Sweet Caroline(72)

“Oh, Kirk, thank you.”

“Don’t look all sappy. I’m doing it as a favor. Well, a little, but set aside a teeny bit of that mil-plus for me.”

“Gladly.” A million dollars. Jones McDermott, bless your old-coot heart.

For the better part of an hour, Kirk, Dale, Roland, and I sit in the booth, talking. They ask a lot of questions, and I answer them all: staff, menu, suppliers, average business day, average income, history, clientele, and potential clientele.

After a while, I go to the kitchen to get Andy. “Go meet the Buzz Boys. Tell me what you think. Then send out Russell, Luke, and Paris.”

Luke protests. “I’ll retire when you go, Caroline.”

“Luke, no, you love working here. They seem really wonderful, and I do believe they’ll take care of you all. Just now, they talked about incentive programs and employee insurance.”

“Well, only for you, Caroline. I’ll talk to them, but I ain’t promising nothing.”

“That’s all I ask.” I kiss his cheek. Don’t know why; I just did.

His face reddens as he goes back to mopping the kitchen.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the crew parades out one by one to meet the Buzz Boys while I sit at the counter and watch. I can tell they’re charmed. Even, reluctantly, Luke. But finally the party’s over.

“Caroline—” Dale settles his hand on my shoulder. “We love this place. Love it.”

Roland spears a bite of Pluff Mud Pie he’s eating. “This is fabulous. Pluff Mud Pie. Fabulous. So local. Brilliant idea. Brilliant.”

“Jones bought the mix from a Gullah store over on St. Helena.”

“And that—” Dale gestures to the Vet Wall. “I mean, a wall with signatures. We love it. Love it. Incredible. Caroline, do vets still sign?”

“There are new signatures from last December. The wall was Jones’s project. I haven’t devoted time to it.”

“Roland”—Dale reaches in his tennis shorts pocket for his Palm-Pilot—“call your buddy over at the History Channel; get a story on the wall. It’d be great publicity.”

Roland stabs the air with his fork in agreement while chewing and swallowing a bite of pie. “Larkin TerBerg. Brilliant. Let’s do it.”

“The wall has already been on the History Channel,” I note.

“Excellent, we’ll use that info to get us on again.” They talk as if the Café sale is a done deal.

Clearing my throat, I decide to ask a few questions of my own before they leave.

“Dale, Roland, I’m really glad you’re interested in the Frogmore Café. She’s a town treasure. But I’d like to ask a few questions.”

Since Roland is still eating, Dale answers. “Absolutely. Ask whatever you want. We are an open book, Caroline.”

“Absolutely, Caroline, ask away. We want this to be a comfortable arrangement for all of us.” Roland motions to Paris as she hustles by with a loaded tray of drinks. More pie. She smiles and nods. Good girl.

“The Café founder, Jones McDermott, worked hard to develop an authentic lowcountry menu. Will you stay with the menu and motif of the business? Our cook has created some wonderful new dishes.”

“Yes, yes, sure. Oh, absolutely. Can’t see it any other way.”

“What about the staff? Andy and Mercy Bea have been here a long time. They know this place and its customers. The other three work hard. They’ll do right by you.”

“See no reason whatsoever to jettison the staff. We believe in people, Caroline. The heart of every company is the people.”

I’m starting to get a really, really good feeling selling to them.

Dale puts his arm around me. “Ease your mind. We’ll see to the staff. Like we said earlier, our plan is merely to expand the hours, fix up the inside, and convert the carriage house into a dining area.”

Roland is into the second piece of Pluff Mud Pie Paris brought. Or is it his third? And not even an inch of extra around his waist. “Maybe add a coffee bar.”

“Now you’re talking.” Mercy Bea breezes past.

Dale reaches to the counter for a napkin. “We didn’t plan on doing this today, but when you see a good thing—” He fishes a pen from his hip pocket. “It’s unofficial, but here’s something to think about.”

It was one thing to hear a million dollars. It’s another thing to see it. Dale wrote the amount on the napkin like a check. Even signed his name.

One-point-two million. My knees go weak again. “W-what if I decide not to sell?”

Yeah, and what if the world ends or Godzilla storms Beaufort?

“Then we’ll have to call in our muscle.” Roland laughs with a look at Dale.

“Our wives. They can get blood from a turnip. You think I’m lying?”

“They can’t make you sell, Caroline,” Kirk interjects softly. “They’ll offer a letter of intent by weeks’ end, right?” He glances at Dale, then Roland. “Bottom line, it means you won’t sell out from under them.”

“Okay.” Clutching the paper napkin check, I watch them go. The first brick in the sale, and a whole new life for me, is laid in the dirt.





DAILY SPECIAL