Sweet Caroline (4 page)

Posey is what the Gullah call a
comeya
—a lowcountry newbie.

Henry strides forward and shakes Dad’s hand in a manly-man way. “May you have a long, happy marriage. If anyone deserves it, Dad, it’s you.”

I stifle the oncoming tears. “Here, here.”

4

H
azel cannot keep the “amazing, incredible” job opportunity confined to cyberspace. She has to call.azel “Isn’t it like three in the morning there?” I ask, though I love hearing her voice.

“Three thirty, actually.” Her rushed tone is high-pitched, excited. “I get up at four thirty on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday so I can be in the office by six. So I’m only losing an hour of sleep.”

“Have you been consuming caffeine?” I stretch out on the sofa as Dad, Posey, Henry, and Cherry play hearts at the dining room table. Jim Croce croons from Dad’s old turntable.

“Only a cup. Listen, about this job—”

In my mind, I envision Hazel pacing a Spanish-style living room in baggy, silk pajamas and slappy slippers with little heels. “Do I have to get up at four thirty for this incredible job?”

“No, you don’t have to get up at four thirty. I like to get into the office before the meetings and phone calls start.”

“So, this job . . .”

“You know about my boss, Carlos Longoria, right? Sure you do; we’ve talked about him. As a matter of fact, he’s on the cover of this month’s
Forbes
.”

“Sure, Carlos.” I’ve seen him on many magazine covers, read about him via Hazel’s e-mails. “The European Donald Trump. Runs a large development and property company. Y’all build and buy apartments, condos, villas.”

“Right. If you can live in it, we own it.”

“A grass hut?”

“Sri Lanka.”

“Mud hut?”

“Okay, no mud huts. Even Carlos draws the line somewhere.”

“And he considers himself a Donald Trump?” I tug the scrunchy from my hair and shake it free.

“He does. With great pride. And he’s a big fan of
The Apprentice
.” I bolt upright. “I’m not going on TV.”

“No, no, he’s not talking TV . . . yet. For now, all he wants is a hard-working individual with a bright mind he can mold into a Mini Me, rather a Mini Him.”

“And you offered up me?”

From the dining room, Cherry and Posey slap high fives as they win another round of cards. A frustrated Henry jerks away from the table with an, “I need more tea.”

“I’ve convinced Carlos
you
are perfect to be his first apprentice. You have no preconceived ideas or agenda or college professor telling you it should be like
this
instead of
that
.”

“Hazel, I’m a waitress. A bookkeeper. Hometown girl with only a high-school diploma.”

“Actually, he loves that about you. When I told him about how you helped your dad and Henry rebuild their businesses, his eyes glowed.”

Running my hand through my hair—it feels dry against my fingers—I correct her. “Hazel, I didn’t help Dad rebuild his business. I filled in when his office manager quit.”

“You organized an entire network and computer installation. Did the same thing for Henry. Brought all the accounting and inventory online.”

“Right, but I didn’t help them
rebuild
anything.” My thoughts form a pleasant thanks-but-no-thanks reply to my overeager, overachieving friend.

“Well, look what you did for Jones and the Café.” Her enthusiasm is undaunted.

I laugh. “Okay, you got me. I introduced computers to Jones and learned to run a very small café. Woo-wee. The business world just tilted.”

“Caroline, you’re a team player, a problem solver. You work well under pressure and have phenomenal people skills.”

“I do?” I ease against the back of the sofa.

“Never mind your amazing ability to see good in people. Your com-passion toward your mom always blew me away.”

“Now you’re just talking crazy.”

“C, wouldn’t we have so much fun? Living in Europe together? But, if you agree to this, you can’t change your mind because of some family or hometown emergency.”

Her summation of my skills does little to bring clarity. Me? In Spain? “Hazel, you really think I can do the job?”

“One hundred percent. You are ready for this kind of challenge, girl. And, you’re exactly what Carlos is looking for—raw material.”

Well, in that case . . . But, I catch my “yes” on the tip of my tongue before Hazel hears it. Never, ever have I done anything like this. Daytona Beach for spring break my senior year is my biggest brouhaha so far.

Well, except for the time Mama got a wild hair and decided to rearrange holidays, celebrate Christmas on Halloween, New Year’s on Thanksgiving. For my fourth-grade Halloween party, she sent me to school wearing a red-velvet dress and black patent-leather shoes, carry-ing a free gift bottle of Clinique’s “Happy” wrapped in Santa paper.

Yeah, this Barcelona thing requires some thought. “Can I call you in an hour?”

Hazel’s slow sigh billows in my ear. “Call me at the office. I’ll e-mail you the number. Caroline, just say yes.”

As I hang up from Hazel, a shout rises from the dining room. Dad and Henry finally won a hand.

I grab the kitchen flashlight and steal out the back door, heading around front to my sanctuary—the ancient live oak. Parting the Spanish moss that dangles from gnarly limbs like hippie beads, I hike my skirt to my knees and climb to my pew about ten feet up, wondering if the God of Andy might be available to talk.

DAILY SPECIAL

Tuesday, June 5
Country Ham
Butternut Squash, Green Beans, Cheese Coins
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Upside-Down Apple Cake
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99

5

T
o: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer

Subject: Carlos’s call

Caroline,

Carlos is extremely pleased you said yes. He buzzed into my office
first thing this morning asking for your number. He’s calling you at
four your time—TODAY. Be ready.

Questions you might want to ask him are his expectations, job
description and duties, your role on the team and with other projects.
Think outside the box when you talk to him.

He’ll probably ask you questions like your strength and weaknesses,
expectations, give you a salary range. BTW, he realizes this is all
new to you.

This is
muy
fab, Caroline.
Muy
. Figure your arrival date for a week
on the Mediterranean, in a villa, my treat, so we can have some fun
together before work consumes your life.

Love, Hazel

CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

Late in the afternoon, the Café is bathed in warm, sleepy sunlight that falls in speckled patterns across the thin threads of a weary carpet. The old walls and ceiling beams creak and moan, sounding every bit like an old man stretching as he rises from his favorite chair. Funny, I’ve been hearing the sounds for two years, but today I listen and am comforted.

The old girl’s going to be all right. Get some new owners—by inheritance or sale—who have the wherewithal for an extreme makeover.

Across the counter from me, Mercy Bea leans against Joel Creager’s table, telling him about her youngest young-son’s basketball shoes.

“Two hundred dollars. Can you believe it? And he ain’t done growing.”

Joel sips his coffee while shaking his head. “Glad I never had no kids. Who can afford them?”

Smiling, I wipe down the ketchup bottles. I’ll miss afternoons like this once I’m in Barcelona.

An electric flutter runs down my torso, causing me to draw a long breath.

While sitting in the tree last night, talking to the stars, or perhaps God if He wasn’t otherwise involved—solving crime or formulating an eighth world wonder—this strange peace blanketed me. I’d felt some-thing like it once before—the night Mama died.

When it persisted, I figured it to be my answer, climbed down from the tree, ripping my favorite skirt in the process, and called Hazel.

The Café door’s Christmas bells jingle. Kirk Harris, Jones’s lawyer, walks in.

“Kirk, hello.” What perfect timing. He’ll give me the terms of the will; I’ll give him my resignation. When Carlos calls—TODAY—I’ll be ready to talk start date.

Mercy Bea abandons Joel and shoots over to Kirk. “Darlin’, we’ve been watching for you.”

In his early thirties, the genteel lowcountry lawyer looks like a disheveled Ross Geller from
Friends
. Unruly dark hair, quirky, uneven manner. Today he looks as though he might have slept in his suit.

“Caroline, you ready to see the will?” He starts for the large booth in the back with a quick step, shrugging to shed Mercy Bea.

“Mercy, why don’t you get Kirk some coffee. Looks like he could use some. Bring a plate of biscuits.” I trail after Kirk, ignoring Mercy’s scowl. “How’d the inheritance case turn out?”

Kirk drops his briefcase to the tabletop as if he’s just used up his last ounce of energy. “We settled it last night. Then celebrated . . .”

“Party too much?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him as he pops open his case.

“I forgot I’m not in college anymore.”

He passes a document to me. Jones’s will.

This is it, Jones. Our final good-bye.
For a moment, I entertain sadness.

“Unless you love reading a bunch of legalese, just flip to the red sticky flags.”

“Kirk, before we do this will thing, I want to give you my resignation. Of course, I’ll stay long enough to—”

Kirk snaps his eyes to my face. “Resigning? Oh, no, no, no, Caroline.” He chuckles.

“‘No’? What do you mean ‘no’? I have a job. In Spain.” I spit out “Spain” in case the drank-too-much fog has hampered his hearing. “In Barcelona.”

“Here we are . . .” Trailed by Andy, Mercy Bea sets down a whole pot of fresh-brewed coffee, an oversized hand-painted mug I’m pretty sure was made by one of her young-sons—the handle is crooked—and a heaping plate of biscuits. “Move on over, Caroline.” She shoves against my shoulder. “Slide in next to Kirk there, Andy.”

“Don’t look like we’re needed, Mercy Bea.”

The Charleston lawyer pours his own coffee and downs a big swig without waiting for it to cool. I wince.

“I’d like to talk to Miss Sweeney. Alone,” he says.

“We share information around here. No secrets.” Mercy Bea keeps shoving me around until she’s sitting square in front of Kirk.

Andy doesn’t bother to sit. “If you don’t need me, I got work to do. Look, all I want is to keep my job and pay.”

“I’m sure you’ll find things satisfactory, Andy,” Kirk says, bestowing a long, hard gaze on Mercy Bea, who pinches her face into a stubborn expression. But she’s met her match in Kirk. He sits back, gulps more coffee, and stares her square in the eye.

She can’t last long . . .
Three, two, one . . .

“Oh, all right.” Mercy Bea exhales a blue word while sliding out of the booth. “You’d think a loyal employee would get some special consideration. But, no . . . it’s too much to ask. Caroline, I’m clocking out.”

“Wait fifteen minutes, Mercy Bea, please. Miss Jeanne will be along for supper soon.”

“Russell is here.” She tosses her head. “Apparently, I’m not needed.”

Ho, boy
. “Fine.” I glance at Kirk. “Miss Jeanne is one of our loyal customers, a born-and-raised Beaufortonian.”

“Interesting.” His tone betrays him. And he’s looking a little green. The boy needs two aspirin and a long sleep. “Turn to the red sticky flags, please. By the way, that’s your copy of the will.”

“My copy? O-okay.” I flip to the page marked by the flag and read.

WILL OF
Jones Q. McDermott
, a resident of Beaufort, South
Carolina. I hereby make this Will and revoke all prior Wills and
Codicils.

BENEFICIARIES: I give the Frogmore Café and carriage house to
the following persons:
Caroline Jane Sweeney.

Caroline Jane Swee—
“Me?” I fire my gaze toward Kirk. “That’s my name. Kirk, what? Jones left the Frogmore Café to me?” My middle tightens with an eerie shiver.

Kirk shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is why you can’t go to Barcelona. Congratulations, you’re a business owner.”

“No, no, no.” I toss the document at him like it’s riddled with dis-ease. “I don’t want the Café. I accepted the job in Barcelona. It’s too late to back out.”

Rumbling dark clouds form in my head and echo in my ears. I can’t feel my fingers and toes.

“Are you sure?” Kirk offers back the will.

“Absolutely. This place—and bless Jones for all his hard work—needs an owner with vision and lots of cash.”

Kirk points to a line of the will. “Did you read this?”

My eyes skim the page.

If any beneficiary under this Will does not survive me by 90 days,
then the property shall be sold and money given to charity.

If any beneficiary under this Will does not accept the terms, then
the property shall be sold and money given to charity.

“If you don’t take it, Caroline, I’m legally required to sell it.”

Oh my gosh
,
Jones, what did I ever do to you?
“This is not happening.
Not
happening.” I pat my cheeks. “Wake up, Caroline; it’s just a bad, very bad, dream.”

“If you refuse the terms of the will, I’ll start proceedings to shut down.”

His matter-of-fact tone irritates me—like inheriting a man’s life is an everyday occurrence for me. “There must be some mistake.” I flip through the pages, scanning for any small
“Just kidding”
clause. “Just because I don’t want it doesn’t mean we shut it down.”

“According to the will, there
is
no alternative. Jones specifically requested the Café be given to you, or closed down and sold.”

“What about just sold? To the highest bidder.”

Kirk exhales, sending a puff of hangover-mouth-mixed-with-coffee breath. I turn my nose. “You can argue all you want, Caroline, but my options are you or shut it down and sell it for charity.”

“But
I
am charity. This whole place is charity. What about Andy, Russell, and Mercy Bea? The breakfast-club boys and Miss Jeanne? Our other regular customers? The Vet Wall?” I poke the air with my finger. Kirk twists to see behind him.