Georgia on Her Mind(32)

“You called the police?” My adrenaline rush ebbs and I start to shake. Drag moves next to me.

“You hung up on me. You didn’t answer your phone for over an hour. Cell or house.” She faces me, hands on her hips as if I owe her an explanation. “And you were alone with someone.”

“So you call the police?”

“Well…”

Hands on my hips, I dip my head Ricky Ricardo-style. “Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt for a squad car to drive by,” she confesses. “Just to check on you.”

Drag laughs. Now he decides to do his Goofy impression.

I scowl at Luce and motion to Andy and Barney. “I think you owe these two an apology.”

Drag nods. “Yeah.”

“Guess I let my imagination get away from me, but seriously, Macy, you know the kind of stories I’ve done. It’s always the nice, single, unsuspecting female who gets caught off guard.”

“Give me some credit, please.”

Lucy starts to say something, but I raise my hands.

“It’s over. Let’s go inside.” I motion to my place. She doesn’t follow. I stop, and for some reason it registers for the first time that she’s standing mighty close to Deputy Fife, and wearing a Florida Gators T-shirt. “Why are you wearing a Gators T-shirt?”

She’s a Georgia Bulldog. The Gators are our rivals. I don’t see the humor here. First she calls the police, then she shows up wearing a Gator T. I wouldn’t use one for a dust rag.

“Oh, that.” She looks down at her shirt, then at me. “Macy, I’ve met somebody.”

I lean her way. “Come again?”

As if on cue, Barney puts his arm around Lucy. She smiles at him. Oh-oh. Do I see sparks? I’ve never, ever seen her look at a man the way she’s looking at Deputy Fife.



Barney Fife. My best friend is dating Barney Fife. Lucy introduces me to him—real name Jack Westin—before he leaves with his partner, real name Brett Stuart.

“I can’t believe you held out on me.” We’re inside my house now. Lucy kissed Barney, er, Jack Westin goodbye and Drag arranged to teach Officer Brett to surf.

Nuking two mugs of coffee, I prod her to spill the beans.

“You’ve been through so much lately, I didn’t want to make matters worse. Besides, we really didn’t know how we felt until today. We talked before his shift.”

We sit at the kitchen table. “Lucy, I always want to hear this sort of news.” Is my life so rotten my best friend can’t tell me she’s in love?

She crosses her heart. “I won’t hide it from you again.”

The short version of their love story is they met last year while investigating a Melbourne Beach white-collar crime. He called her a few weeks ago and they went to a musical.

Lucy and I talk until after two. I tell her about Austin, Dan and Delia, the surprise visit by Dylan, Mrs. Woodward and then lying on the pavement, quoting a Psalm to Drag, which boosted my faith.

After Lucy leaves, I take a quick, hot shower, washing away the good, the bad and the ugly of the day. I fall into bed and picture Dylan’s face as he nears me for a kiss. (Okay, maybe he wasn’t going to kiss me, but I can dream, can’t I?) I linger there for a nanosecond, then move on before my mind throws a gutter ball and I end up in a place I don’t want to be.

I jot a mental note to make a doctor’s appointment for Mrs. Woodward, wish I were more like Drag, laid-back and gazing at stars, and smile for Lucy and Jack. Why is it that in these quiet moments all of my emotions and thoughts surface and demand attention?

Please, Lord, don’t let my gravestone read “Here lies Macy Ilene Moore. Second fiddle to a man obsessed with Xena, the ex-girlfriend of a rogue financier and Beauty High’s most successful failure.”

I want the life of the beautiful, not the life of the overwhelmed.

I slip under the covers as if hiding from the life I lead. I shouldn’t try to make sense of it all now, when I’m tired and my brain is sunburned. Yet underneath the layer of self-pity, I know the Lord is with me, and there’s beauty in my ashes.





Chapter Fifteen




Monday morning I arrive at Casper with renewed vigor. Pastor Ted’s Sunday-morning sermon about trusting the Lord for our future knocked me out of my weekend doldrums.

I settle in my office and get busy planning my next Casper excursion with a sense of destiny. Yeah, God and me. He’s in control.

But by 1:00 p.m. the details for my trip remain at large. My sense of purpose is deflating a little. My destination is a Kansas town so small that even Jillian couldn’t find it on the map when booking my flight.

Somewhere in no-man’s-land there is a thriving e-business in need of new Web tools and one W-Book application. Enter Macy Moore, the tool lady.

Around two, I decide to break for lunch. Lucy’s comment about too many French fries coming home to roost on my backside leaps to mind, so I order a to-go grilled chicken salad from Pop’s.

In thirty minutes I’m back at my desk, eating and reviewing the new W-Book installation manual, when a dark shadow falls across my desk. I glance up. Roni.

“Hello.” I square my shoulders. She’s wearing a new Armani suit. Bonuses must have been good this quarter.