Sweet Caroline(40)

This time the words Great publicity jump off the screen and do a little soft shoe across my brain. This is a good idea. Time to put the Frogmore Café back into the community’s eyes.

I print out the entry form and walk into the kitchen. “Andy, how do you feel about the water?”

“It’s wet.” He slides the grill’s cleaned grease trap into place.

“Har, har. No, I mean, being in the water. Boating. Fishing.”

“Grew up on the water, girl.” His eyes narrow. “Why you asking?”

Walking over to him, I flop my arm over his huge shoulders. “The Frogmore Café is entering the Water Festival’s raft race.”

His eyes widen. “Who you got to race?” He takes a look at the entry form. “We need eleven strong people.”

“How about eleven people, period.”

“Well, if you ain’t particular.”

Setting the entry form on the prep table, Andy and I go over potential rafters. I write in their names. “Russell and Mercy Bea, if she can get her hair wet.”

“Got to race,” Andy insists. “They’re employees. How about my boy, Jack? He’s a defensive lineman. Strong back and arms.”

“Excellent.” I jot down Jack. “Six more.”

Tapping the pencil eraser against my chin, thinking, I watch Mercy Bea walk through the kitchen with a heavy tub of dirty dishes. Hmm. Did she always have Olive Oyl arms? I look at Andy, who’s looking at me.

“Okay, we need seven more,” he says, going toward the pantry as I erase Mercy Bea’s name. “What about J. D. or Mitch? Your daddy and Henry?”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” Though I can’t see Henry leaning into a raft oar.

J. D. rows with the sheriff department; they’ve already been talking and planning. Dad has a temperamental back. And Mitch? Mr. Date-A-Feather. I write his name down.

“What are you doing?” Mercy Bea hovers over my shoulder. “The raft race?”

Is that glee in her voice?

“I love the raft race.” She claps her hands. “Hey, Caroline, I don’t see my name.”

“That’s because”—Mercy Bea Hart—“I’m writing it right now. See?”

She makes a wry face. “You weren’t going to put me down, were you?”

“Mercy Bea, honey, sorry, but look—” I pinch her narrow arms. “Really, really skinny.”

Fire shoots from her hazel eyes. I jump back as the feisty waitress drives her elbow into the prep table. “Right now, you and me, Caroline. Arm wrestle. I’ll show you ‘really, really skinny.’”

Ho, boy. “I’m not going to arm wrestle you. You’re on the team.”

Andy comes back from the pantry, his arms loaded with dinner fixings, breaking up our almost girl fight. “Mercy, move out the way. Caroline, Jack’s got a buddy, Donny Vetter. He’ll probably row for us.”

“Good, good.” Seven all told now. “We need four more.”

“How about the breakfast-club boys?” Andy actually suggests them with a straight face.

I laugh and fill out the blanks. “Sure, and Miss Jeanne too.”

“You said eleven people, Caroline. You didn’t care who or what. Those boys would be honored. So would Miss Jeanne. We don’t care if we win, do we? Let’s just get out there, have fun, and remind folks the Frogmore is alive and well.” Andy takes a roasting pan from the hook overhead.

“When you put it like that . . . We have eleven. We’re a team.” I slap Andy and Mercy Bea a high five, then hurry to fax the entry form to Sheree.

Eleven illustrious names. Caroline, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Jack, Donny, Mitch, Luke, Dupree, Winnie, and Miss Jeanne.

We’re doomed.

“Anybody home? Caroline?” Mitch’s chiseled face pops around my office door as I shut down the computer. His sky-blue eyes are bright and a light beard dusts his cheeks.

“Back from Music City already?” The image of him with her flits across my brain.

Mitch ducks his head. “You saw, huh?”

“Miss Tennessee is very beautiful.”

His brow tightens. “I’d asked her to go with me months ago. She’s just a friend. I flew up for the event one day and flew back the next. Don’t bust my chops.”

“She told all CMT viewers she’s waiting to visit you here.”

Mitch picks up the squeeze football Jones kept on the desk. “Elaine is a walking sound bite. It’s her pageant training—smile and agree with everything.”

“So, she just ran off at the mouth?”

“Pretty much. When I asked her about it later, she didn’t even remember saying ‘it.’’” He walks around the desk, eyeing the attic box. “What’s in there?”

“You know, I forgot to look. Found it when Buster was giving me a tour of the damage.”

“What was the damage?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Mitch whistles. “That’s cheap, Caroline. These old buildings are a bear to work on.”

“So I heard.” Opening the middle desk drawer, I fish for the key I’d found taped to the file cabinet. To my not-so-surprise, it works. The lid pops open. Before peering inside, I close my eyes and make a wish. “Twenty-five grand, twenty-five grand.”