Sweet Caroline (11 page)

“Fine, we’ll just look around. I’ll call you later.”

“Nice to meet you, Dale and Roland.”

However, Mrs. Carrington didn’t miss me. She’s in a lively conversation with Andy about the changing shrimping industry. The cook has her completely charmed.

“Sorry for the interruption.” I take my seat behind the desk.

“We got the menu planned out, Caroline.” Andy hands me a slip of paper with a got-you-covered grin. “She’s going with Jones’s popular mushroom casserole, batter-fried wings and sauces, pot roast, and chicken casseroles . . . Well, you see it all there. Some platters of veggies and cheese. Of course, shrimp in all forms.”

Yes, I see the more-than-four-hundred-dollars’ worth of food here.
Should I tell her?

Mrs. Carrington addresses me. “This is a huge event, Caroline. I cannot stress enough that everything must go perfectly. The family is spending a great deal of money to be here.”

“She said Mr. Carrington’s people have names on the Vet Wall,” Andy says.

“Really, now.”

“Winston’s parents ate at the Café once a week for thirty years until his father died. His mother hasn’t been here since, but she speaks of it so often, my husband insisted we hold the party here.”

Mrs. Carrington’s words sober me. This is not a casual hey-ho-it’s-your-birthday-hope-it’s-happy kind of party. This is celebrating a woman’s life. I reach for a wadded napkin tucked under the computer monitor and pat my brow.

“All of Claire’s—that’s my mother-in-law—children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will be here, plus her sister and brother, and their children.” Mrs. Carrington passes me a list of names. Andy reads over my shoulder. “We’d like nametags
printed
out. Some of the second cousins haven’t seen each other in years.”

Nametags? Printed? I look around at the printer on top of the filing cabinet. Is it a Dell or HP? I can’t tell under the three inches of dust. “We’ll take care of it, Mrs. Carrington.” I add it to the to-do list.

“Winston’s sister insists on bringing one of her atrocious cakes, so, Andy, make sure we have plenty of your divine masterpiece. Caroline, we’ll need candles, a cutting knife, and cake plates, of course.”

“Right.” More entering on the to-do list. “Will you want to come early to decorate?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Around four would be perfect.”

“You can count on the Frogmore Café, Mrs. Carrington.”

She stands tall, handing me a check for four hundred dollars. “See to it.”

13

Sunday morning J. D. rides with me toward Mossy Oak and Beaufort Community Church. We bob our heads to the rhythm of Keith Urban on the radio.

Oh, wait . . .
I reach out and snap it off. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to Keith on the way to God’s place.

“Hey, what are you doing? I like that song.” J. D. says. He’s sporty and handsome in a cream-colored Polo and navy Dockers.

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t we be humming a hymn or something? Like the first verse of ‘Amazing Grace.’”

J. D. flashes me his charming smile. “No, we don’t have to sing a hymn.” All right, he should know; he grew up Baptist. “Relax, Caroline, it’s church. Not the IRS.”

As we arrive, the last of the front-porch talkers are wandering inside. I slip my hair out of its ponytail, smooth out the tangles with a quick brush, then fix my lip gloss.

J. D. walks around to open my door. Taking my hand, he escorts me forward, but at the church steps, I jerk him back. “I’m nervous. It’s been ten years since I went to church—some youth event with Elle.”

The brawny deputy hooks his arm around me. “Caroline, you don’t have to go in. We can cut out and drive down to Hilton Head. Walk on the beach and eat at some old dive by the water.”

“Dive by the water? In Hilton Head?” I turn to the church doors. “I promised Mitch.”

“I appreciate that, Caroline, but skipping Sunday church when you haven’t been in over a decade isn’t going to stun anyone. You can change your mind.”

“I know—”

Actually, it’s not changing my mind that’s bothering me right now. It’s my hypocrisy. Most of the time, I doubt God. He’s the superior of the make-believes: Santa, the Easter Bunny, and Superman.

Yet, here I come, stepping into His territory.

“Y’all coming in?” An older gentleman in a suit and bolo tie stands in the door. “Service is starting.”

“Um, yeah—” I peer into J. D.’s eyes. “Hilton Head will always be there.”

“Hey, it’s your decision. I’ll do whatever you want to do.”

Mitch signals to us from the back pew. “You made it. Hey, J. D.” He doesn’t seem put off that I brought a guest.

“Look at you. Suit and tie.” I nudge Mitch with my elbow. “My, my.”

He hands me a bulletin. A thick, worn black Bible rests on his knee. “Is this seat okay or do you want to go up front by Mom?”

Surely he jests. “This seat is just fine.”

J. D. slips his arm around me as I face forward. My legs feel feeble, and my insides quiver as if I’m cold.

Mitch eyes my stiff posture. “Are you planning on running?”

“Maybe.”
I know, I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the seat, stiffer than
a dead coon
.
I’m a fish out of water here.

Up front, an overly gregarious woman in a
really
green suit welcomes us all to Beaufort Community. “Just a few reminders. Wednesday evening is potluck for the community. Be sure to invite—”

A hand touches my shoulder. I swerve around to see the dark, ten-der face of Pastor Winnie. “Good to see you here, Caroline.”

I clap my hand over his. “Hey, Pastor Winnie.”

“Mitch, son, good to see you home.” Pastor Winnie approves of him with a wink and shuffles down the aisle to a front row seat. He whispers to Luke, who turns around, scouting the back pew. When he spies me, his expression brightens.

In the surprisingly peaceful atmosphere of the church, I discover how much the breakfast-club boys feel like family.

A few rows up and over I spot Elle with her family. She has four sisters. Three are married with kids. Throw in her folks and they claim two whole pews.

The lady in the green suit is still talking, walking across the plat-form. “Do we have any visitors today?”

Tucking in close to J. D., I do my best to scoot down from view.
This
is a good reason to never go to church. They want to embarrass a person.
Stand if you’re a visitor. Walk the aisle if you’re a sinner.

Glancing up at Mitch, I shake my head and mouth, “Don’t say a word.”

Technically, I’m not a visitor. I’ve been here before.

“No visitors?” Green Suit sounds disappointed.

In the next second, a familiar voice echoes all over the sanctuary. “I’d like to introduce a visitor.”

Oh, no.
Andy. I slide down another inch and cover my face with the bulletin. “Does the whole city attend Beaufort Community?”

Mitch whispers. “They heard you were coming.”

“My boss is here. Caroline Sweeney.” Andy announces.

J. D. nudges me to sit up, and with a glare, I do. Andy beams like it’s all good.

“Welcome, Caroline.” The lady points to me. People look. The men next to me snicker.

“Tomorrow, Andy is
so
fired.”

We sing a bunch of songs I’ve never heard before, but rather enjoy. The song leader is a young kid with long hair and lots of multicolored wristbands.

When the singing is over, Pastor O’Neal takes the stage. He’s an older form of Mitch, handsome but with more seasoned, kind features and wisdom-polished words.

Mitch watches his father intently. Love and admiration have replaced contempt and impatience.

“Let’s open in prayer.” The resonance of the pastor’s words to God sober me. They’re confident. Intimate. My heart beats in rhythm to his words. I lower my chin to catch my breath.

“Are you okay?” J. D. whispers.

I nod. The sensation in my chest is odd and scary. I want to leave, but am afraid to stand.

When the sermon starts, my adrenaline rush ebbs, and I relax a little. Pastor O’Neal’s sermon sounds practiced and thought out, but he uses words like
sanctification
and
justification
in ways I don’t understand. Every once in a while Pastor Winnie shouts an amen, which is followed by the green-suit lady jumping to her feet and flapping her hand in the air. “
Weeell,
come on now, Pastor.”

So far, the shouting is my favorite part.

Then, in the middle of a sentence, Pastor O’Neal stops. It feels like the whole congregation is tossed forward—like slamming on the brakes when the yellow light flashes to red. He walks to the edge of the plat-form, taking a step down. I get the feeling he doesn’t do this every week.

“Do you want to know a real inconvenient truth? Jesus. Who do you say He is? The Christ? Savior? King? A good man? Yet He called Himself the Son of God. Is He? Truth or lie?” He feigns a shudder. “Makes people uncomfortable, doesn’t it. Why? Because if He is who He says He is, we have to do something about it. He’s the God-Man who loves you. All He requires is for you to believe in Him alone as the way to the Father and eternal life.”

Both Pastor Winnie and Green Suit are off the pew, shouting, waving their hands in the air. “Go on, say it like it is. Truth is truth. Let’s get real, Pastor.” I don’t think Pastor O’Neal needs encouragement. He appears to be revving up.

J. D. shifts around. I’m not sure he’s any more at home than I am. Mitch props his chin in his hand and watches like a kid at his first
Star
Wars
flick.

“Jesus gave up the untold, unimaginable splendor of heaven to become like you and me. Elle, it’d be like you becoming one of your paintings. Not just for a little while, but for all of eternity. For. Ever.”

My eyebrows flip up. Never heard that before.

“It’s all about love. For God so loved . . . Colby Tanner. He loves you.”

Green Suit hollers, “He do. He do. Go on, Pastor.”

Mitch’s father points to another parishioner. “He loves you, Sheila Dawson.”

Sheila Dawson is here? I crane my neck to see. Four years ahead of me in school, her rep with the boys was legendary, even to the incoming freshmen. Her head hangs low, and the woman next to her hugs her shaking shoulders.

A warmth fills my middle. This is not how I imagined church.

Pastor O’Neal grows more energized. “His love will set you free, Gary Allen.”

Five rows up, Gary sits straight and hard as a board. Next to him, his wife covers her face, but I feel her tears. Gary’s been an alcoholic and abuser for years.

Pastor pauses to gaze around the hushed room. He doesn’t seem to mind the weighty silence.

The congregation shifts after a few more seconds. Restless.

Am I the only one aware of a Presence?

In fifth grade, April Crammer’s mother held a séance during her slumber party, and a very chilling “thing” crept past me. I ran scream-ing into the next week, and never went to April’s house again.

Yet what I sense today is . . . well . . .
holy
.

“Darlene Campbell, Jesus knows your past and He loves you.” She’s a highbrow lawyer who prides herself on civic duty. But this morning, she weeps.

The pressure inside me bubbles and builds. Tears swell behind my eyes, but I refuse to release them. I’m fearful Pastor O’Neal will call my name, yet terrified he won’t. What if this all-knowing, all-seeing God doesn’t love
me
?

“We’re leaving,” I whisper to Mitch, speaking for J. D. and me. The man’s halfway out of the pew anyway.

With his eyes still closed, Mitch grabs at my arm. “No, wait.”

“Caroline Sweeney . . .” My head snaps up. Pastor O’Neal has zeroed in on me. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for years: Jesus loves you. Passionately. Since you were a little girl waiting for a pink room with blue clouds.”

My heart explodes, knocking the breath right out of me. A spark ignites on top of my head and runs down my face and neck, setting my torso on fire.

How did he know?

“Do you believe, Caroline?” Pastor asks.

Is he still talking to me?

“Caroline, do you believe He loves you?”

Slowly, I rise to my feet. J. D. settles back while Mitch bends for-ward, hands clasped over his head. “I-I don’t know.”

Pastor O’Neal is not rattled. “Fair enough.”

The moment all eyes are not on me, I stumble over J. D., exiting the pew and making for the sanctuary doors.

DAILY SPECIAL

Monday, June 25
Mushroom & Ham Casserole
Yellow Squash and Onions
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Ice cream
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99

14

L
et’s go over the Carrington plan one more time.”Andy groans. I’m sure he would love to leap over the prep table and strangle me. He tugs his white beanie low on his forehead. “Caroline, we’ve gone over and over the plan. Honey, we’re set. Stop fretting.”

“Did you see her face when she talked about this party? We— I can’t screw this up.”

“You ordered the food and supplies, right?” Andy thumps his fore-finger on the paper in front of me.

“I created an account with Sysco this morning and ordered with my credit card. Might as well bring our ordering into the twenty-first century.”

He shoves his beanie back on his head. “Sounds good. Now, I best be getting home. Gloria went back to work today and I want to help out with supper in case she’s all tuckered out.” He strides for the back door. “Sure did my heart good to see you in church.”

“Thanks for embarrassing me. I meant to fire you for it.”

“Well, so glad you didn’t, boss. Mighty Christian of you.” Chuckling, Andy bids me good night.

J. D.’s cruiser swings into the parking lot Monday evening as I step out of the carriage house on my way to meet Elle and Jess at Firehouse Books & Espresso Bar.

“Hey, beautiful.” He pops open his door. “Want to grab some dinner?” His brown eyes bore into mine as he wraps his arm around my back and hugs me against his bulky bulletproof vest. “You recovered from yesterday?”

“I’ve recovered.”

After we sped away from church, J. D. rode with me out to Daddy’s, where we launched my old boat,
Bluecloud
, and drifted on the Coosaw River for several hours. Daddy built the boat the year Mama left for good, keeping his hands busy so his mind wouldn’t go crazy. At night I’d lay awake as long as I could, peering out the window at the light coming from under the garage’s old swinging doors. Eventually, I’d drift off, then wake with a start to find the light still burning as darkness rounded the corner of night and faded toward the dawn.