Georgia on Her Mind(6)

“No, Dan. When you first moved into the complex.” Lucy passes by with a plate of food.

I pat my face dry. “Oh, Dan, yeah.”

She laughs. “You asked him where he went to church—”

“And he said, ‘Check, please!’” I laugh with her. Some things aren’t meant to be. A few months after our little dinner disaster, Dan started dating Perfect Woman and they’ve been thick as thieves ever since. I call her Perfect Woman because she has no known flaws, at least that I can see.

I light the gas logs in the fireplace, fill my plate and plant myself in the lounger. It’s good to have Lucy here.

But she gets personal before my first bite of moo goo gai pan. “So, how do you feel about the Chris thing?”

“Happy and breezy, like a day in the park,” I snarl. The idea of him with Kate may just ruin my appetite. May.

“Hey, I’m on your side. Be thankful you didn’t get stuck with him for life.”

“Eligible men don’t grow on trees, Lucy. Can’t just go out and pick a new one. Especially Christian guys.”

She shakes her bony finger at me. “You were about to settle, weren’t you?”

Egad, I hope not. “Settle is not the word I’d use.”

“Are you even sure he was a Christian?”

I feel flushed. “Well, he went to church with me.” When we went. “He shook Pastor Ted’s hand and said, ‘Good word.’”

“Oh, please.”

I didn’t think that would fly, but the truth is, I never really asked him much about his faith. He respected my beliefs and I liked him, perhaps loved him, and for the time being that was good enough. So maybe I was settling.

“I heard him tell Reuben Edwards the night we went to the movies he thought Jesus was simply a great man.”

“Stop. This day’s been bad enough.” I don’t want to hear it. I know. I know. I overlooked a few things with Chris. Important things. It was that biological clock, I tell you. The ringing confused me.

Lucy scoops more fried rice onto her plate. (Chinese is her only fast-food weakness.) “Just because you’re thirty-three doesn’t mean you have to be desperate.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Lucy ‘I-have-a-date-every-weekend’ O’Brien is in the house.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “I do not. Not every weekend.”

Last spring she dragged me kicking and screaming to a singles event up in Cocoa Beach. “Can’t go,” I protested over and over. “I’m allergic to singles functions!”

My eyes watered, my throat tightened and I couldn’t breathe. I needed air.

Anyway, I caved to her demands and attended this singles shindig when she reminded me I hadn’t been on a date in over a year. It was a Hawaiian luau with a bonfire on the beach, roasting pig on the spit, twilight volleyball and candlelit pavilions. All serenaded by a ukulele band with its very own Don Ho impersonator. I had to admit, a very nice event.

But, as I suspected, it turned out to be the classic, textbook church singles function. Five girls for every guy, and every guy a dud—in my humble opinion. The one cool guy who showed up without a USB data stick slung around his neck, polyester pants or Velcro sneakers gravitated right past me for Lucy.

“Mace, hey, earth.” Lucy snaps her fingers. “Come in, Macy.”

“What?” I jump into the present.

“What about Casper? What’re you going to do?”

Oh, that. Between the upheaval at Casper and the upheaval with Chris, I’m not sure how to find right side up.

“I don’t know. My beautiful life…an ash heap.” With that, I’m depressed. Knowing it is one thing—declaring it is another.

“Don’t take this wrong…” she starts with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh no, I love conversations that start with ‘Don’t take this wrong.’” I brace myself for one of her friendly cuts.

“Your career was becoming your God.”

“What?” Now, that’s not fair.

“This last year, you changed, went berserk with work. Then you met Chris—”

“Berserk with work?” I echo, biting into my egg roll.

“You got hung up on climbing the corporate ladder and it took some zeal out of you,” Lucy says.

“Zeal? You just said I was berserk with work.”

She looks at me for a long second and I know she’s about to utter something profound. “Your zeal for Jesus faded. Like frizzy perms and oversize belted blouses.”

I’m cut to the quick. Comparing my spiritual life with distasteful ’80s fashion. I fire off my rebuttal. “I’m zealous for Him by doing my job with excellence.”

“Don’t twist things, Macy. Your identity was becoming that whole corporate, yuppie world. The cars, the clothes, power lunches, working fifty-, sixty-hour weeks.” Lucy picks up the fried rice carton and shovels another round onto her plate.

“So what are you saying? Give up on my dreams?”

“Of course not. I’m saying make an adjustment. Remember what you do in life is merely a reflection of who you are as a Christian, one who loves and serves the Lord.”

Her words shake me. She’s right. I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I hate these kinds of “duh” moments, like realizing the light has changed to red just when I’ve shifted into fifth gear.