Sweet Caroline (24 page)

Taking the Bible, I smooth my palm over the leather cover.
Beloved.
“

This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Mitch shifts around as if he’s embarrassed by his own charity. “I didn’t know if you had one, and . . .” He shrugs, then whispers, “I hope you like it.”

“I love it.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.” Hugging the Bible to my chest, I tell them about Jones’s worn-but-loved Bible.

“Remember, read the red words, and pray hard.” Mitch hooks his arm around my shoulders and gives me a tender squeeze. “Maybe we can do a Bible study or two.”

“I-I’d like that.” Ho, boy! Down, girl. I recognize the feeling in my heart.

We’re only friends. Just friends.

Munching on a broccoli floret, Elle yips, “What’d you buy me?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? So what I needed.”

Mitch gets up for something to drink and Elle peers at me like,
See
.

“He’s your lobster. Your Ross.”

“More
Friends
? Elle, we’re just friends. Don’t make more out of this.”

“I just love lobster.”

“What are we talking about?” Mitch asks, sitting next to me, sipping from an iced latté.

“Friends,” Elle puts out. Yes, definitely puppy.

“Friends? As in you and me or the TV show?” Mitch shifts his gaze from Elle to me and is waiting for an answer when we hear a rumble from the other side of the food court. Gasps of recognition.
Mitch
O’Neal. Where? Over there.

I feel the stares on my back and the suffocation of a gathering crowd. Peering at Mitch, I realize with his hat on backward too much of his face is exposed.

“They’re onto you, Conroy,” Elle whispers, cleaning up the last of her garlic chicken.

The Mitch O’Neal rumble grows louder. I slip the Bible back into the bag and grab my purse.

Mitch turns his hat bill around. “It’s the thunder before a storm. Ease away from the table.” He rises slowly. “Act casual.”

But the clouds break. “Mitch O’Neal
.
”
Screeeaaam.

In synchronized motion, Elle, Mitch, and I take off down the main mall thoroughfare. My toes grip against the soles of my Clark’s clogs as they
thunk
,
thunk
over the terrazzo floor.

Elle immediately falls behind. “Wait, I’m wearing flip-flops. Wait.”

A bird’s-eye view of us running paints across my mind, creating a whirlwind of laughter. I can barely keep running.

“What’s so funny?” Mitch asks.

“T-this,” I
eek
out, glancing back for a visual of Elle. Oh no, she’s surrounded by a sea of Mitch-crazed teenyboppers.

“Conroy, wait,” she calls. I can’t even hear her clattering bracelets for the squealing. “Watch out, kid. That is
not
Mitch O’Neal. It’s Conroy Bean. Get back, you. Oh my gosh, what did you just call me? Does your mother let you eat with that mouth? Conroy . . . Caroline . . .”

DAILY SPECIAL

Tuesday, August 14
Andy’s Submarine
Chips or Fries
Cole Slaw or Molasses Baked Beans
Pluff Mud Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99

28

T
o: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Re: The hits just keep on coming

Caroline,

J. D. and Lucy McAllister, huh? Rat-fink. Guess he’s not changed at
all.

I baby-sat her. What is she, eighteen, nineteen? You’re better off,
C. Once a ladies’ man, always a ladies’ man.

Fernando update: He hasn’t called in a while, then I ran into
him the other night. He was body whispering with this waif of a
thing I believe was once a blonde Swedish woman. Who can tell
with all the protruding bones and translucent skin. (Thin is so
overrated.)

And Caroline, I ignited with jealousy. I couldn’t believe it. The
pure evil gren stuff. Until now, I thought he was rather pushy and
overbearing. It so surprised me I wanted to run, but he saw me and
called me over.

I tried to be cool, but I blathered and tee-hee’d like an American
Idiot and almost groveled at his feet.

I need help.

Matilda: Gone! I can’t believe it. A tidal wave of homesickness
crashed over me when I read you’d sold her, leaving behind old shells
echoing of good memories. I dug out my photo albums and for about
an hour lived in Beaufort, nineteen ninety-six, -seven, and -eight.

You know, if I go in tomorrow and tell Carlos your latest sacrifice
for the Café, he might just hop on a plane and fly over to meet
you. He’s really on this kick of back-to-basics business. He’s tired of
formula marketing and tricky practices. He’s not picked an apprentice,
yet. You’re his Cinderella, fleeing the ball. Prince Carlos is convinced
he won’t find someone as perfect as you. Even if half of what
he believes is his own created fantasy. (No offense.) I’m not sure he’d
hire me after envisioning a hardworking, self-sacrificing, business-savvy
woman like Caroline Sweeney.

It’s late. Better get a few hours sleep.

“I said good day, sir. I said good day!”

Hugs, Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

The second week of August starts off slow, but by Wednesday, business picks up enough that I call Paris to come in and help with lunch. Luke notices how busy we remained after the breakfast-club boys take off and ties on an apron.

Miss Jeanne arrives precisely at three, wearing a big smile and a pill-box hat.

“Nice hat.”

“Thanks.” She walks toward her favorite table. “Found it in the downstairs closet.”

“Very Jackie O.” I pour her iced tea at the waiter’s station.

“Bought it the day after I saw her wearing one.” Miss Jeanne sets her pocketbook on the tabletop. “Just came from the film-committee meet-ing. Tom Cruise might film a movie in Beaufort.”

I set down her tea and a straw. “Tom Cruise? Well, well.”

“Sure enough. Now, where’s my pot-roast casserole? Add a salad today, Caroline.”

“Sure thing, Miss Jeanne.”

In the kitchen, Andy stands in front of the convection oven, grum-bling and growling. I frown as I stick Miss Jeanne’s order on the slide.

“Miss Jeanne’s here. Are you okay?”

“Thought I’d see if I could get this old convection oven working, but it’s shot.” Andy looks square at me. “Caroline, we’ve got to get a new one.”

“Why? We never used that one.”

“Look around, girl. We’re getting busy. I can barely keep up with making biscuits now. A good convection oven will speed up cook time and keep the kitchen cooler.”

I exhale through tight lips. Where the money will come from, only God knows, but I’ve managed to save a little for emergencies. If Andy says we need a new convection oven, then we need one. I hate to turn him down. He works so hard for so little.

Andy plates Miss Jeanne’s pot-roast casserole. “There’s a place going out of business down in Port Royal, Caroline. Casa Verde. We can get their oven for a song.”

“A song? Should I send Mitch then? He can sing a song or
two
.” I pick a couple of hot Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits from the baking sheet.

Andy chuckles. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Heading out with Miss Jeanne’s order, I answer over my shoulder, “If I can get a ride, I’ll check it out this afternoon.”

An hour later, I’m sailing toward Port Royal in the good ship
Miss
Jeanne
, a ’56 Plymouth. The windows are down, and the wind gushes past, whipping up the ends of my hair. My knuckles are white as I hang on to the door handle, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of a possible collision.
Out of our way—land yacht coming through.

And I have absolutely no faith in the antiquated lap seat belt, which I’m trying to wear up around my ribs.

Miss Jeanne’s faithful companion, a border collie named Ebony, hangs out the back window, nipping at sunbeams and licking the wind.

My dear senior citizen friend offered to drive me to check out the convection oven when I mentioned it in passing. In passing! Daddy and Elle were busy—Daddy with a job in Bluffton, and Elle scouting out a new artist. Wonder how it went with the associate pastor. She never called me afterwards.
(Note to self . . .)

Mitch left a message yesterday saying he was going up to Nashville for a few days. Jess is back teaching. And Andy—the one I’m doing this for—promised his youngest boy he’d stop by football practice.

Up ahead, the light changes to red, but Miss Jeanne barrels toward it like she’s playing chicken. “This is the first car I ever bought,” she says.

“About a year after I started my law practice.”

“Y-you were a lawyer?” The car in front of us brakes, slowing to a stop. I inhale sharply and brace for impact.

“For twenty-five years. Had an office right on the Bay. Then Mother died and I closed the office to take care of Daddy.”

“What kind of law practice?” My foot grinds into the floorboard. Houses and trees whiz by my window.
Miss Jeanne, brake . . .

“Taxes, wills, real estate, and neighborly disputes. Back in them days, folks didn’t have wills like they do now. Land was simply passed from father to son, father to daughter, what have you.” Two inches from the car in front of us, Miss Jeanne mashes the brakes, hard. “But as families grew and spread out, disputes started happening, and I found myself a nice little niche.”

I exhale with a gush as my taut stomach muscles release. How she stopped this monster on a dime, I’ll never know, but thank you, Jesus.

“I’m impressed.” In more ways than one. “How many women were in your law class?”

Her seasoned laugh fills the car. “I was the only woman in the law class of ’54, University of South Carolina.”

Propping my elbow out the window, I mutter, “Amazing. And here I am in the twenty-first century, fumbling through life.”

“Fumbling? Dear girl, you’re running a town institution. I’d hardly call it fumbling. Don’t shortchange yourself, Caroline. You’re just get-ting started. Life is far from over.”

The light changes to green, and Miss Jeanne ambles along, picking up speed, maneuvering the boxy car around a slow-moving Toyota.

Casa Verde is in a strip mall. The outside is green stucco walls with a Guatemalan man painted on the outside.
Bienvenidos,
amigos!

Inside, the restaurant is cool and dark. I squint as my eyes adjust to the low light.

“May I help you?” A lovely, brown-skinned woman comes out from the back.

“I’m here to see Mario. I’m Caroline Sweeney.”

“Excuse, please, for a moment.”

Miss Jeanne stands next to me, digging in her pocketbook, shoulders squared. “I forgot to freshen up my lipstick.”

Miss Jeanne is full of surprises. “You look lovely.”

“How about you? Want a little lip paint?” She swishes the open lip-stick tube in the air in front of me.

“I’m trying to cut back.”

She cackles and snaps the lid on. “So, where’s this Mario fella?”

Now that my eyes have adjusted, I see the restaurant is very quaint, with a Central American decor—colorful walls, wood trim, brick walls, tile floors, rustic furniture.

From a side dining room, a man’s laugh mingles with the high, fast chatter of children. The sound is fun and carefree, so I peer into the room, curious. At a four-top in the far corner, a man sits with three boys. One white, one black, one Hispanic. They’re munching on tortilla chips, swinging their legs, reaching for too-full coke glasses. The man is dressed in khakis and a pullover. His shoulders are lean, and the back of his dark hair is neatly trimmed.

My heart is touched by their affection—a man and his sons, per-haps, taking after Brangelina.

One of the boys notices me and stops giggling long enough to wave. The man turns slightly in his seat.

My breath catches.

“Miss Sweeney, sorry to keep you waiting.”

I spin around. “Mario? Hello.”

“Very nice to meet you.” He gestures toward the kitchen doors. “Please, come see the oven.”

“What kind of oven did you say it was, Caroline?” Miss Jeanne asks, hurrying along beside me.

“A convection oven,” I answer automatically through swirling thoughts. What is he doing here? With three boys? “The Café’s is broken, and my cook really wanted a new one.” Holding the right side door open for her to enter ahead of me, I pause to glance toward the small dining room.

Casa Verde’s kitchen is small and hot. A cook gazes over at us. “
Buenos dias
.”

“
Buenos dias
,” I reply with a forced smile, trying to focus on the situation in here. Not the scene out
there
.

Miss Jeanne walks up to the oven in question and opens the doors. “Single stack? How old is it, Mario?”

His brow furrows and I read his expression.
Who is this woman?
“The oven, it is one year old.”

“Is it electric?”

Mario clasps his hands together. “Yes, electric.”

Miss Jeanne pats the polished stainless-steel side. “Tell me the truth, now, is it a true convection?” Where’d she get all this detail?

“The very best. I pay four thousand dollars.” Mario glances at me to see if I approve.

Miss Jeanne purses her lips. “How much do you want for it?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“Sorry to have wasted your time, Mario.” Miss Jeanne snatches my hand and whips me toward the door. “Call us when you’re ready to sell.”

“Wait—” Mario runs to block our exit. He flashes his even, white teeth. “We’re just getting started here. Ladies, please, we can talk.”

“One thousand.” Miss Jeanne’s offer is firm with a nonnegotiable quality.

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Miss Jeanne steps around him. “No deal. Caroline—”

“Miss Jeanne, hang on, now.” Gently, I restrain her with a soft tug on her elbow.

“Caroline, you heard the man.” She flicks her hand in his direction. “Twenty-five hundred for a used convection oven? Highway robbery.”

I make a face. “No one’s robbing any highway. Mario, the price seems fair.”