Georgia on Her Mind(50)
“I want a wedding under the stars,” I begin, “with me in a white, flowing cotton dress. No flowers or unity candle. I’ll walk down the aisle to the music of a violin. I’ll curl my bare toes in the grass and make a covenant with God and my man to never give up on love.”
“Oh, Macy, how lovely,” Adriane says, exhaling. “I might have to steal that scene for a book.”
“And I want chocolate, lots of chocolate,” I conclude.
Tamara slaps the table. “Now you’re talking.” Then she stands. “I hate to go, but I have an early-morning meeting.”
“It’s only nine-thirty,” I protest.
“I know, I know, but I was falling asleep at my desk today.”
She takes a last gulp from her mug. From the corner of my eye I see a man passing by our table, staring at Tamara. He stops, then backtracks. “Tamara Clayton?”
“Yes.” She turns around.
“I can’t believe it. It’s me, Sam Peterson from Live Oak.”
“Well, Sam Peterson.” She hugs him, then looks at us. “He was my brother Phil’s best friend.”
“I just moved into town. Came in with a new project at Rockwell-Collins.”
“Well, welcome.” Tamara flirts. Right out in the open. No shame. I don’t blame her, though. Sam is very fine.
“Maybe we could get together, talk about old times,” Sam suggests, his gaze glued to her face. “You know, growing up, I always had a crush on you. Phil’s little sister.”
Tamara chortles. Oh, brother.
“Why don’t I take you on a tour of the town?”
Sam’s big white smile brightens his entire being. “That would be wonderful.”
Before our very eyes, Tamara makes a date. Then they leave House of Joe’s, her arm linked with his, gabbing ninety miles an hour as if Adriane and I don’t even exist.
“How do you like that?” I muse.
“Don’t be bitter, Macy,” Adriane says.
“What? Bitter? I’m not bitter.”
“Well, life has thrown you a few curves—”
“But I’m still in the game, Adriane.”
“That’s my girl. Keep that positive attitude,” she says, like pip, pip, cheerio.
Who does she think she’s talking to? Keep a positive attitude, huh! I’m about to say something when her cell phone jingles. By the way she answers and the flush on her cheeks, I know it’s Eric. She grabs her stuff, waves goodbye and I’m left to walk out alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Memorial Day weekend I have a brain freeze. I don’t know what happens, but I let the Single Saved Sisters talk me into attending the church singles function.
“Will there be more than ten people there?” I ask during a late-afternoon visit with Lucy. Bored, I drop by the paper to see what morbid news story she’s working on.
“Of course. Stop this ridiculous phobia. You’re in crowds of more than ten people all the time.”
“Ridiculous phobia? Please, it’s self-defense.”
“You ride on airplanes with hundreds of people and it never bothers you.”
“I read where Robert Mitchum had a crowd phobia.”
“And he’s your role model? A fifties actor?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Say you’ll be there.”
“Okay,” I say, but call her bluff. “I’ll go if you fry a hamburger in a skillet on the stove.”
She fades to green. “Gross.”
“As I thought.” Feeling puffed up, I sit back. We all have our phobias.
Lucy leans my way. “Macy, you have no boyfriend, no job and all you do is sit home in those ratty shorts, conduct phone interviews and surf cable channels.”
I make a face. Cheater. “Okay, I’ll go.”
So here it is, Memorial Day, and I’m going to a singles shindig.
I get ready for the Bash on the Beach, packing my tote with a towel and my cooler with shrimp salad.
The silver lining to this cloud is that Lucy is off the market and perhaps, oh, if I can dream, the one or two cool guys will gravitate my way. Just for the day, that’s all I ask.
Lucy and Jack pick me up around ten. She’s bubbly and beautiful in a pale green sundress. He, I’ve learned, is not at all like Barney Fife. Strong and wiry, soft-spoken and kind, Jack reminds me of a nineteenth-century, Old West cowboy. Salt-of-the-earth type. Fear the Almighty, work hard and love your woman.
In no time, we’re beachside and pulling into Nance Park, where I see a sizable crowd has already gathered.
I stick on a smile and greet everyone. Tamara and Adriane arrive with their men. I’m like the seventh wheel. Third wheel is doable, the fifth is a little embarrassing, but the seventh? Downright humiliating.
Adriane introduces us to Eric Gurden, a floppy-haired blonde who reminds me of Tom Berenger. Tamara cleaves to Sam as if she wants to be his permanent appendage and smiles so much my face hurts. They’ve been thick as thieves since running into each other that night at the coffeehouse.
At the last Single Saved Sisters meeting, I alone showed up, sipped half a white mocha and left.
The seven of us set up camp under one of the pavilions. Out on the beach, the volleyball is out and being tossed around. Now hear this—I stink at volleyball. Right down to my size-ten feet.