Sweet Caroline
Authors: Rachel Hauck
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #General, #Romance, #ebook, #book
To my siblings—Danny Hayes, Joel Hayes,
Peter-John Hayes, Rebekah Gunter—
who show up on these pages one way or another.
Growing up with you was fun.
© 2007 Rachel Hayes Hauck
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Scriptures taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
Page design by Casey Hooper.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Hauck, Rachel, 1960-
Sweet Caroline: a novel / Rachel Hauck.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59554-337-6 (softcover)
1. Restaurateurs—Fiction. 2. Country musicians—Fiction. 3. South Carolina—Fiction. 4. Chick lit. I. Title.
PS3608.A866S84 2008
813'.6--dc22
2007050414
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
WELCOME TO THE FROGMORE CAFÉ;
HOME OF BUDDA’S BUTTERY BISCUITS
OPEN: MON–THURS 6 A.M.–4 P.M.
FRI–SAT 6 A.M.–9 P.M.
CLOSED SUNDAY
JONES Q. McDERMOTT,
PROPRIETOR SINCE 1957
June 4
Beaufort, South Carolina
T
he sun rises in a pinkish-blue spring sky over the Beaufort River as I exit the old drawbridge and turn left onto Bay Street. My rusty red ’68 Mustang jerks and shimmies, threatening to quit on me—again—while from the radio, Tim McGraw sings when the stars go blue.
The old girl’s carburetor sputters and chokes. Mimicking Dad, I bang the dash. “Don’t die on me, Matilda. I’m late for work.” I mash the clutch and gun the gas, desperate to keep her alive. Matilda rattles and clanks in defiance.
Last month, while waiting for the drawbridge to swing closed, Matilda shot a plume of black smoke out her tailpipe and stalled with a
kerplunk
. What followed was a lot of car-horn swearing, then being pushed across the bridge by angry drivers who’d as soon shoot me as help me.
The car is giving me a rep.
But today I make it over the bridge in spite of Matilda’s rattle trap-ping. Paul Mulroney of Mulroney’s Bistro glances up from sweeping his walk as I rumble down Bay Street. He shakes his head, shouting some-thing I can’t quite make out. I smile and wave, doing my part to enhance community relations.
At seven thirty in the a.m., downtown Beaufort wakes up with a slow, sleepy feel. By midday, the streets will flow with tourists and tanned retirees looking to buy a slice of lowcountry life. If only people would make their way down to Jones McDermott’s—may he rest in peace—little Frogmore Café on the corner of Bay and Harrington.
“A town treasure,” the
Beaufort Gazette
called the Café in a story about Jones the day after his funeral. More like
forgotten
treasure. If it wasn’t for the regulars—most of them senior citizens over sixty—the Café would be
sunken
treasure.
Making the light at Church Street, I swerve into the Café’s gravel-and-crushed-shell parking lot. Stopping in the shade of a thick, ancient live oak, the Mustang’s motor chokes and, at last, dies. “Ho, boy.” When I try to restart, the engine refuses to fire.
“Fine, swell, great. Be that way.”
Anointing the moment with a few soap-worthy words, I fish my cell phone from the bottom of my backpack and autodial Dad. While it rings on his end, I study the back of the Café. The paint is faded and peeling from a thousand afternoons of baking in the hot South Carolina sun. One side of the porch leans and slopes.
Since Jones’s sudden death from a heart attack a few weeks ago, I’ve been managing the place with the rest of the crew—Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell—trying to make a go of things. Business is slow. Money is almost nonexistent. Unfortunately, the heyday of the Frogmore Café echoes in the Valley of Time alongside beehive hairdos and eight-track cassettes.
Daddy’s phone rings for the third time.
Come on, pick up.
Mercy Bea Hart, the Café’s senior waitress, steps through the kitchen door, lighting a cigarette, indicating to me with a jab at her watchless wrist that I’m late.
Thirty-some years ago, Mercy Bea had her fifteen minutes of fame when she won a Jayne Mansfield look-alike contest. Got her picture in a Hollywood magazine and appeared on
The Mike Douglas Show
. Ever since, she’s maintained her once-won image—dyed-blonde bombshell hair, curvy figure with just the right amount of cleavage, red lips, and long, lacquered fingernails.
“Yeah, Caroline, what’s up?” Dad’s crisp question is accompanied by the grind of heavy equipment.
“Matilda.”
“Again? Caroline, it may just be time to get rid of that thing.”
We’ve had this conversation. “Can you tow it to CARS? Please?” I glance at my watch. Seven thirty-five. While I take care of the Café books, I also wait tables, and my regulars arrive at 8:02.
“Where are you?” Dad asks.
“The Café parking lot.” Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I lean against the car door. The morning is muggy but breezy, fragrant with the sour scent of the dark, soft pluff mud of the river marsh.
“At least you made it to work this time.” A chuckle softens his tone.
Kudos for Matilda.
“See, she isn’t all bad.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Caroline. I’ll be along after this job. I’m down in Bluffton, and we’re having trouble with the equipment.”
“Thank you a thousand times over, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome a thousand times over.”
Pressing End, I stuff my phone into the front pocket of my backpack and head for the Café’s kitchen door. Mercy Bea snuffs out her cigarette in a stained-glass ashtray. “You’re late.”
“What are you, the time-clock gestapo? I was caught in bridge traffic.”
“Can’t be running in here late, Caroline.” She settles the ashtray on the windowsill and follows me inside. “And you best get rid of that broken-down heap. Half the town’s push-started you. Growing tired of it.”
“How lucky I am to live in such a warm, friendly place. How’s business this morning?” In the office, just off the kitchen, I flip on the light and unzip my backpack.
“Slow. I cleaned the bathrooms for you.” Mercy Bea leans her shoulder against the doorjamb and picks at her brilliant-red fingernails. “Landsakes, I’ve got to get my nails done.”
“You cleaned the bathrooms? For me.” Tying on my apron, I gaze over at her.
“Don’t act all surprised.” She pops and cracks her gum. “You covered for me a few times when my young-sons got into trouble.” Mercy Bea is a single mom of two teen boys she affectionately refers to as “young-sons.”
“So . . . anything new from Jones’s lawyer?”
Aha. This is why she cleaned the bathrooms—to butter me up for information. Not that I’m keeping secrets. “Not since he called last Wednesday. He’s still tied up with an estate case in Charleston. Said he’d be down as soon as he was free.”
“Well, you let me know if you hear from him, now.”
“Don’t I always?”
Even though I’m not the senior Café employee, Jones’s lawyer,Kirk Harris, deals directly with me. My guess is because I’ve been handling the business side of the Café for two years. It’s the reason Jones hired me.
“I could use your help around here, Caroline. Someone to teach the Café ropes,” Jones said to me one afternoon when I stopped by for some Frogmore Stew.
Learning the Café ropes wasn’t high on my list of life goals, but between Jones’s aged puppy-dog eyes and a mental picture of my Granddaddy Sweeney looking down from heaven, whispering, “Be sweet, Caroline; help out my old friend,” I couldn’t say no.
Jones started me out waiting tables, then added on bookkeeping and ordering. Turns out everyone at the Frogmore Café wears multiple hats.Though I’m not allowed to cook. All on account of almost burning down Beaufort High when I took home ec. But that’s another story.
Exchanging my flip-flops for my black work clogs, I glance at Mercy Bea. “So, how’d your date with Ralph Carter go last night?”
Mercy Bea responds with a Cruella Devill cackle. “Oh, dear girl. He was a loser with a capital L-O-O-S-E-R.”
“You mean L-O-S-E-R.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You added an extra
O
.”
“Caroline, I can spell
loser
.” Her exhale is edgy. “I’ve certainly acquainted myself with enough of them.”
Whatever.
“So, all your great hair dye and makeup went to waste?” I retrieve my pen and order pad from the desk, then stuff my backpack into the bottom drawer.
“On him, yes. Though I looked pretty darn hot, if I say so myself.”
“Miss Mansfield would be proud.”
“I had a little bit of a flirt with a Marine pilot when L-O-S-E-R went to the toilet. Turns out he was married. But”—she jabs the air with her finger—“in my defense, he wasn’t wearing a ring, and the wife was out-side on her phone.”
I snap my fingers. “Those darn non-wedding-ring-wearing pilots.”
Mercy Bea whirls away from me with a huff, stopping long enough to point at the clock. “Hurry on out. The breakfast-club boys will be along soon.”
I return to the kitchen. “Morning, Andy.” The exhaust fans over the oven compete with the soulful sounds coming from the mini boom box on top of the reach-in. All I can hear is the bass line. “What’s today’s special?” The Emmitt Smith–sized cook looks up from pulling a couple of green peppers from the lowboy. “Barbeque chicken with choice of three vegetable sides—greens, corn, fried okra, corn on the cob, fried tomatoes,peas, or mashed potatoes. Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits, of course,a drink. Choice of dessert. Pluff Mud Pie or vanilla layer cake.”
“I ordered more produce and shrimp Friday. Should come today.”
“What’d they say over at Fresh Earth Produce?” Andy chops peppers for one of the breakfast-club boys’ country omelet. “Rice Dooley is wanting money, I bet.”
“Well, he doesn’t consider us a charity.” I snatch a hot, fresh biscuit from a baking sheet. Steam rises from the fluffy white middle when I pull it apart.
Rice:
“We need some sort of payment, Caroline. Look, I know Jones
didn’t leave y’all in good shape, but can we see something?”
Me:
“I understand, Mr. Dooley. I’ll get a payment to you this week. But
we need corn and shrimp or the Frogmore Café is without Frogmore Stew.”
“I know you’re doing all you can to juggle things, Caroline.” Andy whacks an onion in two.
The soft bite of my biscuit melts in my mouth. “Unfortunately,there’s more debt to juggle than credit.”
In the aftermath of kind and compassionate Jones McDermott’s death, I discovered a hard truth: he was a horrible businessman. As a result, I’ve learned how to tap dance around due dates, how to stretch imaginary dollars.
“Any word from the lawyer?” Andy asks, turning to the stove, pouring eggs into a hot skillet.
I’m going to write “Nope” across my forehead and point to it when people ask, “Any word from the lawyer?”
“Nothing new.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Andy leans over the prep table toward me. “Mercy Bea is hoping Jones left the place to her?” He grabs a handful of diced veggies and sprinkles them on the cooking eggs.
“Why would she want this place?” I gesture to the dingy white kitchen walls and cheap linoleum floor. “It’s a money pit, in need of some serious loving. The old girl needs an owner with deep, generous pockets.”