Sweet Caroline(2)

“You cleaned the bathrooms? For me.” Tying on my apron, I gaze over at her.

“Don’t act all surprised.” She pops and cracks her gum. “You covered for me a few times when my young-sons got into trouble.” Mercy Bea is a single mom of two teen boys she affectionately refers to as “young-sons.”

“So . . . anything new from Jones’s lawyer?”

Aha. This is why she cleaned the bathrooms—to butter me up for information. Not that I’m keeping secrets. “Not since he called last Wednesday. He’s still tied up with an estate case in Charleston. Said he’d be down as soon as he was free.”

“Well, you let me know if you hear from him, now.”

“Don’t I always?”

Even though I’m not the senior Café employee, Jones’s lawyer,Kirk Harris, deals directly with me. My guess is because I’ve been handling the business side of the Café for two years. It’s the reason Jones hired me.

“I could use your help around here, Caroline. Someone to teach the Café ropes,” Jones said to me one afternoon when I stopped by for some Frogmore Stew.

Learning the Café ropes wasn’t high on my list of life goals, but between Jones’s aged puppy-dog eyes and a mental picture of my Granddaddy Sweeney looking down from heaven, whispering, “Be sweet, Caroline; help out my old friend,” I couldn’t say no.

Jones started me out waiting tables, then added on bookkeeping and ordering. Turns out everyone at the Frogmore Café wears multiple hats.Though I’m not allowed to cook. All on account of almost burning down Beaufort High when I took home ec. But that’s another story.

Exchanging my flip-flops for my black work clogs, I glance at Mercy Bea. “So, how’d your date with Ralph Carter go last night?”

Mercy Bea responds with a Cruella Devill cackle. “Oh, dear girl. He was a loser with a capital L-O-O-S-E-R.”

“You mean L-O-S-E-R.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You added an extra O.”

“Caroline, I can spell loser.” Her exhale is edgy. “I’ve certainly acquainted myself with enough of them.”

Whatever. “So, all your great hair dye and makeup went to waste?” I retrieve my pen and order pad from the desk, then stuff my backpack into the bottom drawer.

“On him, yes. Though I looked pretty darn hot, if I say so myself.”

“Miss Mansfield would be proud.”

“I had a little bit of a flirt with a Marine pilot when L-O-S-E-R went to the toilet. Turns out he was married. But”—she jabs the air with her finger—“in my defense, he wasn’t wearing a ring, and the wife was out-side on her phone.”

I snap my fingers. “Those darn non-wedding-ring-wearing pilots.”

Mercy Bea whirls away from me with a huff, stopping long enough to point at the clock. “Hurry on out. The breakfast-club boys will be along soon.”

I return to the kitchen. “Morning, Andy.” The exhaust fans over the oven compete with the soulful sounds coming from the mini boom box on top of the reach-in. All I can hear is the bass line. “What’s today’s special?” The Emmitt Smith–sized cook looks up from pulling a couple of green peppers from the lowboy. “Barbeque chicken with choice of three vegetable sides—greens, corn, fried okra, corn on the cob, fried tomatoes,peas, or mashed potatoes. Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits, of course,a drink. Choice of dessert. Pluff Mud Pie or vanilla layer cake.”

“I ordered more produce and shrimp Friday. Should come today.”

“What’d they say over at Fresh Earth Produce?” Andy chops peppers for one of the breakfast-club boys’ country omelet. “Rice Dooley is wanting money, I bet.”

“Well, he doesn’t consider us a charity.” I snatch a hot, fresh biscuit from a baking sheet. Steam rises from the fluffy white middle when I pull it apart.

Rice: “We need some sort of payment, Caroline. Look, I know Jones didn’t leave y’all in good shape, but can we see something?”

Me: “I understand, Mr. Dooley. I’ll get a payment to you this week. But we need corn and shrimp or the Frogmore Café is without Frogmore Stew.”

“I know you’re doing all you can to juggle things, Caroline.” Andy whacks an onion in two.

The soft bite of my biscuit melts in my mouth. “Unfortunately,there’s more debt to juggle than credit.”

In the aftermath of kind and compassionate Jones McDermott’s death, I discovered a hard truth: he was a horrible businessman. As a result, I’ve learned how to tap dance around due dates, how to stretch imaginary dollars.

“Any word from the lawyer?” Andy asks, turning to the stove, pouring eggs into a hot skillet.

I’m going to write “Nope” across my forehead and point to it when people ask, “Any word from the lawyer?”

“Nothing new.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Andy leans over the prep table toward me. “Mercy Bea is hoping Jones left the place to her?” He grabs a handful of diced veggies and sprinkles them on the cooking eggs.

“Why would she want this place?” I gesture to the dingy white kitchen walls and cheap linoleum floor. “It’s a money pit, in need of some serious loving. The old girl needs an owner with deep, generous pockets.”