Sweet Caroline(73)

Saturday, September 1

Closed for Hurricane Howard

Will Reopen ASAP

Coming Soon: Reminisce Nite—First Monday in October

Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café

God Bless!


31

T o: CSweeney

From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Re: Call with Carlos

Caroline,

Carlos has been out of country on business, so not sure when he wants to call, but I told him you guys were prepping for Howard. I’ve been singing your praises, still. Keeping hope alive.

Be safe, girl. Are you scared? I hate storms. Will keep up with the news online.

Update: Fernando called. Totally different tone and attitude.

Upshot: dinner tomorrow night at 7:00.

“You can’t handle the truth.”

Ciao, Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Beaufort braces for a weak category-one Hurricane

Howard. The news stations out of Savannah and Charleston urge us to execute hurricane preparedness. Howard is expected around midnight over Savannah, with the northeastern rain bands dumping buckets of rain on Beaufort. We spent Friday night, and so far most of today, prepping. Business is off anyway—folks are battening down or bugging out—so I closed the Café at noon.

“Howard!” Mercy Bea spits as she cleans up the last of the pots Andy used to make soups. “Why can’t our hurricane be named Esmeralda or Lillian, or heck, Mercy Bea. No, we get Howard. Before this one, Hugo.”

“What’s wrong with Howard?” I pause to wipe sweat from my eyes. Andy, Russell, and I are bringing in five-gallon water bottles from Andy’s truck. The prehurricane air is still, sticky, and hot.

Mercy Bea juts out her hip, plopping her bent wrist on her waist. “Have you ever in your life met a Howard remotely as exciting or wild as a hurricane?”

“Howard Hughes.” I undo my ponytail, comb my fingers through my damp hair, then wrap it up again.

She snorts with an exaggerated face. “How do you know Howard Hughes, Caroline? He’s dead.” She stops and gazes toward the ceiling with a wrinkled brow. “Right? Howard Hughes is dead? No, wait, he’s the guy who runs the Playboy mansion.”

Andy drops two jugs of water to the Café floor, catching the sweat on his brow with a swipe of his shoulder sleeve. “Hugh Hefner runs the Playboy place. Howard Hughes was an entrepreneur. Made movies, was into planes. And he’s dead.”

“That’s right. The DiCaprio boy played him in a movie. Too many Hs around here. Howard Hughes, Hugh Hefner, Hurricane Howard.” She shudders and reaches for a dish towel to wipe down the pots.

Andy came to me a few days ago with an idea. “Why don’t we make up a bunch of soup, stock up on nonperishables and water. You know this storm is going to knock out power someplace. I’ll have Luke bring out the big grills, clean them up, make sure the propane tanks are full and working. We wait too long, and we won’t be able to get any supplies.”

I loved the idea. “We can feed anyone who stops by. Even cook their food for them, stuff that might go bad if they are without a fridge.”

Andy nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. And, Caroline, let’s not charge folks. Let them come on out, fellowship, and eat a good meal for free.”

Great minds . . . “Yep. Help me get a list together and I’ll send Russell and Luke shopping.”

So, here we are, unloading supplies.

“Where do you want this stuff, Caroline?” Russell holds up several Wal-Mart bags. My credit card protrudes from his fingers. “I bought every battery packet I could find and cleaned out the flashlights. Got a bunch of matches too.”

I slip the credit card into my shorts’ pocket. “Thank you, Russell. Just put the bags in my office.”

“Caroline, if you don’t need me, I’d like to go,” he says as he comes back out of the office. “I should get my place ready.”

I check the clock. Four o’clock. Already. “Go.” I hug him. “Be safe. See you when it’s over.”

I suppose he’s not the only Café employee who has a hatch to bat-ten down. “Do you need to go?” I ask Andy and Mercy Bea.

Mercy Bea waves her hand in the air. “The boys bugged out with friends last night. I plan to find a corner in a shelter and hope Howard blows away my roach motel.”

The hollow ring of loneliness pings my heart. The echo hurts. “Find a corner in a shelter . . .” “Shoo, Mercy Bea, I’m so glad to hear you’re footloose and fancy-free. I could use some company at the carriage house. How about it?”

She drops the damp dish towel in the laundry bin. “Well, if you’re scared.”

“What about you, Andy? Do you need to go?” With a working wife and children, there’s bound to be work to do at his place.

“My boys are boarding up. I need to finish up here, but then reckon I should make sure we have water and food.”

I motion to the gallons of water we brought in. “Take a couple of these.”

He whips off his cap, scratches his head, then plops his hat back down. “What about boarding up the Café and carriage house?”

Oh. Crud.

Ten minutes later, Mercy Bea and I stack plywood boards from the shed in Andy’s truck bed. Boarding up? I hate it. The Café and carriage house will be dark and claustrophobic. Then stifling when the power goes out. I’d almost choose to sit in the hammering rain and raging wind.