Sweet Caroline(63)

“Japanese?” Elle suggests, motioning to Sakkios.

“Sounds good to me.”

We order, then carry our trays around until we find a clean table. “I have a date tonight.” She gives her shoulders a prissy shake.

“Tonight?” I’m in mid-rip on my straw paper. “With who?” I’m sus-picious. “Operation Wedding Day is suddenly going well?”

“If you must know, yes.” Elle can’t keep her delight hidden. “The new associate pastor at church asked me to dinner.”

I jam my straw into my soda cup. “Jeremiah Franklin? You’re kid-ding. I thought he was married.”

She laughs, biting into her garlic chicken. “Me too. How does a man that cute go through Bible college and come out single? It’s a miracle.”

I stir my chicken and rice together. “So, do tell. How’d this happen?”

“He came by the gallery; we started talking and this morning he asked me to dinner. Caroline, I think this could be it.”

“It? Oh my stars, you are too much, Elle. Can he spell renaissance?”

“Forward and backward.”

Laughing, I toast her with my soda cup. “Kudos and congratulations. You’ll make a good pastor’s wife.”

Elle freezes, a piece of fried rice sticking to the edge of her mouth.

“What? Wait . . . I never thought of it like that. Being a pastor’s wife.” Her expression slowly morphs from exhilaration to terror.

“Well, if he’s the one—”

“Stop, Caroline, stop. It’s one dinner. What do I know? I’m getting ahead of myself here. There’re still more men on the lists, right? Jeremiah and I may have nothing in common but art.” She gulps a calming breath. “It’s one innocent date. No big deal.”

“Right, NBD.”

As quickly as the terror overtook her, it fades. Our conversation returns to normal. Until . . .

Elle jumps from her chair, her gaze fixed on some point across the food court. Her bracelets clank as she cups her hand around her mouth. “Conroy Bean, over here!”

Whipping around, I scan the mall shoppers. Where’s Conroy? Sure enough, ducking under a Titans baseball hat is Conroy Bean.

Grinning, I watch as he tries to maneuver the crowd without being noticed. Years ago when Mitch first went to Nashville, Elle invented a code name for him so when he gained mild notoriety, we could address him without creating a stir.

One afternoon, we took my little boat out to the sandbar, and Elle smacked Mitch in the head with a pluff mud ball. “I dub you Conroy Bean.”

“Conroy Bean? No way.” He smacked her back. A baseball-sized chocolate mud ball slid down her hair.

“Too late. Your alter ego is Conroy Bean.” She smacked him dead center in his chest with a softball-sized mud ball.

Hazel and I hovered together in the marsh grass like tall, featherless egrets. J. D. was with us that day. He called the mud fight like a sports announcer.

“Mitch O’Neal’s pitch is high and outside. Oh, Elle Garvey, strike one. Clean over center plate.”

Then a drunk guy came paddling by in a dinghy. “Wrestle her down, boy; it’s more fun that-a-way.”

Eight years later, Mitch-Conroy strolls across the Savannah Mall food court toward us without the slightest flicker of irritation over his alias. Under the shadow of his hat, I see his jaw is dusted with a light beard. He’s wearing jeans and an oversized white pullover. He exudes a masculine aura that makes it hard to imagine him singing a love song with power and emotion. But, boy, he does.

A picture forms in my mind. Mitch as a daddy, strolling down Bay Street, grasping the hands of his little girls. One on each side. Each with blonde curls and Precious Moments blue eyes.

And me.

No. I squirm and shovel rice and chicken into my mouth and try to ignore the cloud of butterflies beating around inside my chest. I never pictured Mitch as a daddy before. Never, ever pictured me as a mama. I was always half-scared I’d inflict my kids with the pain Mama inflicted on Henry and me.

That’s Henry’s problem, I know, when Cherry brings up the subject of children. But he’s too proud to admit it.

“Hey, you two.” Mitch-Conroy slides into the seat next to me.

“What have we here?” Elle rubs her palm against his light beard. She is brazen against personal boundaries. Re: the dressing room earlier.

He ignores her question, turning to me. “Hey, Caroline.”

“Conroy.” I smile, though my middle quivers. Ever since J. D.’s been out of the picture, the air between Mitch and me deepened—it zaps and pops with electrons as if something’s brewing.

Elle points to his shopping bag. “Conroy, you’ve been to the Family Christian Store.”

Mitch scratches his forehead with his thumb and turns his Titans hat so the bill is in the back. “I have.”

Elle snatches the bag from him. “What’d you get?”

Mitch grabs it back. “Nosy.”

But it’s too late. She’s already dipping her hand inside. “A Switchfoot CD, a Max Lucado book, and, oooohh—” Elle pulls something from the bag. “A new Bible. I looove new Bibles.” She pops the lid off the box.

“Elle.” I cover the Bible with my arms, glancing back at Mitch. “She’s can’t help it; she’s part puppy.”