Sweet Caroline (13 page)

Mud slips down the inside of my top. “Mitch? What are you doing here?”

“Porch lurking. Gave you a nine-point-five for the mud-hole trip.”

“Nine-point-five? Oh, dude, that was a perfect ten.” Stooping, I gather up the scattered contents of my purse.

“Take off point-five for the
word
.”

“Ha. I’ve heard ten times worse out of you. Again, why are you here?” Mitch rescues my keys as they sink in a distant puddle. “Where’d you run off to yesterday after church?”

“The Coosaw.” He passes me the keys. I offer my pinky finger as a hook. “Took the old boat out.”

“The
Bluecloud
still floats?”

“She does.”

“A little overwhelming, wasn’t it?”

I swallow a sudden rise of emotion. “A little.” Water drips from the ends of my hair. Goose bumps crawl over me when the damp breeze blows. “Elle claims Jesus told me He loved me in front of three hundred people.”

“He did.” Mitch smiles. It baffles me how he always feels like coming home.

“So, do you want to come in?” I start for the door.

“Sure, if I’m not intruding.” He seems a little lost. Lonely, even.

The wind drives the rain under the porch eaves. I can’t unlock the door without dropping everything. “Mitch . . . Here . . . my keys.” I jiggle my pinky. “The long, weird one opens the door.” My brush slips to the floor. When I try to adjust my load, my phone breaks free. I grapple to catch it.

Next thing I know, my secret tampon holder is lying at Mitch’s feet.

He looks down.

“Mitch, hey, I’ll get that.
A-hem
. . . Don’t bother. My bad.”

I reach down. Except, hurrying to rescue my girl-privacy, I don’t see the porch post . . .

Wham.

“Ow.” I slap my hand to my forehead. The rest of my stuff clatters to the old board floor, and the porch light flashes on—all the commotion activating the motion detector.

“Caroline, didn’t you see the post?” Mitch grabs my wrist. In the small, white light, I see his furrow of concern, but he’s not fooling me. His voice is fat with laughter.

“Of course I saw the porch post. I love smacking my head every now and then.” I peek up at him. “Dork.”

“You should’ve seen your face . . .” He chuckles. Politely. Which I appreciate.

“Oh, go ahead and laugh. I’ll just be over here in extreme pain.”

“Caroline, come here, to the light. Let me see this wound. You bleeding or anything?”

“Bleeding? Yes, pride, not blood.” I remove my hand as he tilts my chin toward his face and the light.

“Ooooh, big red and blue mark.”

“Tell me, Doctor, will I live?” Without making a big to-do, I stretch my foot forward, trying to kick the secret tampon holder into the shadows. Instead it slides sideways, further into the light. Forget it. I’ve known Mitch forever. Guess it’s time I realize he knows about girl needs.

“Caroline . . .” He presses his thumb lightly to my boo-boo. “You’ve got a nice bump going.”

As my face is cupped in his hands, headlights gleam against the car-riage house. I look over to see J. D.’s cruiser rumbling into the Café parking lot.

“Oh, J. D.’s here.” Half shoving Mitch out of the way, grinding the tampon holder into the board with my heel, I wave to J. D. But his car doesn’t stop. Instead the engine roars to life as he peels away.

DAILY SPECIAL

Tuesday, June 26
Beans & Greens
Cornbread
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Blackberry Cobbler
Mint Julep, Tea, Soda, or Coffee
$5.99

15

Mercy Bea, I’m going to try printing out name-tags for the Carrington party. Call me if we get busy.”“Or if I win the lotto?” She stacks the refilled salt and pepper shakers on a tray.

“Definitely call me if you win the lotto.”

In the office, I dust off the printer, wondering if J. D. has returned one of my half dozen calls. The one time he answered last night, he was pretty upset.

“He was kissing you.”

“No, he wasn’t. I bumped my head against the porch post. He was checking out my wound.”

“I knew you weren’t over him, or him over you.”

And he hung up.

I check my cell. A message. Please be J. D., cooled off and ready to reason.

But it’s from Mitch.

“What happened with J. D.? Does he think something is going on?
Should I call him? Sorry, Caroline.”

Elle is crazy to attempt relationships with more than one man at a time. I make a mental note to bring this up at our next Operation Wedding Day gathering.

With a sigh, I power up the computer, load paper in the printer, open the Word doc of Carrington family names I compiled this morning, and click Print. The printer wheezes to life and miraculously begins chugging out row after row of nametags.

Meanwhile, I check e-mail. Sheree from the Water Festival reminds me
again
to sign up for the raft race:
Great publicity, girl. Come on.

I reply:
Still thinking about it.

Wednesday at closing, Mercy Bea corners me as I sweep by the corner cubbies.

“What’d you do to the deputy? I haven’t seen him all week.”

“Misunderstanding.”She rolls her eyes. “Whatever you did, apologize.”

“What makes you think it was me?”

Mercy Bea pats my shoulder. “Fix him a nice dinner and—Wait, you don’t cook. Well, do whatever it is you do to make nice. A Café owner who don’t cook . . .
mm, mm, mm
. It’s a mad, mad world.”

I lost count, but I think she insulted me about five times in this exchange. “Good night, Mercy. See you tomorrow.”

“Call the boy. Do you intend on being an old maid? Don’t follow in Jones’s footsteps and never marry.”

“Mercy Bea, please, I’m a long way from . . .”
Being like Jones.
Aren’t I?

Broom in hand, I duck in the office and dial Bodean. He has a nice place with a few acres that is the official deputy hangout. “Do you know where J. D. might be?”

“
Fred
, I’m so glad you called.”

“He’s right there, isn’t he?” I drop the broom in the corner, grab my keys, and flick off the office light.

“10-4.”

“Is he mad?”

“What? Your car
broke
down?”Oh my stars. This is stupid. “Bodean, just put him on.” I lock up the Café and beeline toward the Mustang.

“Sure, that’d be great. Just come on over. A bunch of us are hanging out.”

Okay, so this has to be face-to-face. “See you in a few.”

When I park next to J.D.’s blue Ford F-250, I hesitate before getting out. Upon reconsideration, this is an astronomically stupid idea. What if he rejects me when I walk in? In front of his buddies?

I wipe my palms down the side of my skirt, debating. Never mind I’m not at my best, still wearing my work clothes and clogs. I didn’t even think to change. As a matter of fact, I don’t even have my driver’s license.

Sneaking a fast peek in the rearview mirror, I grimace at my shiny face and tangled hair before giving my underarms a quick sniff. Secret is working as advertised.

I fluff my hair, adjust my top and bra—everything is contained—and head for the house.

“Hello?” I call weakly, shoving open the front door. Shouts echo from the back room. “Bodean?”

The slender but wide-shouldered deputy comes around the corner. His blond hair sticks out in all directions. “Caroline, hey,
what
are
you
doing here?”

I exhale, grinning. “So not fooling anyone, Bo.”

“J. D., your girl’s here.” With a wink at me, Bodean disappears, leaving me to wait alone in the stark living room.

The clink of pool balls is chased by raucous laughter. A fridge door opens and there’s a call for beer. Then the hiss of bottle tops.

What am I doing here, invading his turf? I should go.
Gripping my keys—
Is he coming?
— I’m about to turn for the door when . . . There he is. Dark, masculine, and sober.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” His checked shirt hangs loose over his jeans.

“Enjoying your day off?” I smile.

“Yeah, sure. Some of the guys wanted to play pool.” He steps around the leather couch, but remains on the other side of the room.

“Sounds like fun.” Five feet away and I can’t reach him. “Guess you’ll be here all night, then.”

He shrugs. “Most likely. Have a few too many beers and crash on the couch.”

More nodding. Then an awkward silence. Yes, coming here was a mistake. Bodean’s is J. D.’s safe place, like the live oak is for me, and I wouldn’t have appreciated Mama interrupting as I tried to process my feelings about her.

“I’d better get going.” I back toward the door. “See you.”

“It looked like he kissed you.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“When I drove up and saw you two together, it was like—” He balls his fist, and his expression tightens. “Fire. I can’t ever remember being so jealous.”

“I told you he didn’t kiss me. I conked my head.” J. D. takes a few steps toward me. “What was he doing there?”With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know, looking for company, good friends.”

“Caroline, I’m not an insecure man, but he’s
the
Mitch O’Neal. Your ex-boyfriend to boot.”

“He hasn’t been my boyfriend for many years, J. D.” I think of Elle. “Here you go: Mitch is on Elle’s short list of possible husbands. And it’s okay with me.”

The deputy laughs reluctantly. “God help him.”

“Mitch is my friend, J. D. He always will be, but—” I take a step toward him. “Is there a you and me?”

In a few strides, J. D. crosses the room, grabs my hand, and pulls me outside. The moment we pass through the door, I’m in his arms, barely catching my breath before his lips cover mine.

DAILY SPECIAL

Sunday, July 1

Happy 90th Birthday, Mrs. Carrington

By Sunday, we’re all set for the ninetieth birthday bash.

J. D. and I went to church again. I just had to know if it felt the same as last week. It did. Surreal. Clean. Peaceful. Mitch waved to us across the sanctuary, but kept his distance.

Andy arrives at the Café a little before two. “Ready for your first party, boss?” He slams the door of his old green truck parked along the Harrington Street curb. Just seeing him fortifies my confidence.

A lowcountry menu is yummy and easy to prepare—dough, batter, and grease—so a few hours’ lead time is plenty. Saturday afternoon, Pastor Winnie clocked in to help Andy and Russell prep the casseroles, batter, and sauces. All we have to do today is bake and fry.

“Let’s get the air on,” I say. “Check the bathrooms and dining room, make sure they’re clean.” My foot splashes in water. “Why is the floor wet?”

“Boss, the lights won’t click on.” Andy pushes past me for the fuse box.

Pain rips through my chest. My arms go completely numb. “Andy,” I gasp over his shoulder, “please tell me you can fix this. You’re the fixer.”

“Jones . . . I told him to get the rewiring done. Said this would hap-pen. It keeps shorting out the box.” Andy punches the wall by the fuse box. “I can’t get it to come on. Other than tampering with these old glass fuses, I don’t know what else to do.”

I panic. “This is not happening. Not. Happening.”

“It’s happening, Caroline. We have no power.”

Scotty, if you’re there, beam me up.

Andy tugs open the walk-in. “Starting to warm up in here.”

In the daylight of the door and windows, I read the taut lines run-ning across Andy’s face. We’re snafued.

“The ice under the shrimp is melting, but if we get more ice, the shrimp will be good. All this water on the floor is probably from the ice machine. But, Caroline, without power, we can’t cook.”

Yes, I’m aware. “Okay, we have shrimp. That’s a start.” I dig deep for some cheer. “I’m calling an electrician.”

Ducking into the office, I retrieve the phone book and stand in the light of the window, looking up Buster’s Electric. If Mrs. Carrington shows up to a dark, warm Café, she’ll stroke out.

As I dial, I hear Russell’s tenor voice. “Fuse box blow again?”

Mercy Bea pokes her head in my door, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Caroline, you best call Buster.”

I point to the phone stuck to my ear. “He’s not answering.” The machine clicks on.
You’ve reached Buster Electric
. . . I leave a message, but I’m void of all hope to hear from him today.

Flipping through the book, I call every electrician. Nothing. Apparently Sunday is not a big workday.

What am I going to do? I gather my small crew. “I’m open to suggestions here.”

“How about a candlelight party.” Mercy Bea leans out the back door with her cigarette. “Throw open the windows. Click on the fans.”

“The ceiling fans?”

“Right.” She chews on her bottom lip. “No power.”

“Our main problem is the menu. How’re we going to bake the casseroles? And the cake?”

Heart: Oh, head, we are so dead. Mrs. Carrington adored Andy’s cake.

Head: For once, you don’t exaggerate.

Heart: Thanks, I think.

Head: Good job, by the way, on resolving the J. D. issue.

Heart: You think? I was unsure. You could’ve spoken up, you know.

Head: Am I ever silent when you go astray?

Heart: Good point.

“What about another restaurant?” Russell suggests.

“On such short notice?” I press my palm to my aching head.

“Find a generator and hook it up?” Russell tries again.

“Sure, Russ, run on down to the corner store and buy an industrial-sized generator. Get two. What are they, ten grand each? Grab my wallet there, will you?”

Russell makes a face. “You asked for ideas.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, but I was hoping for good ideas.”Andy bursts out laughing.

“Don’t be confused. I’m not trying to be funny.” This is my attempt to not completely melt down. “Russell, really, I’m sorry. But, y’all, a ninetieth birthday, a family celebration, ruined.”

“What about going across the street to Waterfront Park?”

I glance at Mercy Bea. “The park? Andy, what do you think? With the breeze, it might not be too bad.”

“We got those old gas grills out back under the tarps. We could run to Bi-Lo for food, barbecue up some nice shrimps, chicken, and steak. The sauces are prepped too.”