Sweet Caroline (12 page)

But J. D. had no answers for my questions. Like, how did Pastor O’Neal know about the pink room with blue clouds?

“Maybe Mitch told him.”

I slumped down against the side of the boat, pillowing my head against a life jacket. “I’m not sure Mitch ever knew.”

J. D. cradles my jaw in his hands. “I had a good time yesterday, out in the boat.”

“Me too.” I hook my hands over his arms and he steps closer.

“Is it okay with you if—”

“Yes.”

J. D.’s very kissable lips touch mine. Soft, tentative, then fierce.

When he lifts his head, I inhale sharply. “Y-you s-sure know how to . . .
ahem
. . . That was worth the wait.”

He brushes his hands over my shoulders. “I about kissed you a hundred times in the boat yesterday, but every time I went to make my move, the boat rocked or you started spouting off about God again.”

“Sorry, mental processing includes running my mouth.”

“Caroline, I’m not sure Mitch is over you.”

“J. D., he is way over me. We’re just good friends.”

“I don’t know. He gave you a look yesterday . . .”

“Are you jealous?”

“Maybe.” Dispatch beckons J. D.’s attention. Still holding me, he cocks his head to listen. “I’ve got to go.” He kisses me again with tender purpose. “Let’s finish this thing later.”

Elle’s in the Firehouse loft where she’s reserved the chairs around a coffee table.

“Did you walk?” She pats a cushioned chair arm next to her.

“It’s a beautiful night.”

“It’s going to rain.”

I plop down. “I don’t melt.” However, I do sweat. The walk over was warmer than I thought and I’ve perspired myself. The AC feels good.

Dappled evening light flows through the high windows and falls across the banister and bookshelves lining the old brick walls.

“Did church freak you out yesterday?” Elle sips her espresso.

“A little.”

“I loved it. Pastor O’Neal doesn’t prophesy like that often. You’ll get used to it.” She sets her cup down and digs into a large tote, producing a notebook and what appears to be a couple of our high school year-books. “Tonight, we are talking about my future love life, tentatively entitled Operation Wedding Day. Here’s our starting point.”

“What makes you think I’m going back to church?” I reach for the top book. Class of ’94. Elle has some of the pages marked with multi-colored sticky flags. “What is all this?”

“Of course you’ll be back. Caroline, Jesus told you in front of three hundred people He loves you. After you ran off like a scared hen, Pastor only spoke to two more people. Okay, the yearbooks. Last night—”

Elle’s explanation fades to the background as “Jesus told you in front of three hundred people He loves you” loops over and over in my mind. Is that what happened?

“So, what do you think?”

“Um, what? Sorry, you lost me there for a second. What are we doing?”

“Caroline, holy cow, pay attention. Look, I went through and marked all of the pages with men I (a) once had a crush on, (b) would like to have had a crush on, (c) know are still single and acceptable for at least one date, (d) don’t know a status on but would like to find out, and (e) definitely would want to get something going with if available.”

I’m speechless, really, for at least a nanosecond. “You’re crazy.”

“Why? Why does this make me crazy? Speaking of, here’s my celebrity list. I limited it to five men, figuring it to be a realistic number.”

“Realistic? Elle . . . Matthew McConaughey?” I drop the list, letting it float down to the table. “When are you going to meet Matthew McConaughey. Isn’t he, like, fifty or something?”

“Fifty? Girl, he’s only, like, thirty-eight or -nine. And a lot of celebs are visiting the lowcountry these days. He might just happen into my gallery.”

“I don’t dream like this when I’m asleep.”

“And you’ve never had a plan and look where it got you.”

Ouch, bringing out the big guns. Well, right back at you, El. “J. D. kissed me today.”

My friend pops up straight with surprise. “And . . .”

If she’d offered me a million bucks, I couldn’t have stopped smiling. “Very yummy.”

“Jess was right? He’s a good kisser.”

“Very.”

“That does it; I’m finding someone.” Elle reaches for a notebook and flips open to the first blue-lined page. “I’ve color coded the categories of the sticky flags. Red is ‘once had a crush on,’ see? Blue, ‘would like to have had a crush on,’ and so on.”

“Elle, you need serious help. Color coding?”

“If eHarmony can match people on a computer, based on some psychological test, then I can color code a few known prospects.”

Exchanging my sophomore yearbook for my senior yearbook, I re-mind my friend of a few points. “Aren’t you the one who told me God is in control of your life? How is this letting Him run the show? You claimed to trust Him when you studied in Florence. When you decided to go on a mission to Guatemala. Even when you opened your gallery. Now that you’re ready to get married, He’s off the job somehow? Gone fishing?”

Elle swats at my knee. “No, He’s still in control, Caroline. I’m just lining up some men He and I can discuss.”

“Oh, really? I’m sure He was just stumped without your help.” Flipping over to our senior class photos, I see the pages are loaded with lots of sticky flags.

“Look at you, one Sunday in church and you’re all about how God thinks.”

“I’m just repeating what you’ve said over the years.” Truth is—and I can’t explain it—I’ve felt strong today. Confident.

“I don’t know, Caroline. Maybe I’m restless.” Elle falls back against the large, overstuffed club chair. “I love owning the gallery. Shooting weddings is a great joy for me. I’m never jealous, you know, of the bride. But after a while I realized, this is it. I’m home now. A businesswoman. Where am I going to meet a man to share my life with?”

Closing the book over my thumb, I face Elle. “Believe me, I under-stand. I felt the same way each time I took some admin or clerical job just to help out the family or a family friend. I wanted a passion for something, you know? Then I get the Café. Elle, it’s not my passion, but I’m doing what I have to do.”

“You’re so brave, Caroline.”

“Not really. But, listen to me, you’re too beautiful, inside and out, for a man not to find you and lose himself in your deep, green eyes. You’re the brightest star when we’re all out together, outshining all of us. If you weren’t so genuine, Hazel, Jess, and I would loathe you.”

She picks at a loose thread on the hem of her top. “That was lovely, Caroline. Thank you.” Then she sits forward. “Look, I’m not going to do anything stupid. But isn’t it fun to dream? Pretend?”

“Then let’s get to it. Matthew McConaughey, Elle has you in her sights, bubba.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Elle jabs her finger in the air. “Must have compassion for the arts and be able to pronounce and spell
renaissance
.”

“You go, girl. Set that bar high.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Jess hurries toward us, breathless, her hair tousled. “Ray called and I couldn’t get him off the phone.” She flops down in the chair opposite Elle. “What’d I miss? Why are these yearbooks here? With stickies?”

Elle flattens her palm on the stack of yearbooks and explains the whole process to Jess, who, to my surprise, thinks it’s brilliant.

“Let me grab a latte and we can get started.” Jess flashes her sweet smile at both of us while digging money from her handbag.

“Oh, bring me a chocolate biscotti,” Elle says.

“Caroline, what about you?” Jess pauses beside the handrail. “Latte, espresso?”

“Nothing for me just yet, thanks.”

Getting comfortable, I scan the faces on the glossy yearbook page, wondering how ten years went by in a day. “Oooh, Rocky Galloway, good choice. I heard he’s a sports agent, living in Miami Beach.”

Elle lifts her eyes from the yearbook she’s perusing. “I could definitely go for the jock type. Miami? Not so sure. But he could move, right? Telecommute. Fly out of Savannah for business.” She taps her page. “Carter Daley. What about him?”

“Married, four years ago.”

“Rats.”

“Tim Norton.”

”Married.”

“Ah . . .” She flips her wrist. “I didn’t want to be Elle Norton anyway.” I freeze when my eyes fall on the next page. Elle has every color flag pointing to one picture. Mitch O’Neal. My pulse rushes. She can’t be serious.

“Elle, you have every flag around Mitch?”

“Yeah, I know.” She leans over. “He’s single, right? And he doubles on my celebrity list.”

She can
not
be serious. An instant picture of them kissing, cuddling, sours my stomach.
Oh, I don’t feel well.
How could I deal with my best friend married to . . .

The love of my life.

Stop right there, Caroline. Mitch is only your friend.

“Two of my best friends, married.” I swallow. “H-how cool.”Or not. Getting over Mitch was the hardest thing in my life—other than dealing with Mama.

Yet, I never considered the next phase—falling in love and getting married. It’s one thing to know he’s dating celebrity women who are more like movie characters than real people, but falling in true love?

“Caroline, you’re over him, right? Moving on with J. D.”

I squirm. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want you to go out with him.”

“So you’d rather see him with a Hollywood skank or some bimbo groupie.”

“So? You want to be with a man who has such poor taste in women?”

Elle rolls her eyes. “As I recall, he loved you first. Look, don’t get your panties in a wad. He’s one of a dozen great choices, Caroline.”

Um-hmm.
But so far he’s the only one with all arrows pointing to him. “You’d be crazy not to list him as number one, El. He’s kind, romantic, amazing to look at, rich, and apparently a renewed man of faith. Besides, who’s to say he’d go for you anyway.” The words sound harsher than I mean.

Elle’s eyes darken. “Why wouldn’t he go for me?” Her bracelets slip down her arm with a clatter as she brushes her silky hair off her shoulder.

The tension between us could hold up a gorilla and her babies. “It’s Mitch, Elle.
My
Mitch. Yes, you’re beautiful and talented. Any man would be lucky to have you, but . . . Mitch? What do you want me to say?”

“That you’d be happy for me. And you forgot educated and well traveled.”

The blood drains from my cheeks. “I see. And I’m not. So you’d be a better match for the famous and well-traveled Mitch O’Neal.”

“Caroline, no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Look—” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Mitch is avail-able. So . . .” I force myself to look in her eyes. “Go for it.”

The truth is, in perfect Caroline-world this conversation would never happen. My mama would’ve never run out on us, nor died at the youthful age of fifty. I would’ve gone to college and graduated with honors and certainly never inherited an old man’s café. Mitch would be a P.E. teacher at Beaufort High, with a football championship trophy. Not one, but two. Still a star. And we’d be married with two-point-one kids.

Jess breezes into this mess with a large latte and a couple of chocolate biscotti. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Elle drops me off at the carriage house a little after eight because, as she predicted, it’s raining. Operation Wedding Day went well—after the Mitch tension—and we laughed at old pictures and read the inscriptions our classmates wrote to Elle.

Elle, you are the sexiest girl in fifth period P.E. even though you are
weird. Call me. Mark Hammond.

We sure had some laughs in Mrs. Gonzales’s class. Oodgay ucklay
alwaysway. Jenny Barrett.

When are you going to marry me? Steve Parker.

I tapped his signature. “Hasn’t Steve been married, like, four times?”

“And getting divorced. Again.” The Jess-and-Ray connection is great for scooping on old classmates. If we don’t know what’s up with some-one, Ray does. Or he can find out. “Ray says he posted on MySpace he wants to beat Liz Taylor’s record.”

“He’s banned from the list. I don’t care how rich, kind, or good-looking.” Me, being bossy.

“I’ll be an old maid first,” Elle said.

After two hours of poring over yearbooks and talking, Jess, Elle, and I came up with a list of ten wedding-day possibilities. Single, attractive, relatively successful, eligible men.

“With deep faith,” Elle always added. “I need a man who knows Jesus.”

We were one shy of ten after the list was compiled, so I tossed out Kirk’s name to round out the field. Outside of wrinkled suits and obnoxious glasses, he’s quite handsome. And, I believe, a Presbyterian, though don’t quote me.

Elle taps my arm as I start to get out of her car. “Are we okay?” She shifts her car into park, leaving the motor running. Rain softly
ratta-tat-tat
s against the windshield.

“Yes, we’re fine.” I smile, reaching for my door handle. “It’s just weird to think of you with Mitch. Or Mitch with anyone, really.”

Elle’s soft laugh tells me she understands. “Seems weird to me, too, actually. I always pictured you two as the Ross and Rachel of Beaufort.”

“Are you my Emily?”

“The one Ross should’ve never married? I hope not. Caroline, listen, if you really want him off my list, say the word.”

“El, it’s fine . . . Yes, it makes me uncomfortable. But that’s my problem, not yours. If I’m really over him—and I am—then I can’t tell you, ‘Hands off.’”

“Tell you what: if I’m not married by thirty-five, and the coast is clear with you, and Mitch just happens to be available,
then
I’ll make my move.”

“Mitch is your backup?”

“Secret backup. Won’t he be surprised when I come calling in seven years?”

Laughing, I lean across to hug her. “Deal. Thanks for the lift.”

As she pulls away, I dash between fat raindrops to the dark porch, and, as if scripted for an
I Love Lucy
episode, my right foot lands in a deep puddle. I’m suddenly hurtling forward. My purse goes airborne and the contents fly like New Year’s confetti.

Face-first, I splash into a mini pool of rain. And curse.

“Caroline.” Strong hands lift me off the ground.
Oh, my.
“Are you all right?”