Sweet Caroline (27 page)

“Roland”—Dale reaches in his tennis shorts pocket for his Palm- Pilot—“call your buddy over at the History Channel; get a story on the wall. It’d be great publicity.”

Roland stabs the air with his fork in agreement while chewing and swallowing a bite of pie. “Larkin TerBerg. Brilliant. Let’s do it.”

“The wall has already been on the History Channel,” I note.

“Excellent, we’ll use that info to get us on again.” They talk as if the Café sale is a done deal.

Clearing my throat, I decide to ask a few questions of my own before they leave.

“Dale, Roland, I’m really glad you’re interested in the Frogmore Café. She’s a town treasure. But I’d like to ask a few questions.”

Since Roland is still eating, Dale answers. “Absolutely. Ask whatever you want. We are an open book, Caroline.”

“Absolutely, Caroline, ask away. We want this to be a comfortable arrangement for all of us.” Roland motions to Paris as she hustles by with a loaded tray of drinks.
More pie.
She smiles and nods. Good girl.

“The Café founder, Jones McDermott, worked hard to develop an authentic lowcountry menu. Will you stay with the menu and motif of the business? Our cook has created some wonderful new dishes.”

“Yes, yes, sure. Oh, absolutely. Can’t see it any other way.”

“What about the staff? Andy and Mercy Bea have been here a long time. They know this place and its customers. The other three work hard. They’ll do right by you.”

“See no reason whatsoever to jettison the staff. We believe in people, Caroline. The heart of every company is the people.”

I’m starting to get a really, really good feeling selling to them.

Dale puts his arm around me. “Ease your mind. We’ll see to the staff. Like we said earlier, our plan is merely to expand the hours, fix up the inside, and convert the carriage house into a dining area.”

Roland is into the second piece of Pluff Mud Pie Paris brought. Or is it his third? And not even an inch of extra around his waist. “Maybe add a coffee bar.”

“Now you’re talking.” Mercy Bea breezes past.

Dale reaches to the counter for a napkin. “We didn’t plan on doing this today, but when you see a good thing—” He fishes a pen from his hip pocket. “It’s unofficial, but here’s something to think about.”

It was one thing to hear a million dollars. It’s another thing to see it. Dale wrote the amount on the napkin like a check. Even signed his name.

One-point-two million. My knees go weak again. “W-what if I decide not to sell?”

Yeah, and what if the world ends or Godzilla storms Beaufort?

“Then we’ll have to call in our muscle.” Roland laughs with a look at Dale.

“Our wives. They can get blood from a turnip. You think I’m lying?”

“They can’t make you sell, Caroline,” Kirk interjects softly. “They’ll offer a letter of intent by weeks’ end, right?” He glances at Dale, then Roland. “Bottom line, it means you won’t sell out from under them.”

“Okay.” Clutching the paper napkin check, I watch them go. The first brick in the sale, and a whole new life for me, is laid in the dirt.

DAILY SPECIAL

Saturday, September 1
Closed for Hurricane Howard
Will Reopen ASAP
Coming Soon: Reminisce Nite—First Monday in October
Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café
God Bless!

31

T o: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Re: Call with Carlos

Caroline,

Carlos has been out of country on business, so not sure when he
wants to call, but I told him you guys were prepping for Howard.
I’ve been singing your praises, still. Keeping hope alive.

Be safe, girl. Are you scared? I hate storms. Will keep up with the
news online.

Update: Fernando called. Totally different tone and attitude.

Upshot: dinner tomorrow night at 7:00.

“You can’t handle the truth.”

Ciao
, Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Beaufort braces for a weak category-one Hurricane

Howard. The news stations out of Savannah and Charleston urge us to execute hurricane preparedness. Howard is expected around midnight over Savannah, with the northeastern rain bands dumping buckets of rain on Beaufort. We spent Friday night, and so far most of today, prep-ping. Business is off anyway—folks are battening down or bugging out—so I closed the Café at noon.

“Howard!” Mercy Bea spits as she cleans up the last of the pots Andy used to make soups. “Why can’t our hurricane be named Esmeralda or Lillian, or heck, Mercy Bea. No, we get Howard. Before this one, Hugo.”

“What’s wrong with Howard?” I pause to wipe sweat from my eyes. Andy, Russell, and I are bringing in five-gallon water bottles from Andy’s truck. The prehurricane air is still, sticky, and hot.

Mercy Bea juts out her hip, plopping her bent wrist on her waist. “Have you ever in your life met a Howard remotely as exciting or wild as a hurricane?”

“Howard Hughes.” I undo my ponytail, comb my fingers through my damp hair, then wrap it up again.

She snorts with an exaggerated face. “How do you know Howard Hughes, Caroline? He’s dead.” She stops and gazes toward the ceiling with a wrinkled brow. “Right? Howard Hughes is dead? No, wait, he’s the guy who runs the Playboy mansion.”

Andy drops two jugs of water to the Café floor, catching the sweat on his brow with a swipe of his shoulder sleeve. “Hugh Hefner runs the Playboy place. Howard Hughes was an entrepreneur. Made movies, was into planes. And he’s dead.”

“That’s right. The DiCaprio boy played him in a movie. Too many
H
s around here. Howard Hughes, Hugh Hefner, Hurricane Howard.” She shudders and reaches for a dish towel to wipe down the pots.

Andy came to me a few days ago with an idea. “Why don’t we make up a bunch of soup, stock up on nonperishables and water. You know this storm is going to knock out power someplace. I’ll have Luke bring out the big grills, clean them up, make sure the propane tanks are full and working. We wait too long, and we won’t be able to get any supplies.”

I loved the idea. “We can feed anyone who stops by. Even cook their food for them, stuff that might go bad if they are without a fridge.”

Andy nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. And, Caroline, let’s not charge folks. Let them come on out, fellowship, and eat a good meal for free.”

Great minds . . .
“Yep. Help me get a list together and I’ll send Russell and Luke shopping.”

So, here we are, unloading supplies.

“Where do you want this stuff, Caroline?” Russell holds up several Wal-Mart bags. My credit card protrudes from his fingers. “I bought every battery packet I could find and cleaned out the flashlights. Got a bunch of matches too.”

I slip the credit card into my shorts’ pocket. “Thank you, Russell. Just put the bags in my office.”

“Caroline, if you don’t need me, I’d like to go,” he says as he comes back out of the office. “I should get my place ready.”

I check the clock. Four o’clock. Already. “Go.” I hug him. “Be safe. See you when it’s over.”

I suppose he’s not the only Café employee who has a hatch to bat-ten down. “Do you need to go?” I ask Andy and Mercy Bea.

Mercy Bea waves her hand in the air. “The boys bugged out with friends last night. I plan to find a corner in a shelter and hope Howard blows away my roach motel.”

The hollow ring of loneliness pings my heart. The echo hurts.
“Find
a corner in a shelter . . .”
“Shoo, Mercy Bea, I’m so glad to hear you’re footloose and fancy-free. I could use some company at the carriage house. How about it?”

She drops the damp dish towel in the laundry bin. “Well, if you’re scared.”

“What about you, Andy? Do you need to go?” With a working wife and children, there’s bound to be work to do at his place.

“My boys are boarding up. I need to finish up here, but then reckon I should make sure we have water and food.”

I motion to the gallons of water we brought in. “Take a couple of these.”

He whips off his cap, scratches his head, then plops his hat back down. “What about boarding up the Café and carriage house?”

Oh. Crud.

Ten minutes later, Mercy Bea and I stack plywood boards from the shed in Andy’s truck bed. Boarding up? I hate it. The Café and carriage house will be dark and claustrophobic. Then stifling when the power goes out. I’d almost choose to sit in the hammering rain and raging wind.

During Hugo, Mama went stir-crazy in our boarded-up house. She paced, then sat quietly before organizing a play of Broadway proportions, including set design, singing, and dancing— all to be Fred Astaire perfect. When we showed less-than-stellar enthusiasm, she crawled into bed and stayed there for two days. Daddy plied Henry and me with enormous amounts of junk food.

I stretch my stiff back with a deep arch and think of how that storm was the first time I realized darkness haunted my mama.

“Hey, Caroline, pay attention. No time for a break, girlie,” Andy says with a chuckle, lugging yet another board out of the shed.

I love the many-windowed Café, but I have to confess, I’m a bit bit-ter at the moment. Boarding up is going to take forever. Howard will have come and gone.

Daddy calls as Andy helps me hang the first board using the Tapcons Jones drilled into the walls years ago. Mercy Bea goes behind us, screw-ing on the wing nuts.

“You doing okay, Caroline?” Daddy asks.

“Andy and I are hanging boards.”

“And me.”

“And Mercy Bea.”

Dad hesitates. I’m sure he’s trying to picture the daughter he couldn’t get to hang up her clothes for more than a decade, lugging around ply-wood. “I’m still on a job. Posey’s waiting for me at home to board up. Come to the house when you can.”

“Thanks, Daddy, but Mercy Bea and I are going to hang out here. I want to open the Café as soon as I can for folks who need food or water.”

“All right. Call if you need anything.”

“See you when it’s over.”

Henry calls a few minutes later. “Cherry and I are helping the boys’ families. Are you okay?”

Huh? I hold out my cell phone to check the number. Yes, it’s Henry.

“I-I’m fine, thanks. You told Cherry about the boys?”

“That night. I realized how stupid I was behaving. Time to grow up.”

That sinks my last doubt. Indeed, there is a God. “Good for you.”

“This time next year, you might be an aunt.”

“Really?”

“Cherry said thanks; she felt your prayers.”

My feeble, fumbling offerings worked? “Tell her hi.”

“She loves the boys too. I’m not just a Big Brother now; we’re more like a big family. So, how’re you sitting there? All good? Need anything?”

I smile. “All good. See you when it’s over.”

A half hour later, Andy and I are halfway through boarding up the Café when his cell goes off. “Caroline, I got to go. The boys are arguing more than working. And Gloria wants me to stop by her mother’s to bring in the outdoor furniture.”

“Go, go, take care of your family.” My arms are stretched to the sides of a large square board. “I can finish up.”

Mercy Bea looks at me. “You don’t figure on me helping with these boards, do you?” She spreads out her fingers. “I already broke a nail and am about to lose another.”

The board slips from my grip and crashes against the Café. “Mercy Bea, why don’t you go home and get your things. Secure the trailer, then come on back.” I flick my wrist at the pile of boards. “Don’t worry here.” If I have to leave this side exposed, the risk will be minimal.

“I like your thinking, Caroline.” She’s off the porch and on her cell phone before I can say, “See you later.” “Allison, thank goodness . . . I need a nail repair pronto.”

A wind gust knocks against me. I lift my eyes to the darkening sky. Mountains of gray clouds loom over Beaufort.

I decide to hang a few more boards, or at least try, then see what I can do at the carriage house. Maybe I should buzz Dad back and beg, “Help.”

Hoisting the board, I aim the drilled board holes at the top Tapcons. The right side hooks onto its industrial-strength screw at an odd angle, and I can’t get it the rest of the way on, or off.

“Stupid board.”

Anchoring it in place with my knee, I spy the hammer on the stool. I reach. The plywood splinters scrape my skin. My fingertips barely cap-ture the hammer’s handle. Finally.

Gripping tight, I whack the board into submission.

“Now what did that board ever do to you?”

I whirl around. “Mitch, hey.”

“Need some help?” He slips his hand over mine, taking the hammer.

I hold his blue gaze. “I thought you were in Nashville.” I haven’t seen him since our so-called date. Seeing him now makes me realize I missed him.

“Seems I arrived home in time for the hurricane fun.” He steps in front of me; I sniff his shirt,
yumm
. “You should get hurricane shutters. Push of a button, and my place is set.”

“That’ll be a chore for the new owners.”

“You’re selling?” He easily pulls the board free, then hangs it evenly.

“Yep. Buzz Boys, Inc., sent me a letter of intent.” I spin on the wing nuts. “Want to join Mercy Bea and me for a hurricane party?”

He looks over at me. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Midnight. Peeking out the bottom of the front window where the board didn’t quite reach the end, I watch horizontal rain in the light of the street lamp—still glowing, thank God. The live oak limbs battle and twist in the surging wind, and the palmetto branches bend at a right angle.

Behind me, my little Hurricane Howard party is quiet and peaceful. Elle decided to join the festivities and is painting a hurricane scene in the corner by the boarded-up French doors. Mercy Bea flicks through
Cosmo
, reading embarrassing female anomalies out loud. Mitch pre-tends to watch the news, but the perpetual grin on his face tells me he’s hearing every word.

He’s so cool. When we finally hunkered down for the storm, he pulled out his guitar and sang a few hymns, then led us in prayer. The peace it generated reminded me of the night Jesus stopped by. Mercy Bea went through half a box of Kleenex.