Sweet Caroline(79)
“For the hundredth time, yes. They will earn more money. Get benefits. The Café will be remodeled, the hours expanded.”
“So, it’s really better for them if I sell.”
“Way better. Caroline, for the love of all that’s good in life, go to freaking Barcelona.”
“Okay, here’s the deep, deep, can’t-see-the-sun, buried question I haven’t even asked myself yet.” I sit forward, drawing my knees to my chest. “What about Mitch?”
“What about him? He’s in Nashville, working his career. He’ll be back there permanently before you close this deal with the Buzz Boys.”
A loose string in the hem of my skirt blows in the low breeze. “Yeah, I know. We’ve been getting along so well. He’s the Mitch I’ve always known and loved, only new and improved. Special, you know? And there’s, this, like, smoldering thing between us. We ignore it as if reaching out will get one of us burned. ”
Elle leans toward me. “Caroline, are you in love with him?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.”
“You are the most patient, enduring, hopeful Pollyanna I ever met. Or, you’re plumb crazy.”
“So, I go. Forget Mitch.”
“Forget Mitch?” Elle pulls a sketch pad from the canvas bag she brought along. “Impossible for you, I think. But God has put an incredible opportunity in your lap.” She digs in her bag for pencils. “You’ve proven yourself to be faithful in the little things. Now prove to be faithful with the big.”
“Want to hear something mind-blowing?”
“Why not? It’s been a while.” Her pencil scratches against the paper.
“Right now, I want Barcelona more than Mitch. Whenever I think of going, this funny, feeling flutters over me.”
Elle grins. “My girl’s going to Bar-ce-lona.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Tuesday, September 18
Fried Red Snapper
Baked Squash
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
House Salad
Cherry Cobbler
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$8.99
33
Mitch calls midmorning. “How’s my favorite redhead?”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” I twist my ponytail, thinking I should ask Mercy Bea for an update on the waterlogged salon. Until now, I wasn’t bugged by my redness, but my brown roots are starting to show. “How’s my favorite country star?”
Hearing his voice stirs my longing for him. I love the texture of his voice, the way the scent of his soap mingles with his cologne, the way he shares his heart without restraint.
“Miss me?” he asks.
“My heart stopped beating.”
“Mine too. I had to go to the emergency room.”
He can’t one up me. “They had to break out those paddle-shocky things on me.”
He laughs. “You win. So, how’s everything? Make any major decision? Hey, Caroline, hold on . . . Jack, in here. I’m on the phone. Give me a sec . . . Caroline, sorry. I need to get back to this meeting. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t jetted off without saying good-bye.”
“O-okay.” Not what I expected him to say. “I’m still here. Can’t go anywhere until probate closes anyway.”
“I’ll be home in a few weeks.” He pauses, and the moment practically aches for an I-love-you, but we don’t dare.
“See you soon.”
Slowly I drop the receiver to the cradle, my affections suspended between friendship and love, our past and my future.
Monday, October 8
Reminisce Night 7:00
Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café
Comeyas and binnyas
Weaving my way between the narrow aisle to the Café’s stage, I take the microphone.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Frogmore Café’s first Reminisce Night.” I smile, confident. The evidence of Mercy Bea’s hurricane lights-out panic is gone from the top of my head. Her stylist transformed my hair into a shiny chestnut brown and cut away all the dry dead ends. For about two minutes, I fumed over my short cut, until she showed me a picture of Cameron Diaz with the same style.
“You could be her twin,” she said.
Okay, maybe I see it in the eyes.
“We’re so glad you came out—” The microphone screeches. My sound man, Luke, fumbles to turn the knobs like Mitch showed him. When he nods to me, I start again.
“We’re so glad you came out for Reminisce Night. Please don’t be shy about telling your Beaufort or Frogmore Café stories.” I lift my free hand. “Whatever is on your heart.”
About seventy pairs of eyes stare back at me. Ho, boy.
“My name is Caroline Sweeney.”
“We know,” a male voice hollers.
“Dupree, was that you?” Squinting, I shield my eyes from the bright spotlight and scan the dining room for a sign of my breakfast-club boy. Instead of spotting Dupree, my eyes land on Roland and Dale, sporting wide smiles and Polo shirts, with a blonde, pale Amazon.
I continue with the formalities. “Mercy Bea and Paris will take care of you tonight. Be sweet to them.”
“Where’s Mitch?” a female voice calls this time.