Georgia on Her Mind(11)

I greet Al and Leroy, remembering Mrs. Woodward’s crumb cake tucked inside my tote bag. This will get me through the day. I dig a dollar out of my wallet and ask, “Where’s the soda machine?”

“Right down that hall, first door on the left,” Al tells me.

I hustle away, returning in a few minutes armed and ready. Food and drink. What more could a drowning girl ask for, hmm?

By the end of the day I’ve upgraded Web Works One and I loaded the new product, W-Book on a test machine.

Around seven we call it a day. I’m exhausted from navigating Miller’s technical jungle and for some strange reason wondering if thirty-three is truly the black hole of old maid-dom from which there is no return.



The week at Miller Glassware is fraught with network difficulties, Web page hazards and technical snafus.

I spend so much time on the phone with Casper support techs that Peter Miller presents me with a four-inch gold-painted phone trophy while I pack up on Friday afternoon.

“Thanks for your hard work and support.” He hands me the trinket with a grin and a glint. Wise guy.

“Nothing but the best for you, Pete.” I’m sarcastic and not apologizing.

I jam the trophy into my computer bag with subtle satisfaction. It was a hard week and my guess is that Mike and Attila thought I’d fall apart, but I didn’t. Makes me wonder what plans they really have for my so-called career.

(Mental note 2: converse more with God about career.)

While I survived the week, even had a little fun toward the end, this is not the life I want to lead. Life on the road stinks.

But what can I do? Dig in my heels? Wait out Mike and Roni, and leap for the first crack in the glass ceiling? Do I bone up on my technical skills and become an indispensable guru? (Shudder!) Maybe it’s time to post my résumé on Monster.com? Take my toys to another sandbox. I remember Peyton Danner’s card in the bottom of my computer bag.

My head hurts. Too much pondering. By the time I pull away from Miller Glassware, twilight has painted golden hues across the winter sky. I’m hit with the desire for home, for Beauty.

My hometown is only an hour north of Atlanta. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? A surprise visit home. Dad and Mom would love it. And right now, so would I.

Instead of heading for the airport, I point my car toward home. (Mental note 3: change return ticket home.)

I call Dad’s cell phone as I approach the edge of Beauty’s city limits.

“Earl Moore.”

I love the sound of his voice. “Daddy, it’s Macy.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Meet me at Freda’s Diner in ten minutes.”

“Freda’s?”

“Yes. You know, corner of Jasmine and Laurel.”

“I know the place.”

“Ten minutes enough time? I’m getting off at the Beauty exit right now.”

“I’ll call your mother.”

We meet in the parking lot with hugs and kisses on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Macy.” Mom’s blue eyes twinkle when she smiles.

“Best thing that’s happened all year, seeing you.” Dad has a way of making me feel safe, that life is a grand play and I’m an Academy Award winner.

We pick a window table and Sarah Beth takes our order. Outside, the gentle routine of Beauty passes by while Mom wipes the table down with a wet wipe. Sarah Beth sets down brimming soda cups. Mom shifts them to the top right corner of the table until she’s sanitized our eating area.

I snicker, remembering when Lucy swooped into the restaurant last week to save me from my fast-food feast. She wiped down the table just like Mom. I’ve long suspected we were switched at birth—despite the fact that we’re three months apart.

We make small talk until Sarah Beth brings the food. Burger and fries for me.

“Here we go,” Dad says, holding out his hands. “Let’s pray.”

I close my eyes and listen to Earl Moore thank the Lord for his wife, his daughter and our food.

Then I watch as he and Mom chatter, exchanging food particles. Mom gives Dad all her salad olives. He gives her all his purple onions.

Earl and Kitty Moore, hippies—they met at Woodstock—turned Jesus freaks turned Southern bourgeois capitalists. When they met Jesus, they got married and settled in Beauty, Dad’s hometown.

With Mom’s blue-blood inheritance, they launched a boutique business, Moore Gourmet Sauces, peddling Mom’s special barbecue and marinade sauces.

Within the first year Moore sauces had become a favorite at local restaurants and grocery stores. Then Dad went mail order, adding a recipe book. A few years ago, with me as his consultant, he launched the e-business arm of Moore Gourmet Sauces and sent Mom’s specialties into cyberspace.

I don’t ask much about their financial status. We lived comfortably growing up. My brother, Cole, and I had new clothes when we needed, braces and a tidy allowance. But last year the folks went to England and Greece for vacation. So the gourmet sauce business must be treating them well.

I tune in to Mom’s side of the conversation. Oh, she’s asking God to remove all the calories from the salad and grilled chicken sandwich.

I laugh. “Mom, you’ve been asking Him to do that for fifteen years.” It’s comforting to be in Beauty, in the shadow of my parents’ routine.