Georgia on Her Mind(59)

“Is that good?”

“It’s the first time we’ve talked in almost two years.”

“Really?”

“I’m moving back to New York to join him in the family business. He’s always wanted me to.”

His confession pierces my heart with the force of a thousand arrows. This cannot be mere coincidence. Not today.

As I listen to his story, I fuss in the kitchen, retrieving the cleaner from my cleaning bucket, powdering the already spotless sink and scrubbing with vigor. I ask, “How did you decide?”

He shrugs. “It’s time to go home. After meeting my heavenly Father, my earthly dad didn’t seem so intimidating.”

I marvel at his insight. With a damp sponge in my hand dripping dirty green water, I join him at the kitchen table. “Is moving to New York what you want, though?”

“I haven’t wanted much of anything, especially New York. But now I have this desire to make a difference in people’s lives.” He sticks his finger into a drop of greenish water. “But now that I have eternity in the bag, I figure I can venture out, take a chance.”

“I’m proud of you, Drag,” I say, returning to the sink to rinse away the green grit. I toss the sponge back under the sink considering the parallels of our lives. Me and Drag. I would never have imagined.

“My name’s Pete Tidwell.”

I smile. “Tidwell? Any relationship to Tidwell Communications?” What are the odds?

He grins. “That’d be my father.”

“You’re kidding.” I dry my hands on a paper towel, my mouth open.

“Not kidding.” Drag reclines with his arms over the back of the kitchen chair.

“You’re a millionaire?”

“Well, my dad is.”

For a split second I have this sense of destiny. My life intersecting with Drag’s long enough for me to introduce him to Jesus. Wow.

Drag stands to leave. “I was wondering…”

“Yes.” My eyes are wide. Is he going to ask me out? Doesn’t every date invitation start with “I was wondering…?” I like Drag, maybe even love him in a sisterly way, but nothing more.

“Can I take your résumé to Dad? I can’t promise anything, but…”

“Absolutely!” I throw my arms around him, smack his cheek with a kiss and run upstairs for one of my résumés.



I wake up the morning of my Chicago interview with a gargantuan zit on my right cheek.

I stumble into the bathroom, not quite awake, flip on the light and moan. “Ah, come on.” This is not fair.

A stress blemish, I’m sure, though I can’t discount the excessive junk food I’ve been consuming.

I sit on the toilet lid and slouch against the tank. Who stole my perfect life? I want it back. “Lord, I want my blemish-free, moneymaking, upwardly mobile, independent life back, please.”

I figure if He returns it now, there will be no questions asked. We’ll just shake hands, act as if nothing happened and move on.

I wait a few minutes. When the earth doesn’t quake, I conclude I’m in the exact life God intended for me whether I like it or not. Who am I to argue with the Almighty Who loves me?

Think, Macy, think. My flight isn’t until noon. It’s a little after seven now. I have a few hours to combat the blemish before I have to be at the airport.

First I hop into the shower and steam my right cheek until it’s sunburn-red. Next I zap the area with half a bottle of acne cream and pray for healing by the laying on of my hand. “Lord, make it go away. Please.”

While the cream does its work, I dry my hair and slip into my flying clothes—a pair of jeans and a bell-sleeved top with a scoop neck.

I pack my wad-’n-wear Chico’s suit for the interview and scoop the contents of my dressing counter into my toiletries bag. Keeping focused, I haul them down to the garage and toss them into the passenger seat of the car. I will not interview in my street clothes this time.

I flip through the morning talk shows and check e-mail while eating my breakfast of toast and Diet Coke. I have another message from Kathy. Shannon Parks is coming to the reunion, too.



Do you think we could have a debate-team minireunion? Maybe pick a topic to debate?



Yeah, sure. Let’s debate my life. Resolved: Macy Moore is not a failure. Kathy can take the affirmative—she’s good with the positive side. I’ll take the negative.

Back upstairs, the only thing left to do is put on my makeup and go about my day as if this enormous imperfection did not light up the whole right side of my face.

At nine-thirty I run a mental checklist.

Interview clothes. Check.

Nightshirt. Check. Don’t want to be sleeping naked in a downtown Chicago hotel.

Makeup and hair spray. Check.

Toothbrush, paste, perfume and deodorant. Check.

Clean socks and clothes to wear home. Check.

That about covers it. I settle at the kitchen table for a few minutes of prayer, though I’m too antsy to concentrate. At nine forty-five I grab my Birkin.

The phone rings as I open the garage door. “Hello.” Please, don’t be Mrs. Woodward. Not today.

“Macy, it’s Adriane.”

“What’s up?” The SSS didn’t meet on Tuesday because Adriane had some book business, Lucy was designing a special summer edition of the paper and Tamara got volunteered for a special work project.