Georgia on Her Mind(5)

“Where are you going?” Lucy trails me.

“Home. I need to think, sort this out.” I regard my dear friend for a second, then stride over to where she’s standing and give her a hug. “Thanks for being there for me.”

“I’m coming over tonight.”

“Bring Chinese.”





Chapter Three




Arriving home, I decide to do what any woman of my education and stature would do—pout. Pity party for one, please. I change into my party outfit, a ratty pair of red sweats.

Earlier, I couldn’t get Roni’s attitude out of my head. Now I can’t stop picturing Chris with that incredibly cute woman.

In the mirror over my couch I check my appearance. My hair is matted together from the rain, my eyes are puffy and red, and black mascara residue has pooled under my eyes and left streaks on my face. I look like a member of Cirque du Soleil.

Comparing myself to a perky Florida Tech grad student right now is stupid. But stupid hasn’t stopped me before.

It occurs to me as I fall onto the couch that in this dark hour I should pray. But dialoguing with God feels, at the very least, hypocritical. We haven’t been on intimate speaking terms for a few months, and going to Him now because my life is in ruins doesn’t seem right.

Okay, maybe that’s when one should run to God. But quite frankly, when I met Chris I sort of took over the rudder of my life. “Thanks, Lord. I have my career and a good man. I’ll take it from here.”

I flop over onto my stomach, bury my face in a thick, fringed pillow and punch the sofa cushion until my arm tires three whacks later. (Mental note: renew gym membership.) I backtrack over my life with Chris to determine where it went wrong.

I met him at a community work party, cleaning up parts of downtown Melbourne, right before my thirty-third birthday and right after my biological clock sent its first alarm: Hello, you’re a thirtysomething, Macy.

That shook me. I desperately wanted a career and life outside my small hometown of Beauty, Georgia, but I never, ever wanted to be one of those workaholic women who wakes up at forty-five and says, “Oops, I forgot to have a family.”

So, with baby bells still chiming, I ran into Chris a few days later at Pop’s and he asked me to dinner.

He took me to the Chart House—very nice!—and we simply clicked, as if we’d known each other forever. Suddenly getting married became a priority. I hadn’t met a man like Chris in a long time—handsome, goal oriented, sweet, well-spoken and moneyed. My personal I-don’t-want-to-bean-old-maid fear factor precluded asking God for His opinion.

So this is where that plan has brought me. Broken-heartville. Drat.

The phone rings, calling me out of the pity pool. I fumble to find the portable, lost somewhere under the coffee table. I bump my head reaching for it.

“Hello?” I sit up, rubbing my forehead. Winter’s afternoon light falls across my living-room floor. I check the time on the mantel clock. Two o’clock.

“Macy?”

It’s my neighbor across the street. “Mrs. Woodward, how are you?” The words come out slowly and high-pitched and it sounds as if one of us is an imbecile and it’s not her. “I see you came home in the middle of the day. Are you ill?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I have soup on.”

I wince. That’s the umpteenth time she’s called me for a meal this year and it’s only February. I have yet to accept because I’ve been busy. Really I have.

“Thank you, Mrs. Woodward, but I just had lunch, and to be honest, I’m not very good company right now.”

“I understand. How about for dinner?”

I wince again. “I have a friend coming over.”

“Boy or girl?”

Oh, brother. “Girl. Lucy. You remember Lucy.”

“Of course. I can set a place for her, too.” Her voice goes up on too as if she’s tempting me with a million dollars.

“She’s bringing Chinese.”

“Well, then, another night. Ta-ta.”

“Yeah, ta-ta.”



Lucy bungles through the door around seven-thirty with bags of Chinese comfort. I’m starved.

“Here.” She hands me a few pieces of mail. “Dan Montgomery said they were in his box.”

Ah, handsome Dan, the condo community’s resident hunky lawyer. Think George Clooney meets Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“You look horrible,” Lucy says, walking toward the kitchen.

“Thanks. I was going for hideous, but horrible is good.” I glance in the couch mirror again. No, I think I achieved hideous.

“Go wash up. I’ll get the plates. You do realize Dan was about to knock on your door.”

“Oh, really?” That would have been the icing on the cake of my day. Opening the door to handsome Dan while looking like a dead skunk. I bet his girlfriend, Perfect Woman, was with him.

In the downstairs bathroom I scrub my face with soap. I’m too tired, too I-don’t-care to run upstairs for my over-priced facial cleanser. Soap will do.

Lucy is yelling something at me. “What?” I holler back, turning off the water.

“Remember your dinner with him?”

“Him who? Chris?” Of course I remember.