Sweet Caroline(54)

“You okay?”

Mercy Bea motions for me to keep driving. “I’m fine. Go on, now.”

“Are you sure?”

The guy behind me lays on the horn. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Mercy?” I’m not moving until I’m sure . . .

“Get going. You’re holding up traffic. I’m fine.”

Liar. Something is up.





23

Inever make it to Dad’s. After turning left to check out Mercy Bea, I just kept on going toward Boundary Street and found myself at Beaufort Memorial Gardens.

The Sweeney tombstone stands guard over Mama as she sleeps, hope-fully free from all her demons. I ease the Mustang around to the near side of the grave and come to a stop. Slipping out from behind the wheel, I reach to the passenger seat for the bouquet of lilies I stopped and bought at Bi-Lo once I figured out where I was headed.

“Hi, Mama.” I flash the flowers from behind my back like a surprise. “Lilies. Your favorite.”

Her grave is sad and dark. Weeping weeds creep along the smooth, gray stone, searching for a place to take root. Mud embeds the chiseled letters of her name: Trudy Sweeney, Free Spirit.

Picking at the weeds, I find the vase for the flowers tipped over and clotted with mud. My heart smarts at the family’s neglect. The Harper family stone next to Mama’s is clean and refreshed with flowers. Their departed are loved and remembered.

“Next time I see Henry, we’re making a plan to spruce things up around here, okay? I don’t care how busy he claims to be.”

I brush away the mud from her name—T-R-U-D-Y—then smooth my skirt under my bum, sitting on the edge of the granite and angling my toes together to keep from slipping. I tuck the lilies in the vase and dig up the few good memories I have of my mother.

Dancing to the kitchen radio while fixing dinner.

Painting the side of the garage with giant, colorful wildflowers.

Taking pictures of Henry and me sitting in the spring grass.

Her soft, pulpy palms absently rubbing my arm.

“So, I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.” It’s almost as if Matilda drove herself. “Funny thing. Jones McDermott died . . . Actually, that’s not the funny thing. He left the Café to me. That is the funny thing.”

I pick at the grass beneath my feet.

“Maybe you know this already. Heck, you and Jones might be shar-ing a good laugh over it.”

When I open my hand, the wind knocks the grass blades to the ground.

“Then there’s this guy, a cute deputy. He wants us to move in together. Maybe that’s what you wished you’d done with Daddy instead of marriage and kids.” In the quiet, I release a prayer to the wind. “But that’s not why I’m here. The Café needs money. Everything but the kitchen sink needs to be fixed or replaced. Truth be told, even the kitchen sink. I’m going to sell the car, Mama—”

Forgotten sentiment springs from a fallow part of my heart. I’m surprised by my own smile.

“I’ll never forget the day you drove Matilda into the yard, all the way from California. The top was down, and your hair stood out to kingdom come. The radio blasted some rock tune over the whole of Lady’s Island. Then you popped out from behind the wheel. ‘Caroline, bay-bee, look what I brought you from Cal-i-forn-i-a.’”

The scene rolls in front of my mind’s eye, making me laugh.

“Hazel, Jess, Elle, and I had a lot of fun with Matilda, driving all over town, down to the beach, over to Hilton Head. You would’ve liked us, Mama, I think. We were fun.”

Sitting half in the sun, half in the shade, I linger, searching my spirit, my soul, the texture of the wind for confirmation. Sell?

When nothing comes to change my mind, I get up, make sure the vase of lilies is secure in the holder, and lean to press my lips to her chiseled name in the sun-warmed stone. “’Bye, Mama.”

Wayne at CARS walks around Matilda as the evening light settles over us. The air is thick with humidity. “I don’t know, Caroline.” He kicks tires.

I flop my head forward with an exaggerated sigh and wiggle my body like an impatient four-year-old. “Stop fooling around, Wayne. You’ve wanted this car for years.”

“Sure, but you never even hinted at selling. When did you get this dent here?”

This is ridiculous. We both know he’s going to buy it. “High school. I backed into a parking post.”

“Hmm, I reckon I can give you seven thousand for it.”

“Seven thousand? Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.” I pop my hand on his shoulder. “You can do better.”

He juts his foot forward with his hands on his belt and shakes his head. “Caroline, give a guy a break. The whole car needs refurbing. New top, new interior, new paint. I don’t even have to go into the engine troubles.”

“Ten thousand.”

He gapes at me. “Ten grand? Girl . . . Eight.”

“Ten.”

He shakes his head. “You’re robbing me.”

“Come on, Wayne, I need the money.” I walk to the front of the car and prop my hands on the hood. “Besides, who is really robbing who here? You’ll fix this baby up on your own time, using your contacts and discounts for parts, then sell her for four times what you’re paying me.”