Free Georgia on Her Mind by Rachel Hauck

in line after me, I flash him a big grin. “Have a nice night.”
    He grunts.
    At five to eleven I pull into my garage and unload groceries. I string all the plastic bags on my arms—seventy-five dollars and I can carry it all inside with one trip.
    I close the trunk with my elbows.
    “Macy?” A small voice calls me.
    “Yes?” It’s dark, but I catch Mrs. Woodward’s silhouette in the low glow of the streetlights.
    “It’s me, Elaine.”
    “Hi, Mrs. Woodward. Is everything okay?”
    “Yes, thank you.” She shuffles into the garage wearing her robe and slippers. Despite my bags, I give her a neighborly hug and breathe in the scent of lemon drops.
    “Would you like to come in?” I motion toward the door. I’m sort of tired, but I get the sense she wants company.
    “That would be lovely.”
    Mrs. Woodward offers to help me with my packages, but I ask her to push the garage-door button instead. It glides shut as we go inside. I drop my purchases on the kitchen counter and tell my neighbor to make herself comfortable.
    “Would you like some tea?” I peer into the living room from the pass-through window. Mrs. Woodward sits on the edge of the couch with her hands folded and legs crossed at the ankles. She’s as regal as any queen.
    “Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”
    “It’s no bother.” Ducking back into the kitchen, I put on the kettle. I can’t imagine what has Mrs. Woodward up and visiting at this late hour, but I’m captured by her gentility and elegance.
    “Here we go.” I carry in the tea tray with my grandmother’s china rose teapot, matching cups and saucers, sugar bowl and creamer. It’s rare for me to break out the antique set, but Mrs. Woodward deserves it. I open a new bag of gingersnaps and arrange them on one of the saucers.
    “Oh, how lovely.”
    “My grandmother gave me the tea set several years ago. It belonged to her grandmother, a true Englishwoman.” I pour and pass.
    “I adored my grandmother.” She holds her tea and gazes absently across the room into her past.
    I let her reminisce in silence for a moment. “Do you have grandchildren?”
    She shakes her head. “No, just one son. He’s been married several times, but no children.” She spoons sugar into her tea.
    “Does he visit? I’ve never seen him around.” I hold out the plate of gingersnaps.
    “He and his father argued over money. When I sided with my husband, Walter—” she takes a cookie “—James became very angry and left.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “He accused Walter of hoarding cash and he wanted some of it to start a business. But I assured him we did not have a secret bankroll.” She sighs. Even her sigh is elegant. “We raised James the best we could, but he turned out spoiled and selfish.”
    “Time mends relationships, Mrs. Woodward. Don’t worry.”
    “It’s been too many years to worry now.” She presses her hand on mine as if to comfort me.
    We lapse into casual talk for the next fifteen minutes or so, sipping tea and munching cookies. I tell her about my work in Atlanta and the weekend in Beauty.
    She tells me the news of our community, The Gables, and assures me she’s had no more stomach episodes.
    “Nevertheless, you need to see your doctor.” I pop the last cookie into my mouth. I’m worried about her. Regal and lovely, she also seems fragile and frail.
    “Perhaps, dear. We shall see.”
    Did I say fragile and frail? Forget it. She’s stubborn and feisty.
    At eleven-thirty she thanks me for the tea and announces she must go.
    “Thank you for coming over.” I escort her to the door, realizing that in the three years I’ve lived here, I’ve never invited her inside until tonight.
    “Your home is lovely, Macy.” I notice she shakes slightly when she speaks.
    (Mental note 4: be a better neighbor, get Mrs. Woodward to the doctor, second reminder to rejoin the gym, find a place to write down dumb mental notes.)
    I watch her walk home, making sure she’s safe before