Sweet Caroline(61)

With each breath, the fragrance intensifies until I almost can’t take it anymore. It burns through my nostrils and into my lungs. An in-describable pure, weighty love wraps around me. I feel unworthy and ashamed, yet desperate for it to remain.

Finally, I whisper, “Jesus?”

Without seeing or hearing, I know.

“Yes.”

Terror mingles with awe. Think of nothing. Think of nothing. He’s pure and holy. Moses, how did you do it?

The fragrance drips on me, soaking dry, barren places in my soul. A puff of air hits my forehead and my eyes well up. My torso expands as my chest heaves for air.

“You are so loved, sweet Caroline. So loved.”

The declaration washes over me, and a wail escapes from some deep, hidden place. The dam bursts. All these years of giving up my dreams, my plans, for someone else, feeling responsible for the happiness of the whole world—all of it has been about being loved.

I can’t stop the tears now, even if I wanted. Love and hope consume me. My thoughts awaken, fighting to rescue my right to be hurt and angered. But the heat of the fragrance is burning it all away.

Falling onto the coffee table, I let everything go. Have it all. My throat burns, and my nose runs, but I don’t care. Jesus—this God-man Mitch, Andy, Elle, and others know—loves me.

And now I know. If He promises to love me like this, I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth. Who can compare?

“I believe.”

“You are so loved, sweet Caroline.”

Mercy Bea eyeballs me. “Did you color your hair? Oh.

My. Gosh. You waxed your brows.”

Giddy, I shake my head and scoop ice into a mason jar. Dupree wants iced tea this morning instead of coffee. “No, and big fat no on the eyebrows.”

“Well, something’s different. You look . . . brighter. You lost weight, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, five pounds overnight.” And a hundred pounds of burden.

Sarcastic exhale. “You’re wearing new makeup?”

“No, again. Same ole Cover Girl.”

My wee morning encounter with the Prince of Peace has affected more than my insides, it appears.

Mercy Bea pops her hands together. “Got it. You’re in love with J. D. Am I right? It’s love. I knew it.” She squeezes my arm. “Just had to give it some time.”

I grab the basket of Bubba’s Biscuits and Dupree’s tea. “Stop guessing.”

“Oh my stars, it’s Mitch.” She slaps her thigh. “I knew that country crooner had his hooks in you.”

Mercy Bea follows me over to the breakfast-club boys. I address her over my shoulder. “Mercy Bea, don’t you have customers?”

She snaps a clean towel at my rump. “For once, you’re more interesting.”

Mercy Bea tries a few more times to get a word out of me about being in love with J. D. or Mitch, but I confess nothing. A scent memory teases my nose and almost makes me weepy.

“Leave it alone, Mercy Bea.” I retreat to the office and lock the door. My emotions are raw and tender, on the surface. Last night’s encounter is a sacred thing between God and me, and I’m not ready to discuss it yet.

By midafternoon, rain clouds gather and break over Beaufort, wash-ing away the muggy heat of the day—if only for a moment. Miss Jeanne comes running in for her early supper, shaking the rain from her permed gray hair.

“Couldn’t run in fast enough from the car, daggum. Got all wet. And I used to run track.”

She sits at her table by the defunct fireplace. When I bring around her order, she motions for me to sit.

“I have an idea for you.”

“All right.” I perch on the edge of the seat. “What’s your idea?”

“Reminisce Night. Let folks come around and tell their stories. I bet there are a lot of memories to be shared about Beaufort and the Frogmore Café. I’m sure there’s even old pictures floating around. Pick a Sunday or Monday evening, get a microphone, and let people talk. You got your Friday night music, now add this. Mark my words, you won’t be able to seat them all.”

Miss Jeanne spears a hunk of her pot-roast casserole, a pleased look on her cherubic face.

“Good idea. I’ll talk to the crew.” We could use business. We need money.

I gather everyone together and lay out the idea, and Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell jump on it like flies on cake. Mercy Bea’s been wanting to pick up an extra shift. Paris too.

There’s a collective “Yeah,” and bobbing of heads.

“All right. Let’s do it.” I pick a date in September for Reminisce Night, call the paper to place another ad, then phone Mitch.

“Can I impose on you once more?” I hunt around the desk for my paper clip, hoping I didn’t throw it away in the big cleanup. “Can we use your sound gear for other musicians? And we’re having a Reminisce Night.”

“Be my guest.”

“Awesome.” I sound a little giggly.

“What’s up with you, Gidget?”

“Nothing. Happy, I guess.”

He’s silent for a moment. “What’d you do, elope?”

“Elope?” I love how he’s fishing without any bait. “No. Definitely no. Mitch, J. D. and I parted ways.”

Silence. “Are you okay?”