Georgia on Her Mind(10)

She swings it open with a vibrant “Good morning, dear. Would you like some tea?”

I smile. “No, thanks. I’m on my way to the airport. I just wanted to see how you were feeling.” Good smells waft from her kitchen.

“I feel wonderful, thank you.”

“I’m glad.” I spot my keys on the end table. “Are you baking?” I slip past her to snatch them up.

“I made cinnamon crumb cake. Let me get some for you to take on your trip.”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten. I follow Mrs. W. into her kitchen. “I’m going to ask, um—”who do I ask? “—uh, Drag, yes, Drag to check on you while I’m away, okay?”

She turns to me with a large square of tinfoil. “Oh, don’t go to any bother. But Drag’s a nice boy.” Mrs. Woodward reaches out to hug me, surrounding me with the fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon. “Have a safe trip.”

I take the crumb cake. The bottom of the foil is warm on my hand. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“All righty.”

Now, to let our neighbor Drag know he has a mission. I dart past the waiting cabbie.

“Hey, lady, ain’t got all day,” he hollers when I cross over to Drag’s.

“One second,” I say. Teach him to be fifteen minutes late.

Drag lives next door to me, directly across from Mrs. Woodward. He’s a sweet guy with blond dreadlocks, and is the condo’s resident surfer dude. To our knowledge, he has no known employment and no last name. He’s simply Drag.

I ring his doorbell until he opens in a sleepy stupor. He looks the way I feel. Wild hair. Electric-socket wild. I didn’t know dreadlocks could stand on end. He’s wearing Winnie the Pooh pajamas and with eyes barely open, he mutters, “Wha’z up?” as if someone calls on him at 5:20 every morning.

I pinch my lips to keep from laughing. “I’m going out of town this week. Can you check on Mrs. Woodward a few times? She’s not feeling well.” I whip out a business card. “Call my cell if you need.”

He nods, takes my card and shuts the door.

Okay, then. “Don’t forget,” I holler through the steel.



Atlanta is cold, rainy and dreary. Perfect. Matches my present state of mind. Ten years to make manager, one e-mail and one Roni Karpinski to change it all. Lucy’s pointed comments about losing zeal for God while pursuing my career and Chris is a distant echo in my head moving closer, growing louder.

As much as it hurts, I’m glad it’s over with Chris. I can throw away those useless rose-colored glasses and admit he wasn’t the man I pretended he was.

Last off the plane, I drag my tired and depressed self to baggage claim. I’m about to yank my luggage off the conveyer belt when I hear my name.

“Macy Moore.”

I twist around to see Peyton Danner wheeling her suitcase my way, and there’s nowhere to hide. Rats. “Peyton, hello.”

“Good to see you.” She shakes my hand, looking alert and in command.

“Nice to see you, too,” I parrot, grabbing the handle on my bag, trying to slough away before she realizes I’m a zombie.

But she yanks the handle on her suitcase and steps in time with me, striding as if she can make the earth move under her feet. “How’s Casper these days?”

I’m too tired to fib. “Could be better.” Could I be any duller? I feel like a partially swatted fly.

“I see.”

“How’s Danner Limited, and the world of corporate headhunting?” I ask, trying to speak as though I have half a wit. Peyton Danner’s company is the headhunter for software companies. Casper uses their services from time to time to scout new talent.

“Very, very good.” She emphasizes each word.

“Maybe I’ll call you.” Ethically she can’t ask me to call, but I can volunteer.

She flips me one of her cards. “Anytime.”



Rain deluges my rental car the entire drive down I-285 to Miller Glassware. When I pull into the parking lot, the rain tapers off. Goody for me. I was hoping to sit in the car for half the morning, procrastinating, waiting for the monsoon to stop. But no—can’t call the game on account of rain today.

I walk through the front door of Miller Glassware concentrating on the click, click of my heels against the marble tile: I think I can. I think I can.

Mike and Attila don’t care that they sent me out in the rain with a paper umbrella. They wanted to appease Peter Miller, and I’m the only bone they had to throw.

I can do this. I have to do this. I have ten years’ experience. I have core knowledge. I have the company phone list. I plan to dial my way through the support of this customer.

Peter Miller greets me in the hall just outside his office. He’s short and balding with beady gray eyes, but exudes the aura of a giant. “How did we get the honor of your presence at our small site?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Peter regards me for a minute, probably deciding if he really does want to know. A few weeks ago, when I was manager, we’d gone around and around about support.

Fortunately for me, he’s all business, and without another word he drops me off with the IT guys. He doesn’t even ask if I want coffee—which I don’t, but I’d appreciate the gesture.