Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  How can I make time for beauty if every ounce of “beauty” is bought and paid for by Myers-Smith? I’m cognizant of the corporate mind-set. They own you. They aren’t buying forty or fifty or even sixty hours a week. They’re buying your heart and soul.

  I feel shaky and unsure. I let my relationship with God stay status quo for the past few years, but deep in my gut I don’t want to do that again. I want to discover the deeper layers of His word, understand the tender mercies of His heart.

  A knock on the front door hauls me away from my mental discourse. Under the porch light is a distinguished man in an Armani suit (or I’m not Macy Moore).

  “Can I help you?”

  He offers me his hand. “Fallon Tidwell.”

  Oh, wow. “How do you do?” I warble. I’m about to shake Fallon Tidwell’s hand when a breeze passes under my arm.

  Whoops, my T-shirt. I tuck my left hand under my armpit, pressing the ripped edges of my shirt together. “Sir, come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  I close the door on the mosquitoes. “Was I expecting you?”

  He chuckles. “No, forgive me. Pete told me where you live.”

  Ah, yes, Pete. The real Drag. “Please sit down.” I’m desperate to run and change, but I can’t leave Fallon Tidwell sitting alone in my living room, not for one minute.

  “My son’s in the hospital.” His voice weakens a little.

  I sink slowly to the couch. “What happened?”

  “He went surfing after the storm yesterday and a shark got his left calf.”

  Bile forms in my throat. I feel green. “Is he all right?”

  Mr. Tidwell settles into the lounger as if he’s commanding a boardroom meeting, elbows resting on the chair’s arms. “Hurting, but recovering.”

  “Shark attacks can happen in turbulent waters.” I sit on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, afraid if I move without careful calculation, my ratty T-shirt will expose more of me to the communications tycoon than necessary.

  “So I’m told. The doctors have patched him up, but the calf is damaged. It will take a while to heal.”

  I press my palms against the sides of my face. “How painful, utterly painful. May I see him?”

  “I’m on my way over now. Would you care to ride with me?” Mr. Tidwell stands.

  “Yes, please.” Now I hurry to change.

  Mr. Tidwell’s rental car is fragrant with the new car smell, and a hint of cigar smoke. I sink into the cool leather seats, acutely aware that I’m riding with one of the richest men in the country. But I try to keep my attention on whispering prayers for Drag.

  “My son speaks highly of you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tidwell. Drag, um, Pete is a good friend.”

  “Call me Fallon.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you for helping my son find his way home.”

  In the dimly lit room I can see Drag’s pale face. His half-eaten leg is bandaged and elevated slightly. Tubes and wires connect him to blue-lighted monitors.

  As I step toward him, he appears so calm and peaceful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d just woken up from a really great nap.

  “Hey, Macy.” His voice is low and raspy, tired and bruised.

  With tenderness, I clasp his hand in mine. “Hey, you’re not supposed to feed the sharks.”

  He musters a grin. “I should have known better.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right.” I squeeze his hand a little tighter.

  He motions for me to draw near. Whispering, he says, “I saw Him.”

  I pinch up my face. Are the meds talking? “Saw who?”

  “Him. Jesus.”

  I jump back and regard Drag—I know it’s not the meds talking. “You saw Jesus?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.

  “Right after the attack, when I was tumbling in the water.”

  “What did He do? Did He stick out His hand and say, ‘Take My hand, My beloved son’?” I used my best King James voice. “Or bonk the shark on the nose?”

  Drag gives me half a chuckle. “No. He touched my heart with His hand.”

  “Touched your heart?”

  “Yeah.” Drag lifts his hand ever so slightly and settles it on his chest. “Right here.”

  “Was He in the water with you? On top of the water looking down? How did He do that?” I flit and flutter, unsure what to think.

  Drag shakes his head once. “I don’t know. Suddenly I see Him and He touches me.”

  “Wow.” I sink onto the chair by the bed. Tears creep down my cheeks. “You really saw Him?”

  “I’m undone, Macy. Undone. Tumbling in the waves, trying to find my way to the shore, I thought I was going to die. Then there He was.” He pats his heart once.

  “What did He look like?” I picture the painting of Jesus that hangs in the foyer of Beauty Community Church.

  “Radiant,” Drag says. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Full of goodness and light.” He pats his heart again. “I’m undone.”

  I rest my chin on the edge of the bed, his hand still clasped in mine. I’m one degree of separation away from actually seeing Jesus with my eyes. Who cares about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? I’m touching a man who physically saw Jesus. And I’m jealous.

  Drag’s known Jesus a few weeks and already he has this incredible encounter. I surrendered my life twenty-five years ago and I’ve seen Him only with the eyes of my heart. What’s it take for a girl to see her Lord face-to-face? A shark bite?

  “Then what happened?” I plead. With a quick motion I glance over my shoulder toward Fallon, but he’s gone.

  “My buddies pulled me ashore, my leg half gone, gushing blood like a fountain.”

  “Will you surf again?”

  “Better believe it. I’ll have a big dent in my leg, but the doc says I should be able to stand on the board—eventually.”

  “But you saw Jesus. I can’t believe it.”

  “I saw Him first with my heart. You showed me the way.”

  His voice is weak and his words stick to the sides of his drying mouth. I offer to help him with a sip of water.

  “Thanks,” he says after a long drink. “Dad’s been great. When I leave the hospital, I’m flying to New York with him.”

  “Good for you.”

  “He and Mom want me home for recovery. And then I’ll start working at Tidwell Communications.”

  “You’re doing the right thing.” More tears leak out and run down my cheeks.

  “What about you?” Drag gives my hand a little squeeze and tug. “Chicago? Don’t forget my dad is impressed with you.”

  “I accepted the Chicago offer.” Then I confess as if caught red-handed. “My dad wants me to move home and take over the family business.”

  “Moore Gourmet Sauces?” He remembered.

  “Yes.” I lift the water cup to give Drag another sip.

  “Why don’t you take up that offer?”

  I set the cup down and fall against the back of the chair. “Because it’s going backwards. I never, ever planned on moving back to Beauty. Maybe I’m being stubborn about Chicago, I don’t know.”

  “Macy, look at me.” I sit forward. “Look how fragile life can be. One minute I’m catching the biggest wave of the season. Next minute I’ve got shark teeth ripping my leg apart.”

  The imagery makes me quiver, but he’s right. Life is full of the unexpected. I don’t know what tomorrow brings.

  “Choose what’s important to you, Macy. Not for the moment, but for eternity.”

  I lean close. “How do I know?”

  He taps his heart, then says, “What’s in here?”

  I return to the chair, catching my reflection in the window. For years I’ve prided myself on my appearance (right down to designer socks), my talents, my career status, even the type of car I drive and how much I pay for a haircut. I supported all my worldly achievements with a very shallow pool of inner beauty and in some cases, shallow character.

>   “My gut tells me taking over the sauce business will reap a different kind of reward than I’ve been seeking. Perhaps the Lord will touch my heart in such a way that I can say like you, ‘I’m undone.’”

  I desire to be undone.

  “There’s your answer.” Drag’s reply is barely audible, but I hear loud and clear.

  Fallon returns with two large coffees in hand. “Visiting hours are over.” He motions to the door.

  I lean over and kiss Drag on the cheek. “Thank you, friend.”

  “See you soon.” His energy is zapped. Here I am wasting it on my problems.

  Fallon hands me a coffee as we walk down the corridor together. “Pete tells me you’re looking for a job.” His gray eyes spark when he speaks and I can tell he is a man who sees as well as looks.

  “Well, sir, I have a job.”

  “Pete mentioned a possibility in Chicago.”

  Without a thought or hesitation, I blurt out, “Not Chicago. Beauty. I’m going home to Beauty, Georgia.”

  We stop at the elevator and I press the down arrow, feeling perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  “All the best to you, Macy.”

  I don’t care if he is Fallon Tidwell, communications tycoon. I celebrate my decision and throw my arms around him. “All the best to you, too.”

  “Yes,” he croaks, backing away, straightening his collar.

  I’m going home. Riding the elevator down, my heart soars. I’m returning to Beauty.

  I call Dad as soon as I get home. “Where will I live?”

  I glance at the clock on the stove. Lucy and Jack should be by soon.

  He clears his throat. “Our house will be empty, of course. But you know Piper and Angus are selling off part of their Purdy homestead.”

  “Dylan told me.” I plop into one of the kitchen-table chairs and draw my knees up to my chin.

  “Who do you think put him up to it?” A sneaky snicker threads the tone of his voice.

  “I am not surprised.”

  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to wage war against a fancy New York software company offering the world to his daughter on a Chicago-style platter.”

  “Any cheap, low-down trick will do, eh, Dad?” I see Lucy and Jack pass by the window with paper bags of Chinese food.

  “I’ll take the cheap shot if that’s all I got.”

  “You know how much I’ve always loved Piper and Angus’s place.” I get out silverware, napkins and plates.

  “So what are you telling me?” Dad asks.

  I hear the front door open and Lucy’s familiar hello. I take a deep breath. “I’m returning to Beauty, Dad. I’ll take over the business.”

  There’s a long pause from Dad’s end. Lucy is in the living room, flipping on lights.

  Finally Dad chokes out, “Are you sure?” The emotion in his voice runs down the wire and splashes over me. My eyes well up.

  “Yes, very.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  August 4

  On the veranda swing, I wait for Dylan. He’s picking me up on one of his custom bikes—which he’s trying to sell to me, by the way. He’s crazy. Gorgeous and crazy. My new best friend.

  We’re meeting Lucy and Jack at the corner of Jasmine and Lily Avenue and heading over to the lake for a picnic. Jack just bought a Braun bike.

  Oh, before I forget. The class reunion was a blast. I’m proud to say I attended as a hometown girl and the new proprietor of Moore Gourmet Sauces. I emceed with great poise and hilarity, even if I say so myself.

  I couldn’t believe how many of my old friends patted me on the back and congratulated me about moving back to Beauty. There was no humiliation. No teasing. No eating crow.

  “We always thought you’d be the Moore of Moore Sauces one day.”

  Did everyone know but me?

  Kathy Bailey and I spent an hour talking, catching up, being jealous over each other’s lives and promising to keep in touch. Resolve: good friends are worth the trouble.

  Dad bought Cole a Braun bike the same time Jack bought his. Part of Cole’s inheritance, Dad claims, but I’m finding out that my former-hippie-turned-Jesus-freak-turned-Southern-bourgeois-capitalist-turned-missionary father is incredibly generous.

  For me, he put a down payment on the Purdy mansion. Absolutely blew me away. He’s all but giving me the business, then goes and buys my dream home.

  “Signing bonus,” he said when he handed me the keys.

  I cried. Yep, cried in front of the boss. But at Moore Gourmet Sauces crying executives are not frowned upon. I stood there in my new pleated skirt and curled my toes against the soles of my flip-flops and cried a nice, businesswoman cry.

  Be true to you, I always say.

  Lucy hooked me up with one of the newspaper’s advertising real estate agents, who advised me to rent my condo. It made moving so much easier, and the rent covers my mortgage and then some.

  Piper and Angus sold my half of their home for a song. Dad tried to give them several thousand more, but Angus refused.

  “The money makes Piper crazy,” he told Dad, chewing his chaw, then spitting in the dirt.

  I’ll spend the next four months remodeling, and that expense is entirely on me. Until then, I’m unpacked and living in my old room.

  Dad and Mom leave for England in a few weeks and are as giddy as a couple of teenagers. They inspire and challenge me with their yielded, unselfish hearts.

  But Dad’s concentration level is worse than a child’s. I have to snap my fingers under his nose to get his attention. “Tell me how to do this!”

  I’m slightly panicked. The day they leave, I debut on The Food Connection. Butterflies launch themselves across my middle at the very thought.

  Six months ago, if someone had told me I’d return to Beauty as the new owner of Moore Gourmet Sauces, I would have laughed and called the paddy wagon. Absurd. Unthinkable.

  Steve Albright lit into me when I called to say I would not be taking the Chicago position. Ooh-wee, he was mad. Worst case of the mean-’n-nasties I’ve ever heard. In my honor, I’m sure he consumed a whole packet of Tums.

  I apologized profusely, offering to pay for any expenses I had unduly caused Myers-Smith. That he took as an incredible insult and all but hung up on me.

  After that episode, I fell on my knees and thanked God for rescuing me from what would have been a bad, bad move.

  I left Melbourne with all my loose ends tied and tidy. I stopped by Casper & Company on my way out of town, the back of my Beemer loaded with suitcases and boxes.

  Roni jumped to her feet like a frightened cat when I appeared in her office. “Macy.” Her smiling lips quivered.

  I walked across her office as if I owned the place and gave her a big hug. “I’m moving back to Georgia.”

  She gawked and gaped, but I thanked her for all she’d done for me. And I meant every word. She and Mike were the first to throw the burning match on the wood, hay and stubble of my life and I’ll always be grateful.

  Keeping my word, I gifted Jillian with the Gucci boots. She cried and threw her arms around me, promising to take good care of them.

  “I know you will, Jillian.”

  “Did you hear about Attila and Mike?” she whispered, checking over her shoulder.

  “Jillian, stop using that name. I should never have invented it.”

  “Please, Macy. Everyone uses it. Anyway, she and Mike—”

  I held up my hand. “Don’t want to know.” I hit the front door with Jillian trailing behind me, desperate to gossip. But I refused to hear. What good would it do me?

  Drag is settled in New York, and healing. He’s e-mailed a few times and called once. When he joined Tidwell Communications, CNN ran a quick news brief and a head shot. Drag in a suit looking like Brad Pitt. I’ll never forget it.

  Mrs. Woodward, at seventy-seven and free from gallbladder attacks, bought a Mustang convertible and joined the Red Hat Society. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, she and three other be
auties in purple dresses and red hats pop the top and vroom away.

  Finally, but not least, Adriane, Tamara, Lucy and I said goodbye in style the night before I left. The movers had taken the last of my furniture, so the four of us sat cross-legged in the middle of my empty living room, laughing and reminiscing, eating Carraba’s takeout, listening to the echoes of our hearts against barren walls.

  “To the Single Saved Sisters,” I said, raising my glass when we quieted down. “Jewels in my heart.”

  “To the Single Saved Sisters.”

  Then we got all mushy and cried for a while until Adriane reminded us we’d be together in October for her wedding. We brightened for a moment, then cried again.

  I waved tootles to Dan Montgomery and Perfect Woman as they pulled away one morning. I’m not sure they even knew I was moving.

  In the distance I hear the rumble of Dylan’s bike. He continues to make his intentions known while giving me space to figure out this new chapter of my life.

  I watch as he coasts up the driveway and parks. My heart does the hundred-yard dash as he takes the veranda steps in one large leap and strides my way.

  He pulls me to him and kisses me. Not a howdy-do or by-your-leave kiss, but a nice manly man’s kiss.

  I swoon. Sure as shooting, I swoon. “Hello to you, too,” I whisper when his lips leave mine.

  He wraps me up in his arms and I bury my head in his chest and breathe in sandalwood and sage. He strokes my hair. “Hey to you, blue eyes.”

  I am so in love.

  “Ready?” he asks when he releases me.

  “Yep.” I shut the front door and take his hand.

  Riding across Beauty with Dylan, my arms around his waist, my cheek pressed against his back, my hair dancing in the wind, I can’t remember why I wanted to run away from this place. Life is funny, isn’t it? Like Dorothy in Oz, I’ve searched for my rainbow out there somewhere when really all I wanted was right here in my own backyard.

  I lift my head and laugh. The Lord has given me Beauty for my ashes.

  Questions for Discussion

  Macy shows up at work on a Monday morning to find out she’s been demoted—over e-mail no less. Is her response Christ-like? How would you respond in a similar situation?