Sweet Caroline(92)

Without answering her, Kirk takes my arm and leads me away.

As we head toward the kitchen, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Luke, and Paris scatter like barnyard chickens.





38

Behind my closed office door, Kirk whips off his glasses. Is he sweating? “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what? Sell the Café?” I cross my arms.

“What a bunch of . . . Caroline, I’m so sorry I mixed you up with those crooks.”

“Crooks?” Hello, not a warm-fuzzy word, Kirk. “What crooks?”

“Those two yahoos.” He flicks his glasses at the door. “Teach me to play golf with the country-club set. Poor kid from Charleston, wanting what they have. Who are they, anyway?”

“Kirk, please, save your identity crisis for the shrink’s couch. What about the Café?”

“They’re changing everything, Caroline. Everything Mercy Bea heard is true. Haute cuisine. After they remodel, the crew will go, even the name will change.”

Shaking, I fall against the desk. “Why didn’t they just tell me?”

“Why?” Kirk’s wild-eyed look tells me he thinks I’m crazy. “Because you wouldn’t sell to them if they ’fessed up. This location is incredible. There’s not another deal like it in Beaufort. They lowballed you on the price and I knew it.” He lands hard on the guest chair. “Here you are being incredibly generous with the staff. And I helped them cheat you.”

Wait, wait . . . My thoughts are melting. “Kirk, I’ve leased an apart-ment fifty meters off the Ramblas, bought a plane ticket, bought new knobs for my armoire and shipped it.”

“Greed. It’s always been my kryptonite.”

“When were you ever Superman?” Clark Kent glasses aside.

“Never. That’s just it.” Sighing, he rests his forehead against his palms. “Might as well confess: they offered me a bonus when the deal closed. A nice bonus.”

“They paid you to betray me?”

He holds up his hand. “Don’t. I already know what a lowdown louse I am—this is not my finest hour. I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t matter in the long run. The Café would have its deep pockets. You’d be in Barcelona with the job of a lifetime. The crew would have their fat bonuses. Then I caught the light in your eyes when Laurel handed you the checks. I couldn’t stand myself.”

“That makes two of us.”

“They were going to offer the Vet Wall to the city council for half a million.”

“What? The wall already belongs to the city, by way of the Café. Oh my gosh.”

Kirk’s arms sweep wide. “Caroline, I’m begging you. Don’t sell. Please. I’ll find another buyer. Whatever you need. I’ll contact Carlos for you. I’ll work with the bank to get you a loan to redo the place. Please, don’t let them win.”

Sitting, I reach for the straightened paper clip.

Kirk mumbles, “Think you can trust old college friends? No.”

Okay, God, this is a kink I did not expect in the works. What, what, what . . . At the moment, I care squat about myself. The money will be such a blessing to the crew. Mercy Bea can move out of her roach motel. Andy can wipe out Gloria’s medical bills.

“What am I going to do?”

“Don’t. Sell.”

“Then what, Kirk? That’s not an answer. We have to settle the Café—”

Then, the line from Jones’s letter materializes before my mind’s eye. Andy is the heart and soul of the Café.

Kirk stops mumbling and looks up at me. “What is it? You’re smiling.”

Christmas Eve

Daddy, Posey, Henry, and Cherry squeeze into Beaufort Community’s back pew with me.

This is the best Christmas, ever. “Freely you received,” Jesus said. “Freely give.”

When the choir leads us in singing “Silent Night,” my heart remembers Mama, wishing she’d found deliverance from her demons enough to enjoy times like this. Merry Christmas, Mama.

Mitch sits up front with his own mama. When the children’s choir sang “Let There Be Peace on Earth” he peered over his shoulder, search-ing the congregation. In the warm candlelight, his blue eyes found mine and held on for a moment. He nodded once, then faced forward again. A chill shimmied down my back and legs.

It’s really over. I know it.

Meanwhile, Hazel is frantic for the holidays to be over. She e-mails daily. “I want to see you here, in Barcelona, so I know nothing else is going to delay you.”

I decided to have some final fun with her and shot off an e-mail with only this subject: The Café sale flopped. She actually phoned at two in the morning to find out what happened.

The choir begins “O Holy Night.” I join in, eyes closed, sitting very still, remembering . . .

“Here’s your bonuses.” I handed the crew their Christmas cards.

Andy gripped his chest when he read the certificate Kirk and I made up: “You are now the owner of 70 percent of the Frogmore Café.”

Mercy Bea opened her card: “You are now owner of 30 percent of the Frogmore Café. P.S. Your debt is cleared.”

She screamed and screamed, gave me, then Andy, a flying hug. “Andy,” she squeaked, “you won’t regret being my partner. I’ll do some good stuff around here for you. I’ll work hard. What should we do first? Hold a staff meet-ing. Let’s plan—Oh, Andy, please, can I move into the carriage house? Please.”