Sweet Caroline(36)

What am I going to do? I gather my small crew. “I’m open to suggestions here.”

“How about a candlelight party.” Mercy Bea leans out the back door with her cigarette. “Throw open the windows. Click on the fans.”

“The ceiling fans?”

“Right.” She chews on her bottom lip. “No power.”

“Our main problem is the menu. How’re we going to bake the casseroles? And the cake?”

Heart: Oh, head, we are so dead. Mrs. Carrington adored Andy’s cake.

Head: For once, you don’t exaggerate.

Heart: Thanks, I think.

Head: Good job, by the way, on resolving the J. D. issue.

Heart: You think? I was unsure. You could’ve spoken up, you know.

Head: Am I ever silent when you go astray?

Heart: Good point.

“What about another restaurant?” Russell suggests.

“On such short notice?” I press my palm to my aching head.

“Find a generator and hook it up?” Russell tries again.

“Sure, Russ, run on down to the corner store and buy an industrial-sized generator. Get two. What are they, ten grand each? Grab my wallet there, will you?”

Russell makes a face. “You asked for ideas.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, but I was hoping for good ideas.”Andy bursts out laughing.

“Don’t be confused. I’m not trying to be funny.” This is my attempt to not completely melt down. “Russell, really, I’m sorry. But, y’all, a ninetieth birthday, a family celebration, ruined.”

“What about going across the street to Waterfront Park?”

I glance at Mercy Bea. “The park? Andy, what do you think? With the breeze, it might not be too bad.”

“We got those old gas grills out back under the tarps. We could run to Bi-Lo for food, barbecue up some nice shrimps, chicken, and steak. The sauces are prepped too.”

The four hundred Mrs. Carrington paid disappeared long ago, but right now, I’d gladly sell my precious, knobless armoire to make this event happen.

“Okay, okay. Now you’re talking. What else?”

“The grills have burners. We can put on water for Frogmore Stew. Grill some veggies.”

“Right, plus we have chips and drinks. We could buy cheese-and-meat platters from the deli. Get ice. Russell, can you get the mop and start cleaning this up, please?” I point to the floor.

“On it.”

Okay, a plan is shaping up. I can breathe without pain. “I’ll call the city to see if we can have emergency access to the park. Andy, work up a new menu. Mercy Bea, call—”

“Caroline—” Andy interrupts with a flash of his palm. He tips his nose toward the ceiling. “Do you smell something?”

Russell, Mercy Bea, and I sniff.

“Smoke.”

Beaufort Fire and Rescue firefighters walk inspection as I stand in the middle of the Café dining room with a sense of deep, deep dread. Andy doesn’t relieve me any when he says, “No go on the park.”

A familiar flood of hopelessness springs from the deep well of tried-and-true past experiences. Every time something good is about to hap-pen . . . If this is God loving me, then . . . forget it.

I’m on my own.

The fire inspector motions for me to follow him to the kitchen. “It’s the wiring.” He sips from a 20-ounce bottle of Coke beaded with condensation. “The wires in the attic are exposed and chewed up by squirrels or rats. And this place is so old you still got exposed wires running under the house. Raccoons have been feasting on them for years. I’m surprised the whole place hasn’t gone up in flames.”

Critters? In my Café. Oh, my heart. “So, what do we do? Please don’t tell me you’re shutting us down.”

He swigs from his Coke again. “If you get power back on, then I’ll give you thirty days to get the place rewired. If you need more time, let me know, but get it going, Caroline. This place is a hazard.”

“Tomorrow. First thing. I promise.”

The inspector packs up and stops at the back door. “I was at the city council meeting. I’m glad you’re keeping the Frogmore open. My dad was a son of a gun, and on hard days, I’d sneak out and ride my bike down here. Jones gave me chores to do and in his subtle way reminded me that men sometimes behave in a way they don’t mean. He was the most compassionate man I ever knew.”

The inspector’s transparency startles me. These little glimpses into Jones’s life make me realize I inherited more than a man’s work. I inherited his reputation.

And a house full of bad wiring.

It’s midnight. Sunday surrenders happily to Monday. I fall into exhaustion and exhilaration. The Carrington party was a smash.

Thanks to Mitch, the perfect host.

After the fire inspector left, Mrs. Carrington showed up. I did what our old beagle used to do when he was in trouble—rolled over and tucked my tail over my privates.

“What kind of electrical problems?”

“The kind where there’s no electricity.”

“Caroline, that’s unacceptable.”

“Yes, I would agree . . .”

“My mother-in-law found out about the party. It’s all she’s talked about.” (Gripping her chest like she’s going to keel over.)