Georgia on Her Mind(75)

I laugh. I’m so going to miss her. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“So, what’s going on? Why the rush to go home?”

I sit on the step into the garage. “Dad and Mom are moving to England.”

“Oh, wow. Jack and I are going to a couples’ home group, but we’ll be over soon afterward.”

“Thanks, Lucy.”



I unpack and change into a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt that has seen better days. I toss my clothes from yesterday into the laundry, contemplate doing a load, but change my mind.

In the bathroom I wash my face and pull my hair back into a ponytail. When I lift my arms, I see the forgotten hole under the left sleeve.

(Mental note 8,590: throw this shirt away. Too ratty for a Chicago executive.)

In the kitchen I spread peanut butter and jelly on two slices of light bread and settle on the couch with the TV remote. Through the porch doors I catch a glimpse of the Florida horizon, ablaze with orange, red, gold and blue. I’m acutely aware that views like this are numbered and fading.

I’m moving. Leaving. Ending a very long and wonderful chapter of my life.

Something bothers me, but what? I mute the TV. Is it moving? Leaving Lucy? Rejecting Dad’s offer? Letting the family business go on the auction block?

I recline on the couch and stare at the ceiling until the motion of the fan makes me nauseated.

I know what bothers me. Antacid-chewing Steve Albright. I said I do and he said, “Here’s the ball and chain.” It’s fancy and gold plated, but it is a ball and chain nevertheless. I’ve sold myself into corporate slavery.

I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m afraid of work making me hard. Steve’s declaration that I needed to be so dedicated it would take a year to find a place to live gives me great pause. If I don’t have time to find natural living quarters, how will I have time to find a spiritual home?

How can I make time for beauty if every ounce of “beauty” is bought and paid for by Myers-Smith? I’m cognizant of the corporate mind-set. They own you. They aren’t buying forty or fifty or even sixty hours a week. They’re buying your heart and soul.

I feel shaky and unsure. I let my relationship with God stay status quo for the past few years, but deep in my gut I don’t want to do that again. I want to discover the deeper layers of His word, understand the tender mercies of His heart.

A knock on the front door hauls me away from my mental discourse. Under the porch light is a distinguished man in an Armani suit (or I’m not Macy Moore).

“Can I help you?”

He offers me his hand. “Fallon Tidwell.”

Oh, wow. “How do you do?” I warble. I’m about to shake Fallon Tidwell’s hand when a breeze passes under my arm.

Whoops, my T-shirt. I tuck my left hand under my armpit, pressing the ripped edges of my shirt together. “Sir, come in.”

“Thank you.”

I close the door on the mosquitoes. “Was I expecting you?”

He chuckles. “No, forgive me. Pete told me where you live.”

Ah, yes, Pete. The real Drag. “Please sit down.” I’m desperate to run and change, but I can’t leave Fallon Tidwell sitting alone in my living room, not for one minute.

“My son’s in the hospital.” His voice weakens a little.

I sink slowly to the couch. “What happened?”

“He went surfing after the storm yesterday and a shark got his left calf.”

Bile forms in my throat. I feel green. “Is he all right?”

Mr. Tidwell settles into the lounger as if he’s commanding a boardroom meeting, elbows resting on the chair’s arms. “Hurting, but recovering.”

“Shark attacks can happen in turbulent waters.” I sit on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, afraid if I move without careful calculation, my ratty T-shirt will expose more of me to the communications tycoon than necessary.

“So I’m told. The doctors have patched him up, but the calf is damaged. It will take a while to heal.”

I press my palms against the sides of my face. “How painful, utterly painful. May I see him?”

“I’m on my way over now. Would you care to ride with me?” Mr. Tidwell stands.

“Yes, please.” Now I hurry to change.

Mr. Tidwell’s rental car is fragrant with the new car smell, and a hint of cigar smoke. I sink into the cool leather seats, acutely aware that I’m riding with one of the richest men in the country. But I try to keep my attention on whispering prayers for Drag.

“My son speaks highly of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tidwell. Drag, um, Pete is a good friend.”

“Call me Fallon.”

“All right.”

“Thank you for helping my son find his way home.”



In the dimly lit room I can see Drag’s pale face. His half-eaten leg is bandaged and elevated slightly. Tubes and wires connect him to blue-lighted monitors.

As I step toward him, he appears so calm and peaceful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d just woken up from a really great nap.

“Hey, Macy.” His voice is low and raspy, tired and bruised.

With tenderness, I clasp his hand in mine. “Hey, you’re not supposed to feed the sharks.”