Everything’s Coming Up Josey by Susan May Warren Page A

their outlines suggesting tranquility.
    I run into the house and grab the streamers. Jas tells me to wrap them around the banister while she hangs a sign. I watch it go up and a funny feeling curls through my heart. “Good Luck, Josey,” the sign reads in big blood-red letters.
    It brings me back to the closing ceremony of boot camp. The Moose family on one side of me, the Abramson family closing ranks behind me, we stood like knights before the king and were commissioned. I had gooseflesh as Marilyn Chadder, the Review Board chairman said, “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy spirit…and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”
    Those words send another chill through me as I tie streamers around the banister. I have a feeling that any success I have in Russia will have nothing to do with luck.
    And I do want to succeed. Yes, it’s true, in my mind’s eye, I see parades at my homecoming, a news article. Maybe a Josey Day. Okay, that might be going too far, but at the least, hushed, awed whispers…
    â€œDid you hear what Josey did there? She led an entire school of youngsters to Christ. And not only that, but wiped out poverty and suffering.”
    Lara Croft meets Mother Teresa! But, in the snippets of reality, I can confess that I’m not hoping to change more than my allotted portion. Still, I’ve just sold Steve, quit my job, given my news chair to Karen, my eighteen-something replacement (I told you, Myrtle just had to troll the local high school. Which says what about my abilities? Arrgh!), and written my will. I am the poster child for Commitment.
    Oh, rewind to the will thing. Yes, I was more than a little taken aback when Dwight called and told me that I had to have one. As if I had personal assets. Still, it gave resonance to this adventure, a sort of solemnity that made me walk the beach at least twice before entering Bill Dejong’s law office.
    I have a will. Oh, and I left everything to Jasmine. Just in case the trying works. (See, just give me a little time and I can be magnanimous. It’s not all about me. It’s not all about me.)
    Milton has fired up the grill. The smell tweaks my stomach, but I am determined not to eat before the guests arrive. Besides, that cinnamon roll I had an hour ago hasn’t completely digested yet. I know I probably shouldn’t have surrendered, but I keep reminding myself that I won’t have a decent pastry for another year.
    Okay, yes! I admit it. I’ve let the “last time” mantra manhandle my self-control. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Goodbyes are cluster bombs on the waistline. Still, like I said, I plan on losing all this goodbye debris once I land on Russian soil.
    I dash upstairs to peruse the remnants of my closet. On my bed, my overstuffed Teletubby suitcases (I found a reddish orange one in the bottom of my mother’s closet, and it matches the poppy dress quite nicely) contain the smashed bulk of my wardrobe. I’ve even flung wild hope into the wind and purchased three sizes of straight-leg Gap jeans, anticipating the need for apparel during the “acclimation to Russia” process.
    I fully intend to return svelte and a size six.
    Okay, maybe a ten. Uh-oh, I’m hearing parades again.
    Sadly, my leather skirt hangs limply in the back of the closet. Right next to the two bridesmaids dresses and the poppy floral dress. I hope Jas doesn’t see it. I packed my jean skirt, my capris and my cardigan sweater sets, going for a conservative look.
    Which leaves me with two options for tonight’s barbecue. My khaki “oh-she-has-hips!” pants. Or…the fruit skirt.
    Yes, I said fruit. Two days ago, my mother got desperate. As if defecting to my side (hello, like I wouldn’t recognize Bad Cop, Good Cop?), she went to the Goodwill and purchased nearly everything in my