Georgia on Her Mind(49)

It’s The Apprentice meets The Bachelorette. Maybe I should write Mark Burnett.

But I’ve come to grips with the fact that “finding myself” lies not in the soul of Macy Moore, but in the heart of God. Easier said than done? Yes.

After prayer, I hop on the Internet looking for jobs. I’ve posted my résumé with about ten companies, but so far, no nibbles.

Sometime during the day I check my bank balance to see if it’s miraculously multiplied. It hasn’t. Around the middle of August my well of severance and vacation pay runs dry and I’ll be broke unless I dip into my 401K or land a fabulous job.

At noon I break for lunch. Habit, I guess. I make a sandwich or run out for fast food, which totally negates my three-mile power walk, but for the moment I’m keeping life in precarious balance. Lost my job, lost my man, I’m hanging on to my deep fried potatoes.

Around three I visit Mrs. Woodward, who is completely recovered from gallbladder surgery. The past few days, Drag has joined us for a rousing game of Scrabble. His dumb surfer dude shtick is a phony and a fake. He’s crazy intelligent.



Tuesday night I meet the Single Saved Sisters at House of Joe’s, sans Lucy. She has to work. Something about an early deadline for the local news pages.

At eight o’clock Tamara and I are the only ones here. We sip lattes and chew the fat, wondering what happened to Adriane. Her empty chair is like the calm before the storm. Something is up.

“Where do you think she is?” I ask Tamara with a quick glance toward the door.

“Maybe she’s on deadline?”

“No, she turned in her latest manuscript the week I went to New York.”

“You think she forgot?” Tamara looks at me as if she knows it’s a wild idea, but she’s reaching.

“Has she missed a meeting since we started this ridiculous club?” I check the door again.

By eight-thirty she’s still missing, not answering her home or cell phone. Tamara is contemplating a call to the hospital when Adriane Fox finally waltzes in and floats over to our table.

“What is up with you?” Tamara demands, sheathing her cell phone with vigor.

“Nothing,” Adriane says, but the singsong in her voice and the sparkle in her eye tells a different story.

She orders her coffee and rejoins us, going on and on about inane stuff like how the driver next to her at a red light looked like the hero in her first book, Hearts & Roses, and how she thinks we should all go shopping at the Viera outlets on Saturday, and has anyone seen the new Lexus? It’s gorgeous.

Tamara rallies with a wicked cross-examination, but Adriane maneuvers around her. Me? I observe, saying nothing.

Then it hits me. “You met somebody.”

She snaps, “What makes you say that?”

Now Tamara’s caught on. “You did. You met someone. I wondered why you were yapping so much.”

She crumbles easily. “Okay, what if I did? You’ve been pestering me for years to—”

“Date?” Tamara interjects.

“If that’s the word you choose.”

Tamara and I woo-hoo right in the middle of House of Joe’s. This is fantastic news. Out of the corner of my eye I see Claire is about to take the stage. I’m glad she’s singing again tonight, glad we didn’t interrupt her set.

“Why the cloak-and-dagger?” I want to know.

“We recently realized how we felt and I’m not sure where things are going.” Adriane scrunches up her shoulders, and shades of her usual pessimistic self shadow the conversation.

“Hold it,” I say, standing, palms up, “until I order another round.”

“Let me buy,” Adriane insists. “You’re unemployed, Macy.”

“Thanks. I forgot.” Women in love are so arrogant. “Just tell everyone in earshot I don’t have a job, that I’m a failure.”

“You’re not a failure. Get over yourself.” Adriane scoots away to order lattes.

“A pessimist in love,” Tamara says. “Not sure I can handle it.”

Come to find out, Adriane’s new man is an editor with her publishing house. While e-mailing and IMing over one of her manuscripts, they became friends.

“He’s a Christian?” Tamara asks. “Don’t be walking the line like our girl Macy.”

“Hey!” It’s a primitive defense, but the best I can do on short notice.

“Please, I’ve been that route. Yes, he’s a Christian,” Adriane says. “Talking about our faith is how we became friends.”

I recognize the expression on her face. The same one I’ve seen on my sister-in-law Suzanne’s face. The one Lucy now wears. The look of love.

Eric Gurden, Adriane’s new love, was in Orlando on business and drove over to see Adriane Sunday afternoon. The rest, as they say, is history.

We hear how Eric hung the moon and lit the stars, and set Adriane’s heart in motion. It’s good to see her touched by love. Not once during the evening does she poise her hand as if waiting for a cigarette.

“You know,” I say suddenly, sort of thinking out loud, “when and if I decide to get married, I’m going against the grain.”

“Oh, yes, same here,” Adriane echoes.

“Not me,” Tamara counters with a shake of her head. “Tradition, tradition, tradition. Stained-glass-window church, wedding march, big reception. The works.”