Sweet Caroline (3 page)

Meanwhile, Andy’s showing Russell how to make Jones’s signature Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits.

“Now, careful, boy. Treat the dough nice. Like you’re handling a woman.”

I pinch my brow and glance over my shoulder. Andy gives me a jolly wink.

A soft red burns across Russell’s smooth cheeks. Andy hit close to home, I reckon. The twenty-something dishwasher-slash-cook is a student at University of South Carolina’s Beaufort campus and more than likely has handled a woman. Or two. At least spent a good bit of time trying. Nevertheless, Andy’s reference has him flustered and embarrassed.

Okay, on to counting tips. Hmm . . . clearly I didn’t think this through. How can I eat corn on the cob and count money?

Since Mercy Bea leaves in a few minutes, I set my food aside and divvy up the money.

For some mysterious reason, the Frogmore Café customers don’t get the concept of 15 percent. Well, except the breakfast-club boys. They leave a hundred-dollar tip every year for my birthday and Christmas Eve.

I make two piles of money. One for Mercy Bea, one for me. Pretty meager. And she’s the mother of teen boys, and I . . . live at Dad’s. What the heck. I shove my dollars in with hers and slip the money into her envelope.

At that precise moment, the senior waitress peeks through the office door, breathless.

“Are you all right?” My leg muscles tighten, ready to spring.

“He’s out there.” She fluffs the ends of her overly sprayed hair.

“Who? Ralph Carter?” I grin.

Mercy Bea twists her red lips into a grimace. “No, Ralph is not here.
Your
man is here. J. D. Rand. Dang, Caroline, he’s handsome. Got arms the size of a tree trunk. Shoulders like rocks.”

“He’s not my man.”

“What do you mean he’s not your man?” She crouches close as if she’s about to tell me a huge secret. “He’s been in here every day for the past three weeks.”

Yeah, I know.
“We’ve gone out a few times.”

“Are you two . . . well, you know.” Her eyebrows wiggle.

“Mercy Bea, no.” Embarrassment explodes in my torso and rings in my ears. “What is wrong with you?”

The nosy waitress angles toward me. “Miss Goody Two-Shoes, he’s one fine,
fine
deputy. Not my type, mind you—too pretty for me. But I appreciate his qualities. I can see why the ladies fall all over him.”

I point to Mercy Bea’s tip envelope. “First of all, there’s your tip money. Second of all, if I was, well,
you know
, I wouldn’t tell you.”

I busy myself with my plate of Frogmore Stew. Not that it’s Mercy’s business, but I’ve never . . .
you know
-ed . . . in my life. When I was six-teen, Daddy sat me down for a “little chat” when his office manager’s daughter, Janie, turned up pregnant. He started out with, “The backseat of a car is no place to become a woman.” Then his voice cracked, and his foot started tapping. Fast. “Sex should be between two people in a committed relationship.”

I never looked him in the eye. Never asked one question. No sirree, Bob.

“Do you understand, Caroline?”

I nodded.
Please, can I go now? Is that Henry outside with his buddies?

“Caroline.” Dad bent forward to see into my eyes. “Here it is. You gals got it. The boys want it. Talk about woman power, all this nonsense about wanting to be like men. Shoot, you ladies got it made. Look, baby, as long as you don’t give in, you’re in control.” He stood and wagged his finger. “You’re not the blue-light special at K-Mart. Don’t act like you’re for sale, cheap.”

To this day, I can’t shop at K-Mart.

Mercy Bea shakes her tip envelope under my nose. “Hey, where’d you go? J. D.-land?”

I glance up, corncob between my teeth. She wrinkles her face. “Wipe your face, girl. He’s asking for you.”

3

H
ey, beautiful.” Beaufort County deputy J. D. Rand smiles at me from the other side of the counter, tucking his Foster Grants inside the top of his uniform. His greeting is like a warm splash. But I play it cool.

“Hey yourself.” I fill a glass with ice and Diet Coke. “Want some lunch?”

“Is the special still any good?”

Lowering my chin, I peer at him from under my brow. “You want me to ask Andy if his special is fresh?”

“On second thought . . . bring me the special.” J. D. grins with a pound of his palm against the counter.

“What sides do you want?” I jot “Spcl” on my order pad.

J. D. glances at the Daily Special chalkboard. “Green beans and salad. That’ll do me. Got to fit into my uniform tomorrow.” He winks.

My skin flushes hot. “B-be right back.”
How does he do that to me?

When I return with his plate, J. D. cups his hands over mine. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“W-what’d you have in mind?”

“We could go fishing. Or down to the beach?” His long-lashed, chocolate gaze lands on my face while his thumb traces the fleshy part of my hand.

I gulp a deep breath. “F-fishing sounds fun.”

“It’s a date then.” His smile is intoxicating, his invitation flattering, and I find my reserve melting. In the past, J. D. was known as a ladies’ man, but in recent years, his rep has actually chilled. The word among our friends is he’s settling down, growing up.

“I’ll pick you up around six?” J. D. pats the massive bicep choking his uniform sleeve. “After my date with the gym.” He nods with another teasing grin and wink.

“Six o’clock, tomorrow.”

His bravado is endearing. Handsome as all get-out, confident in an I-wear-a-badge kind of way, J. D. grew up with a drinking daddy who cared more about José Cuervo than his own children. J. D.’s worked hard to cover the hole his daddy dug in his heart.

For me? Okay, I admit it’s nice to have male attention that isn’t wrapped around, “Hey, Caroline, warm up my coffee, will you?”

By five p.m., the Café is closed, empty, and silent. Andy and Russell cleaned the kitchen and punched out. Finished with my side work, I launch e-mail while waiting for Dad to pick me up.

To: CSweeney

From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Are you ready this time?

Caroline,

An amazing opportunity has opened up here at SRG International
in Barcelona. And I do mean amazing. Not like the other two jobs
I offered you before. Ten times better. Do you want it? I went way
out on a limb this time for you, Caroline. Risking my rep.

Yes or no?

Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Resting my chin in my palm, I fiddle with the paper-clip wire. Hazel’s e-mail is full of hidden meaning. Let’s see . . .

Job with SRG International, Barcelona. Better than the previous two
jobs she wanted me to take (one as a receptionist, the other as a clerk in
accounting).

If I say yes, she’ll kill me if I back out like before. But, hey, Mrs.
Farnsworth pleaded.

Hazel wants me to say yes before telling me about the job. She cannot be
serious. Does she really think this conniving tactic will work?

I click Reply and wiggle my fingers over the keys. Mrs. Atwater’s admonishment drops from the high places of my mind. And my own yearning to see life outside of Beaufort flutters its clipped wings. Who cares what the job is? I can trust Hazel. Right? She’s never steered me wrong. Well, once, when she convinced me to try out for cheerleading. That was an embarrassment waiting to happen.

The memory of my botched split makes me shudder. I exit out of e-mail. No, I’m not taking Hazel up on her job.

However . . . the cheerleading debacle was a long time ago. Hazel’s matured since then. She has my well-being in mind. I could go to Barcelona. Jones is gone. Daddy’s not alone anymore. Henry’s married. My friends are moving on . . .

I launch e-mail again. Then ex out. I sit there, pondering.

When have I ever done anything remotely spontaneous? Half-wild or a
quarter crazy?

Never.

Back to e-mail.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Re: Are you ready this time?

Hazel,

Yes, I’m ready. No. Wait, what is it? Will I like it? Can I do the job?
I’ll do it. Mrs. Atwater stopped by today. Yeah, I got the speech. So,
I’m seriously considering “yes.” Tell me more.

Love, Caroline

When Dad and I walk through the kitchen door, his petite, fifty-something (she won’t confess her true age, other than, “I’m between fifty and a hundred”) fiancée, Posey Martin, stands at the stove, muttering.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” Dad turns her so he can kiss her smack on the lips.

Dad!
My gaze shoots down to my feet.

I confess: the kiss gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s weird to watch my father behave like, well, a
man.
He and Mama were never affectionate in front of Henry and me because she got weird on him just when we would’ve started curling our lip with an, “Ah, gross.”

“Chicken ain’t frying up right,” Posey says when Dad releases her. “Hey, Caroline, the Mustang giving you fits again? Hank, why don’t you mix up your famous corn bread?”

Dad claps his hands together. “Sounds like a plan.”

Some—mostly Dad—say his corn bread is the best in the county.

But instead of digging out the mixing bowl, my father grabs Posey from behind with a growl. She squeals. He snarls against her neck.

Oh, my eyes . . .

Head: Eyes, why didn’t you warn me?

Heart: Grow up. Have you ever seen him so happy?

Eyes: Hey, don’t blame me. I just look where you tell me, head.

Head: Eyes, look away. He’s almost touching her . . . you know, chest
area.

Heart: For crying out loud, he’s hugging her. Again, have you ever seen
him so happy?

Never, actually.

The kitchen door bumps me in the rump. “You’re in the way, Caroline.”

Ah, there it is . . . snarkiness. That is more like my family. Henry opens the cupboard for the tea glasses. “What’s with your car now?”

Dad answers for me, retrieving a mixing bowl from the bottom shelf. “Carburetor. Wayne’s going to flush it out again. Be ready in the morning.”

“Why don’t you get rid of the thing, Caroline?” Henry props him-self against the counter, elbows sticking out. “People are starting to talk, calling you Breakdown Sally.”

“Who is
they
, Henry? Hmm?” He’s making it up, surely. Getting a rep is one thing, but a nickname?

“Everyone in Beaufort.” He laughs—not in a ha-ha-isn’t-this-funny kind of way, but in a you-are-so-naive kind of way.

Cherry pushes through the door. Another bump in my rump. “Oh, hey, Caroline, sorry. Baby, I thought you were getting glasses.”

Henry holds them up.

“Say, Cherry, have you heard people call me Breakdown Sally?”

Studiously avoiding my gaze, my sleek-haired, china-doll-faced sister-in-law steps around me. “Posey, what can I do to help?”

It’s true.
I’m Breakdown Sally.

“Wayne’s ready to take the Mustang off your hands, anytime,” Dad offers gently, pouring corn bread mix into a pan. “Bet you could get eight thousand out of him, Caroline. Buy yourself a nice, dependable car.”

Translation: snoring.

“Good to know.”
Still . . . not selling.

“Why do you insist on holding on to that piece of junk? Don’t you see? It’s a metaphor of how Mom felt about you, Caroline.” Henry’s bitterness stands under the spotlight of his words and takes a bow. “She missed Christmases, birthdays, and graduations. Marriages.”

His
birthdays,
his
graduations,
his
wedding. Cherry never even met her.

“Henry.” Dad’s tone sends a caution:
tread carefully, son.

“Come on, Dad, even you think she should dump
that
old car.”

Dad stirs the corn bread mix with vigorous strokes. “Because it’s a lemon. Not because your mother gave it to her.”

“How much are you making down at the Café, Caroline? Enough to keep that thing running?” Henry holds up his hands. “Don’t answer. I already know.”

I stare down my big brother. “Drop. It.”

“No, Caroline. You know what that stupid car is? A picture of your life. Hanging on to something old and broken, afraid to try something new, still living with our father ’cause you can’t afford a life of your own.”

“Stop it, Henry.” If his tone wasn’t so brutal, I’d see his point. I bat away the sting of tears.

“Am I wrong?” He holds out his hands, each gripping a glass. “Am I?”

“Henry. Move on. New topic.” Dad’s command leaves no room for argument.

My brother holds his next thought, but the dark light behind his eyes reminds me his bitterness will reappear. He wears it like a badge of honor.

“Well,” Dad says in a Mr. Rogers voice, “since you’re all in here . . . Cherry, want to wait on those glasses?” Dad takes Posey’s hand. “We’ve set a wedding date,” he says without preamble.

“Dad, that’s wonderful.”

“How marvelous.” Cherry slips her arm through Henry’s.

Dad clears his throat. “We’re leaving Saturday for the Bahamas.”

After a moment in which we all stare with mouths open, Cherry giggles. “You’re eloping?”

Dad cuts a glance at Posey. “We got to looking at schedules and finances—”

“Dad, you and Posey do what you want. We’re not children. We under-stand.” This from Henry in his CEO-of-Sweeney-Construction voice.

“Yes, Dad, please do whatever you and Posey want,” I chime in. “A wedding in the Bahamas sounds very romantic.”

Posey presses her fingers under her expressive green eyes and sniffs. “We didn’t want to leave you kids out, but I had my big wedding the first time around. When Eric died, I never thought I’d marry again. Then I met your dad . . .”

“Met me? Rammed your Miata into the back of my truck.” Dad raises her hand to his lips, gives it a grinning kiss.

Head: Look away, eyes.

“Well, how did I know there was a stoplight in the middle of a bridge?”