Sweet Caroline(68)
One of the women, Catherine Hale, is director of marketing for the Chamber of Commerce. The other woman, Stephanie Burke, works for her dad’s insurance firm and drives a high-horse-powered, sporty convertible. I know this because she stopped behind me one day at a traffic light, bobbing to the beat of her stereo while Matilda coughed up black smoke.
On the heels of Catherine, Stephanie, and their male counterparts, I notice a dark, fleshy-face man enters the Café. A heebie-jeebie nips at me.
Mercy Bea is waiting on the professionals, so I come from around the counter. “Can I help you?”
The man points to Mercy Bea. “Waiting for her.” He settles in booth 2.
Somehow I don’t think Mercy Bea is waiting for him. She jerks back when she sees him and cuts a wide berth around booth 2 on her way to the kitchen, her gaze down the entire time.
“Caroline,” she whispers as she passes me. “Take my tables.”
“What is going on?” I stop Mercy Bea inside the kitchen door.
“Nothing. I just need to go.” She slips the professionals’ order on the slide, then unties her apron.
“Mercy Bea, hold the phone. Where are you going?”
“Caroline, you ask too many questions.” She stuffs her apron into her cubby, exchanging it for her big tote. “Andy, easy on the butter with that order.”
“Too many questions?” My forehead wrinkles. “Mercy, you’re walk-ing out, in the middle of a shift. A very strange man is waiting for you. What is going on?”
“Caroline, leave it be.” With that, she exits the back door, lighting up a cigarette as she goes.
Andy and I exchange a look.
“What was that?” he asks.
“You tell me.” I head to the dining room to tell the gentleman Mercy Bea’s gone for the day.
After lunch, I snag one of Andy’s slow-roasted beef sandwiches—he’s developing his own menu items and sauces, and this one’s a little bit of heaven touching earth—and head to the office with the money bag full of the lunch receipts.
But I’m stopped short. “Mitch.”
He rises from the spare chair. “Afternoon.”
“I thought you were in Nashville?”
“Got home yesterday, late.”
“Do you want something to eat?” I motion to the kitchen. “Andy’s new sandwiches are to-die-for.”
“I know. I’ve had the turkey and the roast beef. Are you free tonight?”
“Sure.” I plop down in my chair. “Do you notice anything weird going on with Mercy Bea? Seems she’s working on a relationship with a beady-eyed goon. What do you have in mind for tonight? Want to hang at my place? Watch a movie? Otherwise, you’ll have to pick me up. I’m sans car.”
“I’ll pick you up around six.” He pauses at the door. “Dress nice.”
My teeth are buried in my sandwich. “Dress nice?”
“Yeah, dress nice.” His sparkling smile bursts the cocoon of warm fuzzies I keep stored behind my ribs for special occasions.
“Hmmm?” I mumble, sauce-dipped roast beef dangling down the side of my jaw.
“See you at six.” And Mitch is gone.
Wait, Mitch. Munch-munch-munch. How much meat is Andy putting in these things? Better do a cost analysis. Munch-munch-munch.
Swallowing, I run after him, yanking a napkin from Russell’s pile as he refills the table dispensers. Mitch is halfway to his truck parked out back.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I walk toward him. Rain clouds dominate the early afternoon. The hurricane’s calling card? “Do you mean movie-jeans- and-top nice? Sunday-skirt-and-clogs nice? Or evening-wedding-dress-with-heels nice?”
“Evening-wedding nice.”
My shoulders jerk back. “Really?”
He pops open the cab door. “See you at six.”
With sandwich sauce sticking to my hands and face, I watch Mitch drive away.
Head: Interesting development.
Heart: For once, I agree with you.
Head: What do you think he’s up to? And, we’ve agreed before.
Heart: Do we risk it?
Head: No. Stay in neutral heart.
Heart: But he’s changed. Really.
Head: Don’t make me come down there.
Heart: Ha! Like you’d win, you big bunch of gray matter.
Evening-wedding nice, huh? How much can a girl dress up a new top and skirt from The Limited?
Back inside with my sandwich, I ponder Mitch’s mysterious invitation. Being around Mitch is one of my all-time favorite things. Yeah, it’s risky, but hope floats, doesn’t it?
Heart: We can always dream and pretend, can’t we?
Head: You get five minutes. Go.
Washing the last of my sandwich down with a slurp of cold, sweet tea, I dial Elle. Her closet is full of evening-wedding nice.
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Call with Carlos
Caroline,
Carlos would like to speak with you. What time would work?
Hazel
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
To: Hazel Palmer
From: CSweeney
Subject: Re: Call with Carlos
Haz,
Why?
Caroline
Elle is meeting me at five with a selection of dresses. But, really, Mitch should know better than to spring something like this on a blue-collar café girl like me.