Sweet Caroline(27)

“The Frogmore Café wasn’t around seventy years ago, Mrs. Carrington.” I launch Outlook. I’m going to need a Task List.

“It was a boarding house. My father-in-law lived here after being dis-charged from the Marines. Now, are we on for July first or not? And don’t you dare say no. It’s way too late to rebook.”

“We’re on for the first, Mrs. Carrington. Sunday evening,” I peek at the clipboard and type “6:00” into Outlook.

“Now, what food do you have planned? Shrimp is a must, naturally. My mother-in-law adores shrimp.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve planned several shrimp dishes.” At least we have now. I type “lots-o-shrimp.”

Andy appears with a large slice of cake. “Here you go, Miz Carrington. Would you like coffee?”

“Oh, lovely, yes. One Splenda, two creams.”

I mouth a thank-you. When Andy returns with Mrs. Carrington’s coffee, he hands her a menu. “Anything on the menu, Mrs. Carrington, we can make for your party.”

The menu. Of course. Mental slap to the forehead. “Yes, Mrs. Carrington, pick anything from the menu. Did Jones negotiate a price with you?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“Okay, and how many people?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Four hundred? For everything?” One quick glance up at Andy and I read his thoughts: we’re going to eat it on this one. Four hundred dollars for fifty-eight people to eat lots-o-shrimp?

Mrs. Carrington is um-ming over the cake. “This cake is divine. Add it to the menu.”

I type in “Andy’s butter cream cake.” “Mrs. Carrington, Andy makes a wonderful—”

“Caroline.” Mercy Bea barges in. “You’re needed in the dining room. Pardon the interruption. Mrs. Carrington, do you remember me? I went to school with your girl, Sharon.”

“No, I don’t recall—”

“Mercy Bea Hart.”

“Right.” Mrs. Carrington has no idea who is standing in front of her. Mercy Bea looks stricken. “Caroline, Kirk’s out there with a couple of bright-teethed, tanned dudes.”

I make a face. “Did you tell him I’m busy?”

“Yes, but he said he only needs you for a sec.”

Of all the . . . “Excuse me, Mrs. Carrington.”

Mercy Bea falls in stride with me, growling, “I only spent the night at the Carringtons’ house a dozen times. Snotty, snobbity snob.”

Sure enough, in the middle of the dining room stands Kirk with two men. Bright-toothed and tanned like Mercy Bea said. “Kirk, hey.”

“Ah, there you are. Caroline, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. Dale Westmoreland and Roland Hill, otherwise known as Buzz Boys, Inc.”

“Nice to meet you.” Handsome, probably in their midthirties, the Buzz Boys reek of old Charleston money.

“We came down to golf again and take in the town,” Kirk says. “Dale wanted to stop by the Café.”

“Great place.” Dale rubs his palms together. “Buzz Boys is looking to invest in restaurants. This looks to be the right size for starters.”

“O-oh, okay. Sure.” What do I say here?

“They know it’s all tentative,” Kirk says, “and we have to wait for probate to close. But they wanted to check it out.”

The front door’s Christmas bells jingle. Miss Jeanne enters. Like the breakfast-club boys, she’s right on time. Three fifteen. A sense of satisfaction settles over me. Keeping the Café is a good thing, for now, if only for the breakfast-club boys and Miss Jeanne. And the crew.

“Hey, Miss Jeanne, how are you this afternoon?”

“Sore. Started tap classes.”

“Tap classes? Goodness.”

“Ain’t getting any younger.”

Back to Kirk, who’s leaning into me, motioning to the Buzz Boys, who are studying the Vet Wall. “Deep pockets, very deep.”

“O-oh, well, yahoo.” I admit, I feel slightly jerked around. A few days ago I had to take the Café or close it down. The decision kept me awake at night. I left a good friend in the lurch. Finally, I’ve made peace with my Beaufort life, and now Kirk brings around these tire kickers.

He reads my expression through his dark-rimmed glasses. “No one’s asking you to sign on the dotted line. They’re just investigating.”

Dale pokes his head into my powwow with Kirk. “The Vet Wall is incredible. The place is everything you said, Kirk. Charming, homey, but—” He sniffs as Mercy Bea passes with a basket of Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits for Miss Jeanne. “Needs a lot of work.”

Roland walks the length of the dining room. “What’s capacity? Sixty, seventy?”

“Seventy.” They’re browsing and Mrs. Carrington waits. “Kirk, I have a customer in the office.”

“Fine, we’ll just look around. I’ll call you later.”

“Nice to meet you, Dale and Roland.”

However, Mrs. Carrington didn’t miss me. She’s in a lively conversation with Andy about the changing shrimping industry. The cook has her completely charmed.

“Sorry for the interruption.” I take my seat behind the desk.

“We got the menu planned out, Caroline.” Andy hands me a slip of paper with a got-you-covered grin. “She’s going with Jones’s popular mushroom casserole, batter-fried wings and sauces, pot roast, and chicken casseroles . . . Well, you see it all there. Some platters of veggies and cheese. Of course, shrimp in all forms.”