Sweet Caroline(70)

“Three thousand.” I only have half of that.

The figure just hangs in the air between us.

“Three . . . thousand.”

Her hands shake as she fishes for another cigarette. “That’s just to break even. Pay rent and electric. And don’t you know that nasty trailer is the world’s largest roach motel. They come in, sit right up to the table, and ask what’s for dinner.”

Think . . . Think . . . Borrow from Café and pay it back out of my check. “I’ll lend you the money.”

She lights the cigarette. “I can’t pay you back. Not soon, anyway.”

“Fine, I’ll give you the money . . . on one condition.”

A sad, unsure shadow darkens her eyes. But she waits to speak.

“Don’t ever deal with that man again. You might be putting yourself and young-sons in danger.”

Mercy crisscrosses her heart. She tries to speak, but emotion steals her breath. Then the tears come with streams of black mascara. I shove into her side of the booth to wrap my arm around her shoulders, trying hard not to peek at my watch.

Mercy Bea Hart buries her head against me and cries away her burden.





30

Mitch beats me to the carriage house. After Mercy Bea’s confession, she talked for another half hour, eating all of her pie and the last half of mine. The tough broad from the South needed friendship today as much as money.

I gladly wrote out a check, feeling even more satisfied to be giving Mercy Bea a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on.

“Sorry,” I say to Mitch, dashing through the front door, then stop-ping all forward motion when I see him. “Wow.” The door clicks closed behind me.

“Wow, yourself.” He’s smiling and teasing. Maybe flirting?

“Me? No . . .” I gesture toward him. “You . . . look . . . amazing.”

Mitch stands tall and broad-shouldered in a rich black tux. His blond locks are cut and styled, revealing every fine detail of his beautiful face.

“You cut your hair.”

He runs his hand over his head. “Keeping it long got annoying.”

My heartstrings pluck like a twangy old guitar—trying to make a song, but very out of tune. I toss my keys onto the table. “Is Elle here?”

“She ran back to her place.” He steps toward me. “Muttered something about ‘Black-tie is not the same as evening-wedding nice.’”

Crossing my arms, laughing, I face Mitch. “Trying to give the girl a heart attack. So, what’s up, O’Neal? Where are you taking me?”

“The Performing Arts Center fund-raiser for the hospital. I bought tickets awhile ago, not planning to attend. Thought Dad could take Mom. Then I thought of you. Actually, Mom suggested you, and it seemed like a fine idea.”

He steps closer, and all my senses move to full alert status.

“The roses are beautiful.”

He raises his chin. “I didn’t send them.”

“Technically speaking, no. I understand that.”

“I did pay for them, and gave the florist the address.”

I kick off my work clogs. “Why’d you sign it the way you did?”

He steps closer. “Yesterday, I was working on a song, praying at the same time, and—”

“He told you. Like He told your Dad?”

“Does it mean something to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I wasn’t sure. Especially figuring you’d know I had something to do with the flowers.” Mitch stops in front of me. “This is an official date by the way.”

Just then, Elle burst inside, breathless, a pile of dresses draped over her arm.

“Caroline, where have you been?” She grabs my elbow. “Mitch, I don’t have much time, but I’ll do what I can with her.”

For the next twenty minutes, Elle skirts the edges of my personal boundaries. She frets, fluffs, and weed-eats my eyebrows. I complain a lot, but seeing Mitch’s face when I walked into the living room might just be the highlight of my year.

“You will be the envy of the ladies this evening,” he says, rising from the couch.

My hand brushes down the side of Elle’s black, off-the-shoulder gown with the A-line skirt. “Because of you.”

“No, it’s all you. Ready?”

I twist to check the mirror by the door. The red marks from Elle’s no-pain-no-gain eyebrow waxing have faded. “Ready.”

In the truck is one luscious white rose. “This one is from me.”

The evening is divine. No wonder Cinderella forgot her curfew. Mitch never leaves my side. He walks beside me, resting his hand on the small of my back, or lightly touching my shoulder blades.

I feel found—like a precious treasure. My mind snaps mental pictures, then couples them with emotional impressions and stores them in a new heart corridor. When blue days come around, I’ll visit tonight’s memory hall for a ray of sunshine.

The evening is classical, with performances by the South Carolina Philharmonic and local quartets. I’m carried away by the beauty of the music . . . and Mitch.

During intermission, our Washington congressman beckons Mitch over to his large circle of people with a sweeping gesture. Yet I’m in mid-conversation with the head of child protective services.