Sweet Caroline (17 page)

On the riverwalk, a man holds up an air horn. “Ready?” he calls.

“Oars up,” I call like a good captain.

The Marines are stiff, poised with their oars about a foot above the water.

I refuse to be intimidated.

The air horn blasts. My heart careens into my chest. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Adrenaline spikes my voice an octave or two. And I don’t care.

We move forward,
wow
, with surprising swiftness, gliding over the water.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I repeat.

“My oar! I dropped my oar.” Mercy Bea. Good grief. Behind us, her paddle floats on top of the water. “I can get it.”

“Mercy Bea, no. Leave it.”

Too late. As she stretches back, her hand slips off the side of the raft, and in she goes, head first.

“Start treading, Mercy Bea.” The Jet-Ski guys will rescue her. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

A few more strokes and we are halfway to the finish line. I look back to see the Death Dogs have not left the start line.
What gives?

“Keep going.” I cheer my team. “We’re winning.”

The breakfast-club boys stroke hard, putting their lean muscle into it.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Hope abounds in my heart. We’re going to win this thing.

The crowd watching along the riverwalk goes bananas. The weak- lings from the Café are smoking the Marine Death Dogs. Even if they launched right now—

“Stroke!”

I whip around to see the Death Dogs oars in the water, pulling in unity.

“Stroke.” The captain’s voice explodes in the sunny, Beaufort air. Another unified pull and the Death Dogs are practically halfway to us.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I yell, sounding every bit like a doggy chew toy. “Go, y’all. Go.”

The muscles in Mitch and Andy’s back ripple. The breakfast-boys grunt. We surge ahead. The finish line is right in front of us. I can
taste
it.

“Stroke.” The Death Dogs’ raft glides alongside ours.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I holler, my voice weakening along with my hopes.

“Stroke.” The Death Dogs shoot past us.

My mouth drops as I watch, stunned.

“Stroke.” One last pull and they power right over the finish line. The waterfront crowd watches in stunned amazement.

Dupree jumps up. “I’m bringing y’all up on charges of insubordination.”

Miss Jeanne yanks on his swim trunks. “Sit down, old man, and hush up.”

Being bossed by an old woman doesn’t sit well with Dupree any more than being beat by a raft of younger Marines.

“Don’t touch me, Jeanne.” Dupree jerks away from her, twisting to his right, catching his foot on Luke’s paddle. He stumbles. Arms flail. And over the side he goes. He comes up sputtering and cursing—again.

The Death Dogs celebrate in macho silence, raising their oars over their heads and barking, “
Semper Fi
.”

Dupree wags his fist. “
Semper Fi
this.”

Pastor Winnie leans over, plants his hand on Dupree’s head, and shoves him under.

SATURDAY-NIGHT SPECIAL

July 21—Final Performance
Mitch O’Neal at the Frogmore Café
Last Day of the Water Festival
Appetizers, Tea, and Soda

20

T
he last Saturday morning of the Festival, in the midst of a three-hour breakfast rush, I walk through the kitchen, sweating. “Did we forget to turn on the air?” Unthinkable, but I have to ask.

Between last Saturday’s raft race and Mitch’s nightly appearances, the Frogmore Café is back on the Beaufort dining circuit. Business picked up Tuesday and we’ve been busy all day, every day since.

We’ve done nothing but work and sleep. J. D.’s popped in most afternoons, dragged me back to the office for a little light necking, then left me breathless and, well, slightly heated. The man does things to me.
Clearly, I’m not fifteen anymore. Wonder if the blue-light special speech has
a statute of limitations?

But right now, I have heat issues of a different kind. Mercy Bea hov-ers over Andy’s oscillating fan, arms spread like bird wings. “Caroline, I think the air’s broken.”

“You’re not serious.” I check the thermostat while Luke drags a step stool under the vent. “Eighty-eight.”

“Nothing coming out, Caroline.” Luke jumps off the stool.

“No, no, not today.” I head out the door. “Not today.” Sure enough, the rusty AC unit sits in the afternoon sun, frozen.

We throw open the doors, click the ceiling fans to high, and send Dupree out for emergency fan buying. But by the evening, the Café is just too hot.

I call Dad’s AC guy, but his cell message says he’s “Boating. Back on Monday.”

So, in the very hot Café, Mitch prepares for his final night. He’s so gracious and fantastic about the heat. In fact, he’s been great all week. Last night he even helped carry out the trash—I let the crew clock out a little before eleven— and gave me a God talk.

Slinging the first trash bag into the dumpster: “Just because things aren’t going well, Caroline, it doesn’t change the fact He loves you. Don’t assign your mama’s weaknesses to God.”

I handed him the next bag. “I’m not. But when will I know God is on my side or whatever?”

He tossed the second bag of trash. “Just takes faith.” Dusting off his hands, he stared toward the amber bloom of the street lamps. “When I was twelve Dad signed me up for church camp. Did I ever tell you this? He really ticked me off and I stayed ticked off. On the last night of camp, there was a consecration meeting. All the parents came to witness their children pledging their lives to Jesus and His service.

“Dad was one of the speakers and I determined
not
to pledge my life. I wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction. The preacher’s kid—” He exhaled. “What a brat.”

I dug my clog’s heel into the sand-and-shell parking lot. “Did you embarrass your dad?”

“No, actually, God embarrassed me.” He gazes down. Half his face is lit by the moon glow through the trees. “And I deserved it.”

“So much for the kind, loving, compassionate God your daddy talks about.”

“Don’t get confused, Caroline. God is all of those things and more, but when an arrogant teen digs in his heels, sometimes a good exposing is the only thing that gets his attention. There I was, standing stone still during worship. But one song into the set, God whacked me. I mean,
wham
!” He slapped his chest. “He invaded every pore of my being. Next thing I know, I’m face-first on the ground, bawling like a newborn calf.” He laughed. “They could hear me all the way down to the lake. After that night, Caroline, I knew. Jesus loved me and there was no denying Him. But I sure as heck could run.”

One last bag of trash. “You never told me this before.”

He tossed it. “And you never told me about the pink room with the blue clouds.”

“It’s not a fun memory. Who do you think told your dad?”

He slung his arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the Café. “Jesus, I reckon. You’re going to have to give on this Jesus thing, Caroline. He’s pursuing you. Now, you can accept it, or be like me. A running fool.”

Easier said than done.

Back to the death of the AC—if it had to break, tonight was the best night. The Water Festival’s Commodore’s Ball is going on across the road at Waterfront Park, and even the wonderful Mitch O’Neal can’t draw a large crowd. By eight, my crew is sweating and begging to meet their family and friends at the Ball.

“Go, go. Have fun.” We had to shut down the kitchen anyway on account of the heat. I can handle serving a few iced teas and sodas.

“Looks like it’s just you and me in the room tonight.” I hand Mitch an ice-packed mason jar of tea.

He pauses from tuning his guitar for a gulp of tea. “I’ve faced worse.”

“It’s been a great week. Thank you.”

“Did you make money?”

“We’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to sort it out. I’ve just been putting the money in the safe each night. But, I’ve gone to a third money bag.”

Mitch raises a brow. “A third money bag?”

I laugh. “I know, big deal, right? But before this week, I could keep an entire month’s revenue in one money bag and hardly tell the differ-ence between the empty ones.”

A little after eight, the house is half-full. I set pitchers of water, tea, and soda on all the tables and tell folks to help themselves, on the house.

After that, I perch on a counter stool with a mini fan blowing directly on me, ready to listen to Mitch, undistracted for the first time all week. I would’ve liked to have done something with music—learned an instrument. But Daddy worked long days and Mama was too unpredictable to schedule lessons.

“Thank y’all for coming out tonight,” Mitch says, starting the set.

The audience applauds.

“Caroline is your server. Take good care of her. She’s an excellent woman.” His gaze fixes on me.
The vibe again
. What is up?

The Christmas bells ring as the front door opens. Pastor O’Neal crosses the threshold. I hop off the stool.

“Pastor, welcome.”

He tips his head toward my ear. “I came to hear my boy. Is there a table?”

“Y-yes.” I motion to a table near his son.

Mitch hesitates for the slightest second. “Everyone, please welcome my dad, Pastor Eli O’Neal.”

Again, the crowd applauds.

“Can I get you anything?” I whisper to Pastor O’Neal.

He shakes his head. “Just want to hear my famous son.”

My gaze locks with Mitch for a moment. I’m almost disappointed the Café isn’t packed like the previous nights. But by the expression on Mitch’s face, this moment is worth more than a packed Café or even a stadium of fifty thousand.

“Dad . . .” Mitch’s voice fades a little, but he holds on. “It’s an honor to have you here.” He looks out over the dining room. The guests’ smiles seem permanently fixed. “Anyway, I want to play this new tune for you. It’s called ‘Caroline.’”

Back on my stool, I sit straight.
Me, Caroline?

The bells clank and jingle again. In walks Elle, whom I haven’t seen all week, with Chris Barry. One of the victims on her list.

I smile and give her a thumbs-up. She gives me a curled lip. I wince.
Sorry, not good?

No . . .

As Mitch plays, the music swirls around me, and I feel like I’m taking a cool dip in a clear, blue pool at the end of a hot day. His voice is rustic, yet sophisticated, and perfectly pitched. I forget time and space. Mitch’s music reached into the unseen and capture the melodies of the lowcountry.

Sing to me, Caroline

A lowcountry lullaby

Sunday afternoon a banging on the front door wakes me from a sound sleep. Groggy, I stumble to the door. Able to finally pull the plug on a whirlwind Water Festival, I crashed a little after one this morning and am not yet ready to face the day.

Dad stands on the front porch. “I came to check out the Café’s AC unit.”

“How’d you know?”

“Ran into Elle.”

“Ah . . . I called the AC guy, Dad. Hopefully, he’ll be able to stop by tomorrow.” My brain is fuzzy, my thoughts thick. “Want something to drink?” Schlepping to the kitchen, I jerk open the fridge door. It’s empty. Not even a bottle of water.

“No, I’m good. Let’s go look at the AC. I bet all it needs is a swift kick. Save you a repair bill.”

A swift kick? “But of course.” Dad’s solution to everything is a swift kick. Even for Henry and me on occasion.

Still in my pajamas, I follow Dad across the Café parking lot. He circles the rusty AC unit, stooping and squinting. Sniffing.

“Dad, you’re ridiculous.” I cross my arms and yawn. “I don’t see how a swift kick is going to fix this thing, but, hey, free meals for a month if you get it running. Andy won’t last long in a hot kitchen without central air.”

“Shh.” Dad presses his ear against the grate over the unit’s fan, then shakes the rusty monster, analyzing the rattle. “Hmmm . . .”

My dad, the AC whisperer.

Nevertheless, he has me curious. I tilt my head to listen.
Speak to me,
AC.
Nothing. I hear nothing.

“All right, here we go.” He draws back his leg, then—
BAM!—
drives his foot into the side of the metal.

With a screaming laugh, I jump sideways. “Dad!”

The monster shudders. Dad draws back and swift-kicks again.
WHAM!

Unbelievable. “You’re going to break your toe.”

The monster shudders. The fan spins once, then stops. “Come
on
,” Dad yells with a precise pound on the unit with his fist.

Whishhhh.
The fan starts to spin and a nice, gentle whir fills the air.

I stare at him. “No way.” In all his swift-kicking days, I’ve never seen Dad do this.

He dusts his palms. “Had a twig or something in there, gumming up the works.”

“Dad, this is nothing short of a miracle.”

He hitches up his shorts while puffing out his chest. “Ain’t nothing to it.”

Since he’s here and
fixing
things, might as well see if he can swift-kick the plumbing.

In the soft light of day, I discover the Café is a disaster. Three bro-ken chairs, a hole in the front wall, a cracked mirror in the ladies’ room (I don’t want to know), a sink coming off the wall in the boys’ room (I really don’t want to know), and a tear in the threadbare carpet. A tear!

In the ladies’ room, I flush one of the toilets to show Dad how it floods. As we watch the water swirl over the rim of the bowl and onto the floor, Dad settles his hands on his hips. It’s then I notice he’s not wearing faded, holey jeans, nor his trademark plain T-shirt and loosely laced work boots.

No indeed. He’s wearing an ironed, oversized button-down with khaki shorts and Top-Siders. My stepmother is a miracle worker.

“You best call Stu,” Dad says.

“Stu? What about a swift-kick?” Toilet water oozes around my flip-flopped feet. “Come on, Dad, give it a good kick. Maybe all it needs is to loosen up a stuck twig or, you know, a
log
.” I can’t help it, I had to say it.

Dad looks at me with wide-eyed disgust. “Good grief, Caroline. Mind yourself.”

Crawling back into bed a few minutes later, I’m still laughing.