Sweet Caroline(77)
DAILY SPECIAL
Friday, September 7
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes w/ Real Gravy
Green Beans or Corn
Andy’s Raspberry Cake
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$7.99
Live Music
Penny Collins
32
Elle sits at the Café’s counter, scowling over her Operation Wedding Day list, scribbled with lines and notes. It’s worn from being folded and unfolded so many times.
“So, the preacher didn’t work out?” I refill her mason jar of soda, noting she’s been consuming a lot of Diet Coke and very little food.
She lifts her shoulder with an exaggerated inhale. “No.” Exasperated exhale. “He hasn’t called back since our date.”
Squeezing her hand as if to ease her pain, I search for comforting words. “Elle, you can’t schedule love. Are you losing weight?”
“I’m not hungry.” She slaps her paper to the countertop and draws her soda close. “It’s stupid, and I know God has the perfect man for me, but I can’t see it, you know? The future seems dim.”
“Just believe. Look at all the things God’s done for me, and I didn’t even know Him until a month ago.”
Elle sighs. “Yeah, and it’s wonderful to see.” She folds the list. “Enough of this for now. So, Caroline, what’d Mercy say about your hair?” She squints. “It’s downright blinding.”
I slip my hand over my very red ponytail. “She called her hairdresser, but they had some water damage from the storm. They should be open in a few weeks and Mercy’s going to pay for my appointment.”
“A few weeks. You want to look like Carrot Top for a few weeks?”
“It’s not that bad, Elle, and everyone’s already seen me. Shoot, I was photographed for the paper the day after. Splashed all over the front page.”
Elle sips her drink, hesitates, then orders a cheeseburger with the works. When I come back from the kitchen she says, “I’ve never seen a grown woman so afraid of the dark.”
“Well, the storm didn’t help. All that banging and shrieking.”
“That wasn’t the storm, that was Mercy Bea.”
The memory makes me laugh. “I thought Mitch would never get her detached from his arm. Don’t tell her, but he has fingernail scars.”
“He was amazing. Calmed her down with prayer and a few songs. In fact, I was feeling a little scared myself until he started playing.”
“Too bad music couldn’t save my hair.”
The front bells ring as several customers enter the Café for a late lunch. I grab a couple of menus and lead them to a booth.
“How are you folks today?”
“Fine, fine. Been meaning to get by here since we saw the article in the paper.”
“We’re glad to have you. Can I get you something to drink?”
Beyond the Café windows, the sun is high and hot in a hazy blue sky, the memory of Hurricane Howard a small dot on the horizon. Yet, the storm did something for the Café no advertising, raft racing, or singing Mitch O’Neal could do: endear us to the heart of Beaufort.
Opening up to feed the neighborhood simply seemed like the right and honorable thing to do. Giving away food in crisis is what love is all about, right? I didn’t even bother to calculate the cost.
Once power was restored and life returned to the mundane, our business boomed. Here it is Friday midafternoon, and ten of our twenty tables are full. And we’ve had a dozen calls from folks checking on our dinner hour.
I’m praying to add an additional five hundred in my payment to Buster this month.
“Paris, customers in your section, table 12,” I say as I pass her on my way back to the counter. “Both want sweet tea.”
“Caroline.” Luke appears around the kitchen opening. “Phone for you.”
“Be right there.”
Ol’ Luke. So faithful. Comes in for breakfast with the boys, then dons his apron. He keeps the floors mopped, the tables bussed, and the bathroom Lysoled without so much as a “will you?” from me. He sees what needs to be done and does it. With all his hustle, Luke’s silently challenge Russell to put more into his work.
Smiling, I reach for the kitchen receiver. “This is Caroline. Can I help you?”
“I certainly believe you can.” The timbre of his voice, the accented words . . .
“Se?or Longoria?”
“What’s up with you? Your cheeks are flushed.” Elle’s eye’s follow me as I return to the dining room. Three more patrons have arrived at the counter. Mercy Bea indicates with a wild gaze she’s done covering for me.
“Carlos Longoria called. Hi, Mr. Peterson, what can I get you?”
While I take care of my customers, Elle interjects questions. “What did he want? Why are you trembling like a scared pup? Is there any more raspberry cake?”
“He offered me a job. Hazel’s still been talking me up to him like I’m some kind of diamond in the rough.”
“You are a diamond in the rough. Anyway . . .”
I stick my tongue out at her and plate a slice of raspberry cake. “She sends him online links to the Gazette about me and the Café. The last one, where we served the city, really impressed him, I guess.”