Georgia on Her Mind(37)
“Lucy, the form was already filled out and signed. Like a prison sentence without trial.”
“They are your bosses.”
I make a face. “Bosses, not slave masters.”
“I guess that doesn’t excuse them from not doing it right.”
“My point exactly. I don’t have to sign if I don’t agree. And I don’t agree.” While ranting, I check my cell phone for messages. In the Borg cube I didn’t have cell reception, but I really want Peyton to call. Today of all days, I want Peyton to call.
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asks.
“Connect with Peyton Danner.” There are no messages or missed calls on my cell. “Right after lunch.”
“Do you feel right about that?”
I get Lucy’s subtle nudge. Is this where God is leading me? “Remember when I moved down here after college?”
She nods.
“I prayed and prayed, then finally a door opened and I leaped. Isn’t that the essence of faith?” I sound wiser than I feel.
“I suppose.” She smiles to remind me she’s for me. “It’s just sad to realize that this job search could change our lives forever.”
Lucy’s comment is sobering. “I know. But this situation at Casper is not working.”
“I agree. You’ve been at Casper too long already, but I don’t want you to move.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Casper lets me go.” I make air quotes around lets me go.
“Then be faithful until they do.”
“It’s awful to feel this way about my job. After ten years, it boils down to this.”
“Let God defend you. He’ll take care of you.”
I smile. “I’m counting on it.”
“Macy!” The Steve’s Hoagies guy calls my name and tosses my chicken sandwich basket up on the counter.
“Lucy!” he belts out.
“I’ll get them,” I say.
When I return to the table we bow for a quick prayer before digging in.
Ignoring her sandwich, Lucy gushes, “Enough about you—let’s talk about me.” She’s beaming.
“All right. Talk.” I feel like eating instead of talking anyway. I brace for a flood of Jack this and Jack that to wash away the mire of my life’s trials. It’s good to see Jack Westin’s light in Lucy’s eyes.
“Macy,” she starts, “you’re looking at the new news desk assistant editor.”
I look up, my teeth buried in my chicken sandwich. She’s glowing and it isn’t even about Jack. “What?” I ask with my mouth full.
“I interviewed for the position before you went to Kansas. Remember? I competed against that New York Post reporter who just moved to Cocoa Beach.”
I nod, remembering. Between chews and swallows, I congratulate her. “Fabulous! Good for you.”
“I’m, like, dumbfounded. I can’t believe I got the job. I start next week. But brace yourself for this….”
If she says Jack asked her to marry him, I’ll scream. Right here. Right now. Promise. They’ve been dating for what—three, four weeks?
“I’m braced,” I say after fortifying myself with a slurp from my soda.
“The job is in a new salary category. I’m getting an eight-percent pay raise.”
I choke. “Eight percent. That’s incredible.”
“I’m in awe of what God is doing in my life. The publisher told me the salary on my way out the door to meet you for lunch.”
“Good for you.” I shove my half-eaten sandwich aside and fall against the back of the booth.
I hate my life.
Chapter Seventeen
After lunch and Lucy’s good news, I sulk in my dank office. Where is the beauty for my ashes, Lord?
I drop my forehead to the desk with a sigh. I’m depressed.
“Macy.” I lift my head to find Attila the Hun, in person, filling the doorway. She points to her forehead. “You have a pink slip stuck to your head.”
I reach up and yank off the While You Were Out sticky. Peyton Danner’s number is embossed with an oily stain.
“Are you available to meet at five?” She smiles, but there’s an arctic nuance in her voice.
“Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
“A continuation of your discussion with Mike.” She flips her hand in my direction as if it’s no big deal.
A chill tightens my scalp and runs down my spine. Bunch of malarkey. She’s up to something. Probably going to force me to sign that stupid performance review. Well, I won’t.
“Sure, see you at five.” When she’s gone, I snatch up the pink slip. Stop sulking. Call Peyton.
I pick up my phone. No dial tone, still. Not to be deterred, I scurry out of my hole and down to the lunchroom, where I know my cell gets reception. When I arrive, the room is empty. Perfect.
I dial Peyton with determination. While the New York City number rings, I rehearse my greeting.
Good afternoon. Macy Moore for Peyton Danner.
Peyton Danner, please. Macy Moore calling.
“Danner Limited,” the receptionist answers.
I jump to attention. “Um, hello, yes, this is Macy Moore. Can I speak to Peyton Danner, please?” Unbelievable. Ten years as a businesswoman and I come off like a second grader asking for her mommy.