Sweet Caroline(57)

“Please, that’s not it.” The truck lurches forward as he presses the gas.

“Then what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about selling the Mustang?”

Oh. That. “Who told you?”

“Mitch.”

Oh. Him.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I felt stupid standing there while Mitch told me about my girlfriend’s ordeal.”

All right. I turn sideways in my seat. “J. D., um, I sold Matilda for eleven thousand dollars so I could pay Stu for the plumbing.”

He pinches his lips. Flexes his jaw muscle. Then bursts out laughing.

“You’re such a smart—”

“Hey, now.”

“I thought you’d have that thing dismantled and buried with you.” He taps the brakes as the light on North changes.

“Yeah, well, speaking of growing up and making womanlike decisions . . .”

“Why’d you go to Mitch?” There’s only a terse hint of jealousy.

“I needed a ride home.”

“He said you snotted all over his shirt.” The portable pack set on the dash tells us there’s a hit-and-run on Robert Smalls Parkway.

“Okay, I needed a ride and a really large Kleenex.”

The quick burst of J. D.’s laugh bounces around the cab, but fades quickly. “Caroline, how can we build our relationship if you don’t come to me when you need help?”

“You were busy.”

“You sold the car two days ago. I’ve talked to you on the phone half a dozen times, stopped by the Café twice. Made out with you in the office.”

“I know . . . It just didn’t come up. I was going to tell you tonight.”

J. D. reaches for my hand, kissing the tips of my fingers. “So, how are you going to get around now?”

Twisting my lips into a goofy grin, I pull my hand free from his and poke his arm. “You?”

“Bodean, happy birthday.”

“Finally, the prettiest woman in town has arrived.” Bodean approaches as we walk across the yard toward the music and lights, his arms wide, his smile mischievous. “Caroline, you look amazing.”

J. D. tightens his arm around my waist. “Don’t come fishing in another man’s pond, Bo. Isn’t Marley here?”

“It’s my birthday. I’ll flirt with whomever I want.” Bodean kisses my cheek, pointing in the direction of the party area lit with lanterns and party lights. “Okay, here’s the lay of the land. Mars—the men—is over there, by the game area. Venus—the women—there, under the trees, by the food. Go figure.”

“Very junior high. I like it,” I say, spotting Elle on the Venus side gazing toward Mars. Naturally.

“Hurry to the games, J. D. We need you. The rookies are whupping us at the beanbag toss game thing you invented.”

J. D. laughs. “Never fear, I’ll show them how it’s done. Be there in a second, Bodean.”

But Bo is off greeting more newcomers. “Rachel Kirby. At last, the prettiest girl in the county is here.”

She giggles. Tee-hee. “Shush, Bo.”

“So,” J. D. says as we stand on the edge of the parked trucks and cars. He scoops his fingers into my hair, sending chills down my neck. “Before we end up spending an entire evening on different planets—”

I kiss him lightly. “Save a dance for me.”

“Maybe tonight we find ‘our song.’” His mood is light and infectious. “What you said in the truck . . . about me driving you around . . . Does that mean what I think?”

Slowly we sway in a circle to our own rhythm.

“Maybe. Still thinking.”

He draws me tight. “Tell me during our song?”

“Stacking the deck, are you, J. D.?”

“I’ll do whatever . . . Caroline, say yes.”





25

J. D. tracks for Mars, where a bunch of Martians call to him, yuk-yuk-yukking, announcing him as the creator and champion of some beanbag tossing game and goading him into playing.

I track for Venus. What is my answer?

“Caroline, hello.” The wives, girlfriends, and friends of the Beaufort County Sheriff ’s Department and Bodean greet me in chorus.

“Hey, y’all.”

“Girl, your hair has gotten so long. It’s beautiful.”

“We’ve been meaning to get by the Café since you took over.”

Elle pats a vacant spot next to her on the picnic table. Jess dips into the cooler for a Diet Coke. “Here you go, Caroline. Icy cold like you like.”

“Thanks, Jess.” I bump Elle with my shoulder. “Who are you here with?”

“No one. I’m trolling.”

I pop open my coke and sip. “Any bites?”

“A few, but I tossed them back. Didn’t meet the weight limit.”

“You weighed more?”

“What is it with all the skinny men?”

“Ray’s put on twenty pounds since we got married. Pure fat, mind you, but I like it. He was so thin before,” Jess says.

The conversation drifts to skinny versus fat and the latest fashion fads. Fun girl talk, but I can’t concentrate.