Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  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.

  “Very inspiring. Are you accepting the Café or not?”

  “Are you telling me Jones wanted these guys to lose their jobs? That it’s me or no one?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. This is the man who gave money away faster than he made it.”

  “Caroline, I don’t have the time or patience to dialogue about Jones’s heart or motivation. Yes or no.”

  “This isn’t fair.” My heart pulses. Beads of sweat break out over my neck and back. The future of the Café cannot be left to me. It cannot. “Don’t I get twenty-four hours to think about it? Or a couple of days? A year? How about when I get back from Barcelona?”

  The Donald Trump of Europe is calling me in twenty minutes.

  “Fair enough. I made you wait; guess I can give you a couple of days. Shoot, take a week. I’ll be back next . . .” He whips out a PalmPilot. “Tuesday. Meanwhile, let’s go over some details.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Kirk rattles on about taxes, probate, creditors, and a personal representative. But I can barely hear him for the internal turmoil.

  Head: This is a fine mess.

  Heart: You’re not sending me positive thoughts. I neeeed positive thoughts. I’m feeling weepy.

  Head: Stop badgering me. I’m doing all I can to listen and not freak out.

  Heart: [Sniff] Do you have any tissues?

  Back to Kirk: “Doing business shouldn’t be a problem since your name is on the accounts. But if you need a loan from the bank . . . ?”

  “A loan?”

  He gulps the last of his coffee and reaches for the pot to refill. “A loan . . . to pay bills, fix up the place. I’ve seen the books, though. You’ll be hard-pressed to convince a loan officer to back you.”

  “Mr. Mueller runs when he sees me at the teller window.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Kirk caps his pen. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Only a thousand and one. Kirk, why me?”

  He shifts in his seat, tucking the unruly sides of his wrinkled shirt into his waistband. “He never said.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “But, I—” The Christmas bells chime, and I look to see Miss Jeanne coming in for her late-lunch-early-supper.

  “Hey, Miss Jeanne.”

  “Warm day, Caroline.” She makes her way to her favorite spot—a two-top by the fireplace. She’s slightly hunched and gray headed, but hip looking in her mom-jeans and terra-cotta-colored blouse. Time-earned wisdom lines her broad features, but her cherubic smile reflects the youthfulness of her soul.

  “I left Ebony in the car. Do you think it’s too hot?” She gazes out the window as if it can help her gauge the heat index.

  “You left the windows down, didn’t you?”

  She grimaces. “Don’t go insulting my intelligence, young lady, or I’ll tell this young man how you almost burnt down Beaufort High School.”

  Kirk’s brow crinkles. “Burnt down?”

  “There you go.” I flip up my hand. “Another reason Jones should’ve never left the Café to me. I’m a fire hazard.”

  Sliding out of the booth, I hunt down Russell, carrying with me the shock of the will. He’s in the kitchen helping Andy prep for tomorrow’s special. “Miss Jeanne’s here.”

  Without missing a beat, Russell recites her order. “Pot-roast casserole, fresh Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits, side dish of strawberry jam. Side salad with blue-cheese dressing.”

  “Perfect. I’ll get her tea . . . Oh, Russell, she’ll want a slice of rhubarb pie.”

  At the wait station, I fix Miss Jeanne’s mason jar of sweet iced tea while the idea of owning the Café flies around my head looking for a place to land.

  But all the runways are closed.

  When I return to the back booth, Kirk’s downing another mug of coffee and eyeing the biscuits.

  “Let’s say I take the Café. Can I sell it?”

  Kirk removes his glasses and rubs his bloodshot eyes. “After probate, I don’t care what you do. Neither will the law.”

  “Kirk, are you sure Jones was sane when he signed this will?”

  He laughs for the first time since he walked in. “More sane than you and I are right now.” He puts on his glasses and exits the booth. “Caroline, get advice, talk to your priest, visit a Gullah spiritualist, do whatever it is you do for guidance. But next Tuesday I need an answer.”

  6

  To: Hazel Palmer

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: Stop the call!

  Hazel,

  Jones’s lawyer just left. Are you ready for this? The old man left the Frogmore to me.

  I said no, right? But Haz, if I don’t take the Café, Kirk will shut it down—after fifty years of business. Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell will lose their jobs. Faithful patrons will lose a friend. Beaufort will lose a piece of history.

  You’d think Jones could’ve given me an “Oh, by the way” in the last year or so, but nooo. What an odd, insane little man. I feel sick. Really I do. My emotions are all over the place, my thoughts divided. Please cancel the Carlos call. There’s no way I can convince him I’m his first apprentice. Hazel, what should I do? What would you do?

  C

  When J. D. picks me up a little after six, I’m edgy and distracted, fussing with my hair, putting it into a ponytail, then pulling it out again. He watches me by the back door as I attempt to transfer stuff from my backpack to my purse. Keys? Check. Lipstick? Check.

  “Bodean called and said a bunch of folks are going to Luther’s.” He comes up behind me and smoothes his hand over my shoulders. “You game or do you want to go to the beach?”

  “Luther’s is fine.” I jam a fat, square brush into my handbag.

  “Caroline, are you okay?”

  “Yeah.
” Just peachy.

  “Do you need this?” He pinches my work apron, sprouting from the top of my purse.

  “No, I guess not.” Nor the one black clog.

  “You’re sure nothing is bothering you?”

  I smile up at him. “I’m good to go.”

  J. D. leads me to his truck, opens the door, and leans close with a protective I’m-your-man stance. “Caroline . . .”

  “J. D.?” His spearmint breath brushes my face. Our eyes lock for a heady moment and all thoughts of the will drain from my mind. My lips quiver.

  For some reason, the deputy with the ladies’-man rep has yet to kiss me. Three dates, three handshakes. Maybe he heard about Daddy’s blue-light- special speech.

  The old blue light.

  “Something funny?” J. D. backs away with a deflated expression.

  “Oh, J. D., no, no, it’s not you. Flash memory from high school.” I conk my palm against the side of my head. “Danger, Will Robinson. Random thoughts firing.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “And just when I was going to kiss you.”

  I tug on his shirtsleeve. “Don’t I get a do-over?” While I heeded Dad’s warning about backseats and overzealous teenage boys, I did take quite nicely to the art of kissing.

  “Nope, too late.” He nudges me inside his truck.

  “Spoilsport.”

  Driving toward downtown, J. D. gets me laughing about an old drunk he had to pick up this afternoon.

  “‘Please, sir, just get in the car. We’ll get you some help,’ I said. But, no. What does he do? Call me a pig and whiz over the backseat.”

  “J. D., no.” Laughter is good. Keeps me from dwelling on the Café. Or the kiss I lost.

  Worrying about my decision tonight won’t solve anything. I’ll sleep on it, and by some miracle, when I wake up, the answer will be right there—I tap my forehead. Crystal clear.

  As we cross the river, a blue heron rises from the marsh grass and dis-appears into the slanting sunlight.

  Wish I could go with you.

  Luther’s Rx, Rare and Well-Done is a converted phar-macy with exposed-brick walls, high round tables, great food, and a spir-ited atmosphere. Especially when Elle is around.

  “Caroline, back here!”

  My BFF since grade school, Elle Garvey, is standing in her chair, flailing her arms over her strawberry-blonde head, sending her trade-mark bracelets clattering down to her elbow. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her, and my taut emotions seem to relax at the sound of her voice. How could I even consider such a life-altering decision—Barcelona or Beaufort—without her wise input?

  Unlike me, Elle’s had her life planned out since she was thirteen: go to college, study art, then open an art gallery on Bay Street.

  Two years ago, she accomplished her goals. Well, except one: find Mr. Wonderful.

  With his fingertips hooking lightly onto mine, J. D. leads me to our gang in the back left corner. Once there, he runs his hand down my back and around my hip. It’s an intimate move, sending a shiver of surprise down my legs. “Diet Coke?”

  He remembered. “Yes, please. Oh, and a burger.”

  He grins. I never noticed how one side of his mouth hooks to the left a little. It’s saucy and I like it. “Want some fried pickles?”

  “Yum, yes.”

  He sets off to find our waitress, Tracey.

  “Here, Caroline, sit.” Ray Cimowsky hops out of his chair. He’s another Beaufort high alum, married to one of my other BFFs, Jessica. “My wife has been dying to talk to you, and I’d like to see this baseball game.” He motions to the TV hanging in the corner.

  Elle lunges across the table, grabbing my arm as I sit. “Soooo, J. D. How’s it going?” Her luminous green eyes are painted like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra. Totally works for her. She’s gorgeous.

  “Good. So far,” I say between clenched teeth, giving her a warning look. Want to keep it down?

  “I hear he’s a great kisser,” Jess says.

  “Jess.” I check to see if Ray heard.

  “Who do you think told me? Didn’t you, babe?” She looks around at him, but he’s fixed on the TV screen.

  Elle slurps her Coke. “Wonder how Ray knows?”

  “He’s full of useless information.” Jess flicks her hand at her husband like she’s brushing lint from her jeans. “You know what he asked me the other day? If we had any more bathroom tissue.” She twists her lips in how-do-you-like-that? fashion, waiting for Elle and me to recoil or something.

  Elle looks at me. I shrug. “So, did you?”

  “Ladies, did you not hear me? Bathroom. Tissue.” Jess is incredulous. “What kind of man says ‘bathroom tissue’? It’s toilet paper.”

  “The same kind that says ‘laundry detergent’ and ‘feminine prod-ucts,’” Ray interjects, eyes still glued to the game.

  Jess swats at him, laughing. “Didn’t your mama tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

  “Don’t be making fun of me, baby, ’cause if you want to compare stories . . .”

  Jess shushes him. “So, Caroline, J. D., huh?” she whispers, squeezing my arm.

  I scrunch up my shoulders. “Yeah, J. D.”

  Speaking of . . .

  “One diet.” J. D. sets my drink in front of me. “Fried pickles and a burger coming up. Having fun?” he asks in my ear.

  “The best.”

  He joins the boys watching the game—Ray and fellow deputy Bodean Good—while Elle angles toward me, whispering, “Dang, Caroline, first Mitch O’Neal and now J. D. Rand. Where do I get in the I-only-date-drop-dead-gorgeous-men line?”

  “Too late,” I tease. “The ship has sailed.”

  “See?” She sits back. “And this is why I end up on a date with Butch Moore.”

  My mouth is full of drink, and I spew a little, trying to laugh, swal-low, and breathe at the same time. Fizz burns the back of my nose. “Butch Moore. You cannot be serious.”

  He was the resident nerd for Beaufort High’s Class of ’97, and proudly so. When last I saw him, not much had changed. He’s still into video games and Star Trek. I wish him life, health, and happiness, but not Elle.

  Jess sighs with a nod. “She did.”

  “Just dinner.” Elle Z’s the air with her finger. “And I drove myself.”

  My beautiful, artistic, educated, compassionate friend. Reduced to dating nerds. It’s not right. “Are you really that desperate?”

  “Well, we can’t all be you, can we?”

  Touchy. “I’ve dated two men. If—and it’s a big if”—I lower my voice—“you count J. D. This is only our fourth date.”

  “Oh, you’re dating,” Jess says with confidence. “I see the way he looks at you.”

  “What look?” I sneak a peek at him. Oh, he’s watching me. I smile. He winks. Tingles rush over me.

  The truth is there aren’t many pages in my dating-history book. Before this “thing” with J. D., there was only Mitch. He was—er, is—spectacular. Last year, People magazine listed him in the top ten of “Most Beautiful Men of the Decade.” The decade!

  For far too long, I clung to Mitch as my true love, completely lost in the hope of “us.”

  At nineteen, he moved to Nashville with the intent of becoming a country music star, eager to shed his preacher’s kid stigma. I was also nineteen and confident that all the promises we made to each other were real, passionate, and for life. I had no idea we’d keep—he’d keep—none of them.

  After several years of back and forth, caring and not caring, roller coasting between tears and nail-spitting mad, Elle drove me down to Savannah for a nice dinner and hard talk. “Come down off Mount Still-Hoping. Look around—you’re in the land of It’s-Never-Gonna-Happen. Mitch has moved on. So should you. You’re living a spinster librarian life while he dates Hollywood A-listers and the latest half-starved beauty from Madison Avenue.” She shuddered. “And I saw him take the True Love Waits pledge at youth church.”

  As though to take my mind off bad m
emories, J. D.’s hand brushes along my shoulders and under my hair. His baritone rises and falls in conversation with the guys.

  “Okay, be honest.” Elle taps her forehead. “Does it say ‘Geeks Stand a Chance’ right here?”

  “What?” I lean into J. D.’s caress. Jess’s high twitter explodes around us.

  “Ladies, I’m asking a serious question.” Elle squares her shoulders and gestures to her slender frame. “Anywhere on here? Does it say ‘Geeks Stand a Chance’?”

  What is she talking about? Homecoming Queen, Most Popular—the guys had to book a date with her, months in advance. One of my joys in high school was standing in her shadow and watching the parade. And at the University of South Carolina, she was president of this club and chairman of that committee.

  “You’re beautiful and intimidating,” I conclude. “The geeks are too clueless to realize they’re hunting in the wrong field.”

  Elle slides down in her seat. “Y’all, I’m serious. The other day I was at the gym and this gorgeous guy with long black curly hair and great arms walked slowly past me. He looked. I looked.” Elle demonstrates her look. “He smiled. I smiled. Then, out of nowhere, this geekozoid in Velcro sneakers and a T-shirt that says ‘Too many women, so little time’ is right in front of me, asking if I want to go to Luther’s for a beer.”

  Lowering my head, I laugh into my drink. Jess’s twitter deepens.

  “I think to myself,” Elle continues, “Oh, my stars, I know people at Luther’s.”

  Tracey appears with Diet Coke refills and the fried pickles.

  “What did you tell him?” Jess manages between snickers.

  “I told him I don’t drink. Which is true, so I don’t feel guilty.” Elle snatches a pickle and munches down. “I’m telling you, times are getting desperate.”

  As we talk the perils of dating for a lowcountry single woman, the rest of our food arrives. I’m polishing off the last bite of burger when the lights dim. Tonight’s singer, Branan Morgan, steps into the spotlight burning down on the very small, front-corner stage.

  “How’s everyone tonight?” He’s greeted with a mix of cheers and whistles. “Glad you all could make it out.” He slips on his guitar. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Branan Morgan and—”