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settled in Beauty, Dad’s hometown.
    With Mom’s blue-blood inheritance, they launched a boutique business, Moore Gourmet Sauces, peddling Mom’s special barbecue and marinade sauces.
    Within the first year Moore sauces had become a favorite at local restaurants and grocery stores. Then Dad went mail order, adding a recipe book. A few years ago, with me as his consultant, he launched the e-business arm of Moore Gourmet Sauces and sent Mom’s specialties into cyberspace.
    I don’t ask much about their financial status. We lived comfortably growing up. My brother, Cole, and I had new clothes when we needed, braces and a tidy allowance. But last year the folks went to England and Greece for vacation. So the gourmet sauce business must be treating them well.
    I tune in to Mom’s side of the conversation. Oh, she’s asking God to remove all the calories from the salad and grilled chicken sandwich.
    I laugh. “Mom, you’ve been asking Him to do that for fifteen years.” It’s comforting to be in Beauty, in the shadow of my parents’ routine.
    “Yes, and I’ll keep asking. It’s worked out fine so far. I weigh the exact same as the day I married your father.”
    I choke on my French fry. “Mom, how can a fifty-nine-year-old woman weigh the exact same as she did when she was twenty-two?” Isn’t there some scientific law against that?
    “Don’t know how she does it, but she’s right.” Dad winks at me. “Within a pound or two.”
    “Or five or ten,” I say before diving into dinner. The food tastes wonderful. Pete Miller all but chained me to a chair and ordered me to make his e-business deadline. I popped breakfast, lunch and dinner from the vending machine. I don’t want to see another bag of pretzels until the twenty-second century. Maybe not even then.
    “What brings you to Beauty?” Dad sets his salad aside and asks the hard question.
    I sip my soda. “Nothing really. I’ve been in Atlanta working. Since I was so close—”
    “What’s wrong, Macy? Your eyes…” Mom grabs my chin and pivots my head her way.
    “Mom.” I twist out of her light grip. “I’m tired, that’s all. Long week.” Mothers. Do they ever stop perceiving?
    “Since when do you do fieldwork?” Dad’s a keen one, too, and he’s digging deep.
    “I haven’t in a while.” I force a smile.
    “How’s Chris?” Mom asks, biting a forkful of lettuce and tomato while neatly brushing her red bangs away from her eyes.
    “He’s fine.” If you like creepy-crawly things.
    They have no idea, but their questions shine a light on my internal sense of failure. It flashes across my mind like a tacky neon sign.
    Failure!
    Failure!
    Failure!
    Sigh.

Chapter Six
    “M acy, you sighed.” Mom’s radar is blipping over Macy Land and picking up way too much activity.
    Silent sigh. “Just tired.”
    I want to tell them what’s going on. I do. But I can’t. How does one tell her parents she’s failed in her career and doesn’t know why? That the one steady relationship she’s maintained in a dozen years ended with her man in another woman’s arms. And that he was a “settle” boyfriend anyway.
    Do I say, “You raised an idiot”? No, not the words they want to hear. Not the words I want to say.
    “Cole and Suzanne will be excited to see you.” Mom weaves the conversation with gentle, casual threads.
    “What have they been up to?” Cole is my younger brother. Five years, to be exact, and Suzanne is his best friend and wife.
    “Suzy is about to finish school and Cole’s joined her father in his business.”
    “Good for him,” I say.
    “He’ll have a fine surveying career with Regis.” Dad acts cool, but I can tell he’s disappointed by Cole not wanting to make sauces for a living.
    “Our fifteenth class reunion is this year,” I offer by way of news-from-Macy. Not much else to tell yet. I tip my cup for a piece of ice, leaving out the idea that I might not attend the reunion.
    “Wonderful. Chris will be able to