Sweet Caroline(60)

Bing. Lightbulb overhead. I see clearly now. I almost gave myself to a man exactly like Mama. Selfish and cowardly. “And when were you going to tell me you were sleeping with Lucy? Tonight, when I thought living with you might be worth a try? After you slept with me for the first time?” Nausea slithers up my throat.

A dozen yards away, Bodean and Marley watch from the picnic area. Elle blares the car radio. The bass vibrates against the glass.

“Okay, I admit it. I’ve been with Lucy. But it meant nothing. We were just hanging out.”

I jerk open the BMW’s door. “And you freaked because you imagined seeing Mitch kiss me. See you, J. D.”

“Caroline, come on, this is ridiculous.” He comes at me like a cornered dog, but Elle hammers the gas before I’m all the way in and peels out of the yard.

“Easy there, Steve McQueen.” I’m quivering all over.

The light we’re careening toward switches to red, and she mashes the brake so hard I’m tossed toward the dash. My seat belt engages. “Steve McQueen, please.”

“Sorry.”

While we wait at the light, Elle thumps the steering wheel alongside comments like, “What is wrong with him?” or “Caroline, I’m so sorry.” When the light changes, she hits the gas. We’re off.

The homes and businesses along Ribaut whiz by. “Funny in light of Cherry’s fear about Henry,” I muse aloud. “He would never . . . and here I was completely trusting J. D. who, truth be told, would.”

“Caroline, I’ll say it again: God is watching over you. What are the odds of you finding out about J. D. on the night you planned to say yes? Women go years without discovering infidelity.”

“Sad part is Lucy. She’s trapped. God should look out for her too. J. D. probably didn’t think he was hurting either one of us.”

“How do you do it?” The next light catches us, and Elle brakes again. Gently this time. “Always find the good.”

“Lots of practice.” Tears ease down my cheeks. I brush them away. “J. D. has a way about him. Makes people feel special.”

I blow my nose on a napkin Elle passed over.

My cell rings, and when I fish it out of my handbag, the tiny screen tells me it’s J. D.

Pressing End, I blink away a rush of tears, toss my phone into my bag, and pray that part of my summer never rings again.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: The hits just keep on coming

Hazel,

I can top your Fernando story. Here’s the mini-sode. Went to Bodean’s birthday party with J. D. He wanted to make our relationship more permanent. He suggested living together.

Hazel, I was seconds away from saying yes. Then, as if the cosmos needed a good laugh, I found out J. D. has a little cookie on the side.

Lucy McAllister.

And unlike with me, he had overnight privileges at her place. When I think about it, I feel ill. Yet, I miss him. He made me laugh and made me feel wanted.

In other news: I sold the Mustang to pay for Café repairs. Can you believe it? Know what I miss—the memories. That car was a rolling memory machine. We had some laughs in that thing, didn’t we? Remember when Carl Younger and Peter-John Hayes filled the inside with sand? And when Elle hung out the window to flirt with Alex LeBoy and spilled her soda all over her lap just as we were driving up to school, late. Oh, and the time we went camping. LOL. It rained and we lived in the car for three days.

Now I’m sad. I miss all that broken-down heap stood for. Well, we always have the photo albums of ’96 and ’97.

“It’s a Blues riff in B, watch me for the changes and try to keep up.”

Love you, Caroline





DAILY SPECIAL


Monday, August 6

Fried Steak

Squash Casserole, Baked Tomato

Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

Banana Cream Pie

Tea, Soda, Coffee

$8.99


27

Waking with a jolt, I sit up, finding the living room dark except for the low glow of the lamp above my head.

Jones’s worn, marked-up Bible falls from my chest as I move. Struggling to get my bearings, I feel as if I’m caught in a thick cloud of spicy, oily perfume.

Who’s here? Running the heel of my hand over my eyes, I shove my hair away from my face and reach down for Jones’s Bible. The pages I’d been reading about a man named Moses slip from the binding.

Holy ground.

A pain ripples between my shoulder blades from sleeping with my head propped against the couch’s arm. Stretching, I try to stand, but a heady, weighty fragrance settles over me.

Holy ground. The fragrance intensifies. Someone’s here.

My pulse races. “Hello?” A quick glance at the door tells me all is secure. The deadbolt is turned, and the chain hangs across the door.

A swirling sensation engulfs me and the fragrance strengthens. Did I spill something last night?

No, I’ve never owned anything like this. It’s strong. Pure. Unlike anything I’ve ever breathed, but so familiar. The hair on my arm rises.

Holy ground.

Closing my eyes, I slip to my knees, half-afraid to open them and see some angelic apparition standing before me.

I’m one hundred percent sure I’d soil myself.

Swallowing hard, catching my breath over a racing heart, I clasp my hands at my chest, unsure of what else to do. My body sways slightly back and forth.