Sweet Caroline Read online

  “Ha!” Dupree slaps the table, calling after Mercy Bea. “A man can live long and fine without a woman. Especially a nagging one.”

  “Dupe,” I say, “she’s not insulting men. Just making an observation.”

  “Well, she best to hold on to some of her observations.” He raises his voice, turning his chin over his shoulder so she can hear him loud and clear. “She might be able to trick a smart man into taking her to dinner.”

  Holding my laugh in, I point to his plate. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

  Dupree jerks his napkin from under the silverware. “Has my wife been by here? Giving you nagging tips?”

  The Christmas bells clang again as two men enter the Café and take a seat at the counter. “I’ll be around with more coffee.”

  The Café routine goes on as morning sunlight gleams through the windows. Jones would’ve wanted it this way.

  After the breakfast rush—and I use the term loosely—the dining room is bright but quiet. Mercy Bea leans against the counter, reading the Gazette, sipping iced tea from a mason jar. In the kitchen, Andy ups the music as he preps casseroles for lunch. Russell, the Café’s dish-washer and part-time cook, punches in and powers up the old dishwasher.

  Snatching up another warm biscuit, I tuck away in the office to face the bills, sitting in the dilapidated desk chair and launching QuickBooks while I gaze around the long, narrow quarters. Jones was a pack rat. He saved old cookbooks, menus, place mats, and the odd broken oven knob. Once the Café is sold or handed over to the new owner, I’ll volunteer to help decipher this mess for cleanup.

  Bending under the desk, I open the tiny safe and pull out last night’s deposit. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the bag was empty. Business is such that I only trek down to the bank once or twice a week. Every time I do, the bank manager, Mr. Mueller, gives me a look like, “Don’t be asking for a loan, Caroline.”

  Don’t you worry, Mr. Mueller. When Kirk finally gets around to reading Jones’s will, I’ll be free . . .

  My thoughts jump to my friend Hazel Palmer’s latest brief and cryptic e-mail: “I went way out on a limb this time for you, Caroline. Risking my rep. So, do you want the job or not? Yes or no.”

  My friend, the sarcastic CFO. Did I ask her to climb out on a limb for me and dangle her reputation? No. It’s all about ego when one becomes senior management for a major European development corporation.

  “Caroline?” A light knock echoes outside the office door.

  “Hey, Mrs. Atwater.” I motion for my former math teacher turned domestic engineer to enter. It’s nice to see her. Even better, she’s not asking me for geometry solutions.

  No, I do not know what percent of a rectangle’s area is increased if the length and width are doubled. How will this improve my life?

  “Morning, Caroline.” She hands me a set of keys. “Jones’s carriage house is cleaned out, ready for new residents.” With a glint in her hazel eye, she settles in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I see Jones was a hoarder in the Café as much as his house.”

  “He hated to throw stuff out.” I drop the keys in the top desk drawer, next to another odd key I found taped to the side of the file cabinet a week ago. “I’d clean out the office, but I’m waiting to see what the new owners will do. So, what’s the decluttered carriage house look like?”

  “Walk across the parking lot and check it out. It’s quite lovely. Polished hardwood floors, open-beam ceiling, fresh paint. The kitchen is from the sixties, but, hey, avocado green is coming back.”

  “If you’re a hippie.”

  “Exactly.” Sitting back, she props her hands on her slightly round middle. A seventies-style red bandanna shoves her brown curls away from her forehead. “Any word from the lawyer?”

  “Nothing new.” I tap the deposit amount into QuickBooks. If only I could add one more zero. “Just that he’s still busy with a big estate case. Do I pay you for cleaning or . . .”

  “We’re square. The lawyer paid me when he hired me.” Mrs. Atwater hunches forward. “I’ve known you a long time, Caroline . . .”

  She’s going to give me the speech. The one she gave her class every semester. I rock back in my chair, catching my foot around the desk leg as the seat lists to starboard. I’m determined to pay attention to her this time. For real. And believe her. A little.

  “You’re one of the brightest, kindest women I’ve ever met. Even though you hated geometry.”

  “Hated? No, Mrs. Atwater, really, I like—”

  She laughs. “You’re not in tenth grade, Caroline. You can confess: you hated it.”

  I wrinkle my face. “It’s just there were so many triangles, rectangles, and circles . . .”

  “As I recall, you earned an A.”

  “I cheated.”

  “Ha. You didn’t. Which brings me to my point.”

  How’d she work that one around?

  “Look at you, Caroline, hanging around, making sure Jones’s old place stays afloat. You’re selfless. Even in high school, you carried a serious personal responsibility about you that your friends and classmates didn’t.”

  “Being abandoned by a parent does that to a girl.” Reaching for a thin wire that was once a paper clip, I wish she’d focus her intense gaze elsewhere. “I always felt Daddy needed me, you know? If I left, what would he do?”

  And what would I do so far from home? Morph into her?

  “I understand. But your daddy is doing fine now. Isn’t he engaged? Your brother’s married.” My old teacher leans forward, placing her fingers on the edge of the desk, her expression almost a yearning. “Caroline, you have so much untapped potential. Don’t let your mama’s weirdness hold you back. I’ll tell you right now, I was disappointed when you turned down the Clemson scholarship.”

  “Look, Mrs. Atwater—”

  “How long you been working here?”

  “Two years.”

  “And before here?”

  My back stiffens. “Mrs. Farnsworth’s Landscaping & Nursery. Bookkeeping, mostly. Spread more manure-laced fertilizer than I liked, but she’s a nice lady.”

  Mrs. Atwater wrinkles her nose. “Of course she is. So are you. Too nice. Before Mrs. Farnsworth, you worked for your brother when he took over Sweeney Construction after your granddaddy passed. Before that, you managed the office for your dad’s well-drilling business.”

  I jam the wire in one of the wormholes that pepper the wooden desktop. “I know my own job history, Mrs. Atwater. It’s hard to say no to people in need.”

  “What about your need? You think God only put you on this earth to do other folks’ chores?”

  “First of all, I don’t believe God put me here for anything. Second, what’s wrong with doing other people’s chores? If more people would help out—”

  “Sure, but there’s something just for you. A field you’re supposed to plow and plant—” Mrs. Atwater pinches her lips. “You know what, I’ll shut up. Who am I to judge? I’ve overstepped my bounds. Forgive me.” She rises. “What the world needs is more people like you. One who puts others above herself.”

  “Don’t make me out to be a saint, Mrs. Atwater. I’m not.” The wire’s tip is stuck in one of the worm holes. I jerk it free.

  “I gave up teaching to save my sanity. If I had to grade one more test . . .” She pauses at the office door, shaking her head. “But I’ll never stop encouraging my students, no matter how old they are. Just take care of yourself, Caroline. Don’t waste your potential.”

  The words bounce around the crowded office, hurting my ears. “Don’t waste your potential.”

  As I hear her car fire up and pull away, I glance out the small office window—the panes need washing—and muse about my unrealized potential. A creeping sensation runs over my torso and down my arms. I’m already twenty-eight. What am I going to do with my life?

  Worse than dying is never having lived at all.

  Early afternoon Daddy comes around and hitches my broken-down car t
o the back of his truck. “I’ll pick you up when I’m done with my last job.” He rests his elbow out the window of his battered blue work truck. “Henry and Cherry are coming over for dinner.”

  “Yeah, Cherry said she thought they’d make it.” My brother and his wife of eight years join Dad and me for dinner once a week or so. But we’re sloppy with family traditions and lately we’ve been more on the “or so” side of things than the “once a week.”

  “Posey’s cooking up something good.” Dad clicks his tongue against his teeth and fidgets. “I want to run something by you kids.”

  “Yeah, like what?” Bending left, I try to see his eyes, which are focused straight ahead, out the windshield. “Don’t tell me Posey gave back your ring.”

  “Here I am towing your broken-down heap to the shop and you’re poking fun at me.” He shifts the truck into gear.

  “Dad, I’m teasing. You know Posey loves you.”

  The truck inches forward as he eases off the clutch. “I’ll talk to you later. See you around five or half past.”

  As he drives off, I catch a smile on the corners of his lips.

  What are you up to, Dad?

  He’s delivered a lot of news to Henry and me over the years. Most of it bad. “Mama left for good this time . . . Got a call from California. Your Mama says Merry Christmas, but she’s not coming . . . Your mama’s passed on. They’re doing an autopsy, but it looks like she was drinking and driving.”

  But today, there was a different light in his eyes, a different tone in his voice.

  Back inside the Café, I grab a plate of Frogmore Stew—shrimp, corn on the cob, potatoes, sausage, and onions—and head to the office to tally the day’s tips.

  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

  Hey, 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 o
pened 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,