Sweet Caroline (22 page)

“Anyone for a trip to the ladies’?” Marley stands.

“Me.” I down the last of my drink, toss it in the trash, and tag along with Marley to Bodean’s guest bathroom—which we find occupied.

Marley falls against the wall. “You and J. D. seem tight these days.”

I smile. “Getting there. He asked me to—”

Voices seep under the bathroom door. I give Marley a quizzical glance.

“Is someone crying?”

We lean close.

Sniff.
“. . .
she’s
here tonight. With him.”
Wail. Moan.

Marley mouths to me: “Who?”

One can only guess. There’s always a romance saga or two going on among the deputies.

“Look, he’s a jerk. I told you not to go out with him. Good-looking guys are always bad news.”

I snap straight. Marley touches my arm, shaking her head.
No
. But the swirl in my gut says
yes
.

“J. D. is
not
bad news, Trisha.”

Marley’s fingernails bite my flesh.

“I can’t stay here, watching him dance with
her
, kiss
her
, tell
her
all the things he’s said to me.”

“Beat him at his own game, Lucy,” Trisha pleads. “He promised you a dance or two, right? Make him want you over her. Be your gorgeous, sexy self. One dance and J. D. will forget that Caroline Sweeney ever existed.”

Marley claps her hand over my mouth. Beyond the door, we hear scuffling.

“Is someone out there?”

Jerking free from Marley, I bang on the door. “Lucy, it’s Caroline.”

Silence.

Marley takes over the door hammering. “Lucy, Trisha, we heard you.”

The door snaps open and two very beautiful young women wearing low-riders and tight tops face us with defiance.

“Didn’t your mamas teach you not to listen to other people’s conversations?” Trisha shoves past Marley. Lucy follows, her head high, eyes averted.

“Lucy, are you dating J. D.?” I am not ready for this showdown, but here goes.

She whirls around. “Caroline, if you have an issue with J. D., take it up with him.”

A surprising calm spreads through me. “Lucy, it’s a simple question. Are you, or have you recently, dated J. D.?”

“Answer the question.” Marley demands.

The shapely brunette juts her chin. “Yes.”

“Once, twice? A month ago, a few weeks?” As the tension builds, I’m reminded cornered kittens scratch.

“A few times, over the past few weeks.” Lucy’s shoulders droop slightly as her defiance wanes. “He’d stopped by our apartment.” She gestures to Trisha.

“Did he spend the night?”
Don’t answer. Yes, answer. Wait . . .

Lucy’s bright cheeks speak louder than words. “I love him.”

“And he loves you?” Marley asks. By her expression, I think she wants to deck Lucy and be done with it.

“He cares about me.”

The words ring with haunting familiarity.
Oh, I’m sick.
Fifteen min-utes ago, I was a breath away from saying yes—to a man who . . .

“Lucy,” I
eek
out. “If he cheated on me, he’ll cheat on you. Don’t start out as the
other
woman.”

“What makes you think
I’m
the other woman?” She shivers though the hallway is hot and airless. “I told you, Caroline—” Her voice breaks. “I love him.”

Marley grabs my arm and drags me toward the door. “Good night, ladies.”

The patio doors swing wide and a laughing Bodean and J. D. step in with Mack Brunner.

Shielding me like a celeb bodyguard, Marley glares at J. D. “Excuse us.”

I can’t look at him. I might spit.

“Caroline, hey, what’s up? Where are you—” J. D. stops wondering. My guess is he’s spotted Lucy.

Marley steers me out the door, then pauses, leans back, and proceeds to cuss J. D.’s face blue.

26

F
ull astern,” I whisper to Elle, finding her near the dance floor, talking to John Exley, which is an enormous waste of time; he’s famously antimarriage. “Full astern.” Gently, I shove her from behind, steering her away from John toward the cars.

“Caroline, what are you doing?” Elle shuffles along in front of me. “‘Full astern’?”

“Take me home.” As I feared, tears surface. I don’t want to cry. Not over a cheater like J. D.

“What? Why? I was talking to John.”

“Elle, John? Please. He’ll ask you out, analyze the whole relationship before you even go on the date, conclude it’ll never work, and treat you like gum stuck to his shoes the entire evening. You’ll be forced to be nice to him so he won’t tell people he dumped you because you were a witch.”

She slaps her forehead with her palm. “Oh my gosh, Caroline, I wasn’t—”

“Right. You’re welcome.” Weaving among the trucks, antique and classic Mopars, I can’t spot her BMW. “Where did you park?”

She takes the lead. “Over there. Caroline, why are we full asterning? Did you hit an iceberg? See a ninety-foot tidal wave?”

Pulling her keys from her pocket, she aims her fob. The BMW blips and blinks. Quickly, I slip inside. Elle fires up the engine but doesn’t engage the gas. “Now, what is going on?”

“J. D. is also dating Lucy McAllister.”

“Caroline, no, he’s not.”

“Marley and I heard her through the bathroom door, lamenting about being the other woman tonight.” I collapse against the cool leather seat. “She confessed they’d been together . . . if you know what I mean. Just get me out of here.”

The blackness of the whole ordeal starts to settle over me.

“He what? In the midst of wanting to sleep over with you?”

“Worse, El—he wanted to move in.”

“Caroline.” My friend’s voice is wispy with sympathy. “You’re kidding.”

“Don’t I wish.” I recount the evening at the beach, J. D.’s proposition, my nervous hesitancy, but almost-decision to go for it tonight.

Enter Lucy.

When I conclude the tale, Elle flops back against her seat. “You are so blessed, Caroline. Look at me. I mean this: God is watching out for you.” Elle shifts into reverse. “Can you imagine finding out about Lucy
afterwards
?”

Bile rises in my throat. Then I think about the first night he asked, and how I slept alone . . . the peace I felt. Now I understand. The peace that comes from doing the right thing.

“Let’s just go, please.” I cover my eyes, fighting a headache.

But as we pull away, a hand slams against the window. “Caroline, she means nothing.” J. D.’s face looms in front of me.

Elle starts to gun away, but I hold out my hand. “Just a second,” I say, getting out when she stops the car. Let’s just end this here and now. I face J. D. square on. “Means nothing? Did you tell her that, J. D.? Because she thinks she’s in love with you.”

He reaches for me, but I snap away from him. “We went out a few times . . . I met her out one night—”

“Before or after the afternoon we talked, declared ourselves a couple? Before or after you asked to . . .” My teeth clinch. “Sleep over? Move in together?”

The darkness of the night irritates me. Where’s the moon? The starlight? The only light is the man-made glow of Bo’s party.

“Babe, I never told Lucy I loved her. I never asked her to move in.”

“Funny thing here, J. D.—you never told me you loved me either.”

Bing.
Lightbulb overhead. I see clearly now. I almost gave myself to a man exactly like Mama. Selfish and cowardly. “And when were you going to tell me you were sleeping with Lucy? Tonight, when I thought living with you might be worth a try? After you slept with me for the first time?” Nausea slithers up my throat.

A dozen yards away, Bodean and Marley watch from the picnic area. Elle blares the car radio. The bass vibrates against the glass.

“Okay, I admit it. I’ve been with Lucy. But it meant nothing. We were just hanging out.”

I jerk open the BMW’s door. “And you freaked because you
imagined
seeing Mitch kiss me. See you, J. D.”

“Caroline, come on, this is ridiculous.” He comes at me like a cornered dog, but Elle hammers the gas before I’m all the way in and peels out of the yard.

“Easy there, Steve McQueen.” I’m quivering all over.

The light we’re careening toward switches to red, and she mashes the brake so hard I’m tossed toward the dash. My seat belt engages. “Steve McQueen, please.”

“Sorry.”

While we wait at the light, Elle thumps the steering wheel alongside comments like, “What is wrong with him?” or “Caroline, I’m so sorry.” When the light changes, she hits the gas. We’re off.

The homes and businesses along Ribaut whiz by. “Funny in light of Cherry’s fear about Henry,” I muse aloud. “He would never . . . and here I was completely trusting J. D. who, truth be told, would.”

“Caroline, I’ll say it again: God is watching over you. What are the odds of you finding out about J. D. on the night you planned to say yes? Women go years without discovering infidelity.”

“Sad part is Lucy. She’s trapped. God should look out for her too. J. D. probably didn’t think he was hurting either one of us.”

“How do you do it?” The next light catches us, and Elle brakes again. Gently this time. “Always find the good.”

“Lots of practice.” Tears ease down my cheeks. I brush them away. “J. D. has a way about him. Makes people feel special.”

I blow my nose on a napkin Elle passed over.

My cell rings, and when I fish it out of my handbag, the tiny screen tells me it’s J. D.

Pressing End, I blink away a rush of tears, toss my phone into my bag, and pray that part of my summer never rings again.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: The hits just keep on coming

Hazel,

I can top your Fernando story. Here’s the mini-sode. Went to Bodean’s
birthday party with J. D. He wanted to make our relationship more
permanent. He suggested living together.

Hazel, I was seconds away from saying yes. Then, as if the cosmos
needed a good laugh, I found out J. D. has a little cookie on the side.

Lucy McAllister.

And unlike with me, he had overnight privileges at her place.
When I think about it, I feel ill. Yet, I miss him. He made me laugh
and made me feel wanted.

In other news: I sold the Mustang to pay for Café repairs. Can
you believe it? Know what I miss—the memories. That car was a
rolling memory machine. We had some laughs in that thing, didn’t
we? Remember when Carl Younger and Peter-John Hayes filled the
inside with sand? And when Elle hung out the window to flirt with
Alex LeBoy and spilled her soda all over her lap just as we were driving
up to school, late. Oh, and the time we went camping. LOL. It
rained and we lived in the car for three days.

Now I’m sad. I miss all that broken-down heap stood for. Well,
we always have the photo albums of ’96 and ’97.

“It’s a Blues riff in B, watch me for the changes and try to keep up.”

Love you, Caroline

DAILY SPECIAL

Monday, August 6
Fried Steak
Squash Casserole, Baked Tomato
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Banana Cream Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$8.99

27

W
aking with a jolt, I sit up, finding the living room dark except for the low glow of the lamp above my head.

Jones’s worn, marked-up Bible falls from my chest as I move. Struggling to get my bearings, I feel as if I’m caught in a thick cloud of spicy, oily perfume.

Who’s here?
Running the heel of my hand over my eyes, I shove my hair away from my face and reach down for Jones’s Bible. The pages I’d been reading about a man named Moses slip from the binding.

Holy ground.

A pain ripples between my shoulder blades from sleeping with my head propped against the couch’s arm. Stretching, I try to stand, but a heady, weighty fragrance settles over me.

Holy ground.
The fragrance intensifies.
Someone’s here.

My pulse races. “Hello?” A quick glance at the door tells me all is secure. The deadbolt is turned, and the chain hangs across the door.

A swirling sensation engulfs me and the fragrance strengthens. Did I spill something last night?

No, I’ve never owned anything like this. It’s strong. Pure. Unlike anything I’ve ever breathed, but so familiar. The hair on my arm rises.

Holy ground.

Closing my eyes, I slip to my knees, half-afraid to open them and see some angelic apparition standing before me.

I’m one hundred percent sure I’d soil myself.

Swallowing hard, catching my breath over a racing heart, I clasp my hands at my chest, unsure of what else to do. My body sways slightly back and forth.

With each breath, the fragrance intensifies until I almost can’t take it anymore. It burns through my nostrils and into my lungs. An in-describable pure, weighty love wraps around me. I feel unworthy and ashamed, yet desperate for it to remain.

Finally, I whisper, “Jesus?”

Without seeing or hearing, I know.

“Yes.”

Terror mingles with awe.
Think of nothing. Think of nothing. He’s
pure and holy. Moses, how did you do it?

The fragrance drips on me, soaking dry, barren places in my soul. A puff of air hits my forehead and my eyes well up. My torso expands as my chest heaves for air.

“You are so loved, sweet Caroline. So loved.”

The declaration washes over me, and a wail escapes from some deep, hidden place. The dam bursts. All these years of giving up my dreams, my plans, for someone else, feeling responsible for the happiness of the whole world—all of it has been about being loved.

I can’t stop the tears now, even if I wanted. Love and hope consume me. My thoughts awaken, fighting to rescue my right to be hurt and angered. But the heat of the fragrance is burning it all away.

Falling onto the coffee table, I let everything go.
Have it all.
My throat burns, and my nose runs, but I don’t care. Jesus—this God-man Mitch, Andy, Elle, and others know—loves me.

And now I know. If He promises to love me like this, I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth. Who can compare?