Sweet Caroline(64)

He laughs. “Where’s a rolled-up newspaper when you need one?”

“Hey—” Elle shoves my arms off the Bible. “I’m right here, listen-ing. Oh, Mitch—”

The Bible is a beautiful burgundy leather with a name inscribed on the bottom right corner.

Caroline Jane Sweeney, Beloved

With wide eyes, Elle snaps her gaze up at Mitch. “You’re unbelievable.” With one fast-forward motion, she plants a kiss on his furry cheek. “And incredibly sweet.”

The country crooner blushes.

Taking the Bible, I smooth my palm over the leather cover. Beloved. “

This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Mitch shifts around as if he’s embarrassed by his own charity. “I didn’t know if you had one, and . . .” He shrugs, then whispers, “I hope you like it.”

“I love it.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.” Hugging the Bible to my chest, I tell them about Jones’s worn-but-loved Bible.

“Remember, read the red words, and pray hard.” Mitch hooks his arm around my shoulders and gives me a tender squeeze. “Maybe we can do a Bible study or two.”

“I-I’d like that.” Ho, boy! Down, girl. I recognize the feeling in my heart.

We’re only friends. Just friends.

Munching on a broccoli floret, Elle yips, “What’d you buy me?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? So what I needed.”

Mitch gets up for something to drink and Elle peers at me like, See.

“He’s your lobster. Your Ross.”

“More Friends? Elle, we’re just friends. Don’t make more out of this.”

“I just love lobster.”

“What are we talking about?” Mitch asks, sitting next to me, sipping from an iced latté.

“Friends,” Elle puts out. Yes, definitely puppy.

“Friends? As in you and me or the TV show?” Mitch shifts his gaze from Elle to me and is waiting for an answer when we hear a rumble from the other side of the food court. Gasps of recognition. Mitch O’Neal. Where? Over there.

I feel the stares on my back and the suffocation of a gathering crowd. Peering at Mitch, I realize with his hat on backward too much of his face is exposed.

“They’re onto you, Conroy,” Elle whispers, cleaning up the last of her garlic chicken.

The Mitch O’Neal rumble grows louder. I slip the Bible back into the bag and grab my purse.

Mitch turns his hat bill around. “It’s the thunder before a storm. Ease away from the table.” He rises slowly. “Act casual.”

But the clouds break. “Mitch O’Neal.” Screeeaaam.

In synchronized motion, Elle, Mitch, and I take off down the main mall thoroughfare. My toes grip against the soles of my Clark’s clogs as they thunk, thunk over the terrazzo floor.

Elle immediately falls behind. “Wait, I’m wearing flip-flops. Wait.”

A bird’s-eye view of us running paints across my mind, creating a whirlwind of laughter. I can barely keep running.

“What’s so funny?” Mitch asks.

“T-this,” I eek out, glancing back for a visual of Elle. Oh no, she’s surrounded by a sea of Mitch-crazed teenyboppers.

“Conroy, wait,” she calls. I can’t even hear her clattering bracelets for the squealing. “Watch out, kid. That is not Mitch O’Neal. It’s Conroy Bean. Get back, you. Oh my gosh, what did you just call me? Does your mother let you eat with that mouth? Conroy . . . Caroline . . .”





DAILY SPECIAL


Tuesday, August 14

Andy’s Submarine

Chips or Fries

Cole Slaw or Molasses Baked Beans

Pluff Mud Pie

Tea, Soda, Coffee

$6.99


28

To: CSweeney

From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Re: The hits just keep on coming

Caroline,

J. D. and Lucy McAllister, huh? Rat-fink. Guess he’s not changed at all.

I baby-sat her. What is she, eighteen, nineteen? You’re better off, C. Once a ladies’ man, always a ladies’ man.

Fernando update: He hasn’t called in a while, then I ran into him the other night. He was body whispering with this waif of a thing I believe was once a blonde Swedish woman. Who can tell with all the protruding bones and translucent skin. (Thin is so overrated.)

And Caroline, I ignited with jealousy. I couldn’t believe it. The pure evil gren stuff. Until now, I thought he was rather pushy and overbearing. It so surprised me I wanted to run, but he saw me and called me over.

I tried to be cool, but I blathered and tee-hee’d like an American Idiot and almost groveled at his feet.

I need help.

Matilda: Gone! I can’t believe it. A tidal wave of homesickness crashed over me when I read you’d sold her, leaving behind old shells echoing of good memories. I dug out my photo albums and for about an hour lived in Beaufort, nineteen ninety-six, -seven, and -eight.

You know, if I go in tomorrow and tell Carlos your latest sacrifice for the Café, he might just hop on a plane and fly over to meet you. He’s really on this kick of back-to-basics business. He’s tired of formula marketing and tricky practices. He’s not picked an apprentice, yet. You’re his Cinderella, fleeing the ball. Prince Carlos is convinced he won’t find someone as perfect as you. Even if half of what he believes is his own created fantasy. (No offense.) I’m not sure he’d hire me after envisioning a hardworking, self-sacrificing, business-savvy woman like Caroline Sweeney.