by Rachel Hauck
“Elle, you need serious help. Color coding?”
“If eHarmony can match people on a computer, based on some psychological test, then I can color code a few known prospects.”
Exchanging my sophomore yearbook for my senior yearbook, I re-mind my friend of a few points. “Aren’t you the one who told me God is in control of your life? How is this letting Him run the show? You claimed to trust Him when you studied in Florence. When you decided to go on a mission to Guatemala. Even when you opened your gallery. Now that you’re ready to get married, He’s off the job somehow? Gone fishing?”
Elle swats at my knee. “No, He’s still in control, Caroline. I’m just lining up some men He and I can discuss.”
“Oh, really? I’m sure He was just stumped without your help.” Flipping over to our senior class photos, I see the pages are loaded with lots of sticky flags.
“Look at you, one Sunday in church and you’re all about how God thinks.”
“I’m just repeating what you’ve said over the years.” Truth is—and I can’t explain it—I’ve felt strong today. Confident.
“I don’t know, Caroline. Maybe I’m restless.” Elle falls back against the large, overstuffed club chair. “I love owning the gallery. Shooting weddings is a great joy for me. I’m never jealous, you know, of the bride. But after a while I realized, this is it. I’m home now. A businesswoman. Where am I going to meet a man to share my life with?”
Closing the book over my thumb, I face Elle. “Believe me, I under-stand. I felt the same way each time I took some admin or clerical job just to help out the family or a family friend. I wanted a passion for something, you know? Then I get the Café. Elle, it’s not my passion, but I’m doing what I have to do.”
“You’re so brave, Caroline.”
“Not really. But, listen to me, you’re too beautiful, inside and out, for a man not to find you and lose himself in your deep, green eyes. You’re the brightest star when we’re all out together, outshining all of us. If you weren’t so genuine, Hazel, Jess, and I would loathe you.”
She picks at a loose thread on the hem of her top. “That was lovely, Caroline. Thank you.” Then she sits forward. “Look, I’m not going to do anything stupid. But isn’t it fun to dream? Pretend?”
“Then let’s get to it. Matthew McConaughey, Elle has you in her sights, bubba.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Elle jabs her finger in the air. “Must have compassion for the arts and be able to pronounce and spell renaissance.”
“You go, girl. Set that bar high.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Jess hurries toward us, breathless, her hair tousled. “Ray called and I couldn’t get him off the phone.” She flops down in the chair opposite Elle. “What’d I miss? Why are these yearbooks here? With stickies?”
Elle flattens her palm on the stack of yearbooks and explains the whole process to Jess, who, to my surprise, thinks it’s brilliant.
“Let me grab a latte and we can get started.” Jess flashes her sweet smile at both of us while digging money from her handbag.
“Oh, bring me a chocolate biscotti,” Elle says.
“Caroline, what about you?” Jess pauses beside the handrail. “Latte, espresso?”
“Nothing for me just yet, thanks.”
Getting comfortable, I scan the faces on the glossy yearbook page, wondering how ten years went by in a day. “Oooh, Rocky Galloway, good choice. I heard he’s a sports agent, living in Miami Beach.”
Elle lifts her eyes from the yearbook she’s perusing. “I could definitely go for the jock type. Miami? Not so sure. But he could move, right? Telecommute. Fly out of Savannah for business.” She taps her page. “Carter Daley. What about him?”
“Married, four years ago.”
“Rats.”
“Tim Norton.”
”Married.”
“Ah . . .” She flips her wrist. “I didn’t want to be Elle Norton anyway.” I freeze when my eyes fall on the next page. Elle has every color flag pointing to one picture. Mitch O’Neal. My pulse rushes. She can’t be serious.
“Elle, you have every flag around Mitch?”
“Yeah, I know.” She leans over. “He’s single, right? And he doubles on my celebrity list.”
She cannot be serious. An instant picture of them kissing, cuddling, sours my stomach. Oh, I don’t feel well. How could I deal with my best friend married to . . .
The love of my life.
Stop right there, Caroline. Mitch is only your friend.
“Two of my best friends, married.” I swallow. “H-how cool.”Or not. Getting over Mitch was the hardest thing in my life—other than dealing with Mama.
Yet, I never considered the next phase—falling in love and getting married. It’s one thing to know he’s dating celebrity women who are more like movie characters than real people, but falling in true love?
“Caroline, you’re over him, right? Moving on with J. D.”
I squirm. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want you to go out with him.”
“So you’d rather see him with a Hollywood skank or some bimbo groupie.”
“So? You want to be with a man who has such poor taste in women?”
Elle rolls her eyes. “As I recall, he loved you first. Look, don’t get your panties in a wad. He’s one of a dozen great choices, Caroline.”
Um-hmm. But so far he’s the only one with all arrows pointing to him. “You’d be crazy not to list him as number one, El. He’s kind, romantic, amazing to look at, rich, and apparently a renewed man of faith. Besides, who’s to say he’d go for you anyway.” The words sound harsher than I mean.
Elle’s eyes darken. “Why wouldn’t he go for me?” Her bracelets slip down her arm with a clatter as she brushes her silky hair off her shoulder.
The tension between us could hold up a gorilla and her babies. “It’s Mitch, Elle. My Mitch. Yes, you’re beautiful and talented. Any man would be lucky to have you, but . . . Mitch? What do you want me to say?”
“That you’d be happy for me. And you forgot educated and well traveled.”
The blood drains from my cheeks. “I see. And I’m not. So you’d be a better match for the famous and well-traveled Mitch O’Neal.”
“Caroline, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Look—” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Mitch is avail-able. So . . .” I force myself to look in her eyes. “Go for it.”
The truth is, in perfect Caroline-world this conversation would never happen. My mama would’ve never run out on us, nor died at the youthful age of fifty. I would’ve gone to college and graduated with honors and certainly never inherited an old man’s café. Mitch would be a P.E. teacher at Beaufort High, with a football championship trophy. Not one, but two. Still a star. And we’d be married with two-point-one kids.
Jess breezes into this mess with a large latte and a couple of chocolate biscotti. “Okay, what did I miss?”
Elle drops me off at the carriage house a little after eight because, as she predicted, it’s raining. Operation Wedding Day went well—after the Mitch tension—and we laughed at old pictures and read the inscriptions our classmates wrote to Elle.
Elle, you are the sexiest girl in fifth period P.E. even though you are weird. Call me. Mark Hammond.
We sure had some laughs in Mrs. Gonzales’s class. Oodgay ucklay alwaysway. Jenny Barrett.
When are you going to marry me? Steve Parker.
I tapped his signature. “Hasn’t Steve been married, like, four times?”
“And getting divorced. Again.” The Jess-and-Ray connection is great for scooping on old classmates. If we don’t know what’s up with some-one, Ray does. Or he can find out. “Ray says he posted on MySpace he wants to beat Liz Taylor’s record.”
“He’s banned from the list. I don’t care how rich, kind, or good-looking.” Me, being bossy.
“I’ll be an old maid first,” Elle said.
After two hours of poring over yearbooks and talking, Jess
, Elle, and I came up with a list of ten wedding-day possibilities. Single, attractive, relatively successful, eligible men.
“With deep faith,” Elle always added. “I need a man who knows Jesus.”
We were one shy of ten after the list was compiled, so I tossed out Kirk’s name to round out the field. Outside of wrinkled suits and obnoxious glasses, he’s quite handsome. And, I believe, a Presbyterian, though don’t quote me.
Elle taps my arm as I start to get out of her car. “Are we okay?” She shifts her car into park, leaving the motor running. Rain softly ratta-tat-tat s against the windshield.
“Yes, we’re fine.” I smile, reaching for my door handle. “It’s just weird to think of you with Mitch. Or Mitch with anyone, really.”
Elle’s soft laugh tells me she understands. “Seems weird to me, too, actually. I always pictured you two as the Ross and Rachel of Beaufort.”
“Are you my Emily?”
“The one Ross should’ve never married? I hope not. Caroline, listen, if you really want him off my list, say the word.”
“El, it’s fine . . . Yes, it makes me uncomfortable. But that’s my problem, not yours. If I’m really over him—and I am—then I can’t tell you, ‘Hands off.’”
“Tell you what: if I’m not married by thirty-five, and the coast is clear with you, and Mitch just happens to be available, then I’ll make my move.”
“Mitch is your backup?”
“Secret backup. Won’t he be surprised when I come calling in seven years?”
Laughing, I lean across to hug her. “Deal. Thanks for the lift.”
As she pulls away, I dash between fat raindrops to the dark porch, and, as if scripted for an I Love Lucy episode, my right foot lands in a deep puddle. I’m suddenly hurtling forward. My purse goes airborne and the contents fly like New Year’s confetti.
Face-first, I splash into a mini pool of rain. And curse.
“Caroline.” Strong hands lift me off the ground. Oh, my. “Are you all right?”
Mud slips down the inside of my top. “Mitch? What are you doing here?”
“Porch lurking. Gave you a nine-point-five for the mud-hole trip.”
“Nine-point-five? Oh, dude, that was a perfect ten.” Stooping, I gather up the scattered contents of my purse.
“Take off point-five for the word.”
“Ha. I’ve heard ten times worse out of you. Again, why are you here?” Mitch rescues my keys as they sink in a distant puddle. “Where’d you run off to yesterday after church?”
“The Coosaw.” He passes me the keys. I offer my pinky finger as a hook. “Took the old boat out.”
“The Bluecloud still floats?”
“She does.”
“A little overwhelming, wasn’t it?”
I swallow a sudden rise of emotion. “A little.” Water drips from the ends of my hair. Goose bumps crawl over me when the damp breeze blows. “Elle claims Jesus told me He loved me in front of three hundred people.”
“He did.” Mitch smiles. It baffles me how he always feels like coming home.
“So, do you want to come in?” I start for the door.
“Sure, if I’m not intruding.” He seems a little lost. Lonely, even.
The wind drives the rain under the porch eaves. I can’t unlock the door without dropping everything. “Mitch . . . Here . . . my keys.” I jiggle my pinky. “The long, weird one opens the door.” My brush slips to the floor. When I try to adjust my load, my phone breaks free. I grapple to catch it.
Next thing I know, my secret tampon holder is lying at Mitch’s feet.
He looks down.
“Mitch, hey, I’ll get that. A-hem . . . Don’t bother. My bad.”
I reach down. Except, hurrying to rescue my girl-privacy, I don’t see the porch post . . .
Wham.
“Ow.” I slap my hand to my forehead. The rest of my stuff clatters to the old board floor, and the porch light flashes on—all the commotion activating the motion detector.
“Caroline, didn’t you see the post?” Mitch grabs my wrist. In the small, white light, I see his furrow of concern, but he’s not fooling me. His voice is fat with laughter.
“Of course I saw the porch post. I love smacking my head every now and then.” I peek up at him. “Dork.”
“You should’ve seen your face . . .” He chuckles. Politely. Which I appreciate.
“Oh, go ahead and laugh. I’ll just be over here in extreme pain.”
“Caroline, come here, to the light. Let me see this wound. You bleeding or anything?”
“Bleeding? Yes, pride, not blood.” I remove my hand as he tilts my chin toward his face and the light.
“Ooooh, big red and blue mark.”
“Tell me, Doctor, will I live?” Without making a big to-do, I stretch my foot forward, trying to kick the secret tampon holder into the shadows. Instead it slides sideways, further into the light. Forget it. I’ve known Mitch forever. Guess it’s time I realize he knows about girl needs.
“Caroline . . .” He presses his thumb lightly to my boo-boo. “You’ve got a nice bump going.”
As my face is cupped in his hands, headlights gleam against the car-riage house. I look over to see J. D.’s cruiser rumbling into the Café parking lot.
“Oh, J. D.’s here.” Half shoving Mitch out of the way, grinding the tampon holder into the board with my heel, I wave to J. D. But his car doesn’t stop. Instead the engine roars to life as he peels away.
DAILY SPECIAL
Tuesday, June 26
Beans & Greens
Cornbread
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Blackberry Cobbler
Mint Julep, Tea, Soda, or Coffee
$5.99
15
Mercy Bea, I’m going to try printing out name-tags for the Carrington party. Call me if we get busy.”“Or if I win the lotto?” She stacks the refilled salt and pepper shakers on a tray.
“Definitely call me if you win the lotto.”
In the office, I dust off the printer, wondering if J. D. has returned one of my half dozen calls. The one time he answered last night, he was pretty upset.
“He was kissing you.”
“No, he wasn’t. I bumped my head against the porch post. He was checking out my wound.”
“I knew you weren’t over him, or him over you.”
And he hung up.
I check my cell. A message. Please be J. D., cooled off and ready to reason.
But it’s from Mitch.
“What happened with J. D.? Does he think something is going on? Should I call him? Sorry, Caroline.”
Elle is crazy to attempt relationships with more than one man at a time. I make a mental note to bring this up at our next Operation Wedding Day gathering.
With a sigh, I power up the computer, load paper in the printer, open the Word doc of Carrington family names I compiled this morning, and click Print. The printer wheezes to life and miraculously begins chugging out row after row of nametags.
Meanwhile, I check e-mail. Sheree from the Water Festival reminds me again to sign up for the raft race: Great publicity, girl. Come on.
I reply: Still thinking about it.
Wednesday at closing, Mercy Bea corners me as I sweep by the corner cubbies.
“What’d you do to the deputy? I haven’t seen him all week.”
“Misunderstanding.”She rolls her eyes. “Whatever you did, apologize.”
“What makes you think it was me?”
Mercy Bea pats my shoulder. “Fix him a nice dinner and—Wait, you don’t cook. Well, do whatever it is you do to make nice. A Café owner who don’t cook . . . mm, mm, mm. It’s a mad, mad world.”
I lost count, but I think she insulted me about five times in this exchange. “Good night, Mercy. See you tomorrow.”
“Call the boy. Do you intend on being an old maid? Don’t follow in Jones’s footsteps and never marry.”
“Mercy Bea, please, I’m a long way from . . .” Be
ing like Jones. Aren’t I?
Broom in hand, I duck in the office and dial Bodean. He has a nice place with a few acres that is the official deputy hangout. “Do you know where J. D. might be?”
“Fred, I’m so glad you called.”
“He’s right there, isn’t he?” I drop the broom in the corner, grab my keys, and flick off the office light.
“10-4.”
“Is he mad?”
“What? Your car broke down?”Oh my stars. This is stupid. “Bodean, just put him on.” I lock up the Café and beeline toward the Mustang.
“Sure, that’d be great. Just come on over. A bunch of us are hanging out.”
Okay, so this has to be face-to-face. “See you in a few.”
When I park next to J.D.’s blue Ford F-250, I hesitate before getting out. Upon reconsideration, this is an astronomically stupid idea. What if he rejects me when I walk in? In front of his buddies?
I wipe my palms down the side of my skirt, debating. Never mind I’m not at my best, still wearing my work clothes and clogs. I didn’t even think to change. As a matter of fact, I don’t even have my driver’s license.
Sneaking a fast peek in the rearview mirror, I grimace at my shiny face and tangled hair before giving my underarms a quick sniff. Secret is working as advertised.
I fluff my hair, adjust my top and bra—everything is contained—and head for the house.
“Hello?” I call weakly, shoving open the front door. Shouts echo from the back room. “Bodean?”
The slender but wide-shouldered deputy comes around the corner. His blond hair sticks out in all directions. “Caroline, hey, what are you doing here?”
I exhale, grinning. “So not fooling anyone, Bo.”
“J. D., your girl’s here.” With a wink at me, Bodean disappears, leaving me to wait alone in the stark living room.
The clink of pool balls is chased by raucous laughter. A fridge door opens and there’s a call for beer. Then the hiss of bottle tops.
What am I doing here, invading his turf? I should go. Gripping my keys—Is he coming?— I’m about to turn for the door when . . . There he is. Dark, masculine, and sober.