Sweet Caroline (18 page)

The closing credits roll on White Christmas as J.D. and I cuddle on the couch, singing at the top of our lungs, arms and legs intertwined.

“With every Christmas card I write . . .”

Candles flicker from the end tables and bookshelves. The carriage house is cozy and romantic.

“Only you, Sweeney.” J. D. tugs me onto his lap, pressing his hand around to my back.

“Only me what?” His touch sends fiery tingles racing down to my toes. The past week’s quick interludes of passion in the Café office have left me smoldering and stirred.

“Watch a Christmas movie in July.”

“Why not?” Reaching for the remote, I aim at the black-and-white fuzz on the TV and click it off. “Why wait all year to watch a great”— his hot breath swirls around my neck “[
swallow
] romantic movie.”

His hand is sliding under the edge of my shirt as his lips caress my neck.
Ho, boy.

“You are so beautiful, Caroline. Sexy as the day is long.”

Apparently, we are not talking about Christmas movies in July anymore.

“J. D. . . .”

Slowly he lays me back on the couch, his hands finding skin, his lips finding mine. He drinks deep, then whispers in my ear. “Let me stay over, Caroline. Please.”

How is it possible to burn at the sound of his desire? But I do. His wanting blankets me, and, oh, surrender seems sweet. My breathing becomes rapid and deep.

“I don’t know, J. D. We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

Raising up, he flashes his luminous, square smile. “Eight weeks, Caroline. My parents were married in six.” With a laughing growl, he rolls me off the couch and onto the floor. “Don’t you care about me?”

I brush my hand over his hair. “You know I do. And you?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?”

Grinning, I press my lips on his. “You
do
have a rep.”

“Okay, okay, I was a scoundrel once. But Caroline, you’ve reformed me.”

“Oh, what power I have. Hmm . . .” I touch my finger to my chin.

“What else can I get you to do for me?”

Wiggling his eyebrows, he says, “Let me stay and I’ll show you.”

He’s trying to be funny and light, but a tremor of trepidation causes me to shove him aside and sit up. “J. D., this is, um, well, new territory for me.”

“Baby, it’s okay, I know.” He runs his hand along my jawline. “You won’t regret it.”

The passion burning in my middle begins to cool and solidify. “Oh, you are so tempting, J. D., but I need more time. I’m the girl with the blue light in her car, remember? The girl with the daddy who said, ‘Wait for the ring and the wedding.’”

“Sure, babe, but you’re not that fifteen-, sixteen-year-old girl any-more. You’re a woman with your own business, your own life.” He traces his finger along the neckline of my top. “Your own desires.”

For a long moment, I study the curves of his face. Am I in love? Do I need to be in love for him to stay over? How will I feel in the morn-ing when I can’t undo the night? “J. D., please let me think about it.” I grab his hand away from its journey.

He hesitates, then kisses me slowly, softly. “Okay, I don’t want to rush you, but Caroline, decide yes. You don’t know what you do to me.”

For a long time after he leaves, I lay in bed, staring at what would’ve been his pillow, thinking about life, Daddy and Mama, Mitch and his camp-God story. Despite the ache J. D. stirred in me with his kisses and touch, an overwhelming peace comforts me that tonight I sleep alone.

After a five-minute inspection of the bathrooms Monday morning, Stu calls me into the office. Summation: It’s bad.

“How bad?”

Sitting at my desk, he writes out a quote, referencing a thick book from time to time. I tap a pen against the faux-wood desktop.

“Annoying . . .” Stu says without looking up.

“Sorry.” I jam the pen into the holder and start to pace back and forth. My clogs thud against the floor.
Aren’t plumbers, like, millionaires?
What does Stu earn—eighty dollars an hour? My gnarly plumbing is going
to buy him a new truck, I just know it.

First Buster, and now Stu.

After Dad left Sunday afternoon, I showered, met J. D. at Panini’s for a quick bite—he was on duty—then spent three hours going over the Water Festival revenue.

We did well, and I even said, “Thank you, Jesus,” but once I calculated the extra payroll, the food charged on my credit card, paying for the rent-a-cops, plus standard monthly bills, like electricity and water, there was only enough left over to pay half Buster’s bill. Never mind whatever damage Stu is planning.

My heart is ready to wave the white flag, but my head shouts not to surrender yet.

Meanwhile, Stu fishes out a prehistoric calculator from his toolbox.

“Where’d you find that thing, caveman, under a rock with the fire?”

“Oops, look, I added too many zeros.”

I frown. Plumbers have no sense of humor. Better make myself scarce. “Wonder what Andy is doing in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, go see what Andy is doing. And Caroline, if a basket of Bubba’s Biscuits showed up right here . . .” Stu points to a spot on the desk in front of him.

“Gotcha.”

“Well, what’s the damage?” Andy looks up from mixing a couple of Pluff Mud Pies.

“He’s calculating it now. But I have a feeling it’s going to be bad.” I grab a basket, layer it with a napkin, and drop in a few fresh, hot biscuits.

“We had some plumbing done at the house awhile back. It ain’t cheap.”

Worry creeps in. How am I going to pay for this? If I’d have known all this would come down on my shift, I might have opted for Kirk to put the Café on the auction block.

Next to me Andy hums. A hymn, I think.

When I return to the office with the biscuits and an added bonus of iced tea, Stu is finished with the plumbing estimate.

“I cut where I could.”

Exchanging biscuits for a bill, I close my eyes.
Think cheap. Think
cheap.
With one eye, I peek at the bottom line. Holy cow. My other eye pops open. “
This
is your bargain price?”

“Have you been in those bathrooms?” Stu snatches the estimate from me and points out detailed expenses. “I’m not just fixing a few toilets and sinks. We have to tear up the floor and wall. Replace all the pipes. Get new fixtures. Replace the plaster with drywall, retile.”

I grimace. “Right, of course. When can you start?”

Monday evening I lock up the Café with Jones’s box from the attic tucked under my arm. It will look nice on the carriage house bookshelves. I can prop the picture against it.

In the parking lot, Mercy Bea leans against Matilda, taking a final drag on her cigarette before mashing it into the dirt with the toe of her clunky shoe. “Did we clear the tower last week? Make some money?”

“We did very well, but we still owe Buster, and now Stu.” I fall against the car door next to her. “You wouldn’t happen to secretly be a rich heiress would you?”

She tosses her head back with a laugh. “No offense, I wouldn’t be here if I were. Guess Jones checked out just when the ole Money Pit started sinking deeper.” She picks at the Mustang’s peeling paint. “My brother had an old car like this. A ’71 Dodge Charger. He and his friends would race down 170.”

“The good ole days when there was no traffic after nine o’clock. Dad has a few racing stories. Almost got killed once.”

“My brother too. Probably more than once.” Mercy Bea pats Matilda’s door. “So, has she broken down lately?”

“I haven’t been driving as much. Guess she just wanted to retire and sit in the shade.”

“Sounds good to me.” The dyed and painted waitress taps another cigarette from a crumpled pack. “You have plans with J. D. tonight?” She flicks her lighter and touches the flame to the cigarette. “Don’t you just like to look at him? I think his face is just about perfect.”

The memory of his face from last night is etched in my mind. My heart skips one beat. “Just about perfect, yes.”

“You know, I never took to handsome men for myself.”

“What kind of men do you like?” I shift the box from one arm to the next.

Smoke billows from her nose like she’s a steaming kettle. “Roughed-up looking, but with soft hearts. The boys’ daddy was sweet, but he could rumble if need be. Broke his nose in three places, had a crushed cheekbone that never got fixed, and a scar right here.” She slashes her red nail across the side of her face down to her neck. “Never would tell me how he got that one.”

“Where’s he now?” This is the most Mercy Bea’s ever opened up to me.

“Only God in heaven knows. He got weird and ran off.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her cigarette crackles and burns as she takes a long drag. “Your mama
was
a loose nut. Prettiest girl around, too, but—” Mercy whistles
cuckoo
and makes the crazy circle with her finger. “Ever get scared you’ll turn out like her?”

“Once a day and twice on Sunday. But I try to think of her good qualities. Creative, uninhibited, free . . .”

“Your mama did one good thing.” Mercy flicks her second cigarette to the ground. “You.”

The compliment surprises me.

“Guess I have to give your old man most of the credit for you turning out so nice.” She gestures toward the Café. “Your mama would’ve never kept this place if she’d had a chance to fly off to Barcelona. Didn’t look after her kids, why would she care for a dang Café?” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t fret none over it. You’re not like her. Not that I can see.”

A light wash of tears blurs my vision. Go figure. Encouragement comes from the strangest places. “Good to know.”

“Well, better head out.” Mercy Bea starts to walk off but stops, digging the toe of her shoe into the gravel. “I lost my job down at the nursing home. Wanted you to know.”

“What happened?”

“They said I was snippy with the old folks.”

Not surprised. “I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”

She flicks her wrist at me. “Shift happens, doesn’t it? So, I’m avail-able for more work if you aren’t keeping that skinny gal Paris around.”

“Paris wants to keep working. For now.”

Mercy Bea clicks her thumbnail against her middle fingernail. “If you need me, let me know.”

“Will do.” I wait for her to walk off, but she stares off toward the river for a long moment. “Is there something else?”

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Naw, I’m good. See you in the morning.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Tuesday, July 24
Meatloaf
Choice of Three Sides: Baked Beans, Cole Slaw,
Mac and Cheese, Mashed Potatoes, Green Salad,
Turnip Greens, French Fries, Okra, or Peas
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sweet Caroline Pie à la Mode
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99

21

T
o: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Re: The Frogmore and me

Caroline,

Sorry, got swamped with end-of-fiscal-year accounting. Meant to e-mail
about Fernando. Charming, lovely Fernando. Oh, Caroline . . .

He took me to Semproniana, a
muy
romantic place in L’Eixample.
It’s converted from a ’60s factory. Has these great iron columns, old
furniture, paintings. A very cozy atmosphere.

Handsome Fernando (think Antonio Banderas without the
wrinkles) is all
habla, habla
in
español
with his arm lightly around
my waist, body whispering. I might have swooned a little because I
don’t remember walking to the table.

He knew everyone, including the owner, who sat down with us
for a few minutes.

We ate, talked, drank a little wine, but not too much. I’m still a
Southern Baptist girl, but when in Rome—in my case, Barcelona . . .

We strolled the shops, and C, it felt like we’d known each other
for years. His English is perfect, yet sprinkled with the most delicious
accent. He tried to coach my Spanish along and we laughed so hard
we couldn’t speak at all.

He kissed me tenderly good night and said,
“Hasta luego.”

Apparently, his “luego” was ten minutes later. He dropped me
off and called me on his way home! Shocked me so much, I didn’t
even know it was him for the first minute of the call. I’m like, “Who
is this?”

LOL. I’m meeting him again for dinner tonight.

So, J. D., huh? I haven’t been around much in the last four or
five years, but isn’t he a ladies’ man? The more the merrier? Big surprise
to hear you’re interested in him.

Didn’t he have a crush on you in junior high?

I keep up with home by reading the
Gazette
online and loved
seeing you on the front page in the raft race. I loved the quote you
gave Melba Pelot: “The Frogmore is here, bubba.” Cracked me
up. I called Carlos “bubba” the next day. Didn’t get it. (Thank
goodness.)

And Mitch singing at the Café? Brilliant. By the way, what is he
doing in town? I e-mailed the story links to Carlos. Your stock soared
with him. I swear, he drooled. He loves that you’re saving an old
Café, helping people keep their jobs. If you’re loyal to the Café, you’d
be loyal to him.

If you need $25K, go to the bank. It’s a business loan. No biggie.

Please tell Elle and Jess I love them. I owe them both e-mails.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Love, Haz

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Kirk calls Wednesday. “How’s it going?”

“Besides the bathroom plumbing being ripped out as we speak? Peachy. What’s up?”

“Do you know someone named Elle?”

“Yeah, I might. Why?”

“It’s weird, but the other night I had this garbled voice mail, and all I could make out was her name, yours, and a wedding?” His voice goes up on the end.

What is wrong with El? Did she completely abandon
cool
when she launched Operation Wedding Day?

“I’ll talk to her.”

Confiding she’s on a manhunt would be wrong, right?