Sweet Caroline(46)

“So much for the kind, loving, compassionate God your daddy talks about.”

“Don’t get confused, Caroline. God is all of those things and more, but when an arrogant teen digs in his heels, sometimes a good exposing is the only thing that gets his attention. There I was, standing stone still during worship. But one song into the set, God whacked me. I mean, wham!” He slapped his chest. “He invaded every pore of my being. Next thing I know, I’m face-first on the ground, bawling like a newborn calf.” He laughed. “They could hear me all the way down to the lake. After that night, Caroline, I knew. Jesus loved me and there was no denying Him. But I sure as heck could run.”

One last bag of trash. “You never told me this before.”

He tossed it. “And you never told me about the pink room with the blue clouds.”

“It’s not a fun memory. Who do you think told your dad?”

He slung his arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the Café. “Jesus, I reckon. You’re going to have to give on this Jesus thing, Caroline. He’s pursuing you. Now, you can accept it, or be like me. A running fool.”

Easier said than done.

Back to the death of the AC—if it had to break, tonight was the best night. The Water Festival’s Commodore’s Ball is going on across the road at Waterfront Park, and even the wonderful Mitch O’Neal can’t draw a large crowd. By eight, my crew is sweating and begging to meet their family and friends at the Ball.

“Go, go. Have fun.” We had to shut down the kitchen anyway on account of the heat. I can handle serving a few iced teas and sodas.

“Looks like it’s just you and me in the room tonight.” I hand Mitch an ice-packed mason jar of tea.

He pauses from tuning his guitar for a gulp of tea. “I’ve faced worse.”

“It’s been a great week. Thank you.”

“Did you make money?”

“We’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to sort it out. I’ve just been putting the money in the safe each night. But, I’ve gone to a third money bag.”

Mitch raises a brow. “A third money bag?”

I laugh. “I know, big deal, right? But before this week, I could keep an entire month’s revenue in one money bag and hardly tell the differ-ence between the empty ones.”

A little after eight, the house is half-full. I set pitchers of water, tea, and soda on all the tables and tell folks to help themselves, on the house.

After that, I perch on a counter stool with a mini fan blowing directly on me, ready to listen to Mitch, undistracted for the first time all week. I would’ve liked to have done something with music—learned an instrument. But Daddy worked long days and Mama was too unpredictable to schedule lessons.

“Thank y’all for coming out tonight,” Mitch says, starting the set.

The audience applauds.

“Caroline is your server. Take good care of her. She’s an excellent woman.” His gaze fixes on me. The vibe again. What is up?

The Christmas bells ring as the front door opens. Pastor O’Neal crosses the threshold. I hop off the stool.

“Pastor, welcome.”

He tips his head toward my ear. “I came to hear my boy. Is there a table?”

“Y-yes.” I motion to a table near his son.

Mitch hesitates for the slightest second. “Everyone, please welcome my dad, Pastor Eli O’Neal.”

Again, the crowd applauds.

“Can I get you anything?” I whisper to Pastor O’Neal.

He shakes his head. “Just want to hear my famous son.”

My gaze locks with Mitch for a moment. I’m almost disappointed the Café isn’t packed like the previous nights. But by the expression on Mitch’s face, this moment is worth more than a packed Café or even a stadium of fifty thousand.

“Dad . . .” Mitch’s voice fades a little, but he holds on. “It’s an honor to have you here.” He looks out over the dining room. The guests’ smiles seem permanently fixed. “Anyway, I want to play this new tune for you. It’s called ‘Caroline.’”

Back on my stool, I sit straight. Me, Caroline?

The bells clank and jingle again. In walks Elle, whom I haven’t seen all week, with Chris Barry. One of the victims on her list.

I smile and give her a thumbs-up. She gives me a curled lip. I wince. Sorry, not good?

No . . .

As Mitch plays, the music swirls around me, and I feel like I’m taking a cool dip in a clear, blue pool at the end of a hot day. His voice is rustic, yet sophisticated, and perfectly pitched. I forget time and space. Mitch’s music reached into the unseen and capture the melodies of the lowcountry.

Sing to me, Caroline

A lowcountry lullaby

Sunday afternoon a banging on the front door wakes me from a sound sleep. Groggy, I stumble to the door. Able to finally pull the plug on a whirlwind Water Festival, I crashed a little after one this morning and am not yet ready to face the day.

Dad stands on the front porch. “I came to check out the Café’s AC unit.”

“How’d you know?”

“Ran into Elle.”

“Ah . . . I called the AC guy, Dad. Hopefully, he’ll be able to stop by tomorrow.” My brain is fuzzy, my thoughts thick. “Want something to drink?” Schlepping to the kitchen, I jerk open the fridge door. It’s empty. Not even a bottle of water.