Sweet Caroline(65)

It’s late. Better get a few hours sleep.

“I said good day, sir. I said good day!”

Hugs, Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

The second week of August starts off slow, but by Wednesday, business picks up enough that I call Paris to come in and help with lunch. Luke notices how busy we remained after the breakfast-club boys take off and ties on an apron.

Miss Jeanne arrives precisely at three, wearing a big smile and a pill-box hat.

“Nice hat.”

“Thanks.” She walks toward her favorite table. “Found it in the downstairs closet.”

“Very Jackie O.” I pour her iced tea at the waiter’s station.

“Bought it the day after I saw her wearing one.” Miss Jeanne sets her pocketbook on the tabletop. “Just came from the film-committee meet-ing. Tom Cruise might film a movie in Beaufort.”

I set down her tea and a straw. “Tom Cruise? Well, well.”

“Sure enough. Now, where’s my pot-roast casserole? Add a salad today, Caroline.”

“Sure thing, Miss Jeanne.”

In the kitchen, Andy stands in front of the convection oven, grum-bling and growling. I frown as I stick Miss Jeanne’s order on the slide.

“Miss Jeanne’s here. Are you okay?”

“Thought I’d see if I could get this old convection oven working, but it’s shot.” Andy looks square at me. “Caroline, we’ve got to get a new one.”

“Why? We never used that one.”

“Look around, girl. We’re getting busy. I can barely keep up with making biscuits now. A good convection oven will speed up cook time and keep the kitchen cooler.”

I exhale through tight lips. Where the money will come from, only God knows, but I’ve managed to save a little for emergencies. If Andy says we need a new convection oven, then we need one. I hate to turn him down. He works so hard for so little.

Andy plates Miss Jeanne’s pot-roast casserole. “There’s a place going out of business down in Port Royal, Caroline. Casa Verde. We can get their oven for a song.”

“A song? Should I send Mitch then? He can sing a song or two.” I pick a couple of hot Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits from the baking sheet.

Andy chuckles. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Heading out with Miss Jeanne’s order, I answer over my shoulder, “If I can get a ride, I’ll check it out this afternoon.”

An hour later, I’m sailing toward Port Royal in the good ship Miss Jeanne, a ’56 Plymouth. The windows are down, and the wind gushes past, whipping up the ends of my hair. My knuckles are white as I hang on to the door handle, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of a possible collision. Out of our way—land yacht coming through.

And I have absolutely no faith in the antiquated lap seat belt, which I’m trying to wear up around my ribs.

Miss Jeanne’s faithful companion, a border collie named Ebony, hangs out the back window, nipping at sunbeams and licking the wind.

My dear senior citizen friend offered to drive me to check out the convection oven when I mentioned it in passing. In passing! Daddy and Elle were busy—Daddy with a job in Bluffton, and Elle scouting out a new artist. Wonder how it went with the associate pastor. She never called me afterwards. (Note to self . . .)

Mitch left a message yesterday saying he was going up to Nashville for a few days. Jess is back teaching. And Andy—the one I’m doing this for—promised his youngest boy he’d stop by football practice.

Up ahead, the light changes to red, but Miss Jeanne barrels toward it like she’s playing chicken. “This is the first car I ever bought,” she says.

“About a year after I started my law practice.”

“Y-you were a lawyer?” The car in front of us brakes, slowing to a stop. I inhale sharply and brace for impact.

“For twenty-five years. Had an office right on the Bay. Then Mother died and I closed the office to take care of Daddy.”

“What kind of law practice?” My foot grinds into the floorboard. Houses and trees whiz by my window. Miss Jeanne, brake . . .

“Taxes, wills, real estate, and neighborly disputes. Back in them days, folks didn’t have wills like they do now. Land was simply passed from father to son, father to daughter, what have you.” Two inches from the car in front of us, Miss Jeanne mashes the brakes, hard. “But as families grew and spread out, disputes started happening, and I found myself a nice little niche.”

I exhale with a gush as my taut stomach muscles release. How she stopped this monster on a dime, I’ll never know, but thank you, Jesus.

“I’m impressed.” In more ways than one. “How many women were in your law class?”

Her seasoned laugh fills the car. “I was the only woman in the law class of ’54, University of South Carolina.”

Propping my elbow out the window, I mutter, “Amazing. And here I am in the twenty-first century, fumbling through life.”

“Fumbling? Dear girl, you’re running a town institution. I’d hardly call it fumbling. Don’t shortchange yourself, Caroline. You’re just getting started. Life is far from over.”

The light changes to green, and Miss Jeanne ambles along, picking up speed, maneuvering the boxy car around a slow-moving Toyota.

Casa Verde is in a strip mall. The outside is green stucco walls with a Guatemalan man painted on the outside. Bienvenidos, amigos!