Sweet Caroline(33)

We sure had some laughs in Mrs. Gonzales’s class. Oodgay ucklay alwaysway. Jenny Barrett.

When are you going to marry me? Steve Parker.

I tapped his signature. “Hasn’t Steve been married, like, four times?”

“And getting divorced. Again.” The Jess-and-Ray connection is great for scooping on old classmates. If we don’t know what’s up with someone, Ray does. Or he can find out. “Ray says he posted on MySpace he wants to beat Liz Taylor’s record.”

“He’s banned from the list. I don’t care how rich, kind, or good-looking.” Me, being bossy.

“I’ll be an old maid first,” Elle said.

After two hours of poring over yearbooks and talking, Jess, Elle, and I came up with a list of ten wedding-day possibilities. Single, attractive, relatively successful, eligible men.

“With deep faith,” Elle always added. “I need a man who knows Jesus.”

We were one shy of ten after the list was compiled, so I tossed out Kirk’s name to round out the field. Outside of wrinkled suits and obnoxious glasses, he’s quite handsome. And, I believe, a Presbyterian, though don’t quote me.

Elle taps my arm as I start to get out of her car. “Are we okay?” She shifts her car into park, leaving the motor running. Rain softly ratta-tat-tat s against the windshield.

“Yes, we’re fine.” I smile, reaching for my door handle. “It’s just weird to think of you with Mitch. Or Mitch with anyone, really.”

Elle’s soft laugh tells me she understands. “Seems weird to me, too, actually. I always pictured you two as the Ross and Rachel of Beaufort.”

“Are you my Emily?”

“The one Ross should’ve never married? I hope not. Caroline, listen, if you really want him off my list, say the word.”

“El, it’s fine . . . Yes, it makes me uncomfortable. But that’s my problem, not yours. If I’m really over him—and I am—then I can’t tell you, ‘Hands off.’”

“Tell you what: if I’m not married by thirty-five, and the coast is clear with you, and Mitch just happens to be available, then I’ll make my move.”

“Mitch is your backup?”

“Secret backup. Won’t he be surprised when I come calling in seven years?”

Laughing, I lean across to hug her. “Deal. Thanks for the lift.”

As she pulls away, I dash between fat raindrops to the dark porch, and, as if scripted for an I Love Lucy episode, my right foot lands in a deep puddle. I’m suddenly hurtling forward. My purse goes airborne and the contents fly like New Year’s confetti.

Face-first, I splash into a mini pool of rain. And curse.

“Caroline.” Strong hands lift me off the ground. Oh, my. “Are you all right?”

Mud slips down the inside of my top. “Mitch? What are you doing here?”

“Porch lurking. Gave you a nine-point-five for the mud-hole trip.”

“Nine-point-five? Oh, dude, that was a perfect ten.” Stooping, I gather up the scattered contents of my purse.

“Take off point-five for the word.”

“Ha. I’ve heard ten times worse out of you. Again, why are you here?” Mitch rescues my keys as they sink in a distant puddle. “Where’d you run off to yesterday after church?”

“The Coosaw.” He passes me the keys. I offer my pinky finger as a hook. “Took the old boat out.”

“The Bluecloud still floats?”

“She does.”

“A little overwhelming, wasn’t it?”

I swallow a sudden rise of emotion. “A little.” Water drips from the ends of my hair. Goose bumps crawl over me when the damp breeze blows. “Elle claims Jesus told me He loved me in front of three hundred people.”

“He did.” Mitch smiles. It baffles me how he always feels like coming home.

“So, do you want to come in?” I start for the door.

“Sure, if I’m not intruding.” He seems a little lost. Lonely, even.

The wind drives the rain under the porch eaves. I can’t unlock the door without dropping everything. “Mitch . . . Here . . . my keys.” I jiggle my pinky. “The long, weird one opens the door.” My brush slips to the floor. When I try to adjust my load, my phone breaks free. I grapple to catch it.

Next thing I know, my secret tampon holder is lying at Mitch’s feet.

He looks down.

“Mitch, hey, I’ll get that. A-hem . . . Don’t bother. My bad.”

I reach down. Except, hurrying to rescue my girl-privacy, I don’t see the porch post . . .

Wham.

“Ow.” I slap my hand to my forehead. The rest of my stuff clatters to the old board floor, and the porch light flashes on—all the commotion activating the motion detector.

“Caroline, didn’t you see the post?” Mitch grabs my wrist. In the small, white light, I see his furrow of concern, but he’s not fooling me. His voice is fat with laughter.

“Of course I saw the porch post. I love smacking my head every now and then.” I peek up at him. “Dork.”

“You should’ve seen your face . . .” He chuckles. Politely. Which I appreciate.

“Oh, go ahead and laugh. I’ll just be over here in extreme pain.”