Sweet Caroline(10)

Mercy Bea abandons Joel and shoots over to Kirk. “Darlin’, we’ve been watching for you.”

In his early thirties, the genteel lowcountry lawyer looks like a disheveled Ross Geller from Friends. Unruly dark hair, quirky, uneven manner. Today he looks as though he might have slept in his suit.

“Caroline, you ready to see the will?” He starts for the large booth in the back with a quick step, shrugging to shed Mercy Bea.

“Mercy, why don’t you get Kirk some coffee. Looks like he could use some. Bring a plate of biscuits.” I trail after Kirk, ignoring Mercy’s scowl. “How’d the inheritance case turn out?”

Kirk drops his briefcase to the tabletop as if he’s just used up his last ounce of energy. “We settled it last night. Then celebrated . . .”

“Party too much?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him as he pops open his case.

“I forgot I’m not in college anymore.”

He passes a document to me. Jones’s will.

This is it, Jones. Our final good-bye. For a moment, I entertain sadness.

“Unless you love reading a bunch of legalese, just flip to the red sticky flags.”

“Kirk, before we do this will thing, I want to give you my resignation. Of course, I’ll stay long enough to—”

Kirk snaps his eyes to my face. “Resigning? Oh, no, no, no, Caroline.” He chuckles.

“‘No’? What do you mean ‘no’? I have a job. In Spain.” I spit out “Spain” in case the drank-too-much fog has hampered his hearing. “In Barcelona.”

“Here we are . . .” Trailed by Andy, Mercy Bea sets down a whole pot of fresh-brewed coffee, an oversized hand-painted mug I’m pretty sure was made by one of her young-sons—the handle is crooked—and a heaping plate of biscuits. “Move on over, Caroline.” She shoves against my shoulder. “Slide in next to Kirk there, Andy.”

“Don’t look like we’re needed, Mercy Bea.”

The Charleston lawyer pours his own coffee and downs a big swig without waiting for it to cool. I wince.

“I’d like to talk to Miss Sweeney. Alone,” he says.

“We share information around here. No secrets.” Mercy Bea keeps shoving me around until she’s sitting square in front of Kirk.

Andy doesn’t bother to sit. “If you don’t need me, I got work to do. Look, all I want is to keep my job and pay.”

“I’m sure you’ll find things satisfactory, Andy,” Kirk says, bestowing a long, hard gaze on Mercy Bea, who pinches her face into a stubborn expression. But she’s met her match in Kirk. He sits back, gulps more coffee, and stares her square in the eye.

She can’t last long . . . Three, two, one . . .

“Oh, all right.” Mercy Bea exhales a blue word while sliding out of the booth. “You’d think a loyal employee would get some special consideration. But, no . . . it’s too much to ask. Caroline, I’m clocking out.”

“Wait fifteen minutes, Mercy Bea, please. Miss Jeanne will be along for supper soon.”

“Russell is here.” She tosses her head. “Apparently, I’m not needed.”

Ho, boy. “Fine.” I glance at Kirk. “Miss Jeanne is one of our loyal customers, a born-and-raised Beaufortonian.”

“Interesting.” His tone betrays him. And he’s looking a little green. The boy needs two aspirin and a long sleep. “Turn to the red sticky flags, please. By the way, that’s your copy of the will.”

“My copy? O-okay.” I flip to the page marked by the flag and read.

WILL OF Jones Q. McDermott, a resident of Beaufort, South Carolina. I hereby make this Will and revoke all prior Wills and Codicils.

BENEFICIARIES: I give the Frogmore Café and carriage house to the following persons: Caroline Jane Sweeney.

Caroline Jane Swee— “Me?” I fire my gaze toward Kirk. “That’s my name. Kirk, what? Jones left the Frogmore Café to me?” My middle tightens with an eerie shiver.

Kirk shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is why you can’t go to Barcelona. Congratulations, you’re a business owner.”

“No, no, no.” I toss the document at him like it’s riddled with dis-ease. “I don’t want the Café. I accepted the job in Barcelona. It’s too late to back out.”

Rumbling dark clouds form in my head and echo in my ears. I can’t feel my fingers and toes.

“Are you sure?” Kirk offers back the will.

“Absolutely. This place—and bless Jones for all his hard work—needs an owner with vision and lots of cash.”

Kirk points to a line of the will. “Did you read this?”

My eyes skim the page.

If any beneficiary under this Will does not survive me by 90 days, then the property shall be sold and money given to charity.

If any beneficiary under this Will does not accept the terms, then the property shall be sold and money given to charity.

“If you don’t take it, Caroline, I’m legally required to sell it.”

Oh my gosh, Jones, what did I ever do to you? “This is not happening. Not happening.” I pat my cheeks. “Wake up, Caroline; it’s just a bad, very bad, dream.”

“If you refuse the terms of the will, I’ll start proceedings to shut down.”