Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

“Caroline, go to Spain,” Elle whispers.

  “Even if it means the Café closes?” In the light of the movie screen, I peer into my friend’s eyes, searching for strength, for hope.

  “Yes, even if it means the Café closes. Jones should’ve thought of that before he left the place to you. You’ve lived your life for everyone else far too long. It’s Caroline time. What is your destiny?”

  “What about J. D.?”

  She twists toward me. “C, he’s gorgeous, but he’s not Barcelona-Carlos-Longoria gorgeous. If you were a serious couple or about to be engaged, maybe you’d have to reconsider. But you’ve been on four dates. If he’s yours, he’ll be here when you get back, if you come back.”

  “Did he have a crush on me in junior high?”

  “The quiet, observing Caroline who sailed through puberty unscathed? Probably.”

  “Unscathed? I was voted worst dressed.”

  “Yeah, but to a junior high boy, that’s cool.”

  “You had a mama at home.”

  “Right.”

  I sneak in one last question as the opening score fades for Drew Barrymore’s dialogue. “What about Mitch being home? I mean, do you think it’s some sort of sign?”

  “You don’t believe in signs.”

  “Exactly.”

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Tuesday, June 12

  Stuffed Peppers (Pork or Beef)

  Green Salad

  Rice

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  Cherry Pie à la Mode

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $7.99

  10

  T uesday. D-Day. Didn’t sleep a wink. Last night I ended up at the city council meeting where they discussed the future of the Frogmore Café.

  “The Café is part of our historical heritage,” one man argued. “It’s the council’s job to watch out for our preservation.”

  After the meeting, I spent two hours in parking-lot consultations with the old-timers.

  “Keep the Café, Caroline.”

  “Don’t saddle the girl, Tom. She’s too young. The place is run-down. She ain’t got money to keep it up. Get rid of it.”

  But my favorite line of the night came from Darcy Day: “I never eat there. The food stinks.”

  At eight-oh-two this morning, the breakfast-club boys arrive. Their presence comforts my tilting emotions.

  Dupree is at the ready with his opening bathroom story. “I’ve been irregular, if you know what I mean, so the wife gives me an enema. Now if that ain’t something that will—”

  “Dupree, stop, stop.” Pastor Winnie slams his long hands on the table. “You’ve gone too far, friend. Enemas? No. I want to enjoy my breakfast. We’ve got to get you telling other stories. Ain’t you got more going on in your life?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Have you decided, Caroline?” Luke asks in his gentle manner.

  “Not yet.” Okay, here it comes—their opinions and advice. I brace myself. But nothing. Instead, they study the table menus from which they never order.

  Kirk shows up at the Café just after ten. His rumpled dark suit is replaced with white golf attire, wrinkled but clean.

  “Hitting the links today?” I pour him a cup of coffee as he sets up his office in the back booth again.

  “Drove down last night with a couple of buddies. Got a room at the Beaufort Inn.” He checks his watch. “We tee off at eleven.”

  Andy and Mercy Bea hover around the kitchen door. The breakfast-club boys linger, nursing their fiftieth cup of coffee. Dupree has worn a new path in the old carpet to the men’s room.

  “What’s your decision?”

  Setting the coffeepot on the table, I slide into the booth across from him, gazing out the window to my right for a long, trembling second. “As much as I loved Jones, and appreciate what he must have been trying to do for me and the Café, I cannot accept it, Kirk.”

  “All right.” He adjusts his slipping glasses with the tip of his fancy pen.

  I wring my hands.

  “Caroline, Jones didn’t mean to torture you with this. Stand by your decision.”

  “Then what did he mean, Kirk? Hmm? Tell me? You can’t leave a girl your life’s work and expect her to not agonize over it. Do you realize the Café was the center of discussion at the city council meeting last night?”

  “Caroline, calm down. Go to Barcelona. Forget about the Café. People will live. Life goes on. Change happens.” He pops open his brief-case. “But listen, here’s an option to consider. Hang on to the Café through probate, then sell it. The guys I’m golfing with today like to invest in projects.”

  “Then what, Kirk? The job in Barcelona will be gone.”

  Kirk leans over the table. “You’d have enough money to vacation anywhere in the world.”

  “Again, then what? Call Paris Hilton for a shopping spree? Money isn’t going to give me a future.”

  “Then sign.” He taps the papers he handed me. “Here . . . and here.” Taking the pen, I pause to read the form. Sure enough, I’m handing it all over to Kirk for him to close down. I breathe out. Am I sure?

  Another gaze out the window. Through the trees, I spot the back of Paul Mulroney’s bistro. Fifteen years ago, he and Jones used to compete for business, running cheesy radio spots with stupid jingles that got stuck in our heads. Over time, Jones grew complacent and lost his will to fight.

  I flip the pen back and forth against my fingers. Yes, I’m sure. Breathing deep, I sign. Five seconds later, it’s done.

  The Frogmore Café is no more.

  The others respect my privacy after Kirk leaves, letting me sit alone in the back booth, fighting an odd emptiness.

  Where’s the relief of making a decision? The excitement of what lies ahead? Two minutes ago, I felt confident. Now, it’s like I spent my last dollar for a stupid fairground toy when I could’ve stopped for cheese fries on the way home.

  The breakfast-club boys finally mosey over. “You let her go, didn’t you?” Luke pats my shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  They stare off in different directions, coughing, hacking, and sniffing until Dupree claps his hands on Luke and Winnie’s shoulders. “Well, it was a good twenty years, boys.”

  My stomach knots. My skin is both clammy and hot. “Dupree, Luke, you understand, right? Pastor Winnie?”

  Winnie juts out his chin and rolls back his shoulders. “S-sure we do. Sure.” His sad expression tells me otherwise.

  They stand around for another awkward moment; then Dupree remembers he has to take his wife “somewhere.”

  So, this is what it feels like to be a heel. Not that I ever really wanted to know. But I can’t keep the Café. When will a man like Carlos Longoria ever want to work with me again?

  As I head for the kitchen, I spot Mercy Bea on the other side of the waiter’s station, wiping her eyes.

  “Hey—”

  “Eight years, ended, just like that, with a flash of a hundred-dollar pen.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “For who? You?” She storms off.

  Ho, boy. Mustering my courage, I hunt for my big-hearted cook. “Andy?”

  No answer. I check the pantry. “You here?” Still no answer. The kitchen feels cold and abandoned. Regret strangles my heart from some dark inner place.

  In the office, I flop down in the chair, which rocks back with a jerk, almost dumping me to the floor. This chair I won’t miss, nor the clutter and dust.

  I glance at the clock. Ten thirty.

  Why isn’t Andy banging around in the kitchen?

  I get up and stand in the doorway. The Café is spooky and silent—as if no one ever lived here, laughed, or loved here.

  The foundation isn’t moaning, nor the eaves creaking.

  My heartbeat drums in my hears. “Andy?”

  The electricity buzzes, then browns out.

  I can’t do it. I can’t.

  Running through the dining room, I jerk open the front door
so hard the Christmas bells crash against the glass. “Kirk.” I’ve changed my mind. Wait. I dash to the curb, looking both ways down Bay Street. But the lawyer’s Lexus is long gone. “Kirk.”

  Phone. I’ll call him. I pat my pockets. Where’s my phone? A dash back inside, tripping on the carpet by the wait station, then crashing into a lowboy.

  In the office, I jerk my backpack from the bottom desk drawer.

  “Kirk, Kirk, Kirk,” I mutter, searching my cell-phone book for his number. Dang, it’s not in there. I launch Outlook and scroll through the address book. “Kirk Harris, Kirk Harris . . . there.” My hands shake as I dial.

  7 . . . 6 . . . 3 . . .

  It takes forever to ring—I could’ve rocketed to the moon—and bounces right away to voice mail. Sweat breaks out under my arms.

  “Kirk, it’s Caroline. I-I’ve changed my mind. I-I can’t close down the Café. It’s not too late, right? Please tell me it’s not too late. It’s only been a few measly minutes.” Tears fizz in my eyes. “W-we can talk about selling. To the right person. You know, when the time is right. After the probate. Kirk. Please. You should’ve seen their faces.”

  The message beeps and cuts me off. I press End and toss my phone to the desk.

  To: Hazel Palmer

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: The Frogmore and me

  Dear Hazel,

  I tried to do it. Let the Café go. But I couldn’t. As soon as I signed the papers and the lawyer left, I felt sick. Hazel, you should’ve seen their faces—the breakfast-club boys, Andy and Mercy Bea—the expression of abandonment. I’ve seen it on Henry’s face a dozen times. Whoever said responsibility was fun or easy? But it’s honor-able, right? After probate, I can look into selling it. Who knows, maybe I’ll take to the Café life.

  Hazel, don’t be mad. Please, give my apologies to Carlos. I am grateful he wanted to work with me. But, in the end, I felt the old Frogmore deserved better than being sold at auction.

  Regretfully, Caroline.

  At four thirty, I’m alone in the Café. Kirk hasn’t returned my call and I’m pleading with the stars that he didn’t file the papers on his way to the golf course.

  Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell finished their side work and left with-out saying good-bye, and frankly, I don’t blame them. I cost them their jobs.

  The Café rebukes me now with moaning and creaking. The old AC bangs and rattles.

  “All right, Caroline,” I coax myself. “What’s done is done. Stand by your decision.”

  So, I finish the day’s deposit with my eyes welling up and blurring the numbers. Before shutting down the computer, I check to see if Hazel e-mailed. She didn’t, but there’s an incoming from Sheree over at the Water Festival.

  To: CSweeney

  From: ShereeLambert@bftwater…

  Subject: Water Festival Raft Race

  Caroline,

  Saw the Gazette article. If you’re actually the new owner of the Café, think about pulling together a team for the Raft Race. The applications are due the end of June so you have a little bit of time. You need eleven people.

  The raft race is well attended, fun, and would be great publicity. Might be a way to get the Frogmore Café back in everyone’s mind.

  Back in the day, Jones was a big supporter of the Festival.

  Think about it. I’ve attached the application.

  Sheree

  The Water Festival raft race? Who’s she kidding? Eleven people? Where would I . . . A grin springs reluctantly to my lips. Actually, the race would be fun. Too bad I didn’t get to Kirk in time.

  I click Reply.

  Thanks, Sheree. I’ll think about it.

  Caroline.

  “Anyone here?”

  I bolt out of the desk chair. “Hello?”

  “Caroline?” A muffled voice calls from the dining room.

  “Who’s here?” Passing the prep table, I snatch a spatula for protection. Just in case. “Kirk?”

  Yep, it’s Kirk, at the back booth, rear in the air. I’d recognize his wrinkles from any angle.

  “What are you doing?”

  His head pops up. “Oh, Caroline, have you seen my phone? I dropped it somewhere.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t return my call.”

  “Aha, here it is.” Kirk dives below the table, retrieving his RAZR phone. “What call?”

  “I changed my mind.” The words fire out of my mouth. “I don’t want to close down the Café.”

  Kirk glances up from checking his missed calls. “Are you sure?”

  “Y-yes, for now. Like you said, after probate I can see about selling, right? But I can’t let you put her on the auction block.”

  He flattens the phone to his ear, holding up his finger, listening. Then, clapping his phone shut, he walks right past me. “I’m late. Got to go.”

  “Kirk,” I holler, incredulous. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, you changed your mind.”

  “And?”

  “I figured you would.” He grins. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Caroline. I’ll shred the documents when I get to the office.”

  “Thank you, Kirk. Thank you.” I rub my bare arms.

  “Listen, just so you have a mental back door, I told my golfing bud-dies about this place. They love Beaufort and are keen on investing here. It’s the new retirement haven. And, Caroline, their pockets are very deep.”

  “Really. Okay, then, so”—I fan out my arms—“the Café is mine.”

  He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “And the carriage house. Have fun.”

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Congratulations, Caroline!

  Monday, June 18

  Country-Fried Steak

  Taters and Gravy

  Bacon-Wrapped Green Beans

  Salad

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  Sweet Caroline Pie

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $8.99

  11

  Dad and Posey arrived home from the Bahamas Sunday with very big smiles and beautiful tans. I like what I see in Dad’s eyes—love. It gives me hope.

  After shocking them with the I-own-the-Café-and-gave-up-Barcelona story, I revived them with CPR and asked if they’d like to help me move into the carriage house Monday evening.

  “Newlyweds don’t need the man’s grown daughter hanging around.” Monday, Mitch calls while we’re packing up to see “what’s going on,” so I tell him to come to the house. “We need your truck.”

  Since Mrs. Atwater cleaned and spiffed up the carriage house and left most of Jones’s wood and leather furniture, all I have to do is haul over my clothes, personal items, and the antique armoire I promise I’m going to restore someday. We load Mitch’s truck with clothes, books, and stuff, then he and Posey head over while I take one final pass of my room.

  “Caroline?” Dad calls upstairs. “I’ve got the armoire roped to the truck bed. You ready?”

  “Yes, ready.” At twenty-eight, I’m moving out on my own for the first time. It’s a lovely, long-overdue, frightening experience. Perhaps even more than taking on the responsibility of the Café.

  Yet, as I take in my faded yellow room, I wish little girls never grew up.

  “Your mama promised to paint the room pink with blue clouds, remember? And buy a lacy canopy bed.” Turning, I see Dad in the door-way.

  “Don’t forget the pony galloping out of the corner.” I sweep my hand from right to left across the room. “Because all princesses need a pony.”

  He smiles. “All princesses need a pony.”

  Since she died four years ago, Dad and I haven’t said more than ten words about her. “Why didn’t she do it?”

  Crossing his arms, he leans his shoulder against the door frame. “To spite me. Your tenth birthday was coming up, and I pressured her to fix up your room like she promised. Thought it’d be the perfect present. So we sent you and Henry to your grandparent’s for a weekend with the plan of painting your room. But Trudy spent m
ost of the time . . . I don’t know . . . frittering. She was in one of her moods. Late Saturday, I got on her about it, said I’d do whatever she needed me to do to get it done. She exploded, said some choice words, and disappeared. I woke up Sunday morning in the recliner to her banging around up here. She’d painted the room yellow and was putting together that crummy daybed.”

  “When we came home and I walked into my room, I knew. No blue clouds or pony would ever happen. I climbed the tree and cried.”

  Dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Caroline. Your mom and I fought for weeks about it, but I had to let it go. Blue clouds and ponies didn’t seem worth the price of our relationship or what it was doing to you kids. I would’ve painted it myself if I had the talent. Trudy could work wonders with a paintbrush.”

  I look over at him. “I’ll take my yellow room any day as long as you’re my dad. Talent or no talent. You stayed when she didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t the best dad, but I did love you kids.”

  “It was obvious.” I check the closet one last time. Empty. “So, Dad, on another note, do you have any idea why Jones left me the Café?”

  He absently shakes his head. “Wish I did. When I was growing up, Dad and Mama didn’t socialize with him. But after she died, Dad started his regular Friday nights down at the Frogmore.”

  “I wonder if I’ll ever know. Ready? Mitch and Posey are probably there by now.”

  Dad stops me in the hallway. “Caroline—” He presses his fist to his mouth, clearing his throat. “I want you to know, you were a source of comfort to me, and to your granddad. I never said thanks.”

  Behind my eyes, a bottle fills with unshed tears. “No need. I only did what I saw my daddy doing.”

  Moving my armoire into the carriage house is like wedging Drizella’s fat, corny foot into Cinderella’s glass slipper.

  Ugly. Impossible.

  “Caroline, are you sure you want this thing?” Dad mops his brow with the edge of his T-shirt sleeve. “Looks to me like the bedroom has a big closet.”

  Mitch peers around the beat-up, dried-out oak armoire from outside the carriage house. The large wardrobe is stuck in the front doorway. “We could leave it here and hope someone steals it.”

  Propping my hands on my hips, I sigh. “Bunch of whiners. Just move it in, please.