Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Madison
“What?” I gasp. “You’re getting married? To whom? And… and when?”
My mom giggles and presses a white linen napkin to her lips, the fabric immediately stained with a bright-red lipstick stamp. Shoving her left hand across the table, she flaunts her engagement ring, wiggling her vibrant, painted nails.
“His name is Mike. He’s the lighting designer for our show. We met during tech week. Our relationship started as friends but escalated into something… more.”
I examine the tiny diamond before I drain my martini glass in two gulps. My mother swore up and down she would never marry again, her gypsy lifestyle a bold choice since she divorced my father. That Viola Adler had found another man who willingly put up with her outrageous ways left me speechless.
“He’s outside waiting for me to give him the all-clear.”
“Wait. What?”
“I told Mike I’d text him once I told you. Just give me a sec,” she says, pulling her cell phone out of her purse.
I grab my mother’s wrist. “Mom, wait. I’m not ready to meet him yet. I’d rather have dinner with you, just the two of us, so we can catch up. Mother and daughter. Is that okay?”
She pulls away from my grip and continues to type on her phone. “I want you to meet your future stepfather. I promise you’re gonna love him!”
The evening takes an unexpected turn once Mike enters the scene.
The big, bearded man is nice enough, but the two lovebirds can’t stop discussing their wedding plans.
They were granted permission to use part of the set during an off day (a garden).
And they planned on saying their vows on stage in front of their touring peers of actors and tech crew.
I watch my mom come alive with joy as she dotes on Mike and how he focuses on her every word. I learned they’re the same age and that Mike is originally from New Jersey. Unlike Viola, he’d never been married and has no children.
“He’s my George Clooney, and I’m his Amal,” she gushes. She’s sitting so close to Mike that it looks like she’s in his lap.
“His Amal?” I question.
Mike speaks with confidence, and his Jersey accent is noticeable. “Amal is the gal who broke George Clooney of his bachelor status. Viola is Amal, and I’m George. It’s a metaphor.” The way he pronounces the word ‘metaphor’ sounds like a mob boss in a crime movie.
“Oh, I get it.” I nod, forcing myself not to roll my eyes. Leave it to my mother to always have a celebrity correlation.
Our food arrives, and I pick at my salad, my appetite lost. It’s hard to watch the happy couple, my mind flashing with thoughts of my own George. Seeing my mother like this makes me realize there is hope for everyone.
Maybe even for me.
“You got a beau, honey?” my mom asks.
I look up and see the happy couple staring right at me. I knew this question would be asked at some point. I should’ve said no. But for some reason, I say yes, knowing my mother will approve and stop hounding me about being a single workaholic.
“I do.” I take a big bite of salad and wait for her shrieks to die down as other patrons look on.
“That’s fantastic! What’s his name? Where does he live? Is it serious?”
I swallow. “Um, believe it or not, his name is George.”
“Get out! You have a Georgie too? How incredible.” She turns toward Mike, squealing like a starstruck fanatic. “Isn’t that incredible?”
“Two George’s in the family. Pretty incredible. Just sayin’.”
“He lives about an hour and a half from Atlanta, Mom. He’s a, uh… He’s a creative person, much like you two.”
She claps her hands and snuggles closer to Mike, if that’s even possible. “What is his element, dear? Theater? Architecture? Oh, I’ve always envisioned you with a successful architect.”
“No, Mom. He’s not an architect. But he does work with his hands.”
“I like this game, don’t you, Mike?” She turns and rubs noses with him. “Let’s play.”
“Sure, baby.”
“What do you think Madison’s beau does? She gave us a hint: he works with his hands.”
“Gee. I dunno. Massage therapist? Mechanic?”
I squelch a laugh, shaking my head. These two are something else.
“No, Mikey. I’m thinking… an artist. You know, the kind that makes those large sculptures out of marble.” She mimes the shape of an invisible figure in front of her, sure she’s guessed correctly. “Like the statue of David.”
I shake my head again.
“Ahh,” she sighs. “I give up. Tell us what your George does, Maddy. And for the record, I’m hoping you can be his Amal just like I am to my man.” She wiggles her bejeweled hand from across the table again, taunting me with her stroke of good fortune.
I’m quiet for a beat, my mind still swirling with travel arrangements, my mom’s engagement, and Jenny’s recent phone call. The thought of being happy with George like my mother is happy with Mike reminds me of something Ralph Jamison once suggested:
You could always marry George.
“So tell us already. I’m dying to know. What does this guy do with his hands?” Mike asks.
I look at my half-eaten plate and try to remember George’s hands. The way his thumb stroked my cheek. His quiet warmth when we hugged. His fingers combing through the sides of my hair as he held my face and kissed me over and over again.
My body physically aches to touch him. To be with him. At that moment, I understand Jenny’s phone call. I understand what I need to do. Everything makes perfect sense. I finally know why I’ve been so discontent.
I’m in the wrong place.
“Flowers,” I say simply, dumbstruck by my revelation.
Mike snort-laughs. “Flowers? What kind of man works with flowers? Is he some kind of a fruit cake or something?”
“Mike!” my mom admonishes.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.
I realize I won’t finish dinner with my mom and Mike. I won’t make the show, and I’m definitely not sleeping in a Chicago hotel room for another agonizing night. Ralph’s words finally make sense, finding their way into my stubborn heart.
In a delighted daze, I grin and mutter, “I have to go.” I stand and throw my napkin on the table.
“What? Why? Mike didn’t mean to call George a fruitcake,” my mother laments.
“Yeah, I said I was sorry.”
Energized, I have only one thing on my mind. Come hell or high water, I must return to Jamison Farm as quickly as possible.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Mike. Apology accepted.” I look at my disappointed mother, who is standing in front of me. I grab her hands and kiss the ring on her left finger, my smile full throttle.
“Y’all stay and finish your dinner. Get dessert. Get some more mocktails, whatever you want. It’s all on me.”
“I don’t understand, honey.”
I let go of her and grab my purse. Pulling a wad of cash from my wallet, I leave it on the white tablecloth.
“What about the show? What about the backstage tour?”
“I promise I’ll see it another time. Maybe the weekend of your upcoming wedding? Me and Bev will come together. How great will that be? It’s all good, Mom. I just need to take care of something very important, something I should’ve done sooner. It can’t wait any longer.”
I run toward the exit of the restaurant, laughing all the way and throwing them a final wave goodbye.
“It was nice meeting you, Mike. I love you, Mom! Congratulations to you both!”
As I exit the restaurant into the brisk Chicago night, the wind whips across my face. I’m wide-eyed and giddy. I can’t believe my own crazy mother is the one who finally helped me break free.
***
The only flight back to Atlanta with an available seat is on the red-eye. The plane sits on the tarmac and prepares for takeoff, and my phone calls and texts to George are left unanswered. I shoot Jenny a message letting her know I’ll be there tomorrow. Hopefully, she will let him know.
A tired businessman in a disheveled suit sits next to me. I’m glad he immediately slides headphones over his ears and ignores me as I go through my list of plans, my body buzzing with purpose.
Once I land, I’ll take an Uber home, repack my bags, get a few hours of sleep, and head to Jamison Farm first thing in the morning. I wish I could have told George I got Jenny’s message before takeoff. I wish I could have told him in person that I was on my way.
Why won’t he answer his phone?
Beverly answers on the first ring.
“Hey! I’ve been dying to hear about tonight with Mom. How’d it go? How was the show?” she asks.
“I didn’t make the show.”
“What? Oh, no…”
“It’s not like that. I met her for dinner, and then her fiancé, Mike, joined us.”
“What a minute. Mom is engaged?”
A mature flight attendant walks by and pauses. “Handbag under the seat, please,” she instructs.
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I quickly tuck my purse into the space by my feet. “Bev, I don’t have much time. The plane is about to take off.”
“I have so many questions!”
“I know. I’ll call you in the morning and explain everything, okay?”
“Just answer me this: Are you all right?”
I exhale a long breath and close my eyes, the slight smile on my face translating to happiness through my voice. “Yes. I’ve never been better.”
“Okay. Safe travels, sistah. I’m proud of you.”
“Why?”
I haven’t told Beverly anything. Not about how I planned on calling my boss first thing in the morning to give him my notice. Not about my plans to head to the farm. And most importantly, I didn’t tell her my true feelings for George.
“Because I think you’ve made a big decision. Am I right?”
“You know me better than anyone.”
“Ya got that right.”
The same flight attendant walks by again and gives me the stink eye, shaking her head.
“I’ve gotta go, Bev. I love you.”
“Love you back. Bye!”
As the plane ascends into the night sky, I scroll through my phone photos of George from the day he snapped pictures of me skipping through the lavender fields.
The slew of unintentional selfies often soothe me on my worst days.
Photos of the gentle man in various degrees of mishap always make me smile, my longing to be near him becoming a growing ache deep in my bones.
But my grip on those days has gotten away from me, and I know the weeks and months we’ve been apart are my fault. Will George forgive me? Can I make him understand how sorry I am for ghosting him?
Running my thumb across the phone screen with his incredibly handsome face staring back at me, I whisper, “I’m coming home and never leaving again. I promise.”
But do I mean it this time?
I slip the phone into the seat pocket and stare out the window at the airplane wing, the blinking navigation lights illuminating the night sky. Of course I mean it.
I’m choosing the gentle one. The kind one. The one who calms me and respects me. I’m choosing someone who will understand and forgive me for the weeks of silence I’ve put him through.
At least, I hope and pray he will.
“I’m coming home,” I whisper again.
Back at the restaurant, I had a mind-blowing revelation.
Falling in love with George Jamison is the most obvious thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.