Sweet Caroline(47)

“No, I’m good. Let’s go look at the AC. I bet all it needs is a swift kick. Save you a repair bill.”

A swift kick? “But of course.” Dad’s solution to everything is a swift kick. Even for Henry and me on occasion.

Still in my pajamas, I follow Dad across the Café parking lot. He circles the rusty AC unit, stooping and squinting. Sniffing.

“Dad, you’re ridiculous.” I cross my arms and yawn. “I don’t see how a swift kick is going to fix this thing, but, hey, free meals for a month if you get it running. Andy won’t last long in a hot kitchen without central air.”

“Shh.” Dad presses his ear against the grate over the unit’s fan, then shakes the rusty monster, analyzing the rattle. “Hmmm . . .”

My dad, the AC whisperer.

Nevertheless, he has me curious. I tilt my head to listen. Speak to me, AC. Nothing. I hear nothing.

“All right, here we go.” He draws back his leg, then—BAM!—drives his foot into the side of the metal.

With a screaming laugh, I jump sideways. “Dad!”

The monster shudders. Dad draws back and swift-kicks again. WHAM!

Unbelievable. “You’re going to break your toe.”

The monster shudders. The fan spins once, then stops. “Come on,” Dad yells with a precise pound on the unit with his fist.

Whishhhh. The fan starts to spin and a nice, gentle whir fills the air.

I stare at him. “No way.” In all his swift-kicking days, I’ve never seen Dad do this.

He dusts his palms. “Had a twig or something in there, gumming up the works.”

“Dad, this is nothing short of a miracle.”

He hitches up his shorts while puffing out his chest. “Ain’t nothing to it.”

Since he’s here and fixing things, might as well see if he can swift-kick the plumbing.

In the soft light of day, I discover the Café is a disaster. Three bro-ken chairs, a hole in the front wall, a cracked mirror in the ladies’ room (I don’t want to know), a sink coming off the wall in the boys’ room (I really don’t want to know), and a tear in the threadbare carpet. A tear!

In the ladies’ room, I flush one of the toilets to show Dad how it floods. As we watch the water swirl over the rim of the bowl and onto the floor, Dad settles his hands on his hips. It’s then I notice he’s not wearing faded, holey jeans, nor his trademark plain T-shirt and loosely laced work boots.

No indeed. He’s wearing an ironed, oversized button-down with khaki shorts and Top-Siders. My stepmother is a miracle worker.

“You best call Stu,” Dad says.

“Stu? What about a swift-kick?” Toilet water oozes around my flip-flopped feet. “Come on, Dad, give it a good kick. Maybe all it needs is to loosen up a stuck twig or, you know, a log.” I can’t help it, I had to say it.

Dad looks at me with wide-eyed disgust. “Good grief, Caroline. Mind yourself.”

Crawling back into bed a few minutes later, I’m still laughing.

The closing credits roll on White Christmas as J.D. and I cuddle on the couch, singing at the top of our lungs, arms and legs intertwined.

“With every Christmas card I write . . .”

Candles flicker from the end tables and bookshelves. The carriage house is cozy and romantic.

“Only you, Sweeney.” J. D. tugs me onto his lap, pressing his hand around to my back.

“Only me what?” His touch sends fiery tingles racing down to my toes. The past week’s quick interludes of passion in the Café office have left me smoldering and stirred.

“Watch a Christmas movie in July.”

“Why not?” Reaching for the remote, I aim at the black-and-white fuzz on the TV and click it off. “Why wait all year to watch a great”— his hot breath swirls around my neck “[swallow] romantic movie.”

His hand is sliding under the edge of my shirt as his lips caress my neck. Ho, boy.

“You are so beautiful, Caroline. Sexy as the day is long.”

Apparently, we are not talking about Christmas movies in July anymore.

“J. D. . . .”

Slowly he lays me back on the couch, his hands finding skin, his lips finding mine. He drinks deep, then whispers in my ear. “Let me stay over, Caroline. Please.”

How is it possible to burn at the sound of his desire? But I do. His wanting blankets me, and, oh, surrender seems sweet. My breathing becomes rapid and deep.

“I don’t know, J. D. We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

Raising up, he flashes his luminous, square smile. “Eight weeks, Caroline. My parents were married in six.” With a laughing growl, he rolls me off the couch and onto the floor. “Don’t you care about me?”

I brush my hand over his hair. “You know I do. And you?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?”

Grinning, I press my lips on his. “You do have a rep.”

“Okay, okay, I was a scoundrel once. But Caroline, you’ve reformed me.”

“Oh, what power I have. Hmm . . .” I touch my finger to my chin.

“What else can I get you to do for me?”

Wiggling his eyebrows, he says, “Let me stay and I’ll show you.”

He’s trying to be funny and light, but a tremor of trepidation causes me to shove him aside and sit up. “J. D., this is, um, well, new territory for me.”