Georgia on Her Mind(41)

She laughs. “Now you’re talking. Myers-Smith won’t know what hit them.”

“Well, let’s not go too far. I do want them to hire me.”

“Oh, yes, right.”

I grab a tapered candle from the mantel before we settle on the couch for dinner.

“Nice touch,” Adriane says as I light the candle. She pulls open the first food bag and amazing aromas waft through the house.

“Oh, yum, yum, yum. This is a great New York sendoff.” I choose the mushroom-smothered sirloin from one of the cartons.

“Can you imagine that in a month or two you could be living in New York or Chicago?” Adriane spears a chicken breast and drops it onto her plate.

“No, I can’t, but living in a big metropolitan city would be fabulous.”

She nods, cutting her chicken into small bites. “I loved growing up near New York City, but now you couldn’t drag me away from the beach.”

I laugh. “I never got into the beach.” I notice Adriane is shoving her food around the plate without eating.

I set my fork and knife down. “Okay, what’s going on?”

She peers up at me and with a wobbly sigh, puts her plate on the coffee table and covers her face with her hands.

“Adriane, what’s wrong?” For a moment I feel her sadness. I scoot over next to her.

She weeps without a word for several minutes. I hug her shoulders.

When she sits up and wipes her face with her napkin, she tells me with a half laugh, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your evening with my tears.”

“Please, you’ve endured my whining lately. Did you get a book rejection or something?”

She blows her nose and crashes against the back of the couch. “Of course not. For that, you’d be driving me to the E.R.”

I smile. “A thousand pardons, then.”

“You know my story, right?”

“Which one? Fact or fiction?”

She lifts her hands to her head and squeezes the short ends of her hair between her fingers. “Fact. My family.”

“Uh-oh.” Adriane’s family picture is in the dictionary under dysfunctional. “What’d they do this time? And who?” I ask.

“My brother.”

I nod. “The one who works at Kennedy Space Center?”

“Yes. We were supposed to meet at Carraba’s for his birthday dinner. My treat.” Her voice quivers and she bats away tears.

“He didn’t show, did he?”

She pinches her lips, sniffles and shakes her head.

“Sugar, I’m sorry. How rude.”

Through her tears she explains, “You and I think so, but when I called him to see where he was, he got mad and defensive. Said he didn’t feel like a sermon on his birthday.”

I grimace. “What does that mean?”

“That he’s paranoid.” She laughs. “He’s so defensive if I even mention God or church. He claims I’m shoving it down his throat. But believe me, I’m very careful what I say around him.”

I hand her another napkin-tissue. “Sometimes the silent sermons are the worst.”

She blows her nose again, nodding. “I guess so. For all the grief I’m getting I might as well say the words.”

I grab her hands. “Let’s pray, give the situation over to Jesus and eat this great food before it gets cold.”

She looks at me, the whites of her big brown eyes streaked with red. “Thank you, Macy.”

“Any time, friend, any time.”

We pray and take a moment to wait on God. Adriane’s breathing slows and I can tell she’s being filled with His peace. After a few minutes she retrieves her plate, smiles at me and picks up a big bite of chicken.

I grin and return to my steak. With pleasure.

Midchew, Adriane absently reaches for the Beauty High reunion flyer dangling from under a pile of mail on the end table. “‘Emcee and host, Macy Moore, Most Likely To Succeed.’”

“Please, don’t torment me. I’m enjoying my dinner.”

“Who’s Joley?” She points to one of the contact names on the bottom of the flyer. “I like that name. It’d be great for a heroine.”

“She’s a classmate and on the reunion committee. Back in the day, she was Dylan’s girlfriend.”

“Ah, the competition.”

“Not even in the same league,” I confess.

Adriane peers at me with her head tipped sideways. “Gorgeous?”

“Very. Plus she’s nice and sweet—you know, altogether sickening. She’s married now.”

“Really?”

“To a millionaire car dealer.”

Adriane laughs. “It’s always the way, isn’t it?”

“Not in my life.”

Adriane digs in the Carraba’s bag and retrieves a capped cup of butter. “For our bread,” she says, pointing to the other bag.

I peer in to find a warm loaf of bread and a carton of alfredo noodles.

As we fix ourselves up with the sides, Adriane ventures, “Tell me, why do you like Dylan?”

“Like him?” I tear at the slice of thick bread. “He’s just a friend.”

“Really?”

Clearly Adriane is over her brother’s neglect and probing into my life.