Georgia on Her Mind Read Online Free PDF

Woodward, this could be serious,” I lecture. I rack my brain trying to remember what organ lives between your ribs in the upper stomach region. I have no idea. Well, there’s $170 gone to waste for that university anatomy class.
    For a while I sit quietly and hold her hand. I start to get sleepy and can’t help but think how fast 4:00 a.m. will come. Then I hear the soft sounds of sleep from Mrs. Woodward.
    “Mrs. Woodward?” I gently shake her arm.
    She’s out. I get up without disturbing her and reach for the afghan draped over the back of the couch. I cover her and click off the lights except one in case she wakes up and wants to go to her bed.
    Pushing in the lock button on the doorknob, I head for home, captured in the sudden emotion of Mrs. Woodward’s episode. Dark rainy night, an elderly widow all alone, overcome with pain. I would have called me, too.
    The last time I saw visitors at her place was last…last…hmm, well, weird—I’ve never seen visitors. I don’t even know if she has children or grandchildren. I didn’t see any pictures on the wall or mantel.
    “Hey, Macy.”
    “Who’s there?” I tumble into a cluster of overgrown palmetto bushes, freaked. My fuzzy slipper sloshes into a pool of floating pine chips.
    “Macy, it’s me, Chris.”
    I peek between the palm fronds to make sure it’s really him. A girl cannot be too careful. Yep, it’s the weasel.
    “What are you doing here?” I step out of the shrubs, losing a slipper. I stoop to fish it out, hobbling on one foot.
    “What are you doing?” Chris asks.
    “I asked you first.” I wring the water from my slipper and make a beeline for my place, one slipper off, one slipper on. My pink robe flows behind me like a cape.
    “I want to talk to you.” He follows me.
    “At one in the morning?” This day will just not end. It’s spilling over into tomorrow, which is now technically today.
    “I couldn’t sleep.” He’s right on my heels, and I catch a whiff of day-old Versace Blue Jeans. I loved that fragrance until today. Until right now.
    “Ah, is your conscience bothering you? Lousy cheater.” I plan to leave him standing on my front porch, stewing in his own guilt with my door slammed in his face, but when I twist the knob the door doesn’t budge. I shove it again.
    N-o-o-o. I’m locked out—my keys are still at Mrs. Woodward’s. Hoist by my own petard. I beat the door with my soggy slipper. “I…can’t…believe…this….”
    I drop my head against the cold exterior wall. How is this happening to me? What cosmic forces have aligned themselves to trap Macy Ilene Moore between the rock andthe hard place without so much as a crowbar to wedge her way out?
    Chris puts his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
    Laugh? Cry? Laugh? Cry? Punch Chris? Definitely, punch Chris. Oh, just one good punch. But I laugh instead.
    “Macy, what’s going on?” He grabs my shoulders. “Stop laughing.”
    “I’m locked out.”
    “And that’s funny why?”
    In the cold glow of the porch light I grit my teeth and say, “Actually it’s not funny. I’m just all out of tears for today.”
    Oops, spoke too soon. A small reservoir floods my eyes.
    Without a word he produces his keys and unlocks the door. I’d forgotten I’d given him one about a month ago, just in case. How ironic for him to rescue me now after squishing my heart like a pesky mosquito.
    “What’s so important that you have to come creeping around at one in the morning?” I demand once we are inside. I toss the slipper into the laundry room before collapsing into my chair.
    “I’m so sorry about today. I tried to call you, but you never answered.” He lurks on the edge of the living room.
    “Long day.” I avoid direct eye contact.
    “I’m sorry, Macy, about the restaurant and Kate.”
    I flip off my other slipper. Hmm, lint in my toes. I concentrate on cleaning my foot as if that were way more important than what Chris is attempting to communicate.
    “I