Georgia on Her Mind(70)

Somber, I crawl back into bed, the choice of Chicago or Beauty ricocheting around in my head. I’ve pondered this decision so much I ache. Yet somehow I know that it is mine to make. Chicago if I want. Beauty if I want. God in His loving kindness will back me up either way.





Chapter Thirty




Sunday morning I back out of the garage on my way to church and see Drag perched on my front stoop. At least, I think it’s Drag. I do a double take.

His long blond locks are buzzed and styled with just the right amount of gel. The white oxford he’s wearing is crisp and tucked into a pair of dark dress slacks. And he’s got the world’s biggest Bible tucked under his arm.

Grinning, I slide down my window with a touch of a button. “What are you doing?”

“Going to church with you.” He passes by the back of my car to the passenger door, his dress shoes thudding against the cement.

I’ve never, ever seen him like this. “When did you get home?” I shift into First and drive west over the causeway.

“Last night.”

I reach out and pat his hand. “You look fantastic. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to be seen.”

I enjoy introducing him around church, because he’s proof that God is a God of miracles. It’s funny how quickly we forget that fact.

During worship, Drag belts out each song at the top of his lungs. At first I’m a little embarrassed. His timing is off and his raspy voice is not in the right key. But his noise is joyful and before long, I’m caught up in his enthusiasm.

After the service, a group of us troop over to Bennigan’s for lunch. Several of the younger single ladies invite themselves along, giggling over the “new guy.”

While we’re ordering waters and iced teas, Drag’s gaze catches mine and I suck in a deep breath. His eyes are so blue. I think it’s my imagination, but he looks remarkably like Brad Pitt.

He whispers in my ear, “That’s why I grew out my hair.”

I wrinkle my face and squint at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I look like Brad Pitt when my hair’s cut.”

“Really?” I hide behind my menu, embarrassed to be caught staring. I mutter, “I guess, maybe, yeah, a little.”

Poor Drag. He’s doomed. If I noticed the BP look, so did the single chicks. They’ll be circling like hungry sharks.

In the middle of lunch my cell chirps. Dad is on the other end. “Hey, Pop, what’s up?”

“Can you come up to Beauty?”

“Um, why? When?”

“Today?”

“Now?” My stomach lurches. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll see you when you get here.”



At a quarter to midnight I cruise past Beauty’s city limits and down Jasmine. The shops are quiet and dark, asleep until Monday awakens them for a new business day.

There’s Jasmine’s Gallery, Mabel’s Country Christmas & Crafts, the post office and courthouse and all the other quaint shops that make Beauty Beauty. Freda’s Diner is at the end of the row right as I turn down Laurel for Mom and Dad’s. Her outside deck, tucked away under the pine and oaks, is a dreamland with a thousand tiny white lights.

I slow down as I round the corner. I remember when Freda hung those lights ten or eleven Christmases ago. Every April she says she needs to take them down, but every August she says, “What’s the use—Christmas is just around the corner.”

She inspired me one year to think about stringing lights around the perimeter of my back porch. I bought a slew of tiny white lights at an after-Christmas sale. Six years later they’re still in the box, in the dark, under my bed.

That screams volumes about my life. I’m so preoccupied with my pursuits, with corporate ladders and whatnot, I never took time to string pretty white lights around a fifteen-by-twenty-foot porch.

I press gently on the gas and shift gears. In the whole vast scheme of things, what does it matter? Does it have an impact upon my destiny? Probably not. But it has an impact on my soul. I must take time for the beautiful things like white lights dangling from my porch ceiling, investing in elderly neighbors and millionaires masquerading as surfer dudes.

Beauty, I conclude, is about discovering contentment and realizing with every part of my being Jesus is my soul’s satisfaction. I can find beauty in Chicago. I can make beauty happen. Plan, schedule, live by the PDA.

I turn onto Laurel Street. Five houses down on the right, my parents’ home is lit up like the aurora borealis. I roll into the driveway and prepare to enter the zone.

“Macy.” Dad steps off the veranda. “Welcome.” He reaches for my single bag.

“You guys are up late,” I say. This is spooky. The last time my parents were up this late on a work night, Cole came screaming into the world.

“Waiting for you. Come on in—your mom is making cookies.”

“At midnight?” I trail Dad from the front foyer through the family room into the kitchen with a big question mark on my brain.

“Hi, Macy, darling.” Mom motions to me with a spatula in her mitt-covered hand. “Earl, take her suitcase on up to her room.”

“Good idea, Kitty.” Earl trots away like a good little bellman.