Sweet Caroline (32 page)

I peer into his boundless blue eyes. “Sounds lovely.”

“We can talk about setting a date. My schedule is booking up and I want to save plenty of time for wedding and honeymoon”—he gives me an intimate grin—“stuff.”

Taking his hand, I follow him out the door, with a backward wave at Elle, who is taking the large painting down from the wall.

Mitch is so the opposite of J. D. Although I sense his passion as strong as J. D.’s.—maybe more—never once has he pushed the boundaries.

So why, oh, why, does my heart race every time I think of marriage? Why does my belly flip-flop every time I think of Barcelona?

Climbing a tree is not as easy as it used to be. When did my legs become cranky old ladies? Wasn’t I just in this tree a few months ago?

“Omph.”
I hike my foot up to the first branch, stretching my arms toward a branch so I can pull myself up. The heel of my work clogs catches in the crook of the limb as I clasp my fingers around a thin limb and heave myself up. My skin crawls as I feel the platinum shank of my engagement ring scrape against the rough live oak bark.

“Come on, Caroline, sissy girl, get in the tree,” I urge myself. But my hands slip. I tumble backwards, arms winging in the wind. My foot is stuck. “Ack!” My ankle twists one way while my body goes the other. There’s nothing to catch me but the ground.

Face-first, I fall, leaving my shoe wedged in the tree and my skirt hiked up to my skivvies.

A few minutes later, sitting on the dock, I stare up at the twilight sky, wondering why the dream of a lifetime coming true doesn’t feel as swell as I thought.

“What’s going on?” I ask, not the stars this time, but the One who holds them in His hand. “This is Mitch. And me. Finally. The life I wanted.”

I wanted . . .

The words slice gently through my soul, cutting away the cruddy feel-ing I’ve had since Mitch—oh, my man Mitch—asked me to marry him.

Since I said yes.
When he asked me to pick a date the other night at dinner, I froze. Then, later, while cuddling on the couch, I fell asleep against his chest. He was so gracious and loving. But I feel guilty and need to give him an answer.

For the first time since I handed God the reins of my life and said, “Here, take all of me,” I realize I just said giddy-up to three things I never really asked Him about.

Selling the Café. The job in Barcelona. And marrying Mitch.

“Okay.” I cup my hands together and raise them toward heaven. “You can have it all. The Café, Mitch, Barcelona. And me.”

I squint and turn my chin over my shoulder, bracing for the pain of having God rip out my heart. My arms shake as I stretch my hands higher.

And yet, as I take a deep breath, I feel relieved. Sincerely, profoundly, deeply relieved. While I sit in the chilly night, thinking and praying, clarity comes.

DAILY SPECIAL

Wednesday, October 17
Fried Oysters
Corn on the Cob
BBQ Baked Beans
Side Salad
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Apple Fritters
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$8.99

35

T
he sun sets in a gold-red-orange-blue fall sky as Mitch and I stroll arm in arm along the beach by his house. The crisp air has me thinking of a warm fire and mugs of hot chocolate.

I burrow my face into Mitch’s arm. “My nose is freezing.”

“Let’s go inside and build a fire.” In one deft movement, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me up the beach toward his home. The stinging wind slips up the hem of my skirt and I kick and squirm to be let down. He refuses, huffing and puffing up the deck steps to the back French doors.

When he sets me down, his warm lips touch mine. “I can’t wait until we’re married and I carry you across the threshold as my wife.”

It’s then that I know for sure.

“By the way,” Mitch opens the left-side French door and starts gathering wood from the deck pile, “Mom wants to host an engagement tea for you. Invite the ladies of the church. She knows you’re working like crazy, but when would be a good time for you?”

“A tea party? For me?”

Mama wanted to give me a tea party for my twelfth birthday. She hand-painted fifteen invitations to girls in my class and called all their mothers. She painted the sunroom to look like a wild prairie meadow. We strung multicolored summer lights, shopped for a special tea set, and hired Mrs. Hogan to sew Mother-Daughter dresses. We ordered a cake from Mrs. Parker.

On the day of the party, I woke up in the house alone. Dad had taken Henry fishing, and I couldn’t find Mama anywhere.

As the party guests arrived, I tried to pretend all was well—despite the fact we had no cake, no food, nor tea.

Convinced Mama would pop through the door at any moment, wearing her beautiful smile with an armload of presents, I did my best to hostess my confused guests.

When Dad and Henry came home, I sat alone in the dark living room, dirty tear tracks on my face.

The memory is old and rusty, and I’d rather die than attend a tea party, but I would endure for Mrs. O’Neal. “Your mother is very sweet, Mitch, but can we talk about something first?”

“Sure.” He’s gathering a second armload of wood. I crouch down next to him, gathering logs.

How do I say this, God?
“About getting married, Mitch . . .”

He snaps to attention. The muscles in his arms bulge from the heavy pieces of firewood he cradles.

“Recently, I’ve made several decisions—selling the Café, accepting Barcelona, accepting your proposal—and I just, um, well . . .” My throat pinches closed. My hands shake as I add another log to my small stack.

“Caroline, say what you want to say.”

Oh, please don’t hate me.
A nauseating swirl leaves me weak. “I can’t marry you, Mitch. Not before Barcelona.” I drop my firewood back onto the pile, as confidence begins to bloom. “Mitch, I love you. Most of my adult life, I’ve lived with the hope of someday being your wife. But, I’m learning and growing, coming to some idea God’s given me gifts and talents I haven’t begun to explore. Like when you moved to Nashville, hung with stellar musicians, and discovered you had the talent to play any instrument you pick up.”

“I can’t play the oboe.”

He makes me laugh. “Yeah, well, who can?”

“Caroline, honey, you can do whatever you want with your life, even after we’re married. Want to keep the Café, fix it up, and hire Andy to manage it? Great. Want to go to college? I’ll help you cram for tests. Want five babies, I’ll be more than happy to do my part.” His grin is slightly wicked. “Think a month in the Brazilian jungle, learning about indigenous worms, will enhance your life? I’ll support you.”

“Mitch,”
Oh, the look behind his eyes . . . I can’t, God. I can’t.
“I want to move to Barcelona and work for Carlos Longoria.”

Standing there with his arms still wrapped around firewood, he studies me for a second. “I don’t want a long-distance marriage. Being apart for a few weeks or a month is fine, but for a year with thousands of miles and a half dozen time zones between us? No.”

“No? You’re not making decisions for us, Mitch.
We
are.” I circle my hand in the space between us. “This has been the hardest decision of my life. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since you pro-posed. When I try to dream of wedding plans, I get cranky and snap at the crew.” I press my hand over my middle. “I feel sick and confused.”

Without a word, he pushes past me, taking the firewood inside. I watch him disappear, shivering. Night approaches with a distinct chill.

In a minute, Mitch reappears with a thick jacket. “Here, it’s getting cold.” He stoops for another load of firewood. “I suppose I could see about living in Barcelona.” He glances up at me. “I could fly back and forth. It’d be awkward, just signing with a new label and putting out a new album, but it might work.”

Tears bubble. “Oh, Mitch.” I crouch next to him. “How the timing between us got so whacked, I’ll never know, but I’m going solo, Mitch. Just Jesus and me. I need to do this . . .”

Holding my hands low at my waist, I slip his ring from my cold fin-ger. When I offer it back, his countenance darkens, and his load of wood drops to the deck floor.

“I want to marry you . . . someday. If you still want me.” My confession is thick and true.

He cups the ring in his hand. “Caroline . . . I—I . . .” His words wobble. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’m so, so sorry.” Tears glide over my eyes and pool in the corners.

Mitch leans against the table, looking out toward the beach. Silence screams. It seems like minutes go by, but it’s only seconds when Mitch gathers me in his arms.

We cry, holding each other tight.

“Best let me drive you home,” he finally says.

“Mitch—” My heart yearns for him to know. “I love you, still. I’m trying to follow God here. I can’t explain it, but there’s something for me in Barcelona. Something intangible, something . . .”

“I know.” He steps toward the door.

“I do love you.”

“Just let me get my keys.” He disappears in the house, and for one brief, frightening moment, I fear I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Better be worth it

Hazel,

Here’s the nutshell update. I’m too emotional and exhausted to go
into detail. But we are soooo talking when I get there.

Mitch asked me to marry him. I said yes. After I accepted Carlos’s
offer. For days, I couldn’t sleep. I begged God for answers, laying it
all out on the table. Selling the Café, accepting the job with SRG,
and marrying Mitch.

In the end, I knew selling the Café was right. I knew working
for SRG was right. I knew marrying Mitch was wrong. Not wrong,
really, but wrong timing.

The night I gave him his ring back, he drove me home in com-plete
silence. Oh, how I missed Matilda at that moment. As he drove
away, I sank down to the parking lot and cried until there was a
puddle of tears in the sand.

Hazel, I miss him something fierce. This is it for us. We’re over.
Not like the other times when he got busy with his career and we
simply drifted apart.

This time when he dropped me off and said good-bye, I heard
the clink of a door.

I’m sad and weepy, but I know I’ll regret it the rest of my life if
I don’t try Barcelona.

Good night.

“Letter for you, Caroline.” Mercy Bea drops the Café mail on the counter.

“Letter?”

“Looks like Jones’s handwriting. Want me to put the rest in the office?”

Letter? “Yes, office, thanks.”

On the back is a note from Kirk.
Jones wanted this mailed to you after
the ninety days. Sorry, just now found it.

I tear open the letter and read.

Dear Caroline,

By the time you read this letter, I hope you’ve stopped cursing me. I
suppose inheriting the Café came as a shock. Please forgive me if the
deed unduly burdened you. That was never my intent.

On the other hand, if you’re reading this, I’ve crossed over to the
Golden Shore and am happy to be away from worldly troubles.

My prayer is for the Café to bless you. She’s been around a long
time, and as I write this letter, I’m filled with sentiment.

Why the ninety days? So you’d have time to think before acting.

I didn’t know what to do with the Frogmore. No kin to leave her to,
or close friends.

Then, you came to mind and I knew you were the right one.

Perhaps you’re wondering why not Andy, or Mercy Bea? Other than
the satisfaction I felt whenever I thought of you, I don’t know. Andy
is, in many ways, the soul of the Café.

I just knew you’d do the right thing by all of us.

The other reason is your grandma Sweeney. I loved her. She broke
my heart when she married my friend, your granddad. But, over time
I forgave her, but never humbled up to speak to her about it. I reckon
this is all out of the blue for you, Caroline, but your Nana was the
love of my life. After she died, your granddad came to me and said,
“Gracie told me, ‘Go see Jones. Don’t let the bad blood linger.’”

Giving you the Cafe is my way of saying “All is well, Gracie.”

I yank a napkin from the dispenser and blow my nose.

Best of everything to you, sweet Caroline. I hope you have a good
life, full of love, family and well, a basket of my ole Bubba’s Buttery
Biscuits and Frogmore Stew. My chili weren’t bad neither.

Yours truly.

Jones Q. McDermott

P.S. Never did know what the Q stood for. Best find my mother
in heaven and ask her.

DAILY SPECIAL

Thanksgiving Day—Closed
Friday, November 23
Turkey and Gravy
Stuffing, Mashed Taters
Cranberry Sauce, Sweet Potato Soufflé
Yeast Rolls
Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, or Cherry Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$9.99

36

T
he crisp, bright Sunday after Thanksgiving, Mercy Bea and I string Christmas lights along the Café’s front porch while Andy Williams sings from the boom box.
“It’s the most wonderful
time of the year.”

“Hmm, cinnamon.” Mercy Bea draws in a large portion of air, turn-ing her nose toward downtown.

“Makes me hungry and I just ate.” I hold up the next string of lights. “Pay attention, Mercy Bea; we still have the inside to decorate.”

She taps a small hook into the porch board with her hammer, then hangs the next section of lights. “What’s your favorite Christmas memory, Caroline?”

I shrug. “Mama had a thing about
man-made
traditions.”

“Like how? Hand me another hook, Caroline, please.”

“Like she hated them. Daddy did his best to give us a nice Christmas, but without her participation, it was hard. He’d put up a tree Christmas Eve, buy us presents most years, but the tree went down two days later.”