Sweet Caroline(87)

On the day of the party, I woke up in the house alone. Dad had taken Henry fishing, and I couldn’t find Mama anywhere.

As the party guests arrived, I tried to pretend all was well—despite the fact we had no cake, no food, nor tea.

Convinced Mama would pop through the door at any moment, wearing her beautiful smile with an armload of presents, I did my best to hostess my confused guests.

When Dad and Henry came home, I sat alone in the dark living room, dirty tear tracks on my face.

The memory is old and rusty, and I’d rather die than attend a tea party, but I would endure for Mrs. O’Neal. “Your mother is very sweet, Mitch, but can we talk about something first?”

“Sure.” He’s gathering a second armload of wood. I crouch down next to him, gathering logs.

How do I say this, God? “About getting married, Mitch . . .”

He snaps to attention. The muscles in his arms bulge from the heavy pieces of firewood he cradles.

“Recently, I’ve made several decisions—selling the Café, accepting Barcelona, accepting your proposal—and I just, um, well . . .” My throat pinches closed. My hands shake as I add another log to my small stack.

“Caroline, say what you want to say.”

Oh, please don’t hate me. A nauseating swirl leaves me weak. “I can’t marry you, Mitch. Not before Barcelona.” I drop my firewood back onto the pile, as confidence begins to bloom. “Mitch, I love you. Most of my adult life, I’ve lived with the hope of someday being your wife. But, I’m learning and growing, coming to some idea God’s given me gifts and talents I haven’t begun to explore. Like when you moved to Nashville, hung with stellar musicians, and discovered you had the talent to play any instrument you pick up.”

“I can’t play the oboe.”

He makes me laugh. “Yeah, well, who can?”

“Caroline, honey, you can do whatever you want with your life, even after we’re married. Want to keep the Café, fix it up, and hire Andy to manage it? Great. Want to go to college? I’ll help you cram for tests. Want five babies, I’ll be more than happy to do my part.” His grin is slightly wicked. “Think a month in the Brazilian jungle, learning about indigenous worms, will enhance your life? I’ll support you.”

“Mitch,” Oh, the look behind his eyes . . . I can’t, God. I can’t. “I want to move to Barcelona and work for Carlos Longoria.”

Standing there with his arms still wrapped around firewood, he studies me for a second. “I don’t want a long-distance marriage. Being apart for a few weeks or a month is fine, but for a year with thousands of miles and a half dozen time zones between us? No.”

“No? You’re not making decisions for us, Mitch. We are.” I circle my hand in the space between us. “This has been the hardest decision of my life. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since you proposed. When I try to dream of wedding plans, I get cranky and snap at the crew.” I press my hand over my middle. “I feel sick and confused.”

Without a word, he pushes past me, taking the firewood inside. I watch him disappear, shivering. Night approaches with a distinct chill.

In a minute, Mitch reappears with a thick jacket. “Here, it’s getting cold.” He stoops for another load of firewood. “I suppose I could see about living in Barcelona.” He glances up at me. “I could fly back and forth. It’d be awkward, just signing with a new label and putting out a new album, but it might work.”

Tears bubble. “Oh, Mitch.” I crouch next to him. “How the timing between us got so whacked, I’ll never know, but I’m going solo, Mitch. Just Jesus and me. I need to do this . . .”

Holding my hands low at my waist, I slip his ring from my cold fin-ger. When I offer it back, his countenance darkens, and his load of wood drops to the deck floor.

“I want to marry you . . . someday. If you still want me.” My confession is thick and true.

He cups the ring in his hand. “Caroline . . . I—I . . .” His words wobble. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’m so, so sorry.” Tears glide over my eyes and pool in the corners.

Mitch leans against the table, looking out toward the beach. Silence screams. It seems like minutes go by, but it’s only seconds when Mitch gathers me in his arms.

We cry, holding each other tight.

“Best let me drive you home,” he finally says.

“Mitch—” My heart yearns for him to know. “I love you, still. I’m trying to follow God here. I can’t explain it, but there’s something for me in Barcelona. Something intangible, something . . .”

“I know.” He steps toward the door.

“I do love you.”

“Just let me get my keys.” He disappears in the house, and for one brief, frightening moment, I fear I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Better be worth it

Hazel,

Here’s the nutshell update. I’m too emotional and exhausted to go into detail. But we are soooo talking when I get there.

Mitch asked me to marry him. I said yes. After I accepted Carlos’s offer. For days, I couldn’t sleep. I begged God for answers, laying it all out on the table. Selling the Café, accepting the job with SRG, and marrying Mitch.