Sweet Caroline(35)

“J. D., your girl’s here.” With a wink at me, Bodean disappears, leaving me to wait alone in the stark living room.

The clink of pool balls is chased by raucous laughter. A fridge door opens and there’s a call for beer. Then the hiss of bottle tops.

What am I doing here, invading his turf? I should go. Gripping my keys—Is he coming?— I’m about to turn for the door when . . . There he is. Dark, masculine, and sober.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” His checked shirt hangs loose over his jeans.

“Enjoying your day off?” I smile.

“Yeah, sure. Some of the guys wanted to play pool.” He steps around the leather couch, but remains on the other side of the room.

“Sounds like fun.” Five feet away and I can’t reach him. “Guess you’ll be here all night, then.”

He shrugs. “Most likely. Have a few too many beers and crash on the couch.”

More nodding. Then an awkward silence. Yes, coming here was a mistake. Bodean’s is J. D.’s safe place, like the live oak is for me, and I wouldn’t have appreciated Mama interrupting as I tried to process my feelings about her.

“I’d better get going.” I back toward the door. “See you.”

“It looked like he kissed you.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“When I drove up and saw you two together, it was like—” He balls his fist, and his expression tightens. “Fire. I can’t ever remember being so jealous.”

“I told you he didn’t kiss me. I conked my head.” J. D. takes a few steps toward me. “What was he doing there?”With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know, looking for company, good friends.”

“Caroline, I’m not an insecure man, but he’s theMitch O’Neal. Your ex-boyfriend to boot.”

“He hasn’t been my boyfriend for many years, J. D.” I think of Elle. “Here you go: Mitch is on Elle’s short list of possible husbands. And it’s okay with me.”

The deputy laughs reluctantly. “God help him.”

“Mitch is my friend, J. D. He always will be, but—” I take a step toward him. “Is there a you and me?”

In a few strides, J. D. crosses the room, grabs my hand, and pulls me outside. The moment we pass through the door, I’m in his arms, barely catching my breath before his lips cover mine.





DAILY SPECIAL


Sunday, July 1

Happy 90th Birthday, Mrs. Carrington

By Sunday, we’re all set for the ninetieth birthday bash.

J. D. and I went to church again. I just had to know if it felt the same as last week. It did. Surreal. Clean. Peaceful. Mitch waved to us across the sanctuary, but kept his distance.

Andy arrives at the Café a little before two. “Ready for your first party, boss?” He slams the door of his old green truck parked along the Harrington Street curb. Just seeing him fortifies my confidence.

A lowcountry menu is yummy and easy to prepare—dough, batter, and grease—so a few hours’ lead time is plenty. Saturday afternoon, Pastor Winnie clocked in to help Andy and Russell prep the casseroles, batter, and sauces. All we have to do today is bake and fry.

“Let’s get the air on,” I say. “Check the bathrooms and dining room, make sure they’re clean.” My foot splashes in water. “Why is the floor wet?”

“Boss, the lights won’t click on.” Andy pushes past me for the fuse box.

Pain rips through my chest. My arms go completely numb. “Andy,” I gasp over his shoulder, “please tell me you can fix this. You’re the fixer.”

“Jones . . . I told him to get the rewiring done. Said this would hap-pen. It keeps shorting out the box.” Andy punches the wall by the fuse box. “I can’t get it to come on. Other than tampering with these old glass fuses, I don’t know what else to do.”

I panic. “This is not happening. Not. Happening.”

“It’s happening, Caroline. We have no power.”

Scotty, if you’re there, beam me up.

Andy tugs open the walk-in. “Starting to warm up in here.”

In the daylight of the door and windows, I read the taut lines running across Andy’s face. We’re snafued.

“The ice under the shrimp is melting, but if we get more ice, the shrimp will be good. All this water on the floor is probably from the ice machine. But, Caroline, without power, we can’t cook.”

Yes, I’m aware. “Okay, we have shrimp. That’s a start.” I dig deep for some cheer. “I’m calling an electrician.”

Ducking into the office, I retrieve the phone book and stand in the light of the window, looking up Buster’s Electric. If Mrs. Carrington shows up to a dark, warm Café, she’ll stroke out.

As I dial, I hear Russell’s tenor voice. “Fuse box blow again?”

Mercy Bea pokes her head in my door, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Caroline, you best call Buster.”

I point to the phone stuck to my ear. “He’s not answering.” The machine clicks on. You’ve reached Buster Electric . . . I leave a message, but I’m void of all hope to hear from him today.

Flipping through the book, I call every electrician. Nothing. Apparently Sunday is not a big workday.