Sweet Caroline(12)

6

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Stop the call!

Hazel,

Jones’s lawyer just left. Are you ready for this? The old man left the Frogmore to me.

I said no, right? But Haz, if I don’t take the Café, Kirk will shut it down—after fifty years of business. Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell will lose their jobs. Faithful patrons will lose a friend. Beaufort will lose a piece of history.

You’d think Jones could’ve given me an “Oh, by the way” in the last year or so, but nooo. What an odd, insane little man. I feel sick. Really I do. My emotions are all over the place, my thoughts divided. Please cancel the Carlos call. There’s no way I can convince him I’m his first apprentice. Hazel, what should I do? What would you do?





C


When J. D. picks me up a little after six, I’m edgy and distracted, fussing with my hair, putting it into a ponytail, then pulling it out again. He watches me by the back door as I attempt to transfer stuff from my backpack to my purse. Keys? Check. Lipstick? Check.

“Bodean called and said a bunch of folks are going to Luther’s.” He comes up behind me and smoothes his hand over my shoulders. “You game or do you want to go to the beach?”

“Luther’s is fine.” I jam a fat, square brush into my handbag.

“Caroline, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Just peachy.

“Do you need this?” He pinches my work apron, sprouting from the top of my purse.

“No, I guess not.” Nor the one black clog.

“You’re sure nothing is bothering you?”

I smile up at him. “I’m good to go.”

J. D. leads me to his truck, opens the door, and leans close with a protective I’m-your-man stance. “Caroline . . .”

“J. D.?” His spearmint breath brushes my face. Our eyes lock for a heady moment and all thoughts of the will drain from my mind. My lips quiver.

For some reason, the deputy with the ladies’-man rep has yet to kiss me. Three dates, three handshakes. Maybe he heard about Daddy’s blue-light- special speech.

The old blue light.

“Something funny?” J. D. backs away with a deflated expression.

“Oh, J. D., no, no, it’s not you. Flash memory from high school.” I conk my palm against the side of my head. “Danger, Will Robinson. Random thoughts firing.”

He cocks his head to one side. “And just when I was going to kiss you.”

I tug on his shirtsleeve. “Don’t I get a do-over?” While I heeded Dad’s warning about backseats and overzealous teenage boys, I did take quite nicely to the art of kissing.

“Nope, too late.” He nudges me inside his truck.

“Spoilsport.”

Driving toward downtown, J. D. gets me laughing about an old drunk he had to pick up this afternoon.

“‘Please, sir, just get in the car. We’ll get you some help,’ I said. But, no. What does he do? Call me a pig and whiz over the backseat.”

“J. D., no.” Laughter is good. Keeps me from dwelling on the Café. Or the kiss I lost.

Worrying about my decision tonight won’t solve anything. I’ll sleep on it, and by some miracle, when I wake up, the answer will be right there—I tap my forehead. Crystal clear.

As we cross the river, a blue heron rises from the marsh grass and dis-appears into the slanting sunlight.

Wish I could go with you.

Luther’s Rx, Rare and Well-Done is a converted phar-macy with exposed-brick walls, high round tables, great food, and a spir-ited atmosphere. Especially when Elle is around.

“Caroline, back here!”

My BFF since grade school, Elle Garvey, is standing in her chair, flailing her arms over her strawberry-blonde head, sending her trade-mark bracelets clattering down to her elbow. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her, and my taut emotions seem to relax at the sound of her voice. How could I even consider such a life-altering decision—Barcelona or Beaufort—without her wise input?

Unlike me, Elle’s had her life planned out since she was thirteen: go to college, study art, then open an art gallery on Bay Street.

Two years ago, she accomplished her goals. Well, except one: find Mr. Wonderful.

With his fingertips hooking lightly onto mine, J. D. leads me to our gang in the back left corner. Once there, he runs his hand down my back and around my hip. It’s an intimate move, sending a shiver of surprise down my legs. “Diet Coke?”

He remembered. “Yes, please. Oh, and a burger.”

He grins. I never noticed how one side of his mouth hooks to the left a little. It’s saucy and I like it. “Want some fried pickles?”

“Yum, yes.”

He sets off to find our waitress, Tracey.

“Here, Caroline, sit.” Ray Cimowsky hops out of his chair. He’s another Beaufort high alum, married to one of my other BFFs, Jessica. “My wife has been dying to talk to you, and I’d like to see this baseball game.” He motions to the TV hanging in the corner.

Elle lunges across the table, grabbing my arm as I sit. “Soooo, J. D. How’s it going?” Her luminous green eyes are painted like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra. Totally works for her. She’s gorgeous.