Sweet Caroline(69)

My nails are ratty, my hair is long and uneven, and I’m a centimeter away from a unibrow.

As I’m closing up the office, Paris brings around a long, slender box.

“These came for you.”

I smile. “Flowers?”

Her smile lights her slender face. “Red roses. Oh, Caroline, don’t be mad. I just had to peek.”

“Who would send me red roses?” Weakly, I reach for the box. In twenty-eight years, I’ve never received flowers, let alone red roses.

“Maybe J. D. is trying to get you back.” Paris surrenders the box, almost reluctantly.

J. D.? My hope sinks at the idea. It’d be a sweet, but futile gesture.

I slip off the red ribbon and lift the box’s lid. Silky, fragrant red roses lie on a bed of baby’s breath. Paris and I gasp together.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Who, who, who?” Paris bobs up and down, tugging at the tissue paper for a card or note.

Finding the card tucked along the side, I tear open the tiny enve-lope. There’s only one line on the card. No salutation, or signature. Just one line.

“Oh, it must be good; you’re crying.” Paris wrings her hands, leaning to peek. Her long blonde ponytail slips over her shoulder.

I press the card to my chest. “Give me a moment, Paris, please.”

“Sure, sure. Guess I’ll get to my side work.”

As she leaves, steamy and hot tears erupt like Old Faithful.

“You are so loved, Caroline. So loved.”

The words sink deep as I mutter them over and over. Daily, I’m growing to understand the life and power of these words.

Blowing my nose on the used sandwich napkin, I laugh to myself. Should I be freaked out? God sent me flowers.

Elle will be here any minute. I’m scurrying out the kitchen door, locking up and dashing for the house, when Mercy Bea pops out of nowhere.

I jump sideways. “Didn’t you go home?”

“No, I just clocked out.” She clicks her nails. A cigarette angles up from her fingers. The wind gusts shove tree branches around and stirs the dead leaves on the ground.

“What’s going on?” I try to read the emotion in her eyes. “Is this about the man who came to the Café?”

She smiles, but her lower lip trembles too much. “I need money, Caroline.” She jams the cigarette between her lips and takes a long, hard drag. A burning menthol fragrance fills the air. A plume of smoke exits her lips.

“And he’s your banker?”

“Can we go inside? I need a tea.” Mercy Bea taps ashes to the dirt and sand.

“S-sure.”

We sit in the large corner booth, and while Mercy Bea fixes two iced teas and divides the last of an apple crumb pie into two pieces, I ask God to help Mercy Bea.

She slides into the booth, with our tea and pie. “Jones used to help me out now and then . . . with money. I’m sure it was one of his many habits that didn’t help the Café.”

“Why do you need money?” A thin light streams between the rain clouds, through the window, and over us.

“Caroline, do you have any idea how expensive two teenage boys are? No, I guess you don’t.” She puffs on the last of her cigarette, smash-ing it out on the edge of the plate. I hope it doesn’t leave a burn mark.

“Mercy Bea, are you borrowing money from that man?”

She picks at the pie crust with the prongs of her fork. “See, my older young-son was stealing from me for a while, but we had a come-to-Jesus meeting and he’s seen the errors of his ways. Then, younger young-son had basketball camp and every freaking little expense under the sun—shoes to underwear. I was hanging on until I lost my nursing-home job. I’ve been doing some cleaning for folks here and there, but, well . . . I’m not the most thrifty gal in the world.” She taps her sculptured nails against the table. “But next thing I know, every bill is past due and the collectors are knocking on my door.”

“How much did Jones help you?”

She shrugs, flaking away more of her pie’s crust. “A hundred here, a hundred there, as I needed it. Sometimes he just gave me money with-out having to ask.”

“I see.” My mind churns, figuring how much I have in the Café account. I don’t feel right about giving her Café money when Andy works just as hard. And I’m still paying off Buster.

But my personal account has a small reserve now that I don’t have to feed Matilda.

Mercy Bea drops her fork and shoves the pie plate forward. “Know what, Caroline, forget it.” She moves to the edge of the booth. “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

“How much do you need? I’d rather you take money from me than borrow from that goon. He’s frightening.”

Mercy Bea stares into the dark Café. “Tell me about it.”

“So, how much?”

She shakes her head. “Too much. I can’t—”

I snatch her arm to keep her from leaving. “Don’t be stubborn. You’ve confided in me; now let me help. How. Much?”

“Ever seen that picture of the iceberg where the part above the water is like a small mountain, but the part below is a berg ten times the size? The part that sank the Titanic?”

I whistle. “Still need a dollar amount, Mercy.”