Sweet Caroline (9 page)

The breakfast-club boys finally mosey over. “You let her go, didn’t you?” Luke pats my shoulder.

“Yes.”

They stare off in different directions, coughing, hacking, and sniffing until Dupree claps his hands on Luke and Winnie’s shoulders. “Well, it was a good twenty years, boys.”

My stomach knots. My skin is both clammy and hot. “Dupree, Luke, you understand, right? Pastor Winnie?”

Winnie juts out his chin and rolls back his shoulders. “S-sure we do. Sure.” His sad expression tells me otherwise.

They stand around for another awkward moment; then Dupree remembers he has to take his wife “somewhere.”

So, this is what it feels like to be a heel. Not that I ever really wanted to know. But I can’t keep the Café. When will a man like Carlos Longoria ever want to work with me again?

As I head for the kitchen, I spot Mercy Bea on the other side of the waiter’s station, wiping her eyes.

“Hey—”

“Eight years, ended, just like that, with a flash of a hundred-dollar pen.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“For who? You?” She storms off.

Ho, boy.
Mustering my courage, I hunt for my big-hearted cook. “Andy?”

No answer. I check the pantry. “You here?” Still no answer. The kitchen feels cold and abandoned. Regret strangles my heart from some dark inner place.

In the office, I flop down in the chair, which rocks back with a jerk, almost dumping me to the floor. This chair I won’t miss, nor the clutter and dust.

I glance at the clock. Ten thirty.

Why isn’t Andy banging around in the kitchen?

I get up and stand in the doorway. The Café is spooky and silent—as if no one ever lived here, laughed, or loved here.

The foundation isn’t moaning, nor the eaves creaking.

My heartbeat drums in my hears. “Andy?”

The electricity buzzes, then browns out.

I can’t do it. I can’t.

Running through the dining room, I jerk open the front door so hard the Christmas bells crash against the glass. “Kirk.”
I’ve changed my
mind. Wait.
I dash to the curb, looking both ways down Bay Street. But the lawyer’s Lexus is long gone. “Kirk.”

Phone. I’ll call him. I pat my pockets. Where’s my phone? A dash back inside, tripping on the carpet by the wait station, then crashing into a lowboy.

In the office, I jerk my backpack from the bottom desk drawer.

“Kirk, Kirk, Kirk,” I mutter, searching my cell-phone book for his number. Dang, it’s not in there. I launch Outlook and scroll through the address book. “Kirk Harris, Kirk Harris . . . there.” My hands shake as I dial.

7 . . . 6 . . . 3 . . .

It takes forever to ring—I could’ve rocketed to the moon—and bounces right away to voice mail. Sweat breaks out under my arms.

“Kirk, it’s Caroline. I-I’ve changed my mind. I-I can’t close down the Café. It’s not too late, right? Please tell me it’s not too late. It’s only been a few measly minutes.” Tears fizz in my eyes. “W-we can talk about selling. To the right person. You know, when the time is right. After the probate. Kirk. Please. You should’ve seen
their
faces.”

The message beeps and cuts me off. I press End and toss my phone to the desk.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: The Frogmore and me

Dear Hazel,

I tried to do it. Let the Café go. But I couldn’t. As soon as I signed
the papers and the lawyer left, I felt sick. Hazel, you should’ve seen
their faces—the breakfast-club boys, Andy and Mercy Bea—the
expression of abandonment. I’ve seen it on Henry’s face a dozen
times. Whoever said responsibility was fun or easy? But it’s honor-able,
right? After probate, I can look into selling it. Who knows,
maybe I’ll take to the Café life.

Hazel, don’t be mad. Please, give my apologies to Carlos. I am
grateful he wanted to work with me. But, in the end, I felt the old
Frogmore deserved better than being sold at auction.

Regretfully, Caroline.

At four thirty, I’m alone in the Café. Kirk hasn’t returned my call and I’m pleading with the stars that he didn’t file the papers on his way to the golf course.

Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell finished their side work and left with-out saying good-bye, and frankly, I don’t blame them. I cost them their jobs.

The Café rebukes me now with moaning and creaking. The old AC bangs and rattles.

“All right, Caroline,” I coax myself. “What’s done is done. Stand by your decision.”

So, I finish the day’s deposit with my eyes welling up and blurring the numbers. Before shutting down the computer, I check to see if Hazel e-mailed. She didn’t, but there’s an incoming from Sheree over at the Water Festival.

To: CSweeney

From: ShereeLambert@bftwater…

Subject: Water Festival Raft Race

Caroline,

Saw the
Gazette
article. If you’re actually the new owner of the Café,
think about pulling together a team for the Raft Race. The applications
are due the end of June so you have a little bit of time. You need
eleven people.

The raft race is well attended, fun, and would be great publicity.
Might be a way to get the Frogmore Café back in everyone’s
mind.

Back in the day, Jones was a big supporter of the Festival.

Think about it. I’ve attached the application.

Sheree

The Water Festival raft race? Who’s she kidding? Eleven people? Where would I . . . A grin springs reluctantly to my lips. Actually, the race would be fun. Too bad I didn’t get to Kirk in time.

I click Reply.

Thanks, Sheree. I’ll think about it.

Caroline.

“Anyone here?”

I bolt out of the desk chair. “Hello?”

“Caroline?” A muffled voice calls from the dining room.

“Who’s here?” Passing the prep table, I snatch a spatula for protection. Just in case. “Kirk?”

Yep, it’s Kirk, at the back booth, rear in the air. I’d recognize his wrinkles from any angle.

“What are you doing?”

His head pops up. “Oh, Caroline, have you seen my phone? I dropped it somewhere.”

“So that’s why you didn’t return my call.”

“Aha, here it is.” Kirk dives below the table, retrieving his RAZR phone. “What call?”

“I changed my mind.” The words fire out of my mouth. “I don’t want to close down the Café.”

Kirk glances up from checking his missed calls. “Are you sure?”

“Y-yes, for now. Like you said, after probate I can see about selling, right? But I can’t let you put her on the auction block.”

He flattens the phone to his ear, holding up his finger, listening. Then, clapping his phone shut, he walks right past me. “I’m late. Got to go.”

“Kirk,” I holler, incredulous. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, you changed your mind.”

“And?”

“I figured you would.” He grins. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Caroline. I’ll shred the documents when I get to the office.”

“Thank you, Kirk. Thank you.” I rub my bare arms.

“Listen, just so you have a mental back door, I told my golfing bud-dies about this place. They love Beaufort and are keen on investing here. It’s the new retirement haven. And, Caroline, their pockets are very deep.”

“Really. Okay, then, so”—I fan out my arms—“the Café is mine.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “And the carriage house. Have fun.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Congratulations, Caroline!
Monday, June 18
Country-Fried Steak
Taters and Gravy
Bacon-Wrapped Green Beans
Salad
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sweet Caroline Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$8.99

11

Dad and Posey arrived home from the Bahamas Sunday with very big smiles and beautiful tans. I like what I see in Dad’s eyes—love. It gives me hope.

After shocking them with the I-own-the-Café-and-gave-up-Barcelona story, I revived them with CPR and asked if they’d like to help me move into the carriage house Monday evening.

“Newlyweds don’t need the man’s grown daughter hanging around.” Monday, Mitch calls while we’re packing up to see “what’s going on,” so I tell him to come to the house. “We need your truck.”

Since Mrs. Atwater cleaned and spiffed up the carriage house and left most of Jones’s wood and leather furniture, all I have to do is haul over my clothes, personal items, and the antique armoire I promise I’m going to restore someday. We load Mitch’s truck with clothes, books, and
stuff,
then he and Posey head over while I take one final pass of my room.

“Caroline?” Dad calls upstairs. “I’ve got the armoire roped to the truck bed. You ready?”

“Yes, ready.” At twenty-eight, I’m moving out on my own for the first time. It’s a lovely, long-overdue, frightening experience. Perhaps even more than taking on the responsibility of the Café.

Yet, as I take in my faded yellow room, I wish little girls never grew up.

“Your mama promised to paint the room pink with blue clouds, remember? And buy a lacy canopy bed.” Turning, I see Dad in the door-way.

“Don’t forget the pony galloping out of the corner.” I sweep my hand from right to left across the room. “Because all princesses need a pony.”

He smiles. “All princesses need a pony.”

Since she died four years ago, Dad and I haven’t said more than ten words about her. “Why didn’t she do it?”

Crossing his arms, he leans his shoulder against the door frame. “To spite me. Your tenth birthday was coming up, and I pressured her to fix up your room like she promised. Thought it’d be the perfect present. So we sent you and Henry to your grandparent’s for a weekend with the plan of painting your room. But Trudy spent most of the time . . . I don’t know . . . frittering. She was in one of her moods. Late Saturday, I got on her about it, said I’d do whatever she needed me to do to get it done. She exploded, said some choice words, and disappeared. I woke up Sunday morning in the recliner to her banging around up here. She’d painted the room yellow and was putting together that crummy daybed.”

“When we came home and I walked into my room, I knew. No blue clouds or pony would ever happen. I climbed the tree and cried.”

Dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Caroline. Your mom and I fought for weeks about it, but I had to let it go. Blue clouds and ponies didn’t seem worth the price of our relationship or what it was doing to you
kids. I would’ve painted it myself if I had the talent. Trudy could work wonders with a paintbrush.”

I look over at him. “I’ll take my yellow room any day as long as you’re my dad. Talent or no talent. You stayed when she didn’t.”

“I wasn’t the best dad, but I did love you kids.”

“It was obvious.” I check the closet one last time. Empty. “So, Dad, on another note, do you have any idea why Jones left me the Café?”

He absently shakes his head. “Wish I did. When I was growing up, Dad and Mama didn’t socialize with him. But after she died, Dad started his regular Friday nights down at the Frogmore.”

“I wonder if I’ll ever know. Ready? Mitch and Posey are probably there by now.”

Dad stops me in the hallway. “Caroline—” He presses his fist to his mouth, clearing his throat. “I want you to know, you were a source of comfort to me, and to your granddad. I never said thanks.”

Behind my eyes, a bottle fills with unshed tears. “No need. I only did what I saw my daddy doing.”

Moving my armoire into the carriage house is like wedging Drizella’s fat, corny foot into Cinderella’s glass slipper.

Ugly. Impossible.

“Caroline, are you sure you want this thing?” Dad mops his brow with the edge of his T-shirt sleeve. “Looks to me like the bedroom has a big closet.”

Mitch peers around the beat-up, dried-out oak armoire from outside the carriage house. The large wardrobe is stuck in the front doorway. “We could leave it here and hope someone steals it.”

Propping my hands on my hips, I sigh. “Bunch of whiners. Just move it in, please
.

”

Meanwhile, Posey works in the kitchen, putting away the glasses and dish towels she had left over from combining her life with Dad’s. “All this avocado and rust decor is giving me seventies flashbacks, Caroline.”

“Well, Mitch,” Dad says, with a sad, sorry twang of resignation, “let’s do this. One last shove.”

“All right. Like birthing a baby.”

With a low, growling grunt, Mitch shoves the wardrobe through the door, scraping off the sunflower antique-brass doorknobs. They fire like shiny bullets across the room.

“Hey, those cost me $9.88.”

Dad doesn’t call
whoa
, so Mitch just keeps driving forward.

“Mitch, Mitch, Mitch . . .”

Dad stumbles. The armoire tilts. I dart to catch it, but it crashes to the polished hardwood floor.

Posey scurries in from the kitchen. “What is going on in here? Land sakes.” She anchors her fist against her hips, a dish towel dangling from her grip. “Why didn’t you bring it in through the French doors?” We look beyond the kitchenette. “Open them up and you can drive in a tank.”

Well, a-hem, now we know.

It’s late. A tick or two before eleven o’clock. If I had known pizza tasted this good in my own place, I’d have moved years ago. At least considered it.

But today I’ve taken the first steps toward becoming the person I’m meant to be. And contrary to my lifelong belief, I’m not the Elmer’s Glue of the Sweeney family.

Who knew?

The ornery armoire is backed up against the wall between the front door and the kitchen. “We’re not getting this thing through that bed-room door,” Dad surmised earlier, mentally measuring the width of the doorway against the size of the armoire.

We decided it looked just lovely and knobless in the great room.

The carriage house is just right for a single girl. Or an old bachelor like Jones. A large bedroom and a bath off the great room, opposite the kitchen. And a smaller room that doubles as an office/den/guest room. Beside the kitchen is a built-in dinette, then a set of double French doors out to a covered brick patio.