Georgia on Her Mind(39)
At 6:45, I go upstairs to get ready for the SSS meeting. I boycott showering—there’s really no time. So I do the surface stuff—brush my teeth, wash my face, dust it with powder and pull my hair into a ponytail. (How did it get so greasy sitting around the house?)
The pièce de résistance is an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days. Feeling quite comfy and only slightly grungy, I head out.
I’m the first one at House of Joe’s. I drop my Hermès on a tabletop away from the stage—looks as if they’ve got a singer tonight—and go to the coffee bar to order.
“Hi, Zach. Can I get a latte with all the fat?”
“Sure.” He gives me the once-over. “Taking a day off?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Nosy.
Adriane is next to arrive. Tamara and Lucy walk in two minutes later.
“Oh, Macy, really.”
“I hear the baggy look is coming back.”
“Doing something new with your hair?”
I shoot back. “Please, I just got fired.”
“Fired?” Zach echoes. He hands me my latte with a smirk.
I hand him a five. “Keep the change.” Hint—mind your own business.
“What’d you do today?” Adriane wonders, dumping sugar into her mocha.
“Nothing.” I can tell all points of conversation will revolve around me.
“Did you post your résumé on Monster? Job hunt at all?” Lucy eyes me over her gargantuan coffee mug.
“No.”
“Why not?” Tamara pokes me in the arm with one of her swordlike fingernails.
“Because I’ve got Peyton Danner in my corner. Let me see how this New York interview turns out.”
“Yes, by all means, put all your eggs in that basket.” Lucy is ripe with acrimony tonight.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend to pester?” I ask, slouching down in my chair, cradling my latte.
“He’s working.” She beams.
“Somebody’s in la-hove.” Tamara sings.
“Yeah, let’s talk about tha-hat.” I join the song.
“Let’s not.” Lucy sets her mug down on the table with a loud clank. “Tonight is about you, Macy.”
I glance at Adriane, who is watching, amused, her hand in the air, bent at the wrist, holding that phantom cigarette. “Are you going to help me?”
“You’re doing just fine.” She smirks at me.
“Okay, you want to know what I did today? I watched QVC, spent five hundred of my severance dollars and for lunch I ate M&M’s on the front stoop waiting for the mailman.”
They laugh. “The mailman? Were you waiting for your Publishers Clearing House brochure?”
“Ha, ha. No. But guess what did come in the mail?”
“What?” Lucy asks.
“Another flyer for our class reunion. ‘Emcee and host, Macy Moore, Most Likely To Succeed,’ in big bold letters right across the bottom.”
“Fabulous.”
“Yes, how fabulous for the ‘Most Likely To Succeed’ to sit on her front steps in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week with M&M’s-stained fingers.”
Tamara giggles and waves the idea off with a flick of her hand. “Temporary, only temporary.”
“Do you think Dylan would ask you to emcee if you were a failure?” Lucy asks, angling over the table to make sure she has my attention.
I curl my lip. “He doesn’t know I’ve been fired.”
Tamara waves her chocolate-covered biscotti at Adriane. “Are you taking notes for your next novel?”
“No, this story is too sad.” Adriane shakes her head in pity, but there’s mirth in her tone.
“Girl, you can say that again.” Tamara bites off the tip of her Italian cookie.
“Hello, I’m sitting right here.” I refuse to admit my life is too tragic for one of Adriane’s romance novels.
“What are you wearing to your New York interview?” Lucy asks, wisely moving the conversation in a different direction.
“My black travel Chico’s suit, pants and jacket, with a blue top.”
“Perfect.” Lucy reaches for Tamara’s biscotti. “Wad and wear. Can’t go wrong.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Peyton said not to dress like an eighties yuppie. Chico’s should be a nice outfit.”
“Are you going to eat that biscotti or sing into it?” Tamara asks, holding out her hand for her cookie.
Lucy bites from the uneaten end and hands it back to Tamara. I smile to myself. As rotten as the past few days have been, these women brighten my life. Faithful friends, a reminder of God’s goodness to me.
On the other side of the coffeehouse a young woman takes the stage with her guitar.
“Hi, everyone,” she says softly into the microphone in a quiet voice.
The din in the room fades a little.
“My name is Claire—” she smiles shyly at us “—and I’m going to play a few songs for you. Hope you like them.”
As she starts to strum, the conversational buzz in the room rises a notch. Tamara whispers something to us, but I am tuned in to the song. I like Claire’s sound—Jewel meets Bethany Dillon.