Sweet Caroline(18)

“All right, what’s new with you?” My friend regards me with his sandwich between his teeth.

I pinch off the tip of a french fry. “Jones left the Café to me. You heard he died, right?”

He stops twisting open his water bottle. “Read about it online. Then mom called the day of his funeral. So, you weren’t expecting to inherit the Café?”

“Are you kidding? I had absolutely no idea.”

Mitch is always easy to talk to so I tell him the story of the Café and Hazel’s Barcelona offer. He listens without interrupting, munching on his food like it’s the best thing he’s eaten in a while. The wind blows his hair away from his face. His cheeks appear leaner than the last time I saw him.

When my story is done, he asks, “Do you want to move to Barcelona and work for Carlos Longoria?”

His simple, upfront question requires a deep, philosophical answer. “I don’t know.”

“You feel responsible for the Café, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You always did carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Well, aren’t you free with the grand sweeping generalities?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” Smart aleck. He knows me too well. Even though our romance soured, our friendship remains. It was one aspect of our relationship I thought would keep us forever in love. “You try not feeling responsible when your mother abandons the family.”

He wipes his hands with his napkin. “I’m not accusing you.”

“I know.” Absently, I dip a fry in a puddle of ketchup as my shrimp burger gets cold.

“What are you going to do?” He shoves his food basket to the cen-ter of the picnic table.

“I have until next Tuesday to decide.”

“Translation, you have no idea.”

Holding up my hand, I curl my fingers into an O. “Zippo.”

“Barcelona . . . what a great city. But owning a lowcountry café can’t be all that bad.”

“The Frogmore needs a lot of tender loving care, Mitch. Money I don’t have.”

“I’d love to help you out, but—”

“No, no, no, I’m not asking.”

“My label and I parted ways. And I just dumped a ton of cash to pay the bills and wipe out the mortgage on the Fripp Island house. I’m living light until I sign a new deal.”

“Is that the reality God hit you with? Your label dropping you? After, what, five years?”

“One of the realities. Sales aren’t what they were for my first two albums.”

“So?”

“So . . .” His wry laugh is not airy, nor easy. “Record companies are in the business of making money. Not stringing along a party-too-hard artist whose album is tanking, while he barks about getting back to his roots.”

Mitch, not electrifying the music charts? Unbelievable. “I’m sorry.”

He stares off toward the road. “I brought in a bunch of songs they hated, including ‘Yellow Line,’ hoping to record like I used to before ‘commercial appeal’ took over my music.”

“Their loss.” I take a big bite of my shrimp burger. Even cold, it’s fab. “What are you going to do?”

“Same as you.”

“Decide next Tuesday?”





DAILY SPECIAL


Friday, June 8

Frogmore Stew

Green Salad

Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

Scoop of Choc/Straw/Vanilla Ice Cream

Tea, Soda, Coffee

$7.99


9

Caroline, phone for you.” Andy jiggles the kitchen’s old wall receiver in the air.

It’s Friday afternoon. Business is steady, but the Café feels old and tired to me. I feel old and tired. The Café dilemma is brutal. Do I fight to keep it open or call it a good half century and close down?

“Caroline, this is Melba Pelot over at the Gazette. How are you?”

The press. “I’m fine, Melba. What can I do for you?”

“Confirm a rumor.” Her tone is airy, like this is no big deal, but I can tell when I’m being fished.

“What rumor?” I fall against the kitchen wall and stare out the back door toward the carriage house. It would be nice to live there, in town, close to all the downtown action.

“Did you inherit the Frogmore Café from Jones McDermott?”

“Yes, I did. How’d you—” Ahh. As Mercy Bea comes around the kitchen corner, humming, I know. Wonder who all she’s told?

“What are your plans?” Over the line comes the click, click of Melba’s keyboard.

Am I supposed to be honest with the press? I know Melba from around town, a comeya from Pennsylvania. “I’m still making my decision, Melba. There are conditions and terms to be considered.”

“Really? Like . . .”

“Well—” Ignoring the big fat nooo in my gut, my mouth rattles on. “If I don’t keep the Café for a certain amount of time, it will be shut down, sold, and the proceeds donated to charity.”

“Really?” Clickity, clickity, clickity.

Instant regret fills my chest. Why did I tell her? “Melba, listen, this is between you and me. Off the record.”