Georgia on Her Mind(17)

Fear of being another lonely Roni blinded me somewhat about Chris Wright, along with the incessant ringing of my bio clock.

Lucy breaks in to my thoughts. “Mace, I have a phone interview in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I need to get to work.” I glance at my desk. “See you tonight? I feel like shopping.”

“Old Navy’s having a sale.”

“Now you’re talking. What time? Six-thirty?”

“Better make it seven. I’ve got a lot to do.”

Without manager duties plaguing me, I don’t have a reason to stay late anymore. “I’ll be there already. Look for me.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow night, either.”

I think for a second. Ah, yes. “Tuesday. The infamous gathering of the Single Saved Sisters.”

“We miss you.”

The Single Saved Sisters, well, well. I haven’t met with the Sisters since my third month with Chris. “Same time, same place?”

“Of course.”

“Thank goodness some things never change.” I hang up, grab a soda from my mini fridge and double click on the Holloway proposal.





Chapter Eight




Tuesday at eight the Single Saved Sisters gather at House of Joe’s for coffee, consolation and consultation.

The club emerged two years ago when Tamara Clayton and I had an epiphany in the church parking lot.

“Where are all the good Christian men?” Tamara asked. We stood by my old car.

“Married.” I unlocked my door and tossed my purse and Bible onto the passenger seat.

Tamara laughed. “So what are women like us supposed to do?” Tamara raised her arms toward heaven. “Please, Lord, where are all the good, available men?”

That’s when I suggested we get Lucy and several others to meet at House of Joe’s for coffee to discuss the gravity of the situation.

The first meeting of the Single Saved Sisters consisted of me; Lucy; Tamara, a gorgeous, intelligent, fiery black woman; Adriane Fox, a writer, muse and introspective philosopher; and last but not least, Beka Roth, a preppy, Rory Gilmore–type lawyer.

Two years later the crowd is the same except Beka, who recently joined the Happily Ever After club by marrying a colleague, Rick Gainer.

I abandoned them briefly, but I am back with a clear head and renewed commitment to getting it right. When I arrive at the coffeehouse Tuesday night, Lucy, Tamara and Adriane are already seated on two of the love seats.

“It’s about time you showed up.” Tamara lunges at me with her arms wide. “Hiding out with Chris is no excuse.”

“I was hoping he would rescue me from this excuse of a girls’ club,” I retort, giving Tamara a tight squeeze.

I drop my handbag on the coffee table, kiss Adriane on the cheek and fish out my wallet to buy a large fat-free latte.

Adriane leans forward and examines my bag with her fingertips. “A Hermès Birkin?” She regards me with her angular chin in the air, her wrist poised as if she held a cigarette. She quit smoking four years ago, but her hand has never forgotten. “Did you rob a bank?”

“No,” I say, proud of my signature handbag. “eBay.”

“How much?” Adriane picks up the purse for closer scrutiny.

If I tell her, she’ll never let me hear the end of it. She’ll lecture me on the needs of the world’s poor and homeless.

But I didn’t take money designated for the poor to buy this expensive accessory. No, I bought the bag when I thought my career was on the rise and perhaps I would become the wife of a successful financier.

“She’s not saying.” Tamara takes the bag from Adriane. “Must be bad.”

“Two thousand,” I blurt. “And change.”

Lucy’s mouth drops open. “I thought it was a knockoff. Are you telling me you bought a real Birkin?”

I twist my lips into a halfhearted smile and squeak out a yes.

“How much change?” Tamara pinches the purse handles between her thumb and forefinger. “Don’t want to smudge the leather.”

I mutter. “Five hundred dollars of change.”

“Oh, Macy!” All three speak at once. Twenty-five hundred dollars for a handbag? Of all things…

I cover my ears and foot it over to the coffee bar. I order my latte and go to the ladies’ room while Zach whips it together.

I don’t feel guilty for buying a Birkin. I’ve wanted a designer bag since my first trip to Manhattan in ’97. But the Single Saved Sisters’ brutal honesty causes me to question my priorities.

According to my recent tax return, I spent less than the cost of that purse on my charitable giving last year. Way less. Sure, I didn’t spend funds designated for the poor to buy that luxury item because I didn’t designate any money for the poor. I curl my lip at my reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. Not a thrilling revelation about myself.

I pick up my latte and decide to make a foxhole confession to my comrades that I’ll be more charitable this year despite my recent career setback.

But the conversation at the table is no longer about my expenditures. They are arguing about the reality show Average Joe.

“No way would a handsome man choose an Average Jane. Would not happen,” Lucy argues, her cheeks as red as her hair.