Sweet Caroline(7)

Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Resting my chin in my palm, I fiddle with the paper-clip wire. Hazel’s e-mail is full of hidden meaning. Let’s see . . .

Job with SRG International, Barcelona. Better than the previous two jobs she wanted me to take (one as a receptionist, the other as a clerk in accounting).

If I say yes, she’ll kill me if I back out like before. But, hey, Mrs. Farnsworth pleaded.

Hazel wants me to say yes before telling me about the job. She cannot be serious. Does she really think this conniving tactic will work?

I click Reply and wiggle my fingers over the keys. Mrs. Atwater’s admonishment drops from the high places of my mind. And my own yearning to see life outside of Beaufort flutters its clipped wings. Who cares what the job is? I can trust Hazel. Right? She’s never steered me wrong. Well, once, when she convinced me to try out for cheerleading. That was an embarrassment waiting to happen.

The memory of my botched split makes me shudder. I exit out of e-mail. No, I’m not taking Hazel up on her job.

However . . . the cheerleading debacle was a long time ago. Hazel’s matured since then. She has my well-being in mind. I could go to Barcelona. Jones is gone. Daddy’s not alone anymore. Henry’s married. My friends are moving on . . .

I launch e-mail again. Then ex out. I sit there, pondering.

When have I ever done anything remotely spontaneous? Half-wild or a quarter crazy?

Never.

Back to e-mail.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Re: Are you ready this time?

Hazel,

Yes, I’m ready. No. Wait, what is it? Will I like it? Can I do the job? I’ll do it. Mrs. Atwater stopped by today. Yeah, I got the speech. So, I’m seriously considering “yes.” Tell me more.

Love, Caroline

When Dad and I walk through the kitchen door, his petite, fifty-something (she won’t confess her true age, other than, “I’m between fifty and a hundred”) fiancée, Posey Martin, stands at the stove, muttering.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” Dad turns her so he can kiss her smack on the lips.

Dad! My gaze shoots down to my feet.

I confess: the kiss gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s weird to watch my father behave like, well, a man. He and Mama were never affectionate in front of Henry and me because she got weird on him just when we would’ve started curling our lip with an, “Ah, gross.”

“Chicken ain’t frying up right,” Posey says when Dad releases her. “Hey, Caroline, the Mustang giving you fits again? Hank, why don’t you mix up your famous corn bread?”

Dad claps his hands together. “Sounds like a plan.”

Some—mostly Dad—say his corn bread is the best in the county.

But instead of digging out the mixing bowl, my father grabs Posey from behind with a growl. She squeals. He snarls against her neck.

Oh, my eyes . . .

Head: Eyes, why didn’t you warn me?

Heart: Grow up. Have you ever seen him so happy?

Eyes: Hey, don’t blame me. I just look where you tell me, head.

Head: Eyes, look away. He’s almost touching her . . . you know, chest area.

Heart: For crying out loud, he’s hugging her. Again, have you ever seen him so happy?

Never, actually.

The kitchen door bumps me in the rump. “You’re in the way, Caroline.”

Ah, there it is . . . snarkiness. That is more like my family. Henry opens the cupboard for the tea glasses. “What’s with your car now?”

Dad answers for me, retrieving a mixing bowl from the bottom shelf. “Carburetor. Wayne’s going to flush it out again. Be ready in the morning.”

“Why don’t you get rid of the thing, Caroline?” Henry props him-self against the counter, elbows sticking out. “People are starting to talk, calling you Breakdown Sally.”

“Who is they, Henry? Hmm?” He’s making it up, surely. Getting a rep is one thing, but a nickname?

“Everyone in Beaufort.” He laughs—not in a ha-ha-isn’t-this-funny kind of way, but in a you-are-so-naive kind of way.

Cherry pushes through the door. Another bump in my rump. “Oh, hey, Caroline, sorry. Baby, I thought you were getting glasses.”

Henry holds them up.

“Say, Cherry, have you heard people call me Breakdown Sally?”

Studiously avoiding my gaze, my sleek-haired, china-doll-faced sister-in-law steps around me. “Posey, what can I do to help?”

It’s true. I’m Breakdown Sally.

“Wayne’s ready to take the Mustang off your hands, anytime,” Dad offers gently, pouring corn bread mix into a pan. “Bet you could get eight thousand out of him, Caroline. Buy yourself a nice, dependable car.”

Translation: snoring.

“Good to know.” Still . . . not selling.

“Why do you insist on holding on to that piece of junk? Don’t you see? It’s a metaphor of how Mom felt about you, Caroline.” Henry’s bitterness stands under the spotlight of his words and takes a bow. “She missed Christmases, birthdays, and graduations. Marriages.”

His birthdays, his graduations, his wedding. Cherry never even met her.

“Henry.” Dad’s tone sends a caution: tread carefully, son.

“Come on, Dad, even you think she should dump that old car.”