Sweet Caroline (29 page)

“He offered me a job. Hazel’s still been talking me up to him like I’m some kind of diamond in the rough.”

“You are a diamond in the rough. Anyway . . .”

I stick my tongue out at her and plate a slice of raspberry cake. “She sends him online links to the
Gazette
about me and the Café. The last one, where we served the city, really impressed him, I guess.”

Elle licks the ketchup from her fork—from eating fries—and sinks it into the cake. “And he offered you a job?”

I lean in close. “Three times the money I make here. Plus moving expenses and benefits. All I have to do is commit to a one-year apprenticeship. After that, who knows?”

Elle drops her fork against the plate and grabs my hands. “Do it. Sell this place to the Buzz Boys and go. Caroline, it’s now or never.”

To: CSweeney

From: Carlos Longoria

Subject: Offer

Dear Caroline,

It was a pleasure to speak with you the other day. Your answers to
my questions were intelligent and delightful. Qualities I’m looking
for in my first apprentice.

Please find attached my formal offer letter. Feel free to e-mail me
with questions.

Saludos
,

Carlos

President, CEO, Founder, SRG International

I spend the weekend not thinking about my Friday conversation with Carlos, enjoying a good weekend crowd at the Café, then a lovely Sunday church service followed by a late dinner at Mitch’s.

He told stories from his life on the road—only the G-rated ones, I’m sure—until I double over laughing. The intimacy from our fancy night out smolders beneath the surface of our relationship, but neither one of us seems willing to stir the embers. For now.

He asked how things were going at the Café, and I gave him the short roundup. When I told him about Carlos’s offer, a funny look crept across his face.

“You’re selling and moving?” Then he spent five minutes encouraging me to sell the Café and take this “amazing opportunity.” He said “amazing opportunity” so many times I said he should write a song about it. I thought it was funny. Mitch? Not so much.

Now, he’s in Nashville for a string of meetings, probably about to get his career back on track. His season home will end and . . .

I should go to Barcelona. Really, I should. I mean, why not?

“Jesus, what can I do here?”

After closing the Café, I walk down to Elle’s gallery. I’m ready to toss her the hard question: do I really, sincerely, for real, no hesitation, this-is-for-all-the-marbles take the job in Barcelona?

Paul Mulroney is chatting with customers in front of his Bistro. He waves. Wait ’til he meets the Buzz Boys.

Fear is juxtaposed with excitement. Will I like Barcelona? Can I sin-cerely impress Carlos Longoria? Am I ready for such a big job when my greatest business feat is to give away several thousand dollars’ worth of food after a hurricane?

What do I know about building projects, budgets? (Well, a little; I wrote a budget for Mrs. Farnsworth’s. But that was for plants and dirt.) Will I get lost in the marketing jargon?

Ho, boy
. Like the first day I braved Sunday school at Beaufort Community, I’ll need a translator.

All that aside, as if it’s not weighty enough, I have one buzzing-me-like-a-pesky-fly question: is selling the Café the best for everyone, not just me?

Will Roland and Dale honor the heart of the Café and all Jones poured into it? Will they treat the crew with respect? Will they love the Café as much as we do?

The late afternoon sky is blue with white-cotton clouds.
Elle and I drift along the Coosaw in
Bluecloud.

When I burst into Elle’s gallery two hours ago, ready to talk business, she wanted to drift on the water. “I need inspiration.”

“But I need to talk.”

“We can do both. On the water.”

Right now, she’s reading Carlos’s offer letter. Her hair is kinky from the wind and humidity, her forearms pink from the sun. She looks up when she’s read to the end.

“What do you think?” I ask.

She slides her sunglasses from her forehead to the bridge of her nose, folds the letter, and hands it back to me. “Caroline, if you don’t go, I’m going in your place. He doesn’t have a picture of you, does he?”

“Saw me in the hurricane article.”

“With all that red hair? And he still wants to hire you?” She laughs.

“I’m trying to make a serious decision and you’re making fun.” I tuck the letter into my skirt pocket, then dangle my arm over the side of the boat, letting my fingers skim along the top of the cool, thick water.

Elle lifts her face to the sunlight. “I’m hiding my extreme jealousy. Barcelona. How fantastic. What an amazing opportunity. You have to do it. Have to.”

“But the Café—”

Elle adjusts her position against the side of the boat. “Sell the Café. Sweetie, this is your time. You’ve done your duty here, Caroline. If Jones knew you had this opportunity, he’d demand you go. Maybe he left you the Café because he thought you needed focus, something to sink your teeth into.”

“Am I that pitiful?” I bat away a surprising rinse of tears.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Think of Jones as . . . as Beaufort’s Donald Trump. Giving a girl a chance.”

My heart spews a much-needed laugh and suddenly the decision doesn’t seem worth all the worry I’m investing. “Kirk’s relationship with the Buzz Boys seems timely and providential, doesn’t it?” I slip down against the side of the old boat, resting my head on a life vest. “But is it the best decision for everyone involved?”

“For the hundredth time, yes. They will earn more money. Get benefits. The Café will be remodeled, the hours expanded.”

“So, it’s really better for
them
if I sell.”

“Way better. Caroline, for the love of all that’s good in life, go to freaking Barcelona.”

“Okay, here’s the deep, deep, can’t-see-the-sun, buried question I haven’t even asked myself yet.” I sit forward, drawing my knees to my chest. “What about Mitch?”

“What about him? He’s in Nashville, working his career. He’ll be back there permanently before you close this deal with the Buzz Boys.”

A loose string in the hem of my skirt blows in the low breeze. “Yeah, I know. We’ve been getting along so well. He’s the Mitch I’ve always known and loved, only new and improved. Special, you know? And there’s, this, like, smoldering thing between us. We ignore it as if reaching out will get one of us burned. ”

Elle leans toward me. “Caroline, are you in love with him?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.”

“You are the most patient, enduring, hopeful Pollyanna I ever met. Or, you’re plumb crazy.”

“So, I go. Forget Mitch.”

“Forget Mitch?” Elle pulls a sketch pad from the canvas bag she brought along. “Impossible for you, I think. But God has put an incredible opportunity in your lap.” She digs in her bag for pencils. “You’ve proven yourself to be faithful in the little things. Now prove to be faithful with the big.”

“Want to hear something mind-blowing?”

“Why not? It’s been a while.” Her pencil scratches against the paper.

“Right now, I want Barcelona more than Mitch. Whenever I think of going, this funny, feeling flutters over me.”

Elle grins. “My girl’s going to Bar-ce-lona.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Tuesday, September 18
Fried Red Snapper
Baked Squash
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
House Salad
Cherry Cobbler
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$8.99

33

M
itch calls midmorning. “How’s my favorite redhead?”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” I twist my ponytail, thinking I should ask Mercy Bea for an update on the waterlogged salon. Until now, I wasn’t bugged by my redness, but my brown roots are starting to show. “How’s my favorite country star?”

Hearing his voice stirs my longing for him. I love the texture of his voice, the way the scent of his soap mingles with his cologne, the way he shares his heart without restraint.

“Miss me?” he asks.

“My heart stopped beating.”

“Mine too. I had to go to the emergency room.”

He can’t one up me. “They had to break out those paddle-shocky things on me.”

He laughs. “You win. So, how’s everything? Make any major decision? Hey, Caroline, hold on . . . Jack, in here. I’m on the phone. Give me a sec . . . Caroline, sorry. I need to get back to this meeting. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t jetted off without saying good-bye.”

“O-okay.” Not what I expected him to say. “I’m still here. Can’t go anywhere until probate closes anyway.”

“I’ll be home in a few weeks.” He pauses, and the moment practically aches for an I-love-you, but we don’t dare.

“See you soon.”

Slowly I drop the receiver to the cradle, my affections suspended between friendship and love, our past and my future.

Monday, October 8

Reminisce Night 7:00

Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café

Comeyas and binnyas

Weaving my way between the narrow aisle to the Café’s stage, I take the microphone.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Frogmore Café’s first Reminisce Night.” I smile, confident. The evidence of Mercy Bea’s hurricane lights-out panic is gone from the top of my head. Her stylist transformed my hair into a shiny chestnut brown and cut away all the dry dead ends. For about two minutes, I fumed over my short cut, until she showed me a picture of Cameron Diaz with the same style.

“You could be her twin,” she said.

Okay, maybe I see it in the eyes.

“We’re so glad you came out—” The microphone screeches. My
sound man
, Luke, fumbles to turn the knobs like Mitch showed him. When he nods to me, I start again.

“We’re so glad you came out for Reminisce Night. Please don’t be shy about telling your Beaufort or Frogmore Café stories.” I lift my free hand. “Whatever is on your heart.”

About seventy pairs of eyes stare back at me.
Ho, boy
.

“My name is Caroline Sweeney.”

“We know,” a male voice hollers.

“Dupree, was that you?” Squinting, I shield my eyes from the bright spotlight and scan the dining room for a sign of my breakfast-club boy. Instead of spotting Dupree, my eyes land on Roland and Dale, sporting wide smiles and Polo shirts, with a blonde, pale Amazon.

I continue with the formalities. “Mercy Bea and Paris will take care of you tonight. Be sweet to them.”

“Where’s Mitch?” a female voice calls this time.

“Dupree, was that you?” I ask again.

Laughter peppers the room. Roland and Dale tuck in next to the wall. Amazon chick studies the Café, firmly gripping her briefcase.

“Sorry, Dupree.” I spot him off to my left with his wife, Helen. Next to him is Pastor Winnie with his Alva.

“I still love you,” he says.

“Love you, too, Dupree. No, Mitch is not here, but I’ll tell him y’all asked about him. Anyway, let me introduce the Café’s fab cook, Andy Castleton.” I motion to the back of the dining room where Andy tips his cap at the sound of applause.

“Also, Luke and Russell are on the crew tonight, bussing tables, washing dishes, cleaning toilets, and are all-around champs. But you didn’t come to hear me talk. You came to reminisce. The ground rules are: one, share whatever’s on our heart; and two, keep the stories as short as possible so everyone who wants to share has the opportunity.” I gesture to the booth right of the stage. “To get things started, please welcome my dad, Hank Sweeney.”

Applauding, I stand off to the side while Dad comes forward, smiling.

“Well . . .” He scratches his head. His voice warbles. “On my way here, I must’ve told Posey a dozen stories, and now I can’t think of a one, other than the fact I was born here.”

“The bridge,” Posey prompts softly.

“Right, the bridge.” Dad’s face brightens. “In light of our high-tech, modern world, this seems downright primitive, but Tom Cantwell and I used to spend our Saturday nights watching the bridge open and close.”

“Me too, Hank” echoes about the tight dining room.

“Of course, I remember things like the Village Pizza Inn. When Ribaut and Boundary were two lanes. Movies at the Green Lawn. Best thing for me was meeting my wife, Posey.”

With that, he quickly exits the stage. When he slides in next to Posey, she kisses his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain. Dad is proof: no one is too old or too wounded to bloom under the light of love.

The stage is empty. Seconds tick by. I glance around to see if anyone looks close to coming up. No one. More time ticks by. Seconds feel like forever.

Please, Lord, don’t let Reminisce Night begin and end with Daddy.

“Well, guess I’ll take a turn.” A slender, seventyish woman maneuvers forward through the tables. “Hi, everyone. I’m Linda Stewart.” Her voice is sweet and shy. “My daddy was a World War II Marine colonel. About as strict as they come. Pat Conroy and I could swap a few stories. He mellowed when I got into my teens, thank goodness, just in time for me to start dating. We moved here when I was sixteen, and not long after, Keith Randall, the cutest boy in school asked me to the movies. I thought heaven had come to Beaufort.”

All eyes are fixed on her round, pink face.

“Daddy met Keith at the door, invited him in, and asked him his intentions.” Her gaze is distant, as if she’s watching the scene unfold in her mind’s eye. “Poor Keith. But he was a good sport about it and agreed to Daddy’s request to have me home by eleven. Sharp. Once ten o’clock rolled around, Keith checked his watch every two minutes, afraid time would mysteriously slip away from us. We headed home in plenty of time, but don’t you know . . .” She pauses. “We got caught by the drawbridge.”

Gasps rise from the listeners. Heads bob. Snickers chase around the room.

“Y’all know. Been there same as me. We sat there for thirty minutes while the slowest boat in the world sailed the Beaufort River. I could’ve walked home faster. Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway at eleven-o-five, Daddy waited with rifle in hand.”

Moans roll forward from a dozen or so ladies, followed by the laughter of what I assume are rifle-toting fathers.