Sweet Caroline (25 page)

“For that piece of junk?” Miss Jeanne interjects. “Twelve hundred or we walk.”

“Miss Jeanne—” I whisper in her ear. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you a deal,” she whispers back.

Back to Mario, who is not quite as amiable as five minutes ago.

“This oven is top-of-the-line, I assure you. Only one year old. Two thousand.” He crosses his arms. “And I’m being robbed.”

“Fifteen hundred.”

I step in between. “Can we stop all this Wall Street negotiating? I only wanted to check the oven out. I’m not sure I want to buy.”

Miss Jeanne jabs me in the ribs and mutters. “Nice move. Disinterest.”

“No, seriously, I’m not sure . . . I’m new to this biz and wonder if it’s best to shop—”

Panic flickers through Mario’s eyes. “Eighteen hundred dollars.”

“No, Mario, please, I’m not trying to—”

“Okay, okay, fifteen hundred.” He sweeps his hands in front of us. “Final offer.”

“Deal.” Miss Jeanne thrusts out her hand.

Mario shakes, then wags his finger at me. “Very clever. You bargain well,
señorita
.”

Hello? “Wait just a cotton-picking minute. Miss Jeanne, you can’t say ‘deal’ with my money.” I feel a bit railroaded here.

Mario’s expression hardens. “A deal is a deal.”

Miss Jeanne mutters again. “Caroline, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I thought I’d shop around.”

“A deal is a deal,” Mario repeats with a white, smarmy smile.

Miss Jeanne lays the back of her hand to the side of her mouth and whispers, “You’re giving us white folks a bad name.”

Oh, well, in that case . . .

Sigh
. To Mario: “Do you take credit card?”

Mario beams. “Right this way.”

After squeezing fifteen hundred dollars onto my credit card, I sign my name with a whimper. An oven. For fifteen hundred dollars, I could be on a shopping trip to Madrid with Hazel, purchasing a very small piece of original art from the Prado.

Humming to himself, Mario asks, “When can you pick up oven?”

“When I have a truck.”

Mario escorts Miss Jeanne to her car while I peek again into the small dining room. They’re still here.

I walk across the room, the heels of my clogs tapping against the tile, announcing me. The little boys stare with cute expressions. “Hey, Henry.”

My brother jumps up, tipping over his chair. “Caroline, what are you doing here?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Hi, boys.”

“Hello,” they say.

Henry smiles at them. “Boys, this is my sister, Caroline. Caroline, this is Roberto, Trey, and David.”

“Very nice to meet you boys.”

With the pleasantries over, Henry grabs me by the arm and steers me away from the table. His posture is stiff as if I caught him in some heinous act. “Don’t say a word to Cherry.”

“Why not? Henry, she thinks you’re having an affair.” I lean back to see the boys again. “Are you? Whose kids are those?”

“She thinks I’m having an affair?” His tone and expression deny any sort of hanky-panky.

“Henry, talk to her. What are you doing here with these boys?”

“It’s no big deal. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Buying a convection oven, and it is a big deal if your wife believes you’re cheating.”

“Okay, look, I didn’t want to tell anyone or make a big fuss about it, but I’m a Big Brother. I’m hanging out with these guys because they don’t have a dad.”

Shut my mouth. “Since when?”

“Few months.”

“Oh my gosh, Henry, does Cherry know this?”

“No.” He runs his hand over his head and looks back at the boys. “She’ll flip and want to start trying for a baby.” Henry switches his gaze up to meet mine. “Part of this is me testing the kid waters. You know, seeing if I even want kids. So, please, don’t tell her.”

“Henry, I won’t, but you have to. She can’t go on thinking you’re cheating.”

He flinches. “I’ll tell her.”

“Do you realize the night you told her you were having dinner with Foster Spears, she ran into him at Blockbuster?”

He utters a sour word.

I press my hand to his arm, a soft spot forming in my heart for him.

“You best fix this.” Then I smile and pat his cheek. “Well, well, Cindy Lou Who, my brother the Grinch has a heart after all.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Wednesday, August 29
Chicken Pot Pie
Green Salad
Yeast Rolls or Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sweet Potato Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$7.99

29

A
ndy, Mercy Bea, Paris, Russell, Luke, and I stare at the TV Dad installed a few days ago in the back corner of the Café. “Got to have Fox News running or something,” he insisted.

Now, bad news depresses my dining room: “The National Hurricane Center has issued a hurricane warning for north-central Florida. And a hurricane watch for coastal southern Georgia and South Carolina. You can expect high winds and torrential rains over the weekend.”

“A hurricane.” Mercy Bea twirls her cigarette between her fingers. “Don’t that beat all. Caroline, there goes Reminisce Night.”

“Just pray, y’all.” I mean what I say too. It beats all those years I spent talking to the stars from the ancient limbs of our live oak. How great to know Someone loves me and is truly listening. “Come on, we’ve all been through storms before.”

Paris’s hand goes up slowly. “Not me.”

Wide-eyed and white-faced, Russell squeaks, “I’m terrified.”

“It’s wind and rain.” I clap my hands. “Buck up, bubbas. Tell you what, we’ll have a hurricane party at the carriage house. We’re going to be fine. Just fine.”

She says, she says, she says.
All my cheering is sugarcoated bravado. Russell said it best:
“I’m terrified.”

Andy turns the TV volume down as early lunch customers walk through the door. Paris grabs a couple of menus and seats a group of young professionals. They are smart and classy in their business attire and thick-heeled pumps.

Standing behind the counter, I absently run my hand over my soiled apron (I dropped a plate of pancakes). Isn’t my top the one with the Tide-resistant stains? I subtly check. Yep.

One of the women, Catherine Hale, is director of marketing for the Chamber of Commerce. The other woman, Stephanie Burke, works for her dad’s insurance firm and drives a high-horse-powered, sporty convertible. I know this because she stopped behind me one day at a traffic light, bobbing to the beat of her stereo while Matilda coughed up black smoke.

On the heels of Catherine, Stephanie, and their male counterparts, I notice a dark, fleshy-face man enters the Café. A heebie-jeebie nips at me.

Mercy Bea is waiting on the professionals, so I come from around the counter. “Can I help you?”

The man points to Mercy Bea. “Waiting for her.” He settles in booth 2.

Somehow I don’t think Mercy Bea is waiting for him. She jerks back when she sees him and cuts a wide berth around booth 2 on her way to the kitchen, her gaze down the entire time.

“Caroline,” she whispers as she passes me. “Take my tables.”

“What is going on?” I stop Mercy Bea inside the kitchen door.

“Nothing. I just need to go.” She slips the professionals’ order on the slide, then unties her apron.

“Mercy Bea, hold the phone. Where are you going?”

“Caroline, you ask too many questions.” She stuffs her apron into her cubby, exchanging it for her big tote. “Andy, easy on the butter with that order.”

“Too many questions?” My forehead wrinkles. “Mercy, you’re walk-ing out, in the middle of a shift. A very strange man is waiting for you. What is going on?”

“Caroline, leave it be.” With that, she exits the back door, lighting up a cigarette as she goes.

Andy and I exchange a look.

“What was that?” he asks.

“You tell me.” I head to the dining room to tell the gentleman Mercy Bea’s gone for the day.

After lunch, I snag one of Andy’s slow-roasted beef sandwiches—he’s developing his own menu items and sauces, and this one’s a little bit of heaven touching earth—and head to the office with the money bag full of the lunch receipts.

But I’m stopped short. “Mitch.”

He rises from the spare chair. “Afternoon.”

“I thought you were in Nashville?”

“Got home yesterday, late.”

“Do you want something to eat?” I motion to the kitchen. “Andy’s new sandwiches are to-die-for.”

“I know. I’ve had the turkey and the roast beef. Are you free tonight?”

“Sure.” I plop down in my chair. “Do you notice anything weird going on with Mercy Bea? Seems she’s working on a relationship with a beady-eyed goon. What do you have in mind for tonight? Want to hang at my place? Watch a movie? Otherwise, you’ll have to pick me up. I’m sans car.”

“I’ll pick you up around six.” He pauses at the door. “Dress nice.”

My teeth are buried in my sandwich. “Dress nice?”

“Yeah, dress nice.” His sparkling smile bursts the cocoon of warm fuzzies I keep stored behind my ribs for special occasions.

“Hmmm?” I mumble, sauce-dipped roast beef dangling down the side of my jaw.

“See you at six.” And Mitch is gone.

Wait, Mitch
.
Munch-munch-munch
. How much meat is Andy put-ting in these things? Better do a cost analysis.
Munch-munch-munch
.

Swallowing, I run after him, yanking a napkin from Russell’s pile as he refills the table dispensers. Mitch is halfway to his truck parked out back.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I walk toward him. Rain clouds dominate the early afternoon. The hurricane’s calling card? “Do you mean movie-jeans- and-top nice? Sunday-skirt-and-clogs nice? Or evening-wedding-dress-with-heels nice?”

“Evening-wedding nice.”

My shoulders jerk back. “Really?”

He pops open the cab door. “See you at six.”

With sandwich sauce sticking to my hands and face, I watch Mitch drive away.

Head: Interesting development.

Heart: For once, I agree with you.

Head: What do you think he’s up to? And, we’ve agreed before.

Heart: Do we risk it?

Head: No. Stay in neutral heart.

Heart: But he’s changed. Really.

Head: Don’t make me come down there.

Heart: Ha! Like you’d win, you big bunch of gray matter.

Evening-wedding nice, huh?
How much can a girl dress up a new top and skirt from The Limited?

Back inside with my sandwich, I ponder Mitch’s mysterious invitation. Being around Mitch is one of my all-time favorite things. Yeah, it’s risky, but hope floats, doesn’t it?

Heart: We can always dream and pretend, can’t we?

Head: You get five minutes. Go.

Washing the last of my sandwich down with a slurp of cold, sweet tea, I dial Elle. Her closet is full of evening-wedding nice.

To: CSweeney

From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Call with Carlos

Caroline,

Carlos would like to speak with you. What time would work?

Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Re: Call with Carlos

Haz,

Why?

Caroline

Elle is meeting me at five with a selection of dresses. But, really, Mitch should know better than to spring something like this on a blue-collar café girl like me.

My nails are ratty, my hair is long and uneven, and I’m a centimeter away from a unibrow.

As I’m closing up the office, Paris brings around a long, slender box.

“These came for you.”

I smile. “Flowers?”

Her smile lights her slender face. “Red roses. Oh, Caroline, don’t be mad. I just had to peek.”

“Who would send me red roses?” Weakly, I reach for the box. In twenty-eight years, I’ve never received flowers, let alone red roses.

“Maybe J. D. is trying to get you back.” Paris surrenders the box, almost reluctantly.

J. D.? My hope sinks at the idea. It’d be a sweet, but futile gesture.

I slip off the red ribbon and lift the box’s lid. Silky, fragrant red roses lie on a bed of baby’s breath. Paris and I gasp together.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Who, who, who?” Paris bobs up and down, tugging at the tissue paper for a card or note.

Finding the card tucked along the side, I tear open the tiny enve-lope. There’s only one line on the card. No salutation, or signature. Just one line.

“Oh, it must be good; you’re crying.” Paris wrings her hands, leaning to peek. Her long blonde ponytail slips over her shoulder.

I press the card to my chest. “Give me a moment, Paris, please.”

“Sure, sure. Guess I’ll get to my side work.”

As she leaves, steamy and hot tears erupt like Old Faithful.

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

The words sink deep as I mutter them over and over. Daily, I’m growing to understand the life and power of these words.

Blowing my nose on the used sandwich napkin, I laugh to myself. Should I be freaked out? God sent me flowers.

Elle will be here any minute. I’m scurrying out the kitchen door, locking up and dashing for the house, when Mercy Bea pops out of nowhere.

I jump sideways. “Didn’t you go home?”

“No, I just clocked out.” She clicks her nails. A cigarette angles up from her fingers. The wind gusts shove tree branches around and stirs the dead leaves on the ground.

“What’s going on?” I try to read the emotion in her eyes. “Is this about the man who came to the Café?”

She smiles, but her lower lip trembles too much. “I need money, Caroline.” She jams the cigarette between her lips and takes a long, hard drag. A burning menthol fragrance fills the air. A plume of smoke exits her lips.

“And he’s your banker?”

“Can we go inside? I need a tea.” Mercy Bea taps ashes to the dirt and sand.

“S-sure.”

We sit in the large corner booth, and while Mercy Bea fixes two iced teas and divides the last of an apple crumb pie into two pieces, I ask God to help Mercy Bea.

She slides into the booth, with our tea and pie. “Jones used to help me out now and then . . . with money. I’m sure it was one of his many habits that didn’t help the Café.”