Sweet Caroline(39)

Elle roped Jess and me into a harebrained scheme: Operation Wedding Day. Don’t ask. Actually, we had fun coming up with ten prospects for her future husband.

“Houston we have a problem.”

Love, C





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17

Mr.Mueller, please, I’m begging you, lend the Café twenty-five thousand dollars. I’m desperate.” On my knees, I weep and beg.

“Desperate? You’ve come to the right place.” The bank manager’s eyes darken, then flash red. He crawls over the top of his desk and drops down in front of me. “For your firstborn. And your second.” He holds up a blood-stained document. “Sign here.”

“No, no . . .” I stumble backwards.His wicked laugh rings out, sending a parade of chills across my body. He snatches up my hand and pricks my finger.

“No!” I wake with a jolt. Panting. When I realize I’m safe at home, I plop back down to my pillow. “A dream. Just a dream.”

From the living room, light from a table lamp halos the bedroom doorway. The clock on the nightstand clicks to midnight.

It’s not enough my twenty-five-thousand-dollar need haunts me during the day; it now visits me at night.

Two days ago, I went to the bank to ask Mr. Mueller, the manager, for a loan on behalf of the Frogmore Café.

My very appearance about got him laughing. “The Frogmore’s too great a risk, Caroline. What can you offer as collateral?”

I boldly offered the best I have—a broken-down ’68 Mustang convertible.

That did it. He guffawed. Without so much as a good-bye, I let myself out, his condescension kicking me all the way down the street.

Tossing back the covers, I slip out of bed and away from the dream. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, plop down on the couch, and click on the television—the one household appliance Jones managed to upgrade in this century. Flipping channels, I land on a late showing of CMT’s Inside NashVegas. The show’s host, Beth Rose, stands in front of a big building I think is the Gaylord Entertainment Center. I’ve seen pictures of Mitch there.

Fans shove around behind Beth to get in a camera shot.

“Lots of star activity in Nashville this week,” Beth says. “Inside NashVegas caught up with a few of your favorite stars performing for the Fourth of July celebration at the GEC.”

Wonder if Mitch is bummed he’s not at this event? I snuggle with a throw pillow. He can’t be that far out of the mainstream already, can he? Artists break away from record companies all the time. The rest of what’s going on with him is self-induced.

The shot cuts away to a black-tuxedoed Scott Vaughn, Beth’s cohost, who is inside the auditorium.

“Thanks, Beth,” Scott says, “I’m here with country-music favorite Mitch O’Neal.”

Whoa. I scramble for the remote to up the volume. He looks amazing in a black tux. I hate to admit it, but a there’s-my-man smile hits my lips. So what? It’s late, I’m alone, and just had a Mr. Mueller nightmare.

“You’re performing tonight at the GEC.” Scott holds the mike out to Mitch.

He flashes a movie star–like smile. “I am. And I’m very excited to be a part of this tribute to our nation’s birthday, and to country music and country music fans.”

I scrunch up my shoulders and almost giggle. Mitch is so cool and poised. So . . . so . . . starlike. I’m proud, and totally crushing. After all, he is the Mitch O’Neal. “You go, Mitch.”

This is exactly what I needed to soothe away the terror of the dream. Upping the volume, I keep my eyes steady on the screen.

Then she glides into view. A willowy, breathtaking, golden brunette, linking her arm through Mitch’s.

Scott greets her. “Miss Tennessee, Elaine Solem, exquisite as always.” Miss Tennessee? When did Mitch meet her? I tuck my knees to my chest and stretch my pajama top over my legs. She’s a walking feather. Just watching her on TV makes me feel like an engorged slug. I’m never eating again.

“When can we expect a new album from Mitch O’Neal?” Scott asks.

“I’m working on a new project, spending time in the South Carolina lowcountry, reconnecting with my roots, writing. The new project will have the elements of my first album.”

“Can’t wait to hear it.” Scott turns to Elaine. “How do you like the lowcountry?”

Her smile blings like perfect pearls. “I haven’t been.” She snuggles up to Mitch. “Yet.”

A few more questions, some yada-yada this and yada-yada that before Scott thanks them for taking the time to talk to Inside NashVegas and wishes Mitch a good show.

“Thanks, Scott. Give my love to your lovely wife, Aubrey.” Mitch slips his hand into Miss Tennessee’s and leads her away.

What was all that baloney about fasting life, passing on love?

“You’re a fraud, Mitch O’Neal.” I toss the pillow at the TV. “A fraud.”

Sheree sends another Raft Race reminder on Thursday afternoon: It’s past the sign-up deadline, but I think you can still get in if you hurry. Great publicity.