by Rachel Hauck
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His checked shirt hangs loose over his jeans.
“Enjoying your day off?” I smile.
“Yeah, sure. Some of the guys wanted to play pool.” He steps around the leather couch, but remains on the other side of the room.
“Sounds like fun.” Five feet away and I can’t reach him. “Guess you’ll be here all night, then.”
He shrugs. “Most likely. Have a few too many beers and crash on the couch.”
More nodding. Then an awkward silence. Yes, coming here was a mistake. Bodean’s is J. D.’s safe place, like the live oak is for me, and I wouldn’t have appreciated Mama interrupting as I tried to process my feelings about her.
“I’d better get going.” I back toward the door. “See you.”
“It looked like he kissed you.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“When I drove up and saw you two together, it was like—” He balls his fist, and his expression tightens. “Fire. I can’t ever remember being so jealous.”
“I told you he didn’t kiss me. I conked my head.” J. D. takes a few steps toward me. “What was he doing there?”With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know, looking for company, good friends.”
“Caroline, I’m not an insecure man, but he’s theMitch O’Neal. Your ex-boyfriend to boot.”
“He hasn’t been my boyfriend for many years, J. D.” I think of Elle. “Here you go: Mitch is on Elle’s short list of possible husbands. And it’s okay with me.”
The deputy laughs reluctantly. “God help him.”
“Mitch is my friend, J. D. He always will be, but—” I take a step toward him. “Is there a you and me?”
In a few strides, J. D. crosses the room, grabs my hand, and pulls me outside. The moment we pass through the door, I’m in his arms, barely catching my breath before his lips cover mine.
DAILY SPECIAL
Sunday, July 1
Happy 90th Birthday, Mrs. Carrington
By Sunday, we’re all set for the ninetieth birthday bash.
J. D. and I went to church again. I just had to know if it felt the same as last week. It did. Surreal. Clean. Peaceful. Mitch waved to us across the sanctuary, but kept his distance.
Andy arrives at the Café a little before two. “Ready for your first party, boss?” He slams the door of his old green truck parked along the Harrington Street curb. Just seeing him fortifies my confidence.
A lowcountry menu is yummy and easy to prepare—dough, batter, and grease—so a few hours’ lead time is plenty. Saturday afternoon, Pastor Winnie clocked in to help Andy and Russell prep the casseroles, batter, and sauces. All we have to do today is bake and fry.
“Let’s get the air on,” I say. “Check the bathrooms and dining room, make sure they’re clean.” My foot splashes in water. “Why is the floor wet?”
“Boss, the lights won’t click on.” Andy pushes past me for the fuse box.
Pain rips through my chest. My arms go completely numb. “Andy,” I gasp over his shoulder, “please tell me you can fix this. You’re the fixer.”
“Jones . . . I told him to get the rewiring done. Said this would hap-pen. It keeps shorting out the box.” Andy punches the wall by the fuse box. “I can’t get it to come on. Other than tampering with these old glass fuses, I don’t know what else to do.”
I panic. “This is not happening. Not. Happening.”
“It’s happening, Caroline. We have no power.”
Scotty, if you’re there, beam me up.
Andy tugs open the walk-in. “Starting to warm up in here.”
In the daylight of the door and windows, I read the taut lines run-ning across Andy’s face. We’re snafued.
“The ice under the shrimp is melting, but if we get more ice, the shrimp will be good. All this water on the floor is probably from the ice machine. But, Caroline, without power, we can’t cook.”
Yes, I’m aware. “Okay, we have shrimp. That’s a start.” I dig deep for some cheer. “I’m calling an electrician.”
Ducking into the office, I retrieve the phone book and stand in the light of the window, looking up Buster’s Electric. If Mrs. Carrington shows up to a dark, warm Café, she’ll stroke out.
As I dial, I hear Russell’s tenor voice. “Fuse box blow again?”
Mercy Bea pokes her head in my door, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Caroline, you best call Buster.”
I point to the phone stuck to my ear. “He’s not answering.” The machine clicks on. You’ve reached Buster Electric . . . I leave a message, but I’m void of all hope to hear from him today.
Flipping through the book, I call every electrician. Nothing. Apparently Sunday is not a big workday.
What am I going to do? I gather my small crew. “I’m open to suggestions here.”
“How about a candlelight party.” Mercy Bea leans out the back door with her cigarette. “Throw open the windows. Click on the fans.”
“The ceiling fans?”
“Right.” She chews on her bottom lip. “No power.”
“Our main problem is the menu. How’re we going to bake the casseroles? And the cake?”
Heart: Oh, head, we are so dead. Mrs. Carrington adored Andy’s cake.
Head: For once, you don’t exaggerate.
Heart: Thanks, I think.
Head: Good job, by the way, on resolving the J. D. issue.
Heart: You think? I was unsure. You could’ve spoken up, you know.
Head: Am I ever silent when you go astray?
Heart: Good point.
“What about another restaurant?” Russell suggests.
“On such short notice?” I press my palm to my aching head.
“Find a generator and hook it up?” Russell tries again.
“Sure, Russ, run on down to the corner store and buy an industrial-sized generator. Get two. What are they, ten grand each? Grab my wallet there, will you?”
Russell makes a face. “You asked for ideas.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, but I was hoping for good ideas.”Andy bursts out laughing.
“Don’t be confused. I’m not trying to be funny.” This is my attempt to not completely melt down. “Russell, really, I’m sorry. But, y’all, a ninetieth birthday, a family celebration, ruined.”
“What about going across the street to Waterfront Park?”
I glance at Mercy Bea. “The park? Andy, what do you think? With the breeze, it might not be too bad.”
“We got those old gas grills out back under the tarps. We could run to Bi-Lo for food, barbecue up some nice shrimps, chicken, and steak. The sauces are prepped too.”
The four hundred Mrs. Carrington paid disappeared long ago, but right now, I’d gladly sell my precious, knobless armoire to make this event happen.
“Okay, okay. Now you’re talking. What else?”
“The grills have burners. We can put on water for Frogmore Stew. Grill some veggies.”
“Right, plus we have chips and drinks. We could buy cheese-and-meat platters from the deli. Get ice. Russell, can you get the mop and start cleaning this up, please?” I point to the floor.
“On it.”
Okay, a plan is shaping up. I can breathe without pain. “I’ll call the city to see if we can have emergency access to the park. Andy, work up a new menu. Mercy Bea, call—”
“Caroline—” Andy interrupts with a flash of his palm. He tips his nose toward the ceiling. “Do you smell something?”
Russell, Mercy Bea, and I sniff.
“Smoke.”
Beaufort Fire and Rescue firefighters walk inspection as I stand in the middle of the Café dining room with a sense of deep, deep dread. Andy doesn’t relieve me any when he says, “No go on the park.”
A familiar flood of hopelessness springs from the deep well of tried-and-true past experiences. Every time something good is about to hap-pen . . . If this is God loving me, then . . . forget it.
I’m on my own.
> The fire inspector motions for me to follow him to the kitchen. “It’s the wiring.” He sips from a 20-ounce bottle of Coke beaded with condensation. “The wires in the attic are exposed and chewed up by squirrels or rats. And this place is so old you still got exposed wires running under the house. Raccoons have been feasting on them for years. I’m surprised the whole place hasn’t gone up in flames.”
Critters? In my Café. Oh, my heart. “So, what do we do? Please don’t tell me you’re shutting us down.”
He swigs from his Coke again. “If you get power back on, then I’ll give you thirty days to get the place rewired. If you need more time, let me know, but get it going, Caroline. This place is a hazard.”
“Tomorrow. First thing. I promise.”
The inspector packs up and stops at the back door. “I was at the city council meeting. I’m glad you’re keeping the Frogmore open. My dad was a son of a gun, and on hard days, I’d sneak out and ride my bike down here. Jones gave me chores to do and in his subtle way reminded me that men sometimes behave in a way they don’t mean. He was the most compassionate man I ever knew.”
The inspector’s transparency startles me. These little glimpses into Jones’s life make me realize I inherited more than a man’s work. I inherited his reputation.
And a house full of bad wiring.
It’s midnight. Sunday surrenders happily to Monday. I fall into exhaustion and exhilaration. The Carrington party was a smash.
Thanks to Mitch, the perfect host.
After the fire inspector left, Mrs. Carrington showed up. I did what our old beagle used to do when he was in trouble—rolled over and tucked my tail over my privates.
“What kind of electrical problems?”
“The kind where there’s no electricity.”
“Caroline, that’s unacceptable.”
“Yes, I would agree . . .”
“My mother-in-law found out about the party. It’s all she’s talked about.” (Gripping her chest like she’s going to keel over.)
Clearly, it was too late to run away screaming. Too late to bury my head in the marsh pluff mud. Then, it came to me—exactly what to do.
Mitch opened his Fripp Island manse and treated the entire Carrington clan like they were his closest friends, sprinkling his magnetic charm and Nashville stardust over everyone. He completely tamed a furious Mrs. Carrington.
“These things happen, Caroline. Don’t worry. See how it all worked out for the best.”
The younger Carrington women couldn’t contain their cool and swooned a little when Mitch serenaded their grandma. The birthday girl, Claire, seemed less impressed with her star host, preferring to sit on the back deck overlooking the ocean and reminisce.
“We didn’t have bridges to connect the islands when I was a girl, you see, so we caught a boat to go to school. There was only one theater in them days out to Parris Island. We took the movie boat over.”
More than telling her stories, I believe the older woman enjoyed having the rapt attention of her family.
Around eleven, a tired-but-happy Claire asked to go home, and slowly the family trickled out. I dismissed the Café crew, telling them I’d clean up.
Now the house is finally clean and quiet. I collapse on the deck steps, letting the ocean’s breeze wash my face.
“Here you are.” Mitch plops down next to me, bumping me with his shoulder. “It went well, don’t you think?”
“No, it went splendid. Because of you. I can’t thank you enough, Mitch.”
He stares straight ahead. Tiki lamps glow along the walkway down to the beach and around the pool. Waves coming ashore serenade us. The landscape is serene and beautiful. “I’m glad to help.” With a chuckle, he adds, “Feels like penance for having this great place all to myself.”
“You earned this place, Mitch. When did you start selling yourself so short?”
“You think I was kidding when I told you Paris changed me.”
“No.” Clearly, he’s viewing God from a different angle than I am.
“Did you smooth things out with J. D.?”
“We talked the other day. It’s good.”He twists open a bottle of water. “Are you in love with him?”
“Too soon to tell.”
“I’m passing on love for a while.” He swigs his water.
“Because why?” Good thing Elle moved him to her reserve list. She wouldn’t like this news.
He tears at the water-bottle label. “Clean up my heart and soul. Get some perspective. See what God has for me next.” He laughs. “Some people fast from food to seek God. I’m fasting my career, my love life, my reputation, my future, everything.”
I always suspected Mitch’s faith ran deep—like a thread of gold em-bedded in a cave wall. “You’re serious about this God thing, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious.” His eyes meet mine. “If I could redo the last nine years, I would.”
“Really?” I knew the familiar sting of regret, but Mitch?
“In a Nashville minute.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Monday, July 2
Limited Menu
Due to electrical problems
Ask your waitress what’s available
16
Come on up here, Caroline.”I squint up the attic ladder, trying to minimize my view of Buster’s bagging breeches and all they’re not covering. “Really? You need me up there? I trust you.”
He peers down at me, shining a flashlight in my face. “Want to be an ignorant girl?”
I drop my forehead against the wooden ladder rung. Trumped by the ignorant-girl card. “No, I guess not.”
Buster disappears inside the attic. I climb up after him. He arrived at the Café this morning a little after six, did his electrician magic thing, and restored power just in time for the breakfast-club boys to come strolling in.
Andy set up a limited menu since we don’t want to run the risk of burning out the fuses, or worse.
“ Looky here.” Buster jiggles the flashlight beam over chewed wire. “Eaten clean through. And see this wiring here? Older than my granny. I hounded Jones for years to bring this place up to code.”
“Do you know why he didn’t?” I’m a bit stiff, slightly paranoid a rat might run across my clogs. Note to self: Do not jump in Buster’s arms if you see a rat.
Buster, a narrow-built man with generous facial features, curls out his lower lip. “Reckon he didn’t have the money, or plain ol’ forgot.” He floats the yellow flashlight circle over the rest of the attic floor and ceiling. “A few water spots. May have to fix those while we’re at it.” He stomps his foot on the insulation. “All of this needs to be replaced.”
“Buster, if Jones didn’t have the money, how am I supposed to have the money?”
“Don’t know, but you best find it. Can’t put this off any longer.” He sweeps the room one last time with his flashlight. “You’re on the inspector’s radar.”
As the light falls in the front corner, I spot a small box. “Buster, put the light over in the corner again. What’s over there?” Bending down, I point just beyond the trusses. “See the box in the corner?”
“That shoebox thing?”
“Yes, that shoebox thing.” Grabbing onto a support beam, I work my way over.
The dull-finished pine box is not heavy, but when I shake it, some-thing moves from side to side. There’s a lock on the front, and I think I know where to find the key.
Back in my office, I set the box by the file cabinet by the printer for the time being while Buster writes up his job estimate.
“We’ll do the best we can not to disturb your business.”
I flick my hand at him. “It’s already disturbed.”
He scribbles his signature, then places the paper in front of me, slap-ping his hand over the final number. “It’s a big job, Caroline. I cut corners where I could, but I figured you’d want the best materials. We’re going to have to go under the house, and these walls—” He points with his pen.
“They’re plaster, half-inch thick, and the dickens to flush wire through.”
“Okay, good to know.” I pry up his pinky finger. “How much?”
He removes his hand, and I gasp. Holy bad wiring, Batman. “Buster, there’s a twenty-five and three zeros on this line.”
“I cut every corner I could. Did a job similar to this last year. Forty grand.”
Twenty-five thousand dollars? That’s more than my entire annual income last year. Where am I going to get twenty-five thousand dollars? I don’t like this. Not one bit.
My clothes and hands smell like attic dust and grease when, in fact, every pore of me should smell like coconut oil as I tan myself by the Mediterranean.
The wind whips my hair around my face as I speed down Highway 21 toward Dad’s fishing hole on the Coosaw. My foot leans on the gas. Twenty-five thousand.
I swing into the landing where Dad always puts in and park next to his truck. I can see him out there, floating in his favorite spot. Reaching inside the cab, I pound the horn a few times.
Dad looks up. A second later, I hear the boat’s engine fire up and grind toward shore.
“Are they biting?” I call.
“Not one.” He inches the boat alongside the dock. “What brings you out here? Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay. Dad, I need money.” No use beating around the bush.
He hops out of the boat. “You need money, or the Café?”
“Is there a difference?”
He chuckles. “Always did love your humor in bad situations. Re- member the year I told you and Henry there wouldn’t be any Christmas presents?”
I rake my tangled hair away from my face. “Dad—”
“You said, ‘I knew that fat Santa spent our Christmas money on McDonald’s.’” He throws back his head and laughs freely.
Normally, I’m game for a skip down memory lane, but my thoughts are locked in the desperation of the here and now. “Dad, I need twenty-five thousand dollars.”
He stops laughing. “What for?”
“Rewiring. It’s pretty serious. It’s amazing the Café hasn’t burnt down.”
Dad carries his tackle box over to the truck bed. “I’d love to help you, Caroline, but I spent all the cash I had on the wedding trip to the Bahamas. We lived pretty high on the hog, decided to enjoy ourselves. The rest, which was shabby, Posey and I sunk into an invested account. I suppose I could—”