Sweet Caroline(90)

“Hey.” He brushes my arm with his fingers. “I saw the lights . . .”

“You just happened to be up and about?” Should it feel odd to see him at the Café, so early, on selling day? Yes, but somehow it doesn’t.

“Something like that. Elle e-mailed today was the day.”

Figures. “Coffee?” I walk over to the counter, but he remains by the door. Is he going to leave? Stand there staring at me? Get hit in the back-side at 8:02 when the breakfast-club boys arrive?

“Last call for coffee.”

Finally, he steps toward the counter. “If you have a pot going, I guess one cup would be all right.”

The coffee’s not going, but it will be in a second. He sits at the counter as I scoop sparkling grounds into the filter, watching me, man-aging confidence and vulnerability in a single expression. The race of my pulse slows so my emotions can rise up and take over.

Heart: He looks good. How can we leave him?

Head: And in twenty years, how will he look? Like the one who robbed us of Barcelona? Stay the course, heart. Stay the course.

“Everything’s all set, then?”

“Yes, just formalities, signing papers . . . and stuff.” Two feet from me, and I can’t throw my arms around him or feel his lips caressing mine. Two feet from me and I “miss” him.

For a few seconds, only the coffeemaker speaks, gurgling and exhal-ing the fresh-brewed aroma of Santa’s White Christmas.

“Say,” I finally venture, “your new album is going well?”

He picks at the corner of the paper placemat. “The new songs are going down great. Recent events in my life make for great lyrics.”

“Oh—” I reach under the counter for a couple of mugs. What am I supposed to say to that? “I wish you many number one hits.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

Silence interjects itself again, though not strong enough to cover the subconscious murmur of wonder between Mitch and me. Like, Is this it? We’re over? What will we do in a year? Do you still love me?

“I dropped Jones’s records at your parents’ last night.” I had to say something.

Mitch circles his mug on the countertop between his hands. “Ah, my consolation prize: antique albums. Mitch O’Neal, what do you win? The girl? No, but a hundred scratchy vinyl albums of great country crooners bemoaning the loves they lost.” He sweeps his arm through the air, his voice deep like a game-show host.

Daggum, but he ticks me off. Want to play jilted lover? I own the game, wrote the rules. “And what did I win all the years you were seeking fame and fortune in Nashville, hmm? When you took beauty queens to country tributes and award shows? Heartache, Mitch.” I slam the counter with my hand. “Heart. Ache. You’ve had a few weeks of disappointment. I’ve had years of a dull, yet pulsating, longing. Like a toothache that can be ignored, yet persistent enough to make its presence known. Then, when I finally move on, finally do something for myself, here you come.”

“Oh, don’t play the ‘poor me with no life’ card. You could’ve left just like the rest of us. But you chose to stay and baby-sit your family, be Miss Goody Help Everyone. You didn’t have to work for your dad, or Henry, Mrs. Farnsworth, or Jones.”

“And you could’ve asked me to marry you nine years ago, Mitch. But you didn’t. You wanted your freedom, your chance. Maybe I came to the game during the fourth quarter, but I’m on the field and can smell a touchdown.”

“Caroline—”

Too late to “Caroline” me now. “No, Mitch, no. Don’t you dare come in here accusing me, throwing your pity party. If you want me, then wait for me. Like I waited for you. Not knowing when or if you’d ever come back. Man, I’m sick of this—”

I jerk the full coffeepot from the BrewMaster and slosh steaming black java into Mitch’s mug. “Still take it black, right?”

“You can change your mind.” It’s a statement buoyed with sugges-tion. “Yes, black.”

I fill my own mug with black java. “Mitch, I never thought I’d say these words to you, but I don’t want to change my mind. I’ll go crazy if I stay here and pass up this chance. Every time I think of going, excitement bubbles up in me. A feeling I’ve never had before, and something tells me it’s a God thing. As new as I am to God things . . . I’m going to give Him a chance to use me, change me.”

He grips the mug without drinking. “That’s how I feel every time I think of marrying you.”

My wind rushes out like I’ve been punched. “Then, Mitch, wait for me.”

Oh, for a heart-pounding second, I’m flushed with passion and con-sider grabbing his face and kissing him until he can’t breathe. Instead I dump a pound of cream and sugar in my mug. “So where are we?”

Picking up his coffee, he still doesn’t drink. “You tell me. Where does a couple go after, ‘Will you marry me?’ is followed by a ‘No’? Feels pretty much like a dead end.”

“Mitch, are you saying this is it?”

A loud tap at the door halts the conversation, piercing the tension. Mitch tucks away his response as I go to open the door. Dupree barges in. Seeing him causes my vision to blur under a watery sheen.

“Is it 8:02 already?”