Sweet Caroline(48)

“Baby, it’s okay, I know.” He runs his hand along my jawline. “You won’t regret it.”

The passion burning in my middle begins to cool and solidify. “Oh, you are so tempting, J. D., but I need more time. I’m the girl with the blue light in her car, remember? The girl with the daddy who said, ‘Wait for the ring and the wedding.’”

“Sure, babe, but you’re not that fifteen-, sixteen-year-old girl anymore. You’re a woman with your own business, your own life.” He traces his finger along the neckline of my top. “Your own desires.”

For a long moment, I study the curves of his face. Am I in love? Do I need to be in love for him to stay over? How will I feel in the morning when I can’t undo the night? “J. D., please let me think about it.” I grab his hand away from its journey.

He hesitates, then kisses me slowly, softly. “Okay, I don’t want to rush you, but Caroline, decide yes. You don’t know what you do to me.”

For a long time after he leaves, I lay in bed, staring at what would’ve been his pillow, thinking about life, Daddy and Mama, Mitch and his camp-God story. Despite the ache J. D. stirred in me with his kisses and touch, an overwhelming peace comforts me that tonight I sleep alone.

After a five-minute inspection of the bathrooms Monday morning, Stu calls me into the office. Summation: It’s bad.

“How bad?”

Sitting at my desk, he writes out a quote, referencing a thick book from time to time. I tap a pen against the faux-wood desktop.

“Annoying . . .” Stu says without looking up.

“Sorry.” I jam the pen into the holder and start to pace back and forth. My clogs thud against the floor. Aren’t plumbers, like, millionaires? What does Stu earn—eighty dollars an hour? My gnarly plumbing is going to buy him a new truck, I just know it.

First Buster, and now Stu.

After Dad left Sunday afternoon, I showered, met J. D. at Panini’s for a quick bite—he was on duty—then spent three hours going over the Water Festival revenue.

We did well, and I even said, “Thank you, Jesus,” but once I calculated the extra payroll, the food charged on my credit card, paying for the rent-a-cops, plus standard monthly bills, like electricity and water, there was only enough left over to pay half Buster’s bill. Never mind whatever damage Stu is planning.

My heart is ready to wave the white flag, but my head shouts not to surrender yet.

Meanwhile, Stu fishes out a prehistoric calculator from his toolbox.

“Where’d you find that thing, caveman, under a rock with the fire?”

“Oops, look, I added too many zeros.”

I frown. Plumbers have no sense of humor. Better make myself scarce. “Wonder what Andy is doing in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, go see what Andy is doing. And Caroline, if a basket of Bubba’s Biscuits showed up right here . . .” Stu points to a spot on the desk in front of him.

“Gotcha.”

“Well, what’s the damage?” Andy looks up from mixing a couple of Pluff Mud Pies.

“He’s calculating it now. But I have a feeling it’s going to be bad.” I grab a basket, layer it with a napkin, and drop in a few fresh, hot biscuits.

“We had some plumbing done at the house awhile back. It ain’t cheap.”

Worry creeps in. How am I going to pay for this? If I’d have known all this would come down on my shift, I might have opted for Kirk to put the Café on the auction block.

Next to me Andy hums. A hymn, I think.

When I return to the office with the biscuits and an added bonus of iced tea, Stu is finished with the plumbing estimate.

“I cut where I could.”

Exchanging biscuits for a bill, I close my eyes. Think cheap. Think cheap.With one eye, I peek at the bottom line. Holy cow. My other eye pops open. “This is your bargain price?”

“Have you been in those bathrooms?” Stu snatches the estimate from me and points out detailed expenses. “I’m not just fixing a few toilets and sinks. We have to tear up the floor and wall. Replace all the pipes. Get new fixtures. Replace the plaster with drywall, retile.”

I grimace. “Right, of course. When can you start?”

Monday evening I lock up the Café with Jones’s box from the attic tucked under my arm. It will look nice on the carriage house bookshelves. I can prop the picture against it.

In the parking lot, Mercy Bea leans against Matilda, taking a final drag on her cigarette before mashing it into the dirt with the toe of her clunky shoe. “Did we clear the tower last week? Make some money?”

“We did very well, but we still owe Buster, and now Stu.” I fall against the car door next to her. “You wouldn’t happen to secretly be a rich heiress would you?”

She tosses her head back with a laugh. “No offense, I wouldn’t be here if I were. Guess Jones checked out just when the ole Money Pit started sinking deeper.” She picks at the Mustang’s peeling paint. “My brother had an old car like this. A ’71 Dodge Charger. He and his friends would race down 170.”

“The good ole days when there was no traffic after nine o’clock. Dad has a few racing stories. Almost got killed once.”

“My brother too. Probably more than once.” Mercy Bea pats Matilda’s door. “So, has she broken down lately?”