Love Starts with Elle(101)
The fabulous team at Thomas Nelson, for giving me a chance to live my dream. Y’all are the rock stars. Thanks for sharing your stage.
Ami McConnell, editor extraordinaire. Thank you for believing in me, for your insight into this manuscript, and for encouraging me with words that still linger in my heart.
Leslie Peterson, another editor extraordinaire. Thank you to the power of ten for your time, insight, and ability to say, “Well done. Now, here’s what you need to fix.”
Karen Solemn, for your insight and encouragement, and for leading the way.
Katie Sulkowski, for becoming a fast friend and for challenging me to look and see farther down the road.
To the artists who shared their experiences: John Houghton, Elizabeth Brandon, Deana Bowdish of The Gallery in Beaufort. And Brett Stebbins, who put a brush in my hand.
My father-in-law, John Hauck, for “standing on the wall” in the Aleutians during WWII so we can be free. I will not forget your sacrifice. I love you.
When a Southern waitress inherits a
Lowcountry café, she suddenly has to balance
more than just her next food order.
An Excerpt from
Sweet Caroline
WELCOME TO THE FROGMORE CAFé
HOME OF BUBBA’S BUTTERY BISCUITS
OPEN: MON– THURS 6 A.M.–4 P.M.
FRI–SAT 6 A.M.–9 P.M.
CLOSED SUNDAY
JONES Q. MCDERMOTT,
PROPRIETOR SINCE 1957
June 4
Beaufort, South Carolina
The sun rises in a pinkish-blue spring sky over the Beaufort River as I exit the old drawbridge and turn left onto Bay Street. My rusty red ’68 Mustang jerks and shimmies, threatening to quit on me—again—while from the radio, Tim McGraw sings when the stars go blue.
The old girl’s carburetor sputters and chokes. Mimicking Dad, I bang the dash. “Don’t die on me, Matilda. I’m late for work.” I mash the clutch and gun the gas, desperate to keep her alive. Matilda rattles and clanks in defiance.
Last month, while waiting for the drawbridge to swing closed, Matilda shot a plume of black smoke out her tailpipe and stalled with a kerplunk. What followed was a lot of car-horn swearing, then being pushed across the bridge by angry drivers who’d as soon shoot me as help me.
The car is giving me a rep.
But today I make it over the bridge in spite of Matilda’s rattle trapping. Paul Mulroney of Mulroney’s Bistro glances up from sweeping his walk as I rumble down Bay Street. He shakes his head, shouting something I can’t quite make out. I smile and wave, doing my part to enhance community relations.
At seven thirty in the a.m., downtown Beaufort wakes up with a slow, sleepy feel. By midday, the streets will flow with tourists and tanned retirees looking to buy a slice of lowcountry life. If only people would make their way down to Jones McDermott’s—may he rest in peace—little Frogmore Café on the corner of Bay and Harrington.
“A town treasure,” the Beaufort Gazette called the Café in a story about Jones the day after his funeral. More like forgotten treasure. If it wasn’t for the regulars—most of them senior citizens over sixty—the Café would be sunken treasure.
Making the light at Church Street, I swerve into the Café’s gravel-and-crushed-shell parking lot. Stopping in the shade of a thick, ancient live oak, the Mustang’s motor chokes and, at last, dies. “Ho, boy.” When I try to restart, the engine refuses to fire.
“Fine, swell, great. Be that way.”
Anointing the moment with a few soap-worthy words, I fish my cell phone from the bottom of my backpack and autodial Dad. While it rings on his end, I study the back of the Café. The paint is faded and peeling from a thousand afternoons of baking in the hot South Carolina sun. One side of the porch leans and slopes.
Since Jones’s sudden death from a heart attack a few weeks ago, I’ve been managing the place with the rest of the crew—Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell—trying to make a go of things. Business is slow. Money is almost nonexistent. Unfortunately, the heyday of the Frogmore Café echoes in the Valley of Time alongside beehive hairdos and eight-track cassettes.
Daddy’s phone rings for the third time. Come on, pick up.
Mercy Bea Hart, the Café’s senior waitress, steps through the kitchen door, lighting a cigarette, indicating to me with a jab at her watchless wrist that I’m late.
Thirty-some years ago, Mercy Bea had her fifteen minutes of fame when she won a Jayne Mansfield look-alike contest. Got her picture in a Hollywood magazine and appeared on The Mike Douglas Show. Ever since, she’s maintained her once-won image—dyed-blonde bombshell hair, curvy figure with just the right amount of cleavage, red lips, and long, lacquered fingernails.
“Yeah, Caroline, what’s up?” Dad’s crisp question is accompanied by the grind of heavy equipment.
“Matilda.”
“Again? Caroline, it may just be time to get rid of that thing.”
We’ve had this conversation. “Can you tow it to CARS? Please?” I glance at my watch. Seven thirty-five. While I take care of the Café books, I also wait tables, and my regulars arrive at 8:02.
“Where are you?” Dad asks.