Sweet Caroline(66)

Inside, the restaurant is cool and dark. I squint as my eyes adjust to the low light.

“May I help you?” A lovely, brown-skinned woman comes out from the back.

“I’m here to see Mario. I’m Caroline Sweeney.”

“Excuse, please, for a moment.”

Miss Jeanne stands next to me, digging in her pocketbook, shoulders squared. “I forgot to freshen up my lipstick.”

Miss Jeanne is full of surprises. “You look lovely.”

“How about you? Want a little lip paint?” She swishes the open lipstick tube in the air in front of me.

“I’m trying to cut back.”

She cackles and snaps the lid on. “So, where’s this Mario fella?”

Now that my eyes have adjusted, I see the restaurant is very quaint, with a Central American decor—colorful walls, wood trim, brick walls, tile floors, rustic furniture.

From a side dining room, a man’s laugh mingles with the high, fast chatter of children. The sound is fun and carefree, so I peer into the room, curious. At a four-top in the far corner, a man sits with three boys. One white, one black, one Hispanic. They’re munching on tortilla chips, swinging their legs, reaching for too-full coke glasses. The man is dressed in khakis and a pullover. His shoulders are lean, and the back of his dark hair is neatly trimmed.

My heart is touched by their affection—a man and his sons, per-haps, taking after Brangelina.

One of the boys notices me and stops giggling long enough to wave. The man turns slightly in his seat.

My breath catches.

“Miss Sweeney, sorry to keep you waiting.”

I spin around. “Mario? Hello.”

“Very nice to meet you.” He gestures toward the kitchen doors. “Please, come see the oven.”

“What kind of oven did you say it was, Caroline?” Miss Jeanne asks, hurrying along beside me.

“A convection oven,” I answer automatically through swirling thoughts. What is he doing here? With three boys? “The Café’s is broken, and my cook really wanted a new one.” Holding the right side door open for her to enter ahead of me, I pause to glance toward the small dining room.

Casa Verde’s kitchen is small and hot. A cook gazes over at us. “Buenos dias.”

“Buenos dias,” I reply with a forced smile, trying to focus on the situation in here. Not the scene out there.

Miss Jeanne walks up to the oven in question and opens the doors. “Single stack? How old is it, Mario?”

His brow furrows and I read his expression. Who is this woman? “The oven, it is one year old.”

“Is it electric?”

Mario clasps his hands together. “Yes, electric.”

Miss Jeanne pats the polished stainless-steel side. “Tell me the truth, now, is it a true convection?” Where’d she get all this detail?

“The very best. I pay four thousand dollars.” Mario glances at me to see if I approve.

Miss Jeanne purses her lips. “How much do you want for it?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“Sorry to have wasted your time, Mario.” Miss Jeanne snatches my hand and whips me toward the door. “Call us when you’re ready to sell.”

“Wait—” Mario runs to block our exit. He flashes his even, white teeth. “We’re just getting started here. Ladies, please, we can talk.”

“One thousand.” Miss Jeanne’s offer is firm with a nonnegotiable quality.

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Miss Jeanne steps around him. “No deal. Caroline—”

“Miss Jeanne, hang on, now.” Gently, I restrain her with a soft tug on her elbow.

“Caroline, you heard the man.” She flicks her hand in his direction. “Twenty-five hundred for a used convection oven? Highway robbery.”

I make a face. “No one’s robbing any highway. Mario, the price seems fair.”

“For that piece of junk?” Miss Jeanne interjects. “Twelve hundred or we walk.”

“Miss Jeanne—” I whisper in her ear. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you a deal,” she whispers back.

Back to Mario, who is not quite as amiable as five minutes ago.

“This oven is top-of-the-line, I assure you. Only one year old. Two thousand.” He crosses his arms. “And I’m being robbed.”

“Fifteen hundred.”

I step in between. “Can we stop all this Wall Street negotiating? I only wanted to check the oven out. I’m not sure I want to buy.”

Miss Jeanne jabs me in the ribs and mutters. “Nice move. Disinterest.”

“No, seriously, I’m not sure . . . I’m new to this biz and wonder if it’s best to shop—”

Panic flickers through Mario’s eyes. “Eighteen hundred dollars.”

“No, Mario, please, I’m not trying to—”

“Okay, okay, fifteen hundred.” He sweeps his hands in front of us. “Final offer.”

“Deal.” Miss Jeanne thrusts out her hand.

Mario shakes, then wags his finger at me. “Very clever. You bargain well, se?orita.”

Hello? “Wait just a cotton-picking minute. Miss Jeanne, you can’t say ‘deal’ with my money.” I feel a bit railroaded here.