Georgia on Her Mind(58)

“It’s a good business, Macy. A good life. I’d like to see the tradition continue.”

“What about Cole?”

Dad shakes his head and pooches his lips. “He’s working with Regis Gellar in the surveying business. He’ll inherit that someday.”

There is a sad echo in his words. I’m his only hope for keeping Moore Gourmet Sauces in the family. His only hope for maintaining the stellar reputation he’s built with the business.

I ponder his recent deal with The Food Connection and feel queasy.

“This is really out of the blue, Dad.” I fiddle with the lid on my cup before deciding to take a sip. Blech. It’s black. No sugar, no cream. Doesn’t Dad know I like my life with, er, my coffee flavored with sugars and creams? “Why now, Dad? Do you want to retire?”

“Mom and I have been praying about some things we want to do. I’ve always wanted you to have the business.” Whoa! News to me. “With you between jobs and, well, not committed to your own family, it seemed like a good time to bring it up.”

“I see.” My own father, capitalizing on my failure. Pfft and huff. I stare out over the water and squeeze my coffee cup until I feel hot liquid on my thumb.

“And to make it a legit offer…” Dad pulls out his pen and little spiral notepad, and jots down a number. “This would be your annual salary.”

Sly fox, my father. I peer at the paper he holds under my nose. I laugh. “That’s more than I made at Casper.”

Regarding me, he says, “Well, that does include your bonus, but it’s a nice living. Of course, as The Food Connection sales kick in, the bonuses go up. A lot.”

My heart thumps. “Right, of course.”

“Do me a favor.” He rips the paper from the little pad and stuffs it into my purse. “Please pray about it.”

Oh. My. Word. I never, ever suspected Dad and Mom had built that little business into a cash cow.

And Dad wants to give it to me.





Chapter Twenty-Five




The drive home to Melbourne takes forever. I stop every two hours for a rest stop or to buy a Diet Coke. I’m tired and frustrated.

What is it about this time in my life that keeps giving rise to transition? Dad’s little job offer looms like a giant California redwood over my thoughts and emotions. And is it the wind or do I keep feeling Dylan’s kiss on my lips?

Focus, Macy, focus. You’re a big girl. Not a giggly teen. Is Beauty, Georgia, part of God’s plan to give me beauty for ashes? Does he actually mean Beauty—literally? In the back of my mind is there some dormant idea about Dylan? I hope not, because each encounter with him contained no promises, held no strings.

I pound the steering wheel. “God, I can’t make this decision. I can’t. You make it for me.”

Cruising down I-95, the wind in my face, the sun behind me, I make a mental list of the pros and cons of moving back to Georgia.

Pros

A change of pace.

Simpler life.

Prayer in the morning at Beauty Community Church.

Being near family.

Nice salary.

Way less stress.

Dylan Braun. (But again, no promises.)



Cons

Moving back to Beauty. (I never, ever planned on returning.)

Missing out on a huge, huge career opportunity with

Myers-Smith.

Missing out on Chicago.

If I move back isn’t that like giving up on my life dreams?

The class reunion. (I can’t tell my classmates I live at 21

Laurel Street, again. Not at thirty-three.)

“Well, if it isn’t Macy Moore,” someone will say. “What are you up to now?”

“I live in Beauty. Helping Dad run Moore Gourmet Sauces.”



It’s my worst nightmare realized. Maybe it’s my pride, but I can’t do it. I picture myself telling Dad, “No, I choose Chicago,” and it hurts my heart.

Why did he do this to me? I bop the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

I squirm and grip the wheel a little harder. A peek at the speedometer tells me I’m topping ninety, so I back off the pedal.

Okay, here’s the deal. Decide after Chicago. Once I give Dad a glowing report on the Myers-Smith job, he’ll pop his Proud Papa buttons and say, “That’s fantastic, Macy. You must go to Chicago.”



By seven-thirty I’m home, unpacked, showered and waiting for a pizza. A light knock sounds on my door and when I answer, Drag stands there.

“Hi.” His hands are buried in his jeans pockets and his typically wild hair is combed and contained in a ponytail.

“Come in.” I step aside.

“How was your weekend?” He pulls up a chair at the kitchen table.

“Quiet, relaxing. I drove up to see my parents in Georgia.” I lean against the counter, unable to take my eyes off his face. He’s practically radiant.

“That’s nice,” he says.

“How are you?” I half expect to hear he’s been caught up and taken to heaven for a visit. He’s provoking me and he hasn’t said ten words.

“I called my dad this week.” He fiddles with the napkin holder absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the kitchen wall.