Sweet Caroline (33 page)

Mercy Bea shakes her head with an
mm-mm-mm
, tapping in the hook and looping the light cord over it. “Wonder what got into your mama.”

“I don’t know, but it’s time for new memories and new traditions, starting with this Christmas. I have a feeling it’s going to be my best one yet.” A bolt of electric excitement zaps my middle as I think of the crews’ surprise.

She glances down at me, her face pinched. “This Christmas? The best? Girl, after letting that hunk Mitch get away—which, by the way, I still can’t believe. Today’s the first day I’ve seen you smile without a frown behind your eyes.”

“Yeah, well, life isn’t always what we want it to be.” Getting over Mitch is taking more sleepless nights than I imagined, but today during church, I decided:
God, I trust you
. Peace came, and so far it’s winning the war on worry.

“What’s so special about this Christmas?” Mercy Bea asks, dragging the box of Christmas decorations down to the next section of porch.

“You’ll see.” It’s all I can do not to burst with the sheer thrill of my secret.

To: CSweeney, JesslovesRay

From: Elle Garvey

Subject: Operation Wedding Day

Okay, y’all, Operation Wedding Day is closed for Christmas. I want
this to be a happy time, celebrating with friends and my family. Why
purposefully risk depressing myself with a dateless holiday season. Or
worse, remember it as How the Geeks Stole Christmas.

Caroline, I sold the sketch of you today. Half goes to you. Merry
Christmas.

So, let’s get this holiday season started. I say girls’ Christmas party
at my place, gift exchange, and fun food. What do you say? I’ll make
up a party list and send it to you. I heard Carrie Campbell just
moved back to town. Too fun. Haven’t seen her in far too long.

Love, Elle

By the first week of December, my flight to Barcelona is booked. Hazel and I have chatted a dozen times about travel plans and living arrangements. She hooked me up with the company that moved her belongings. I don’t have much, but the armoire is coming with. She sympathized with me over Mitch, while commending me for making a bold decision.

Naturally, she informed Carlos. My stock soared.

In the evenings, I’m cleaning out the carriage house. Daddy and Posey agreed to take Jones’s furniture for the sunroom they’re adding onto the house, and his books. When Posey got a close look, her eyes rolled back in her head and she drooled.

Except the Bible. That goes with me.

Cherry wanted his antique chest of drawers and footlocker. She and Henry are doing so well, and we never talk about the night Cherry came into my office afraid for her marriage.

Tonight, I must decide about Jones’s old records. Tapping my cell phone gently against the palm of my hand, I pause, knowing what I want to do, but nervous to try.

Inhaling, I dare myself to dial. I’m surprised when he answers.

“I didn’t expect this call.”

“Hey, Mitch, how are you?” As I walk toward the bookshelf, nervous tension chills my fingers.

“Doing well. What’s up?”

The tenderness his voice used to carry for me is missing. Now his tone is the one he uses with all his regular friends. But, I made my choice. I won’t lament it.

“I’m packing up the carriage house. I wondered if you wanted Jones’s old LPs.”

“Really? I’d love to have them. Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas.” I run my finger along the shelf ’s edge.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Will I see you before I go?”

“I don’t know.”

I swallow. “Oh, of course. Well, then I guess this is Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

“Guess so.” There’s resolve in his voice. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too. I’ll drop the albums off at your folks’.”

“I hope Barcelona is all you want it to be, Caroline.”

I want to remind him of how much I love him, but I don’t. “So, see you around?”

“See you around.”

Two days later, Kirk calls. “Judge granted our petition. Probation is closed. Congratulations.”

My skin tightens with excitement. “So this is it.”

“On to phase two. Dale and Roland want to set a time to come down and close the deal. They’re ready to hand you a check.”

“They divided the money, right?”

“Confirmed it with them yesterday. After taxes and my fee, taking out ten-grand bonuses for Russell, Luke, and Paris, the remainder is divided evenly between you, Andy, and Mercy Bea.”

Is my smile breaking my face? “I’m putting their checks in their Christmas cards.”

“They’re going to flip.”

“Thank you, for everything, Kirk.”

“Caroline, it’s been an honor. Never met anyone like you.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Monday, December 17
Country Omelet
Shrimp Grits
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sausage, Bacon, Country Ham
Fried Apples
Eggnog
Tea, Soda, Coffee.
$7.99

37

A
t three in the morning, I’m wide-awake. Today is my last day as owner of the Frogmore Café. By the afternoon, Jones’s legacy will be in the Buzz Boys’ hands. Trying to sleep when I’m restless is annoying, so I get up. Andy will be along in an hour anyway. Might as well get ready and head over to the Café, get the coffee started.

The morning is calm and quiet, but clean, cold, and exhilarating. I plug in all the Christmas lights, then sit in the breakfast-club boys’ booth.

The Café is quiet—no moans or creaks—as if sitting with me in soli-darity.
Thank you, Caroline.

In the warm, white glow of the lights, the worn places in the Café disappear. The vinyl booths shine like new, and the walls aren’t dirty and dull. I’m lost in a sleepy thought when a loud bang resonates from the front door. Jumping awake, I peer through the window.

Mitch is on the other side.

Unlocking the door, I step aside for him to enter, leaning against the frame. “Hey.” My heart
thud-thuds
when his clean, showered scent kisses my nose.

“Hey.” He brushes my arm with his fingers. “I saw the lights . . .”

“You just happened to be up and about?” Should it feel odd to see him at the Café, so early, on selling day? Yes, but somehow it doesn’t.

“Something like that. Elle e-mailed today was the day.”

Figures. “Coffee?” I walk over to the counter, but he remains by the door. Is he going to leave? Stand there staring at me? Get hit in the back-side at 8:02 when the breakfast-club boys arrive?

“Last call for coffee.”

Finally, he steps toward the counter. “If you have a pot going, I guess one cup would be all right.”

The coffee’s not going, but it will be in a second. He sits at the counter as I scoop sparkling grounds into the filter, watching me, man-aging confidence and vulnerability in a single expression. The race of my pulse slows so my emotions can rise up and take over.

Heart: He looks good. How can we leave him?

Head: And in twenty years, how will he look? Like the one who robbed
us of Barcelona? Stay the course, heart. Stay the course.

“Everything’s all set, then?”

“Yes, just formalities, signing papers . . . and stuff.” Two feet from me, and I can’t throw my arms around him or feel his lips caressing mine. Two feet from me and I “miss” him.

For a few seconds, only the coffeemaker speaks, gurgling and exhal-ing the fresh-brewed aroma of Santa’s White Christmas.

“Say,” I finally venture, “your new album is going well?”

He picks at the corner of the paper placemat. “The new songs are going down great. Recent events in my life make for great lyrics.”

“Oh—” I reach under the counter for a couple of mugs. What am I supposed to say to that? “I wish you many number one hits.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

Silence interjects itself again, though not strong enough to cover the subconscious murmur of wonder between Mitch and me. Like,
Is this it?
We’re over? What will we do in a year? Do you still love me?

“I dropped Jones’s records at your parents’ last night.” I had to say something.

Mitch circles his mug on the countertop between his hands. “Ah, my consolation prize: antique albums. Mitch O’Neal, what do you win? The girl? No, but a hundred scratchy vinyl albums of great country crooners bemoaning the loves they lost.” He sweeps his arm through the air, his voice deep like a game-show host.

Daggum, but he ticks me off. Want to play jilted lover? I own the game, wrote the rules. “And what did I win all the years you were seeking fame and fortune in Nashville, hmm? When you took beauty queens to country tributes and award shows? Heartache, Mitch.” I slam the counter with my hand. “Heart. Ache. You’ve had a few weeks of disappointment. I’ve had years of a dull, yet pulsating, longing. Like a toothache that can be ignored, yet persistent enough to make its presence known. Then, when I finally move on, finally do something for myself, here you come.”

“Oh, don’t play the ‘poor me with no life’ card. You could’ve left just like the rest of us. But you chose to stay and baby-sit your family, be Miss Goody Help Everyone. You didn’t have to work for your dad, or Henry, Mrs. Farnsworth, or Jones.”

“And you could’ve asked me to marry you nine years ago, Mitch. But you didn’t. You wanted your freedom, your chance. Maybe I came to the game during the fourth quarter, but I’m on the field and can smell a touchdown.”

“Caroline—”

Too late to “Caroline” me now. “No, Mitch, no. Don’t you dare come in here accusing me, throwing your pity party. If you want me, then wait for me. Like I waited for you. Not knowing when or if you’d ever come back. Man, I’m sick of this—”

I jerk the full coffeepot from the BrewMaster and slosh steaming black java into Mitch’s mug. “Still take it black, right?”

“You can change your mind.” It’s a statement buoyed with sugges-tion. “Yes, black.”

I fill my own mug with black java. “Mitch, I never thought I’d say these words to you, but I don’t want to change my mind. I’ll go crazy if I stay here and pass up this chance. Every time I think of going, excitement bubbles up in me. A feeling I’ve never had before, and something tells me it’s a God thing. As new as I am to God things . . . I’m going to give Him a chance to use me, change me.”

He grips the mug without drinking. “That’s how I feel every time I think of marrying you.”

My wind rushes out like I’ve been punched. “Then, Mitch, wait for me.”

Oh, for a heart-pounding second, I’m flushed with passion and con-sider grabbing his face and kissing him until he can’t breathe. Instead I dump a pound of cream and sugar in my mug. “So where are we?”

Picking up his coffee, he still doesn’t drink. “You tell me. Where does a couple go after, ‘Will you marry me?’ is followed by a ‘No’? Feels pretty much like a dead end.”

“Mitch, are you saying this is it?”

A loud tap at the door halts the conversation, piercing the tension. Mitch tucks away his response as I go to open the door. Dupree barges in. Seeing him causes my vision to blur under a watery sheen.

“Is it 8:02 already?”

“Close enough.” The ex-Marine unwraps his muffler—thick enough to keep an Eskimo warm—and drapes it over the coat rack.

“Coffee?” I ask, following him to the counter.

“Does a sheik have oil?” Dupree takes the stool next to Mitch. “Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about you leaving, Caroline. Good to see you, Mitch. I see you couldn’t kiss her into staying.”

Mitch shakes his head with a guarded gaze at me. “Gave it my best.”

“Well, what’re you going to do? Women are tough creatures to fig-ure out.”

Another tap resounds against the door as I pour Dupree’s coffee, half wishing Mitch would leave. Otherwise, I might just break.
Jesus, a little
help for Your friend, please.

Pastor Winnie and Luke are at the door this time. “More early birds?”

“Dupree called.”

“Caroline, thanks for the coffee.” Mitch rises from the counter stool. “Merry Christmas, fellas.”

“Leaving so soon, boy?” Winnie asks, taking the stool next to Dupree.
“I was hoping for a Christmas tune when I saw you sitting there.”

Mitch cuts a glance at me. “Another time. Don’t feel much like music today, Winnie.”

“I hear you, I hear you. Sad day for us all, losing Caroline.”

“A sad day for us all.”

Mitch leaves with a backward glance, allowing a flicker of good-bye in his eyes.

See you, Mitch.

By the time Andy arrives at four thirty, the four of us are good and caffeined up. I hide in the ladies’ for a good, solid, snot-running cry—just couldn’t hold it in any longer—then ordered a batch of eggs, bacon, and grits for the house. As dawn breaks over the lowcountry, I spend my last morning as owner of the Frogmore Café reminiscing with some of my best friends anywhere, while aching for the one who recently said good-bye.

At four p.m., Kirk arrives for the signing-away-of-the-Café. He’s jittery, never looking directly at me. His black suit is dot-ted with lint and dust.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep. Fine.” He starts arranging tables and chairs. “Let’s shove these two tables together. Sit here instead of the booth.”

“Ah, Kirk, we can’t give up the booth. We’ve done all our business there,” I tease. “I’m sort of sentimental about it.”

“It’s ridiculous for us to slide in together. We can’t get out without making everyone move.” Kirk’s briefcase thumps against the tabletop.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” A terrifying thought crossed my mind. “The Buzz Boys aren’t changing their minds are they, or lowering the price?”

“No, no. How about coffee and water on the table, eh?”

A few minutes later, the Christmas bells ring out. The Buzz Boys enter with their lawyer, Laurel the Amazon.

From the kitchen doorway, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Luke and Paris hover, watching the big deal go down.

Dale is Buzz-Boy cheery. “Caroline, isn’t this fantastic? Such a win-win.” He looks over at the watching and waiting crew. “We’re going to take care of y’all.”

I gesture for Paris to bring the baskets of biscuits and jam.