Sweet Caroline (20 page)

“Naturally.” Squinting, I unfold the paper.
Boing!
“A little more. Stu, it’s an extra nine hundred. Thirteen thousand dollars.”

Over the past few weeks, I managed to save three thousand for this auspicious day, plus pay Buster a grand, barely wheedling down his bill. I stare so long at the bottom line, my vision blurs.

“Caroline?”

I snap to attention. “Yeah, sorry, just thinking. Can you come around for the check tomorrow?” Because tonight I’m going to pull out all my teeth, stuff them under my pillow, and expect the Tooth Fairy to pay big dividends.

“Sure. I’ll be by in the afternoon.”

“Thanks for everything, Stu.”

He leaves and I close the office door, plop down in the desk chair, and run my fingers over my tired eyes.

Jesus, can You help me? Please
.

How does one listen for an answer from the Almighty?

“Caroline, need you out here.” It’s Andy. Yeah, for a nanosecond, I thought Jesus sounded like a friend of mine.

Guess He’s leaving this problem in my bailiwick. I shove out of the chair. “Coming.”

By the time we close, I still don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay Stu. I walk across the parking lot, noticing how the sun-light dances across the Mustang. Poor girl, been sitting there so long. I should take her out . . .

I stop. From nowhere, an alien thought crashes over my heart. My gut tightens.
No
.

As I stand staring at Matilda, the wind gushes from the river, lifting the limbs of the car’s live-oak canopy. Matilda is draped in sunlight. I glance overhead.
Did someone cut down a tree?

More light. More wind. The thought streams again.
Sell.

No!
“Listen, Jesus, if this is You, forget it. Dad couldn’t convince me, nor Henry, and quite frankly, I’m positive they exist and love me—well, Daddy does; jury’s out on Henry—so don’t come knocking on this door. If this is some divine idea— You’re off by a country mile.”

But even after a quick, refreshing shower, I’m still nagged by the ear-lier encounter.
No
, I say to no one. My own stubborn thoughts, maybe.

Slipping into a comfy Liz Claiborne top and skirt, I wander into the living room. The evening seems empty and ominous. I walk along the bookshelves, reading the spines of Jones’s collection.

Dickens, Twain, Faulkner, James, Austin— I stop.
Austin? Jones, you
old romantic.
He has several of her works. A couple of Steinbecks, and Grisham, Clancy . . . figures. The Bible. Jones’s Bible.

Hesitating, I reach for the worn leather book. Pages slip, almost falling to the ground, when I look inside. Just about every one is marked with scribbles in Jones’s broad, round script. The back half of the book is so marked I can barely read the text. Almost every verse is highlighted with yellow, blue, or green.

“Jones, how did you read with all of this coloring?”

The old man practically devoured a book I’ve never even read. Dickens and Austin, yes. Steinbeck and Faulkner, yes, but under duress. American lit class. But the Word of God (or so it claims to be)? Never.

I don’t know one verse . . . Wait, I do. John 3:16. The football-game Scripture. Where is John? John, John, John. The tissuelike pages crinkle and slide as I hunt around pages labeled Deuteronomy and Exodus. Where is John?

Finally, I sit on the edge of the coffee table, find the table of con-tents, and turn, gently, to John.

Chapter 3. Verse 16.

The words are printed in red. Interesting.
For God so loved the world,
that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should
not perish, but have eternal life.

I read them over again, liking the sound of being “so loved” and “not perish.” Then my eye skips over the next page.

Jones circled and colored over verse 36.
He who believes in the Son
has eternal life; but he who does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the
wrath of God abides on him.

Wrath of God? What happened to not perishing? Slamming the book closed, I jump up. “God, please—”

Mitch’s camp story springs to mind.
“He’s pursuing you. Now, you can
accept it or be like me, a running fool.”

What if I don’t want either? Middle of the road is good, right? What I need is some company. Get my mind off things like boyfriends want-ing to move in, selling cars, and God’s wrath. Wonder what Dad and Posey are up to?

I grab my keys and purse and head out the door. “Wake up, Matilda, we’re going out.”

The wind in my face feels good. The Toby Keith song on the radio is one of my favorites, and by the time I brake for the stoplight on Carteret, I feel like myself again.

Then I spot Mercy Bea on the corner with a fleshy-faced, rotund man.

What is she doing?
I move to the left turn lane instead of going right, over the bridge.
Is she all right?

Flesh-face jabs the air around her, running off at the mouth. In return, Mercy Bea wrings her hands, a pantomime of explaining and pleading.

My head doesn’t like what my eyes see. With a quick glance up at the light—still red—I cup my hands around my mouth. “Mercy Bea.”

She whirls around. Her expression is intense at first, but she lightens it with a casual, “Hey, Caroline.”

The light flips to green faster than I thought and the guy behind me is immediately on his horn. I shift into gear and slowly take the corner.

“You okay?”

Mercy Bea motions for me to keep driving. “I’m fine. Go on, now.”

“Are you sure?”

The guy behind me lays on the horn.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Mercy?” I’m not moving until I’m sure . . .

“Get going. You’re holding up traffic. I’m fine.”

Liar. Something is up.

23

I
never make it to Dad’s. After turning left to check out Mercy Bea, I just kept on going toward Boundary Street and found myself at Beaufort Memorial Gardens.

The Sweeney tombstone stands guard over Mama as she sleeps, hope-fully free from all her demons. I ease the Mustang around to the near side of the grave and come to a stop. Slipping out from behind the wheel, I reach to the passenger seat for the bouquet of lilies I stopped and bought at Bi-Lo once I figured out where I was headed.

“Hi, Mama.” I flash the flowers from behind my back like a surprise. “Lilies. Your favorite.”

Her grave is sad and dark. Weeping weeds creep along the smooth, gray stone, searching for a place to take root. Mud embeds the chiseled letters of her name:
Trudy Sweeney, Free Spirit.

Picking at the weeds, I find the vase for the flowers tipped over and clotted with mud. My heart smarts at the family’s neglect. The Harper family stone next to Mama’s is clean and refreshed with flowers. Their departed are loved and remembered.

“Next time I see Henry, we’re making a plan to spruce things up around here, okay? I don’t care how busy he claims to be.”

I brush away the mud from her name—T-R-U-D-Y—then smooth my skirt under my bum, sitting on the edge of the granite and angling my toes together to keep from slipping. I tuck the lilies in the vase and dig up the few good memories I have of my mother.

Dancing to the kitchen radio while fixing dinner.

Painting the side of the garage with giant, colorful wildflowers.

Taking pictures of Henry and me sitting in the spring grass.

Her soft, pulpy palms absently rubbing my arm.

“So, I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.” It’s almost as if Matilda drove herself. “Funny thing. Jones McDermott died . . . Actually, that’s not the funny thing. He left the Café to me. That is the funny thing.”

I pick at the grass beneath my feet.

“Maybe you know this already. Heck, you and Jones might be shar-ing a good laugh over it.”

When I open my hand, the wind knocks the grass blades to the ground.

“Then there’s this guy, a cute deputy. He wants us to move in together. Maybe that’s what you wished you’d done with Daddy instead of marriage and kids.” In the quiet, I release a prayer to the wind. “But that’s not why I’m here. The Café needs money. Everything but the kitchen sink needs to be fixed or replaced. Truth be told, even the kitchen sink. I’m going to sell the car, Mama—”

Forgotten sentiment springs from a fallow part of my heart. I’m sur-prised by my own smile.

“I’ll never forget the day you drove Matilda into the yard, all the way from California. The top was down, and your hair stood out to kingdom come. The radio blasted some rock tune over the whole of Lady’s Island. Then you popped out from behind the wheel. ‘Caroline, bay-bee, look what I brought you from Cal-i-forn-i-a.’”

The scene rolls in front of my mind’s eye, making me laugh.

“Hazel, Jess, Elle, and I had a lot of fun with Matilda, driving all over town, down to the beach, over to Hilton Head. You would’ve liked us, Mama, I think. We were fun.”

Sitting half in the sun, half in the shade, I linger, searching my spirit, my soul, the texture of the wind for confirmation. Sell?

When nothing comes to change my mind, I get up, make sure the vase of lilies is secure in the holder, and lean to press my lips to her chiseled name in the sun-warmed stone. “’Bye, Mama.”

Wayne at CARS walks around Matilda as the evening light settles over us. The air is thick with humidity. “I don’t know, Caroline.” He kicks tires.

I flop my head forward with an exaggerated sigh and wiggle my body like an impatient four-year-old. “Stop fooling around, Wayne. You’ve wanted this car for years.”

“Sure, but you never even
hinted
at selling. When did you get this dent here?”

This is ridiculous. We both know he’s going to buy it. “High school. I backed into a parking post.”

“Hmm, I reckon I can give you seven thousand for it.”

“Seven thousand? Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.” I pop my hand on his shoulder. “You can do better.”

He juts his foot forward with his hands on his belt and shakes his head. “Caroline, give a guy a break. The whole car needs refurbing. New top, new interior, new paint. I don’t even have to go into the engine troubles.”

“Ten thousand.”

He gapes at me. “Ten grand? Girl . . . Eight.”

“Ten.”

He shakes his head. “You’re robbing me.”

“Come on, Wayne, I need the money.” I walk to the front of the car and prop my hands on the hood. “Besides, who is really robbing who here? You’ll fix this baby up on your own time, using your contacts and discounts for parts, then sell her for four times what you’re paying me.”

He circles the car again, chuckling. “You got me there. Why are you really selling?”

The reason comes easy. “To buy a little piece of my future.”

Wayne studies me for a moment, then motions for me to follow him to the office. “You drive a hard bargain, Caroline.”

I smile the whole time he writes the check. When he hands it over, I do a double take. He wrote it out for eleven thousand. “Wayne, we agreed on ten. I don’t understand.” I offer back the check.

He stuffs his checkbook back into the file cabinet. “You’re right, Caroline. I’ll fix it up and sell it for four times. Make a killing. Don’t see why I can’t help out”—he clears his throat—“your future.”

Without hesitation, I wrap him in a hug. “You old softy.” My eyes mist as I open the office door and pause to look back at the wiry mechanic. “Take good care of her.”

Outside CARS, I dial J.D. I’m confident I did the right thing, really, I am, but what’s the point of moments like this if a girl can’t cry on her man’s shoulder?

Besides, I need a ride home. Clearly, I did not think this all the way through. Carlos Longoria would’ve had my hide.
The devil is in the
details,
chica
.

“Hey, babe.” J. D.’s voice is tucked in low. “Bodean and I are finishing something.”

“Big something?” I breathe deep to keep my voice steady.

“A domestic situation.”

Wayne closes up behind me.

“Then why’d you answer the phone? Never mind. Call me later. ’Bye.”

Next, I dial Dad, but he and Posey are out to dinner with friends. Forget Henry. He’d throw confetti in celebration and sneer, “You’ve finally come to your senses.”

“Need a ride, Caroline?” Wayne stands by his truck, jiggling his keys.

“Not sure. Hold on.”

I autodial Elle, but remember she’s in Charleston at an art show. Wayne waits. I take a second to ponder my last option—Mitch—before giving in and dialing.

“Are you busy?” My voice warbles. Of course he’s busy. I mean, the man has a life.

“Yes, I’m sitting out on the back deck, watching the last of the sunset.”

He has a
nice
life.“Can you pick me up at CARS?”

He laughs. “Sure. Did Matilda break down again?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Unbidden tears come as I wave for Wayne to go on. “I have a ride.” He toots his horn as he pulls away, leaving me alone on the side of the road, waiting for Mitch, clutching Wayne’s check, the answer to my prayer.

Starting August 3rd
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8:00 and 10:00

24

F
riday night Mitch sets up for our first weekly music night. “Let me kick things off,” he said.

At the front podium, Paris takes reservations for the next show. Elle is here with . . . Stu.

Holding out my hands and wrinkling my forehead, I ask how and when behind his back. She grins and slides into a booth. Stu catches sight of me and flashes me a broad white smile. He is very unplumbery tonight, rather dapper in his jeans and Polo.

A hand slides down my back. “Ready to go, babe?” J. D.’s quick kiss is familiar.

Mitch walks over, offering his hand. “Good to see you, J. D. Where y’all headed?”

J. D. slaps his hand into Mitch’s. “Bodean is throwing himself a birthday party. Too bad you’re singing tonight. Love to have you join us.”

Mitch smiles so sincerely. “Tell him happy birthday for me.”

J. D. clutches me close. “Will do. Stop by later if you can. I’m sure we’ll be there until the wee hours. You know Bo and his parties.”