s and help her into my car.

  “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me,” she says.

  “Someone has to be reasonable.” I remind her to buckle up as I gently close the passenger door. “We’re lucky the doctor had a cancellation this week.”

  “Lucky? It’s misfortune, I tell you.”

  She’s a riot. Feigning a fuss about this trip to the doctor’s, but deep down, I know she’s happy to go.

  I’m sorry I haven’t spent more time with her before. Sorry I turned down all her soup invitations. She’s spunky and brave.

  God put Mrs. Woodward in my life exactly when I needed her. She’s a lifeguard of sorts, blowing the whistle when I dip too many times in the pool of pity.

  I took the morning off from work so I could take her to the doctor. I told her not to make me regret it. She chuckled. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  As we pull away from Mrs. Woodward’s place, Dan Montgomery fires out of his garage and speeds away. I toot-toot my horn and wave, but he doesn’t look back. In contrast, Drag lollygags out his front door, long board under his arm.