Georgia on Her Mind(23)

Lucy and I gape at her. “Of course there’s an Emily.”

Adriane looks directly into Lucy’s eyes. “Emily who?”

Lucy, for all her reporter savvy, stammers, “Ah, Em-Emily Finkenstadt.”

I laugh, which blows the last lid on our cover. I flick Lucy in the arm. “Finkenstadt? That’s the best you could do?”

“I read it on a police blotter today. Adriane tricked me.”

I confess. “So we made it up, Addy. You think you’re the only storyteller in the group?”

“Yeah.” Lucy hoists her nose in the air. “We can make stuff up, too.”

Adriane shakes her head and laughs softly. “I guess you can.” She looks at us with gratitude. “Thank you, though. I hear what you’re saying. I just need trust in God, not myself.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Tamara says. “But, I gotta tell you what’s bothering me, ladies.”

We lean to listen. I anticipate one of Tamara’s esoteric conclusions about life and love, some sage snippet that I can ponder for the next few days.

“Why is it when I gain a pound or two it goes straight to my inner thighs?” Tamara smacks her hand on the top of her leg. “My jeans rub together—zip, zip, zip—when I walk.”

She is dead serious. Her confession and expression are so comical we burst out laughing.

“You think I’m joking?” Tamara hops up and walks around our table. Sure enough, her thighs rub together with a zip, zip, zip sound.

“Whatever you do, don’t buy corduroy,” Lucy advises with a cackle.

Tamara hasn’t let me down. I will ponder that sage snippet for the rest of the week, and laugh. We may be a sad lot of single, desperate sisters, but we can laugh.

Just as we settle down a bit and start talking about dessert, my cell phone chirps. I spill the contents of my bag trying to get to it before voice mail picks up.

“Macy Moore.”

“Is it him?” Tamara asks in a very loud whisper. I shush her with a finger to my lips.

“Macy, hi, it’s Austin Ramirez.” He sounds nervous, but I like the resonance of his voice.

“How are you?” I walk away from the group, since they are about to explode with squeals. Good grief. You’d think I was the ugly duckling getting a call from the prince.

“It was good to see you today,” he starts.

“Yes, good to see you, too.”

Pause. Hollow silence. Finally, “I—I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner.”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Saturday at six?” Decisive. How refreshing.

“Great.”

“I’ll call you Friday to confirm and get directions.”

“Perfect. Talk to you then.”

“Have a nice evening.”

“You, too.”

I push End and turn to the Single Saved Sisters ready for their squeals and yelps. Instead, they glare at me with sour faces.

“What was that? A business deal?” Tamara curls her lip in disgust.

“What? No. We were making a date.”

“Sounded like a sales call to me,” Lucy observes.

“If that’s dating, I’m content to stay out of the game,” Adriane laments.

“You guys. Come on. It’s our first real conversation. He was clear, decisive and courteous. What did you expect?”

“Amor,” Adriane breathes.

“Shiny eyes,” Lucy concludes.

“Blushing cheeks,” Tamara adds.

I shake my head. Lousy dreamers.





Chapter Eleven




I wake up Saturday with two words on my brain. Date day. Macy Moore has a day-ate. It’s a beautiful Saturday and only five short weeks since my devastating dump by Chris. He’s well on his way to becoming a distant memory.

Maybe tonight’s date is the beginning of something beautiful, I don’t know. But God does and I’m leaving it up to Him. If I’ve learned anything this spring, it’s to lean on Jesus. I’ve lived the results of my handiwork. Not so pleasant.

I decide it’s just too gorgeous a day to stay inside. Standing on my screened porch, I gaze out toward the complex pool.

I haven’t sat by the pool and soaked up rays in years. Wouldn’t that be fun and relaxing? Nothing like a little kiss from the sun to make me look radiant.

I hurry inside to get ready, but my trip is delayed when I can’t find my bathing suit.

I call Lucy. “Where’s my bathing suit?”

“How should I know?” She sounds sleepy.

“Are you just waking up?” I look at the clock. Ten-thirty.

“I stayed up until two reading.”

“Ooh, pass it to me when you’re done.” Anything that keeps Lucy awake that late must be spectacular.

“Why are you looking for your bathing suit?” Her question is punctuated by a big yawn.

“I’m going to the pool.”

“What? Macy, don’t. You’ll get burned.”

“Get burned,” I echo. “Hello, I’m not twelve.”

“Whatever. Did you look under that pile of stuff in your laundry room?”

I check the “to be dealt with later” pile and find my suit under a stack of wrinkled clothes. Fortunately, it’s clean.