Sweet Caroline(22)

“Caroline, Jones didn’t mean to torture you with this. Stand by your decision.”

“Then what did he mean, Kirk? Hmm? Tell me? You can’t leave a girl your life’s work and expect her to not agonize over it. Do you realize the Café was the center of discussion at the city council meeting last night?”

“Caroline, calm down. Go to Barcelona. Forget about the Café. People will live. Life goes on. Change happens.” He pops open his brief-case. “But listen, here’s an option to consider. Hang on to the Café through probate, then sell it. The guys I’m golfing with today like to invest in projects.”

“Then what, Kirk? The job in Barcelona will be gone.”

Kirk leans over the table. “You’d have enough money to vacation anywhere in the world.”

“Again, then what? Call Paris Hilton for a shopping spree? Money isn’t going to give me a future.”

“Then sign.” He taps the papers he handed me. “Here . . . and here.” Taking the pen, I pause to read the form. Sure enough, I’m handing it all over to Kirk for him to close down. I breathe out. Am I sure?

Another gaze out the window. Through the trees, I spot the back of Paul Mulroney’s bistro. Fifteen years ago, he and Jones used to compete for business, running cheesy radio spots with stupid jingles that got stuck in our heads. Over time, Jones grew complacent and lost his will to fight.

I flip the pen back and forth against my fingers. Yes, I’m sure. Breathing deep, I sign. Five seconds later, it’s done.

The Frogmore Café is no more.

The others respect my privacy after Kirk leaves, letting me sit alone in the back booth, fighting an odd emptiness.

Where’s the relief of making a decision? The excitement of what lies ahead? Two minutes ago, I felt confident. Now, it’s like I spent my last dollar for a stupid fairground toy when I could’ve stopped for cheese fries on the way home.

The breakfast-club boys finally mosey over. “You let her go, didn’t you?” Luke pats my shoulder.

“Yes.”

They stare off in different directions, coughing, hacking, and sniffing until Dupree claps his hands on Luke and Winnie’s shoulders. “Well, it was a good twenty years, boys.”

My stomach knots. My skin is both clammy and hot. “Dupree, Luke, you understand, right? Pastor Winnie?”

Winnie juts out his chin and rolls back his shoulders. “S-sure we do. Sure.” His sad expression tells me otherwise.

They stand around for another awkward moment; then Dupree remembers he has to take his wife “somewhere.”

So, this is what it feels like to be a heel. Not that I ever really wanted to know. But I can’t keep the Café. When will a man like Carlos Longoria ever want to work with me again?

As I head for the kitchen, I spot Mercy Bea on the other side of the waiter’s station, wiping her eyes.

“Hey—”

“Eight years, ended, just like that, with a flash of a hundred-dollar pen.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“For who? You?” She storms off.

Ho, boy. Mustering my courage, I hunt for my big-hearted cook. “Andy?”

No answer. I check the pantry. “You here?” Still no answer. The kitchen feels cold and abandoned. Regret strangles my heart from some dark inner place.

In the office, I flop down in the chair, which rocks back with a jerk, almost dumping me to the floor. This chair I won’t miss, nor the clutter and dust.

I glance at the clock. Ten thirty.

Why isn’t Andy banging around in the kitchen?

I get up and stand in the doorway. The Café is spooky and silent—as if no one ever lived here, laughed, or loved here.

The foundation isn’t moaning, nor the eaves creaking.

My heartbeat drums in my hears. “Andy?”

The electricity buzzes, then browns out.

I can’t do it. I can’t.

Running through the dining room, I jerk open the front door so hard the Christmas bells crash against the glass. “Kirk.” I’ve changed my mind. Wait. I dash to the curb, looking both ways down Bay Street. But the lawyer’s Lexus is long gone. “Kirk.”

Phone. I’ll call him. I pat my pockets. Where’s my phone? A dash back inside, tripping on the carpet by the wait station, then crashing into a lowboy.

In the office, I jerk my backpack from the bottom desk drawer.

“Kirk, Kirk, Kirk,” I mutter, searching my cell-phone book for his number. Dang, it’s not in there. I launch Outlook and scroll through the address book. “Kirk Harris, Kirk Harris . . . there.” My hands shake as I dial.

7 . . . 6 . . . 3 . . .

It takes forever to ring—I could’ve rocketed to the moon—and bounces right away to voice mail. Sweat breaks out under my arms.

“Kirk, it’s Caroline. I-I’ve changed my mind. I-I can’t close down the Café. It’s not too late, right? Please tell me it’s not too late. It’s only been a few measly minutes.” Tears fizz in my eyes. “W-we can talk about selling. To the right person. You know, when the time is right. After the probate. Kirk. Please. You should’ve seen their faces.”

The message beeps and cuts me off. I press End and toss my phone to the desk.

To: Hazel Palmer