Georgia on Her Mind(19)

“Bite your tongue.” Adriane wags her finger at me. “Besides, truth is stranger than fiction.”

“You are stranger than fiction, Adriane. The queen of skepticism. You can write it, but you can’t live it,” Tamara challenges.

“And what about you?” Adriane returns the challenge. “I don’t see you blazing a dating trail.”

“I’ve been on a few dates,” Tamara confesses with a heavy sigh. “Dweebs. All of them.”

We raise our mugs and clink them again.

“Lucy’s the only one here who manages to date decent men on a regular basis.” I won’t let her escape this conversation.

“Hey, that’s right.” Tamara pokes Lucy’s leg with her pointy fingernail. “Where are you hiding them?”

Lucy evades the inquiry. “Macy is also going to emcee our class reunion.” She is just full of Macy Moore news tonight.

“Gee whiz, Lucy. Maybe, I said maybe,” I protest a bit too loudly. “I’m not sure I’m even going this year.”

“I thought you loved going to your high school reunions.” Does Tamara remember everything about me?

“Well,” I begin, “I used to before my life went belly-up.”

“Belly-up? What are you talking about?” Adriane asks.

“Work woes,” Lucy blurts. I eye her again. She’s hiding something about her own life by blabbing about mine—I just know it.

Now I have to tell them about my job fiasco. But first, more latte.





Chapter Nine




I hum to myself on the way home from the Single Saved Sisters java jam, turning into the supermarket parking lot, tired of my refrigerator with its sodas, a loaf of moldy bread and an occasional half-eaten apple.

I’ve thrown away enough food to feed a small Guatemalan village. Never mind how much food I could buy with the twenty-five hundred I spent on a designer leather handbag.

Now that the Sisters have pointed it out, I feel silly walking around with a purse that is intended for the rich and the famous. Of which I’m neither.

I wouldn’t feel quite so bad if I’d done more for others this past year. But I haven’t. Lavishing time and money on myself netted me nothing.

Funny how a crisis can put life into perspective, fine-tune the eye of the heart, like laser surgery. In less than a minute everything comes into a twenty-twenty view.

I regard the Hermès, riding like a kid in the shopping cart. I stop my cart in the middle of the aisle and peer inside the bag.

There’s the weathered wallet I paid fifty bucks for ten years ago when I started at Casper. I ate ramen noodles for a week so I could afford it. There’s my beat-up makeup bag with assorted lipsticks and powders I bought on QVC from Lisa Robertson. Eyedrops, an assortment of pens I think I’ll use but never do, my cell phone and my keys.

Did I think owning this bag would make me happy? Define me? Look at Macy Moore. She’s successful.

“Excuse me!”

I look around to see a large angry man. I scoot my cart out of the way.

“Sorry.” I smile sweetly, but he snarls as he pushes past.

In the checkout line I tear off one of the coupons at the cash register and donate ten dollars toward food for the needy. The old put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is routine.

Now only $2,490 to go.

When the rude guy gets in line after me, I flash him a big grin. “Have a nice night.”

He grunts.

At five to eleven I pull into my garage and unload groceries. I string all the plastic bags on my arms—seventy-five dollars and I can carry it all inside with one trip.

I close the trunk with my elbows.

“Macy?” A small voice calls me.

“Yes?” It’s dark, but I catch Mrs. Woodward’s silhouette in the low glow of the streetlights.

“It’s me, Elaine.”

“Hi, Mrs. Woodward. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” She shuffles into the garage wearing her robe and slippers. Despite my bags, I give her a neighborly hug and breathe in the scent of lemon drops.

“Would you like to come in?” I motion toward the door. I’m sort of tired, but I get the sense she wants company.

“That would be lovely.”

Mrs. Woodward offers to help me with my packages, but I ask her to push the garage-door button instead. It glides shut as we go inside. I drop my purchases on the kitchen counter and tell my neighbor to make herself comfortable.

“Would you like some tea?” I peer into the living room from the pass-through window. Mrs. Woodward sits on the edge of the couch with her hands folded and legs crossed at the ankles. She’s as regal as any queen.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother.” Ducking back into the kitchen, I put on the kettle. I can’t imagine what has Mrs. Woodward up and visiting at this late hour, but I’m captured by her gentility and elegance.

“Here we go.” I carry in the tea tray with my grandmother’s china rose teapot, matching cups and saucers, sugar bowl and creamer. It’s rare for me to break out the antique set, but Mrs. Woodward deserves it. I open a new bag of gingersnaps and arrange them on one of the saucers.

“Oh, how lovely.”

“My grandmother gave me the tea set several years ago. It belonged to her grandmother, a true Englishwoman.” I pour and pass.