Georgia on Her Mind(14)

“Good for you.” I continue down the line. Joley strolls beside me like a gazelle—graceful and long legged. I’m losing my appetite.

“Macy, would you please be our emcee this year?”

“What?” I stop gathering lunch. Joley’s almond-shaped green eyes are locked on me.

“Well, you were voted most likely to succeed.” She sweeps her hand in the air over my head like reading an imaginary headline. Macy Moore Makes It After All.

I grimace. “I’m a regular Mary Richards.”

Her glow fades. “Huh?”

“You know, The Mary Tyler Moore Show? Her character was Mary Richards. Don’t you watch TV Land?”

She beams again. “Oh, yes, of course.”

I’m holding up the salad bar line, so I step forward. “Are you sure you want me? What about Lucy O’Brien? She’s a reporter for one of Florida’s biggest newspapers. Or John Friedman? Isn’t he a millionaire?”

“Don’t be so modest. You’re perfect for the job.” She taps the side of my arm. “Skip is a millionaire, but we wouldn’t ask him to be emcee.” She tee-hees behind her hand. “Can you see Skip talking in front of a mike?”

I make a face. “Skip who? Skip Warner?”

She smiles and holds up her ring hand. “Yes, I’m Joley McGowan Warner now. We’ve been married for two years.”

“Really. Well, congratulations.” Good grief. Joley McGowan and grease-under-his-nails Skip Warner? Is no one’s life turning out as I’d planned?

Joley and Skip Warner. Wow. Hold it. Did she just use the words millionaire and Skip in the same sentence? I covertly give her the once-over again. Her Sunday dress is pretty, but simple. Her shoes? Go-with-everything taupe pumps. I peek at her left hand again and see a simple gold band coupled with a modest diamond. Skip, a millionaire? Is she sure?

She’s still talking. “John Friedman is a fuddy-duddy. Come on, be our emcee.” She smiles her perfect smile. “You’ll be great.”

“Let me think about it.” I can’t promise more than that, really I can’t. I grit my teeth to keep from blurting out the truth right then and there, confessing in front of the entire Sizzler congregation that Macy Moore is not a success after all, but a failure.

I can’t emcee our high school reunion when my life is on a carousel. I can’t. I won’t.

“I saw you talking to Joley Warner.” Dad eyes me from the other end of the table.

“She wants me to emcee the class reunion.”

“Wonderful. You should do it.” He sips his iced tea.

I lean his way. “You never told me she married Skip Warner and that he’s a millionaire.”

“You never asked.” He spears a piece of steak with his fork.

“Are you going to tell me how he’s a millionaire or do I have to ask twenty questions?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Macy. He’s into cars.” Mom flutters like a mad hen. She hates this kind of table talk. “He owns a fancy, imported car dealership. Lots of rich clients.”

I shove my salad around on my plate. He asked me out once in our senior year, but I turned him down. Not my type, I told Lucy.

More and more I want to run home, crawl into a hole and surface sometime after a nuclear attack.

I gather my wits and look at my salad plate. Apparently I wasn’t paying attention. Two leaves of lettuce, a smattering of shaved carrots, and a mountain of bean sprouts. This won’t do.

I hop up, get back in line and add tomatoes and cucumbers to my plate with some ham bits, grated cheese and a ladle of dressing.

Back at the table, Suzanne is telling Mom about her current class schedule. Across from me, Dad and Cole are in an intense discussion about an upcoming NASCAR race.

“Jeff Gordon.”

“No, Dale Junior.”

NASCAR is not my kind of Sunday-lunch chatter. I join Mom and Suzanne’s discussion, desperate to focus on something besides me. My whine is getting a little sour.

“Ten years of part-time school and finally I see the light at the end of the tunnel,” Suzanne says fervently, her chestnut bangs falling across her Sandra Bullock-like face. “I can’t wait.”

“I’m proud of you, Suz,” I say, meaning it.

She presses her hand on my arm, squeezes up her shoulders and wrinkles her nose. “Thank you. I’m so excited and relieved. Now I can get a real job, like you, Macy.”

I smile. “Hopefully better than me.”

By two o’clock the family waddles out to the parking lot discussing the insanity of all-you-can eat food bars. I catch sight of Skip and Joley climbing into a shiny silver Hummer.

Figures.

I face the family. “I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss my flight. Can’t change my ticket again.”





Chapter Seven




As I fiddle with the gas nozzle at the 7-11 near Sizzler, I console myself. So I’m not married to a millionaire. Okay, I’m not married at all, nor do I have any prospects. Forget the fact that I’m temporarily a failure.

I top off the tank, put the gas nozzle back in the thingy and screw on the gas cap. I head inside to pay.

From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of red. I turn. Lo and behold, Dylan Braun is at the pump across the way. Propped against the side of his red Dodge Ram, arms folded across his chest, his white shirt collar open, his dark tie loose, he looks like an image from the cover of GQ. And he’s looking at me.