Sweet Caroline(16)

“So, what’d the snooty lawyer say yesterday? Are we in business or not?” She crosses her arms. An unlit cigarette protrudes from her fingers.

“We’re in business.” I click out of Hazel’s e-mail, then stand, stretch-ing. “Is it still slow out there?”

It’s a little after eleven a.m. The breakfast crowd was solid this morning, and now I’m hopeful for a lunch rush.

“Dead as a doornail. So, girl, come on. Are you going to leave us hanging? What’d the old coot put in his will?” Mercy Bea motions for me to follow her to the back porch, where she lights up her cigarette. “Do I have a job? Youngest young-son came home with a list longer than Clinton’s ex-girlfriends of stuff he needs for a basketball camp. As if money ain’t tight enough.” A wispy trail of smoke slithers upward. “Picked up an extra shift at the nursing home, though.”

“Yes, you still have a job.” For now.

The blonde bombshell taps her ashes toward the ashtray, but misses. Gray flakes flutter to the concrete porch. “Dang their daddy. Gave them his athletic ability, but not one plug nickel to help them out.”

“Plug nickels aren’t worth anything, Mercy Bea.”

“You know what I mean.”

Figuring now would be as good a time as any to tell them about Jones’s dying wishes, I peer through the kitchen’s screen door to see what Andy is doing. Cleaning under the ovens. “Come inside, Mercy. Let’s talk about the Café.”

I ask Andy to take a break from the toothbrush and bucket of soap, then call Russell from the pantry where he’s cleaning shelves. Mercy Bea joins them on the other side of the prep table.

“As you know, Kirk was here yesterday.” I face my small band of people. Their expressions make my heart thump.

As if listening in, the Café creaks and groans. The AC kicks in, and the lights brown out for a second. Then the entire Café goes black.

“Ah, no, not again.” Andy shoves past the prep table toward the fuse box. “Jones should’ve fixed this mess—all this old wiring. I tell you, Edison was alive when they installed these glass fuses.”

Electrical problems. Definitely a negative for saying yes to Jones’s will.

Andy pops open the fuse box and in the soft light coming through the windows, bangs around, pulling fuses and putting them back in.

With a buzz, the lights flicker on.

Then off.

Then on.

I exhale, unaware I was even holding my breath. For years, Jones knew the Café needed an electrical overhaul. He just never got around to it. One more reason the Café needs a moneyed owner.

“Spit it out, girl. You’re making me nervous.” Mercy Bea brings me back to the business at hand.

“Right, the will. Well . . .” I glance at my loyal crew. “You see . . .”

“Ain’t got all day, Caroline.”

Man, Mercy is pushy. “Jones left the Café to . . .” My voice bottoms out. “Me” is barely audible to my own ears.

“To who?” Mercy Bea’s head tilts to one side. The fingernail drum-ming stops.

“Caroline, Jones left the Café to you?” Andy stoops over for a clear view of my face.

Our eyes meet. “Yes, Jones left the Café to me.”

Tension and silence fall like hailstones. Hard and fast.

Mercy Bea fires up another cigarette right there in the middle of the kitchen. “Great day in the morning. You? Of all the . . . What in Sam Hill was he thinking?”

“Mercy Bea, take that outside.” Andy points to her cigarette. “Caroline, do you want the Café?”

“I don’t know.” I grip my hands together. “There’s this other job opportunity . . .”

“What job opportunity? What happens if you don’t take the Café?” Mercy Bea exhales a stream of smoke in my direction.

“Well . . .” Oh, now, this is unfair. Why do I have to be the one? “Kirk will close it down, sell the property, and donate the proceeds to charity.”

Andy’s broad shoulders slump ever so slightly, and for the first time I see a break in his confidence. “Well, that’s that.” He slips the towel off of his shoulder and snaps the air. “Ten years. Not a bad run. Are the want ads lying round?”

“Un-freaking-believable.” Mercy Bea’s puffing and blowing smoke. “I protest the will.”

“You can’t protest the will, Mercy Bea. You ain’t kin.” Andy’s big bicep tightens as he lifts the trash can, searching for the Beaufort Gazette classifieds.

“Now hold on, y’all. I haven’t decided.”

“There goes youngest young-son’s basketball camp.” Mercy-Bea-the-Positive unties her apron, clamping her red lips around the filter tip of her cigarette. “Since it’s dead here, I’m going to run down to Panini’s Café and Plums. See if they’re hiring. Maybe I’ll cross the line over to Paul Mulroney’s.”

Hear that, Caroline? Jones rolling over in his grave.

“Wait,” I holler. “Did you not hear me? I haven’t decided yet. Kirk is coming back next week for my decision.”

“I’ll be holding my breath.” Mercy Bea balloons her cheeks with a backward glance and kicks open the kitchen screen door.