Georgia on Her Mind(40)

I sink into the cushiony chair and close my eyes. Her words are simple and pure, yet profound. She’s not overtly singing about God, but I can tell she’s singing with a power greater than herself.

“She’s good,” I hear myself say with a sense of rightness. First bit of that I’ve had all day. Even shopping QVC didn’t remedy my despondency the way I’d hoped.

“I think I’ve heard her before,” Adriane whispers. “Maybe a concert up at the big Baptist church in Merritt Island.”

“She can sing to me any day,” Tamara intones to the rhythm of Claire’s song.

The entire House of Joe’s crowd is now quiet, being drawn and transported by the petite blonde’s glassy vocals and staccato beat.

Grungy and all, I’m glad I came tonight. “I love you guys,” I say mushily.

“Love you back,” they say.

“Friday-night movie at my place?” I offer, feeling cozy and warm with the residuals of the song.

“I’ll bring Chinese,” Lucy volunteers, holding up her slender hand.

“Oh, girl, have you tried that new place off Wickham?” Tamara mm-mm-mms while we beg her for details.





Chapter Eighteen




The Sunday night before I fly to New York, I pack with a steady, growing excitement. I hope it’s not too cold in New York for open toes.

It’s been a long two-week wait, but I’m ready for this interview. Peyton e-mailed me about a megabyte of Myers-Smith data and I’ve memorized a few choice pieces like the company’s brief history, names of their current officers and the branding of their main products.

I zip up my bag and hang it over my bedroom door just as the phone rings. It’s Dad. In a sentimental moment I confess my whole job mess to him. He’s not surprised, as I expected, and very supportive.

“I’ve always seen the Lord’s favor on your life, Macy,” he confesses, which bring tears to my eyes. “I am confident He’s working all of this for your good.”

“I have to believe that or go crazy.”

He chuckles and passes the phone to Mom, blabbing the news to her before she takes over the conversation. She fires off one question after another, drilling me about this New York company, asking what I plan to wear, advising me on hair and makeup.

“Don’t wear too much makeup, Macy. It makes you look cheap.” She whispers cheap as if it’s a four-letter word.

“Gotcha, Mom. I’m a little familiar with the business world.” I head downstairs to double-check my e-ticket and itinerary.

“Right. Right,” she says, a birdlike chortle chasing her words. “Guess you know more than I.”

“All your advice is right on, Mom. Thank you.” Kitty Moore will always want her little girl to need her.

“What does Chris think about this New York trip?”

Chris. Ah, yes, that news I haven’t broken yet. “Actually, he doesn’t know, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“We broke up.” There, now all my laundry is on the line, flapping in the breeze.

“Oh, Macy, when?”

“Couple of months ago.” Has it been that long?

“Why didn’t you say something?” Mom’s tone resonates with compassion.

“I just did. Chris and I broke up.” I find the e-ticket and itinerary in my purse safe and sound. Good.

“Be serious. Tell me what happened.”

“Simple. He met someone else.” Getting over Chris was probably one of the easiest things I’ve done in my life. I don’t know if that proves my fortitude or exposes my shallowness.

Mom fires questions like a seasoned Washington reporter. I flop on the couch, stare at the ceiling and answer like a seasoned Washington politician.

Around nine I wind up the conversation, slip into my pajamas and piddle around the condo.

I pause at the printed pile of Myers-Smith data lying on the dining-room table. Should I review it again? I flip through a few pages, but decide against. I don’t want to sound rehearsed.

As I wander to the kitchen for a little dinner Lucy calls on her way home from a movie with Jack. She gives me the “go get ’em” speech, then segues into a short, sincere prayer.

“Call me when you get there,” she says.

“Will do. Say hi to Jack for me.”

I browse the refrigerator for something to eat. Looks as if leftover Chinese is my only choice. I’m about to pop a plate of beef and dried-up fried rice into the micro when I hear a light knock on my kitchen window.

I yelp, then see Adriane’s heart-shaped face peering at me through the glass. I smile as she holds up two bags bearing the Carraba’s Italian Grill logo.

Say no more. I toss the fried rice and beef into the waste can and meet Adriane at the front door.

“What a pleasant surprise.”

“I felt like some company,” Adriane says, setting bags of food on my coffee table. “I hope you’re hungry.”

I catch a sound of sadness in her voice. Hmm. “I’m starved,” I say with a little too much cheer. “I’ll get some plates.”

“Are you ready for New York?” Addy asks, coming into the kitchen behind me and opening the cabinet for glasses.

“The question is, are they ready for me?” I grin at her over my shoulder.