Georgia on Her Mind(45)

Chapter Twenty




Three days after the Myers-Smith debacle, I drive to Beauty for Dad’s Food Connection launch party. The New York interview runs on a repetitive loop in my head.

The Myers-Smith human resource manager shook my hand and said, “You take business casual to a whole new level.”

I explained my dilemma in as few words as possible without sounding like a complete imbecile. I do want them to hire me.

He nodded and muttered that he understood as he walked me to my first interviewer. There were six interviews in all and Bob-the-HR-manager, as I came to know him, explained to each one why this candidate for director interviews in her street clothes.

It made for great first impressions.

Flying home on Wednesday, vacillating between relief and disappointment, I pondered the day while the stewardess poured me a Diet Coke and tossed over a third pack of peanuts.

Two months ago I was Macy Moore, savvy and smart in Anne Klein and Ann Taylor. Today I’m a dimwit in jeans and a T-shirt.

I concluded all I can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. If the Lord had a plan for me before I showed up to a New York City interview in my country-girl clothes, then He has a plan for me now. I just hope I didn’t botch it up too much.

But let me just say I am now a woman with a mission: float my résumé to every possible company. Get a job. Pure and simple. Lucy was right—I shouldn’t have put all my eggs in the Myers-Smith basket. I’ve lost two weeks of valuable job-hunting time.

I left Peyton Danner a message Thursday morning, hoping she didn’t hear about my Myers-Smith mishap until I talked to her.

Thursday evening, the SSS called a midweek meeting and we met at House of Joe’s for a Macy comforting.

Then, Friday morning I got up, packed, remembered my suitcase this time and drove to Beauty.

It’s late afternoon when I arrive home. As I pull into the driveway, I remember Mom’s affinity for napping. No sense waking her. I back out and head for the Moore Gourmet Sauces office.

I find Dad in the front office with his admin assistant, Sharon Lee.

“Macy, you’re here.” He holds out his arms to me. “I’m glad you came.”

“Hi, Daddy.” I fall into his embrace.

“How’d the interview go?”

I reach for Sharon’s chocolate candy jar. “I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Now, that’s a new approach,” he says.

I give him the whole, drawn-out story.

It takes me about three hours to tell it all, because Dad’s dealing with customers, his five-person staff and the event coordinator for Saturday’s launch party.

While he’s working with his new IT-network guy on a Web order entry problem, I sneak onto a computer and log on as the administrator. I check out the network and the local hard drives to make sure this new guy is keeping up with maintenance and security procedures I outlined for Dad when he started this e-venture.

Sure enough, he is. Good for him.

“How’s it feel to be back at Moore Gourmet Sauces?” Dad claps his hand on my shoulder when the busyness dies down.

“Weird. It’s been so long.”

“So, bottom line on the New York job?” He starts toward his office.

“I survived. End of story.” I step in time with his leisurely Georgia gait, hands in my hip pockets.

“You might have impressed them with your courage, confidence and ability to face difficult circumstances.”

I chuckle. “Too bad you’re not hiring me.”

“That can be arranged.”

I furrow my brows and pass on responding. “You know what’s really ironic?”

“No, what?” Dad opens his office door and moseys to his desk chair. I fall backward onto the old leather couch.

“I remembered my toiletries bag. From the neck up, I looked fantastic.”

“Now, there’s your silver lining.”

Staring at the slow-moving ceiling fan, I reminisce out loud. “I debated the whole flight up if I should even have gotten on the plane, knowing I didn’t have business clothes. I debated canceling the interview, or running through Bloomingdale’s and showing up late.”

Dad shakes his head. “That would be worse than showing up in jeans.”

“Exactly.”



Saturday morning, Dad and Mom run around the house, frantic, calling to each other up the stairs, down the stairs and I think even once out the window. “Earl, where are the gift bags?”

“Kitty, the country club’s on the phone. Did you order shrimp?”

I bury my head under my pillow and will myself to go back to sleep. The launch festivities, which include an all-out barbecue, don’t start until 2:00 p.m. I have time. Plenty of time.

“Earl, where’s my dress?” Mom bellows down the hall, her voice creeping under my closed door.

“I don’t know, Kitty. Did you pick it up from the dry cleaner?”

“Oh, land sakes. The dry cleaner.”

Right then, my door bursts open and I peer out from under my pillow to see Mom standing there, legs apart, robe askew, head wrapped in a towel turban.

“You’ve got to run to the dry cleaner and get my dress.”

I sit up, shoving my hair from my eyes. “Now?”