Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  “Macy,” she starts, “you’re looking at the new news desk assistant editor.”

  I look up, my teeth buried in my chicken sandwich. She’s glowing and it isn’t even about Jack. “What?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “I interviewed for the position before you went to Kansas. Remember? I competed against that New York Post reporter who just moved to Cocoa Beach.”

  I nod, remembering. Between chews and swallows, I congratulate her. “Fabulous! Good for you.”

  “I’m, like, dumbfounded. I can’t believe I got the job. I start next week. But brace yourself for this….”

  If she says Jack asked her to marry him, I’ll scream. Right here. Right now. Promise. They’ve been dating for what—three, four weeks?

  “I’m braced,” I say after fortifying myself with a slurp from my soda.

  “The job is in a new salary category. I’m getting an eight-percent pay raise.”

  I choke. “Eight percent. That’s incredible.”

  “I’m in awe of what God is doing in my life. The publisher told me the salary on my way out the door to meet you for lunch.”

  “Good for you.” I shove my half-eaten sandwich aside and fall against the back of the booth.

  I hate my life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After lunch and Lucy’s good news, I sulk in my dank office. Where is the beauty for my ashes, Lord?

  I drop my forehead to the desk with a sigh. I’m depressed.

  “Macy.” I lift my head to find Attila the Hun, in person, filling the doorway. She points to her forehead. “You have a pink slip stuck to your head.”

  I reach up and yank off the While You Were Out sticky. Peyton Danner’s number is embossed with an oily stain.

  “Are you available to meet at five?” She smiles, but there’s an arctic nuance in her voice.

  “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

  “A continuation of your discussion with Mike.” She flips her hand in my direction as if it’s no big deal.

  A chill tightens my scalp and runs down my spine. Bunch of malarkey. She’s up to something. Probably going to force me to sign that stupid performance review. Well, I won’t.

  “Sure, see you at five.” When she’s gone, I snatch up the pink slip. Stop sulking. Call Peyton.

  I pick up my phone. No dial tone, still. Not to be deterred, I scurry out of my hole and down to the lunchroom, where I know my cell gets reception. When I arrive, the room is empty. Perfect.

  I dial Peyton with determination. While the New York City number rings, I rehearse my greeting.

  Good afternoon. Macy Moore for Peyton Danner.

  Peyton Danner, please. Macy Moore calling.

  “Danner Limited,” the receptionist answers.

  I jump to attention. “Um, hello, yes, this is Macy Moore. Can I speak to Peyton Danner, please?” Unbelievable. Ten years as a businesswoman and I come off like a second grader asking for her mommy.

  A few seconds later I hear “Peyton Danner.” Now, that’s the voice of a woman who owns her world.

  “Peyton, this is Macy Moore.”

  “Well, at last. It’s easier to run into you in the Atlanta airport than get you on the phone.” She laughs, low and friendly. I exhale and relax. “Your résumé is stellar, Macy.”

  “Thank you.” I wonder if I should tell her the truth about how my credentials got cyberspaced into her e-mail box. I decide against. Only if she asks.

  “What’s going on at Casper?” Peyton asks.

  “I’m glad you asked.” I stall while formulating an intelligent answer. How do I tell the truth without sounding like a kid who can’t play hardball with the big boys? “I’ve been at Casper for ten years. It’s time to expand my horizons.”

  She laughs. “Listen, I know Veronica Karpinski. You should have left Casper years ago.”

  “No time like the present.” Nice, safe answer.

  “Casper doesn’t have you locked in with a noncompete clause, do they?” I can hear Peyton flipping through papers.

  “No, actually, they don’t.” Excitement hits me.

  “I’m sure you’re aware of a company called Myers-Smith Webware?”

  “I’m very aware.” In the bottom of those red boots my toes tingle.

  “They are looking for a director of customer service to work in the New York or Chicago office. They haven’t decided, but I faxed over your résumé.”

  I sit in the nearest chair. “Fascinating,” I croak.

  “That’s what they said about you, Macy. Can you interview in two weeks?”

  What did Jillian write on my résumé? “Name the day and time.” I can ask Mike for a couple more vacation days.

  “You’ll interview at the New York office.”

  I slap my hand to my forehead and mouth a silent thankyou toward heaven. Director. Interview in New York.

  Peyton rattles off some details, none of which I remember, but I say yes and mumble mmm-hmm to all of them.

  “Tell you what—I’ll confirm it all in an e-mail.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Walking back to my office, I realize the dark clouds of gloom, despair and agony are gone. The sun has broken over my life. Perhaps everything that happened the past few months is God’s way of kicking me out of my comfort zone. Do I know New York is it? No, but I’m at peace with the journey.

  “Knock, knock,” I say outside Roni’s office. It’s a minute after five o’clock. Her head is bent near Mike’s, and she jumps away at the sound of my voice.

  “Macy, come in.” Roni pulls out a chair for me and closes the door. Sigh. Another closed door. She remains standing, hands clasped together. Mike sits like a puppet in the corner.

  “Macy, as you know, employee and employer relationships don’t always work out as we intend.” Roni pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I keep my mouth closed.

  “We—” she motions to Mike “—don’t feel you are a fit with our company direction.”

  “What do you mean?” My stomach knots.

  She clasps her hands at her waist. “We simply feel you’d be happier elsewhere. Casper is just not a fit for you anymore.” She tilts her head to one side as if to show sympathy.

  “That little office you crammed me into seems like a nice fit, don’t you think?” Sarcasm—it becomes me.

  Roni shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Macy.”

  “No, you’re not, Roni. Two months ago I’m manager of customer service and today I’d be happier somewhere else? How do you know what is best for me, what would make me happy?”

  “Sometimes things don’t work out.” Mike jumps in, clicking the push button of his pen over and over.

  I protest. “You’ve got to give me more than this. What’s going on?”

  “It’s like I said—we feel you’d be happier somewhere else.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with Peyton Danner, does it?”

  “No, no,” they say in unison, a well-rehearsed chorus.

  For a half a minute I regard her and eyeball him. I’m speechless. “I’ll get my things.” I stand and to my surprise, feel amazing relief.

  Mike hands me a folder as I hit the doorway. “Your severance.”

  Twenty minutes later I walk out of Casper & Company for the final time. The day is ending, but I think my life is just beginning.

  Tossing the box of knickknacks, pictures and souvenirs into the trunk of the Beemer, I smile, pop the top and head for the beach.

  Six-thirty Tuesday evening Lucy calls. “You’re coming, right?”

  “Of course,” I say, then ask, “To what?”

  “House of Joe’s. Tuesday. Single Saved Sisters.”

  Ah! It is Tuesday? “Right. I’ll be there.”

  “What have you been doing all day?”

  “Relaxing.” More like lamenting, but she doesn’t need to know. I may have felt relief yesterday when leaving Casper, but reality hit me today. I’m unemployed. Axed. Fired.

 
; Guess that’s why I’m still in my pajamas and the verticals are closed. I’ve spent five hundred dollars on QVC—and that’s with practicing restraint. But when Leslie from Bare Escentuals showed up with her new spring beauty line, my day found its destiny.

  At 6:45, I go upstairs to get ready for the SSS meeting. I boycott showering—there’s really no time. So I do the surface stuff—brush my teeth, wash my face, dust it with powder and pull my hair into a ponytail. (How did it get so greasy sitting around the house?)

  The pièce de résistance is an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days. Feeling quite comfy and only slightly grungy, I head out.

  I’m the first one at House of Joe’s. I drop my Hermès on a tabletop away from the stage—looks as if they’ve got a singer tonight—and go to the coffee bar to order.

  “Hi, Zach. Can I get a latte with all the fat?”

  “Sure.” He gives me the once-over. “Taking a day off?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Nosy.

  Adriane is next to arrive. Tamara and Lucy walk in two minutes later.

  “Oh, Macy, really.”

  “I hear the baggy look is coming back.”

  “Doing something new with your hair?”

  I shoot back. “Please, I just got fired.”

  “Fired?” Zach echoes. He hands me my latte with a smirk.

  I hand him a five. “Keep the change.” Hint—mind your own business.

  “What’d you do today?” Adriane wonders, dumping sugar into her mocha.

  “Nothing.” I can tell all points of conversation will revolve around me.

  “Did you post your résumé on Monster? Job hunt at all?” Lucy eyes me over her gargantuan coffee mug.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Tamara pokes me in the arm with one of her swordlike fingernails.

  “Because I’ve got Peyton Danner in my corner. Let me see how this New York interview turns out.”

  “Yes, by all means, put all your eggs in that basket.” Lucy is ripe with acrimony tonight.

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend to pester?” I ask, slouching down in my chair, cradling my latte.

  “He’s working.” She beams.

  “Somebody’s in la-hove.” Tamara sings.

  “Yeah, let’s talk about tha-hat.” I join the song.

  “Let’s not.” Lucy sets her mug down on the table with a loud clank. “Tonight is about you, Macy.”

  I glance at Adriane, who is watching, amused, her hand in the air, bent at the wrist, holding that phantom cigarette. “Are you going to help me?”

  “You’re doing just fine.” She smirks at me.

  “Okay, you want to know what I did today? I watched QVC, spent five hundred of my severance dollars and for lunch I ate M&M’s on the front stoop waiting for the mailman.”

  They laugh. “The mailman? Were you waiting for your Publishers Clearing House brochure?”

  “Ha, ha. No. But guess what did come in the mail?”

  “What?” Lucy asks.

  “Another flyer for our class reunion. ‘Emcee and host, Macy Moore, Most Likely To Succeed,’ in big bold letters right across the bottom.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Yes, how fabulous for the ‘Most Likely To Succeed’ to sit on her front steps in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week with M&M’s-stained fingers.”

  Tamara giggles and waves the idea off with a flick of her hand. “Temporary, only temporary.”

  “Do you think Dylan would ask you to emcee if you were a failure?” Lucy asks, angling over the table to make sure she has my attention.

  I curl my lip. “He doesn’t know I’ve been fired.”

  Tamara waves her chocolate-covered biscotti at Adriane. “Are you taking notes for your next novel?”

  “No, this story is too sad.” Adriane shakes her head in pity, but there’s mirth in her tone.

  “Girl, you can say that again.” Tamara bites off the tip of her Italian cookie.

  “Hello, I’m sitting right here.” I refuse to admit my life is too tragic for one of Adriane’s romance novels.

  “What are you wearing to your New York interview?” Lucy asks, wisely moving the conversation in a different direction.

  “My black travel Chico’s suit, pants and jacket, with a blue top.”

  “Perfect.” Lucy reaches for Tamara’s biscotti. “Wad and wear. Can’t go wrong.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Peyton said not to dress like an eighties yuppie. Chico’s should be a nice outfit.”

  “Are you going to eat that biscotti or sing into it?” Tamara asks, holding out her hand for her cookie.

  Lucy bites from the uneaten end and hands it back to Tamara. I smile to myself. As rotten as the past few days have been, these women brighten my life. Faithful friends, a reminder of God’s goodness to me.

  On the other side of the coffeehouse a young woman takes the stage with her guitar.

  “Hi, everyone,” she says softly into the microphone in a quiet voice.

  The din in the room fades a little.

  “My name is Claire—” she smiles shyly at us “—and I’m going to play a few songs for you. Hope you like them.”

  As she starts to strum, the conversational buzz in the room rises a notch. Tamara whispers something to us, but I am tuned in to the song. I like Claire’s sound—Jewel meets Bethany Dillon.

  I sink into the cushiony chair and close my eyes. Her words are simple and pure, yet profound. She’s not overtly singing about God, but I can tell she’s singing with a power greater than herself.

  “She’s good,” I hear myself say with a sense of rightness. First bit of that I’ve had all day. Even shopping QVC didn’t remedy my despondency the way I’d hoped.

  “I think I’ve heard her before,” Adriane whispers. “Maybe a concert up at the big Baptist church in Merritt Island.”

  “She can sing to me any day,” Tamara intones to the rhythm of Claire’s song.

  The entire House of Joe’s crowd is now quiet, being drawn and transported by the petite blonde’s glassy vocals and staccato beat.

  Grungy and all, I’m glad I came tonight. “I love you guys,” I say mushily.

  “Love you back,” they say.

  “Friday-night movie at my place?” I offer, feeling cozy and warm with the residuals of the song.

  “I’ll bring Chinese,” Lucy volunteers, holding up her slender hand.

  “Oh, girl, have you tried that new place off Wickham?” Tamara mm-mm-mms while we beg her for details.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Sunday night before I fly to New York, I pack with a steady, growing excitement. I hope it’s not too cold in New York for open toes.

  It’s been a long two-week wait, but I’m ready for this interview. Peyton e-mailed me about a megabyte of Myers-Smith data and I’ve memorized a few choice pieces like the company’s brief history, names of their current officers and the branding of their main products.

  I zip up my bag and hang it over my bedroom door just as the phone rings. It’s Dad. In a sentimental moment I confess my whole job mess to him. He’s not surprised, as I expected, and very supportive.

  “I’ve always seen the Lord’s favor on your life, Macy,” he confesses, which bring tears to my eyes. “I am confident He’s working all of this for your good.”

  “I have to believe that or go crazy.”

  He chuckles and passes the phone to Mom, blabbing the news to her before she takes over the conversation. She fires off one question after another, drilling me about this New York company, asking what I plan to wear, advising me on hair and makeup.

  “Don’t wear too much makeup, Macy. It makes you look cheap.” She whispers cheap as if it’s a four-letter word.

  “Gotcha, Mom. I’m a little familiar with the business world.” I head downstairs to double-check my e-ticket and itinerary.

  “Right. Right,” she says, a birdlike chortle chasing her words. “Guess you know more than
I.”

  “All your advice is right on, Mom. Thank you.” Kitty Moore will always want her little girl to need her.

  “What does Chris think about this New York trip?”

  Chris. Ah, yes, that news I haven’t broken yet. “Actually, he doesn’t know, Mom.”

  “Why not?”

  “We broke up.” There, now all my laundry is on the line, flapping in the breeze.

  “Oh, Macy, when?”

  “Couple of months ago.” Has it been that long?

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Mom’s tone resonates with compassion.

  “I just did. Chris and I broke up.” I find the e-ticket and itinerary in my purse safe and sound. Good.

  “Be serious. Tell me what happened.”

  “Simple. He met someone else.” Getting over Chris was probably one of the easiest things I’ve done in my life. I don’t know if that proves my fortitude or exposes my shallowness.

  Mom fires questions like a seasoned Washington reporter. I flop on the couch, stare at the ceiling and answer like a seasoned Washington politician.

  Around nine I wind up the conversation, slip into my pajamas and piddle around the condo.

  I pause at the printed pile of Myers-Smith data lying on the dining-room table. Should I review it again? I flip through a few pages, but decide against. I don’t want to sound rehearsed.

  As I wander to the kitchen for a little dinner Lucy calls on her way home from a movie with Jack. She gives me the “go get ’em” speech, then segues into a short, sincere prayer.

  “Call me when you get there,” she says.

  “Will do. Say hi to Jack for me.”

  I browse the refrigerator for something to eat. Looks as if leftover Chinese is my only choice. I’m about to pop a plate of beef and dried-up fried rice into the micro when I hear a light knock on my kitchen window.

  I yelp, then see Adriane’s heart-shaped face peering at me through the glass. I smile as she holds up two bags bearing the Carraba’s Italian Grill logo.

  Say no more. I toss the fried rice and beef into the waste can and meet Adriane at the front door.