Sweet Caroline(25)

Who knew?

The ornery armoire is backed up against the wall between the front door and the kitchen. “We’re not getting this thing through that bedroom door,” Dad surmised earlier, mentally measuring the width of the doorway against the size of the armoire.

We decided it looked just lovely and knobless in the great room.

The carriage house is just right for a single girl. Or an old bachelor like Jones. A large bedroom and a bath off the great room, opposite the kitchen. And a smaller room that doubles as an office/den/guest room. Beside the kitchen is a built-in dinette, then a set of double French doors out to a covered brick patio.

It’s not Barcelona, but it’s better than my ten-year-old-girl’s bedroom.

Sitting next to me on the western-style leather couch, Mitch flips through my old photo albums, snickering, munching on the last slice of pizza.

In high school, I went through a phase. For two years, I shot every-thing that crossed my path with a Nikon F3. I’d signed up for a photography elective with Elle, dug out Mama’s old camera, and, I don’t know, went berserk. Maybe I was desperate to capture my fleeting youth, or just trying to tick people off, but I was obsessed with snapping pictures.

“Wild Wally . . . and that orange jersey.” Mitch taps one of the pictures, his laugh rattling around in his chest. “He wore that thing every day for months to win a bet with Sam Evans.”

I wrinkle my nose. “How could I forget? He was so mad when his mom made him wash it after the first two weeks.”

“In every picture, Caroline, all football season, he’s wearing that freaking orange jersey. Even under his pads. When the opposing team’s defensive linemen got a whiff of Wally—” Mitch falls against the couch cushions, slaps his leg, and laughs, laughs, laughs.

I grin and snicker a bit, trying to laugh along, but after a few seconds I admit, “Guess you had to be there.”

“Man, I’ve got to get with Wild Wally.” He flips to another page and laughs all over again.

“He’d love to hang out, I’m sure.” It’s a good moment for me; to see Mitch relaxed and reminiscing. He’d gotten egotistical and intense for a while. My eyes slip closed and I hear the photo album being set back on the built-in bookshelf next to the fireplace. “Barcelona will always be there, Caroline.”

“Not for me. Not with this opportunity. But I couldn’t—it’s weird, Mitch, inheriting a man’s life.”

“I can imagine. For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”

“It’s worth a lot. And for now, I stand by my indecision.” Opening my eyes, I sit forward. “So, tell me, what happened in Paris? What happened to make you see the mysterious yellow line?”

His lips form a half smile as he settles back against the couch. “A fan threatened to blow up the hotel we were staying in. At first we thought it was a terrorist attack.” He stares off. “Caroline, you can’t know your heart, your fears, until . . . Thinking terrorism had found me changed me. I thought I was so invincible. While the police investigated, I did a lot of praying. Turns out the threat came from some insane fan wanting to get close to me.”

“Oh my gosh, Mitch. What happened to her? Very John Lennon, by the way.”

“Never envied the man. They arrested her, which made me feel both relieved and sad. She was completely whacked, but I felt compassion for her. She risked her life for a man she didn’t know—a flawed, weak, bro-ken man.”

He looks over. Something flickers between us, eye to eye. Oooh, weird vibe.

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, Mitch. I see why you felt for her. You always did have a tender heart.”

“I’ve done a lot of talking to God, examining my life.” His confession is humbly intense.

“What did you conclude?”

“Several things.” In one graceful move, he’s off the couch, carrying the empty pizza box to the kitchen. “One, I’m too far away from my faith. Two, the landscape of my life is barren and brown. Too many parties, too many women—” He stuffs the box in the trash with vigor. “My career became my God—my name, my fame, Jesus who?”

“Aren’t you being hard on yourself? I mean, God’s got a world to run and all. Maybe you’re not as high up on His list as you think.”

“No, Caroline, just the opposite. I’m way higher on His list than I wanted to be.”

I draw my knees to my chin. If such a loving Deity exists, it would be nice if He’s like Mitch describes. “What else did you conclude?”

“That I owed a few people apologies. Dad for one. I created such bad blood between us that in nine years he’s never come to one of my shows.”

“I didn’t realize.”

He lowers himself to one of the kitchen chairs. “Then there’s you.” The bass of his voice vibrates in my chest. Oooh, the vibe again.

“Mitch, you don’t owe me—”

“Yes, I do.” For a split second, our eyes meet; then he looks down. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I made a lot of promises to you that I wanted to keep, but wasn’t man enough to follow through on.”

“It’s okay. We were young—”

“Stop. Don’t let me off the hook. I told you I loved you, I wanted to marry you. We were going to buy a farm in Hendersonville or Franklin county, raise horses and kids, hobnob with the country music elite. Not one promise was kept.”