Sweet Caroline(78)

Elle licks the ketchup from her fork—from eating fries—and sinks it into the cake. “And he offered you a job?”

I lean in close. “Three times the money I make here. Plus moving expenses and benefits. All I have to do is commit to a one-year apprenticeship. After that, who knows?”

Elle drops her fork against the plate and grabs my hands. “Do it. Sell this place to the Buzz Boys and go. Caroline, it’s now or never.”

To: CSweeney

From: Carlos Longoria

Subject: Offer

Dear Caroline,

It was a pleasure to speak with you the other day. Your answers to my questions were intelligent and delightful. Qualities I’m looking for in my first apprentice.

Please find attached my formal offer letter. Feel free to e-mail me with questions.

Saludos,

Carlos

President, CEO, Founder, SRG International

I spend the weekend not thinking about my Friday conversation with Carlos, enjoying a good weekend crowd at the Café, then a lovely Sunday church service followed by a late dinner at Mitch’s.

He told stories from his life on the road—only the G-rated ones, I’m sure—until I double over laughing. The intimacy from our fancy night out smolders beneath the surface of our relationship, but neither one of us seems willing to stir the embers. For now.

He asked how things were going at the Café, and I gave him the short roundup. When I told him about Carlos’s offer, a funny look crept across his face.

“You’re selling and moving?” Then he spent five minutes encouraging me to sell the Café and take this “amazing opportunity.” He said “amazing opportunity” so many times I said he should write a song about it. I thought it was funny. Mitch? Not so much.

Now, he’s in Nashville for a string of meetings, probably about to get his career back on track. His season home will end and . . .

I should go to Barcelona. Really, I should. I mean, why not?

“Jesus, what can I do here?”

After closing the Café, I walk down to Elle’s gallery. I’m ready to toss her the hard question: do I really, sincerely, for real, no hesitation, this-is-for-all-the-marbles take the job in Barcelona?

Paul Mulroney is chatting with customers in front of his Bistro. He waves. Wait ’til he meets the Buzz Boys.

Fear is juxtaposed with excitement. Will I like Barcelona? Can I sincerely impress Carlos Longoria? Am I ready for such a big job when my greatest business feat is to give away several thousand dollars’ worth of food after a hurricane?

What do I know about building projects, budgets? (Well, a little; I wrote a budget for Mrs. Farnsworth’s. But that was for plants and dirt.) Will I get lost in the marketing jargon?

Ho, boy. Like the first day I braved Sunday school at Beaufort Community, I’ll need a translator.

All that aside, as if it’s not weighty enough, I have one buzzing-me-like-a-pesky-fly question: is selling the Café the best for everyone, not just me?

Will Roland and Dale honor the heart of the Café and all Jones poured into it? Will they treat the crew with respect? Will they love the Café as much as we do?

The late afternoon sky is blue with white-cotton clouds.

Elle and I drift along the Coosaw in Bluecloud.

When I burst into Elle’s gallery two hours ago, ready to talk business, she wanted to drift on the water. “I need inspiration.”

“But I need to talk.”

“We can do both. On the water.”

Right now, she’s reading Carlos’s offer letter. Her hair is kinky from the wind and humidity, her forearms pink from the sun. She looks up when she’s read to the end.

“What do you think?” I ask.

She slides her sunglasses from her forehead to the bridge of her nose, folds the letter, and hands it back to me. “Caroline, if you don’t go, I’m going in your place. He doesn’t have a picture of you, does he?”

“Saw me in the hurricane article.”

“With all that red hair? And he still wants to hire you?” She laughs.

“I’m trying to make a serious decision and you’re making fun.” I tuck the letter into my skirt pocket, then dangle my arm over the side of the boat, letting my fingers skim along the top of the cool, thick water.

Elle lifts her face to the sunlight. “I’m hiding my extreme jealousy. Barcelona. How fantastic. What an amazing opportunity. You have to do it. Have to.”

“But the Café—”

Elle adjusts her position against the side of the boat. “Sell the Café. Sweetie, this is your time. You’ve done your duty here, Caroline. If Jones knew you had this opportunity, he’d demand you go. Maybe he left you the Café because he thought you needed focus, something to sink your teeth into.”

“Am I that pitiful?” I bat away a surprising rinse of tears.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Think of Jones as . . . as Beaufort’s Donald Trump. Giving a girl a chance.”

My heart spews a much-needed laugh and suddenly the decision doesn’t seem worth all the worry I’m investing. “Kirk’s relationship with the Buzz Boys seems timely and providential, doesn’t it?” I slip down against the side of the old boat, resting my head on a life vest. “But is it the best decision for everyone involved?”