Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  “No, Dad, no. You’re not emptying your accounts.” I tuck my hands in my skirt pockets.

  Dad props his elbow on the rim of the truck bed. “Guess you could go to Henry and Cherry.”

  “No way. The last time I borrowed money from Henry, the payback pressure kept me awake at night. One night I ordered pizza just as he came through the door and he drilled me about how much it cost, giving me a lecture on ‘this is why you never have any money.’ And all he spotted me was a hundred dollars. I can’t imagine what twenty-five grand would do to him. Or me.”

  I stare out over the water. My thoughts bob along the waves of my emotions, refusing to go deep and hook reality—what am I going to do if I can’t come up with the money?

  “Caroline, I’m sorry. Guess I’m not much of a dad in times like these.”

  I focus on him. “Dad, this is my life, my problem. Don’t feel the burden of it. It’s enough you’re here to listen.”

  He clears his throat and looks away. “Coming to dinner? Henry’s working late, so it’s just us and Cherry.”

  I jerk open the Mustang door with a glance at my watch. Five fif-teen. “I’ll try.”

  “What about Mitch?”

  “What about him?”

  “Money.”

  I answer with a vigorous shake of my head. “I’ll figure this out. See you in a bit.”

  To: Hazel Palmer

  From: CSweeney

  Subject: Re: The Frogmore and me

  Hazel,

  Did you fall off the face of the earth? Fall in love with Fernando and elope? Get fired by Carlos because your hometown friend is a flake? Café update: Almost burned down. Horrendous wiring problems. Called Buster and got him to bubblegum us together until he can fix everything proper. Guess what the tab totaled up to be?

  $25,000.

  Yeah, you read it right. If I’d been standing when I read the quote, I’d have keeled over.

  Did I ever tell you J. D. Rand and I are dating? As of a few days ago. He was jealous of Mitch—long story—so we had a heart-to-heart and made it official.

  Elle roped Jess and me into a harebrained scheme: Operation Wedding Day. Don’t ask. Actually, we had fun coming up with ten prospects for her future husband.

  “Houston we have a problem.”

  Love, C

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Happy 4th!

  BBQ Ribs

  Macaroni and Cheese

  Cole Slaw/Potato Salad

  Chips

  Andy’s Apple Pie à la Mode

  Coffee, Tea, Soda

  $7.99

  17

  Mr.Mueller, please, I’m begging you, lend the Café twenty-five thousand dollars. I’m desperate.” On my knees, I weep and beg.

  “Desperate? You’ve come to the right place.” The bank manager’s eyes darken, then flash red. He crawls over the top of his desk and drops down in front of me. “For your firstborn. And your second.” He holds up a blood-stained document. “Sign here.”

  “No, no . . .” I stumble backwards.His wicked laugh rings out, sending a parade of chills across my body. He snatches up my hand and pricks my finger.

  “No!” I wake with a jolt. Panting. When I realize I’m safe at home, I plop back down to my pillow. “A dream. Just a dream.”

  From the living room, light from a table lamp halos the bedroom doorway. The clock on the nightstand clicks to midnight.

  It’s not enough my twenty-five-thousand-dollar need haunts me during the day; it now visits me at night.

  Two days ago, I went to the bank to ask Mr. Mueller, the manager, for a loan on behalf of the Frogmore Café.

  My very appearance about got him laughing. “The Frogmore’s too great a risk, Caroline. What can you offer as collateral?”

  I boldly offered the best I have—a broken-down ’68 Mustang convertible.

  That did it. He guffawed. Without so much as a good-bye, I let myself out, his condescension kicking me all the way down the street.

  Tossing back the covers, I slip out of bed and away from the dream. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, plop down on the couch, and click on the television—the one household appliance Jones managed to upgrade in this century. Flipping channels, I land on a late showing of CMT’s Inside NashVegas. The show’s host, Beth Rose, stands in front of a big building I think is the Gaylord Entertainment Center. I’ve seen pictures of Mitch there.

  Fans shove around behind Beth to get in a camera shot.

  “Lots of star activity in Nashville this week,” Beth says. “Inside NashVegas caught up with a few of your favorite stars performing for the Fourth of July celebration at the GEC.”

  Wonder if Mitch is bummed he’s not at this event? I snuggle with a throw pillow. He can’t be that far out of the mainstream already, can he? Artists break away from record companies all the time. The rest of what’s going on with him is self-induced.

  The shot cuts away to a black-tuxedoed Scott Vaughn, Beth’s cohost, who is inside the auditorium.

  “Thanks, Beth,” Scott says, “I’m here with country-music favorite Mitch O’Neal.”

  Whoa. I scramble for the remote to up the volume. He looks amazing in a black tux. I hate to admit it, but a there’s-my-man smile hits my lips. So what? It’s late, I’m alone, and just had a Mr. Mueller nightmare.

  “You’re performing tonight at the GEC.” Scott holds the mike out to Mitch.

  He flashes a movie star–like smile. “I am. And I’m very excited to be a part of this tribute to our nation’s birthday, and to country music and country music fans.”

  I scrunch up my shoulders and almost giggle. Mitch is so cool and poised. So . . . so . . . starlike. I’m proud, and totally crushing. After all, he is the Mitch O’Neal. “You go, Mitch.”

  This is exactly what I needed to soothe away the terror of the dream. Upping the volume, I keep my eyes steady on the screen.

  Then she glides into view. A willowy, breathtaking, golden brunette, linking her arm through Mitch’s.

  Scott greets her. “Miss Tennessee, Elaine Solem, exquisite as always.” Miss Tennessee? When did Mitch meet her? I tuck my knees to my chest and stretch my pajama top over my legs. She’s a walking feather. Just watching her on TV makes me feel like an engorged slug. I’m never eating again.

  “When can we expect a new album from Mitch O’Neal?” Scott asks.

  “I’m working on a new project, spending time in the South Carolina lowcountry, reconnecting with my roots, writing. The new project will have the elements of my first album.”

  “Can’t wait to hear it.” Scott turns to Elaine. “How do you like the lowcountry?”

  Her smile blings like perfect pearls. “I haven’t been.” She snuggles up to Mitch. “Yet.”

  A few more questions, some yada-yada this and yada-yada that before Scott thanks them for taking the time to talk to Inside NashVegas and wishes Mitch a good show.

  “Thanks, Scott. Give my love to your lovely wife, Aubrey.” Mitch slips his hand into Miss Tennessee’s and leads her away.

  What was all that baloney about fasting life, passing on love?

  “You’re a fraud, Mitch O’Neal.” I toss the pillow at the TV. “A fraud.”

  Sheree sends another Raft Race reminder on Thursday afternoon: It’s past the sign-up deadline, but I think you can still get in if you hurry. Great publicity.

  This time the words Great publicity jump off the screen and do a little soft shoe across my brain. This is a good idea. Time to put the Frogmore Café back into the community’s eyes.

  I print out the entry form and walk into the kitchen. “Andy, how do you feel about the water?”

  “It’s wet.” He slides the grill’s cleaned grease trap into place.

  “Har, har. No, I mean, being in the water. Boating. Fishing.”

  “Grew up on the water, girl.” His eyes narrow. “Why you asking?”

  Walking over to him, I flop my arm over his huge shoulders. “The Frogmore Café is entering the Water
Festival’s raft race.”

  His eyes widen. “Who you got to race?” He takes a look at the entry form. “We need eleven strong people.”

  “How about eleven people, period.”

  “Well, if you ain’t particular.”

  Setting the entry form on the prep table, Andy and I go over potential rafters. I write in their names. “Russell and Mercy Bea, if she can get her hair wet.”

  “Got to race,” Andy insists. “They’re employees. How about my boy, Jack? He’s a defensive lineman. Strong back and arms.”

  “Excellent.” I jot down Jack. “Six more.”

  Tapping the pencil eraser against my chin, thinking, I watch Mercy Bea walk through the kitchen with a heavy tub of dirty dishes. Hmm. Did she always have Olive Oyl arms? I look at Andy, who’s looking at me.

  “Okay, we need seven more,” he says, going toward the pantry as I erase Mercy Bea’s name. “What about J. D. or Mitch? Your daddy and Henry?”

  “Yeah, maybe . . .” Though I can’t see Henry leaning into a raft oar.

  J. D. rows with the sheriff department; they’ve already been talking and planning. Dad has a temperamental back. And Mitch? Mr. Date-A-Feather. I write his name down.

  “What are you doing?” Mercy Bea hovers over my shoulder. “The raft race?”

  Is that glee in her voice?

  “I love the raft race.” She claps her hands. “Hey, Caroline, I don’t see my name.”

  “That’s because”—Mercy Bea Hart—“I’m writing it right now. See?”

  She makes a wry face. “You weren’t going to put me down, were you?”

  “Mercy Bea, honey, sorry, but look—” I pinch her narrow arms. “Really, really skinny.”

  Fire shoots from her hazel eyes. I jump back as the feisty waitress drives her elbow into the prep table. “Right now, you and me, Caroline. Arm wrestle. I’ll show you ‘really, really skinny.’”

  Ho, boy. “I’m not going to arm wrestle you. You’re on the team.”

  Andy comes back from the pantry, his arms loaded with dinner fixings, breaking up our almost girl fight. “Mercy, move out the way. Caroline, Jack’s got a buddy, Donny Vetter. He’ll probably row for us.”

  “Good, good.” Seven all told now. “We need four more.”

  “How about the breakfast-club boys?” Andy actually suggests them with a straight face.

  I laugh and fill out the blanks. “Sure, and Miss Jeanne too.”

  “You said eleven people, Caroline. You didn’t care who or what. Those boys would be honored. So would Miss Jeanne. We don’t care if we win, do we? Let’s just get out there, have fun, and remind folks the Frogmore is alive and well.” Andy takes a roasting pan from the hook overhead.

  “When you put it like that . . . We have eleven. We’re a team.” I slap Andy and Mercy Bea a high five, then hurry to fax the entry form to Sheree.

  Eleven illustrious names. Caroline, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Jack, Donny, Mitch, Luke, Dupree, Winnie, and Miss Jeanne.

  We’re doomed.

  “Anybody home? Caroline?” Mitch’s chiseled face pops around my office door as I shut down the computer. His sky-blue eyes are bright and a light beard dusts his cheeks.

  “Back from Music City already?” The image of him with her flits across my brain.

  Mitch ducks his head. “You saw, huh?”

  “Miss Tennessee is very beautiful.”

  His brow tightens. “I’d asked her to go with me months ago. She’s just a friend. I flew up for the event one day and flew back the next. Don’t bust my chops.”

  “She told all CMT viewers she’s waiting to visit you here.”

  Mitch picks up the squeeze football Jones kept on the desk. “Elaine is a walking sound bite. It’s her pageant training—smile and agree with everything.”

  “So, she just ran off at the mouth?”

  “Pretty much. When I asked her about it later, she didn’t even remember saying ‘it.’’” He walks around the desk, eyeing the attic box. “What’s in there?”

  “You know, I forgot to look. Found it when Buster was giving me a tour of the damage.”

  “What was the damage?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  Mitch whistles. “That’s cheap, Caroline. These old buildings are a bear to work on.”

  “So I heard.” Opening the middle desk drawer, I fish for the key I’d found taped to the file cabinet. To my not-so-surprise, it works. The lid pops open. Before peering inside, I close my eyes and make a wish. “Twenty-five grand, twenty-five grand.”

  Mitch arches over the desk to see. “What is it?”

  “A picture.” A black-and-white, curled-edge picture of six twenty-somethings lies alone on the bottom of the box. The date is stamped on the white photo border. “June forty-eight.”

  Mitch comes around the desk for a closer look. The scent of Hugo Boss is distracting. “Isn’t that your granddad in the middle?”

  “Yes, and Nana.” Her smile is very distinct. Sweet and unassuming.

  “There’s Jones on the other side of your nana.” Mitch taps the young, angular face of my old boss. He grabs my hand to turn the picture over. “Nothing written on the back.”

  “So, that’s it. A locked box with one old picture? Very weird.”

  Mitch taps the picture. “A betting man would say there’s more to the story.”

  “Caroline? Ready to go?” J. D. stops short when he sees Mitch. I watch his face, expecting to see a flicker of jealousy, but if he is, he cloaks it well. “Hey, Mitch.”

  “Good to see you, J. D.” The country singer offers his hand. “What are y’all up to tonight?”

  “Going to see Grease I and II at the drive-in.” J. D. angles over the desk to kiss me. I accept it, though it feels weird in front of Mitch.

  “Look, J. D., an old picture of Jones. There’s Granddad and Nana.”

  J. D. bends down to look, pressing his cheek against mine. “Another world.”

  “So, a Grease double feature at the drive-in,” Mitch says.

  J. D. clears his throat. “W-why don’t you join us?”The loud thunk is me hitting the floor.

  “No, thanks, I don’t want to impose.” Mitch turns for the door.

  “No, man, really. It’d be nice to hang out. It’s been a while.” The deputy smiles, resting one hand on my back. “Jess and Ray are coming. Wild Wally and his girlfriend, Holly. We could call Elle. Right, Caroline?”

  Oh, I see. “Sure.”

  Mitch hesitates with a glance at J. D., then me. “You talked me into it.”

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Friday, July 6

  Frogmore Stew (all you can eat)

  Cornbread

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  Pluff Mud Pie or Pecan Splendor Cake

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  #36;8.99

  18

  I signed you boys up,” I announce to Dupree, Luke, and Pastor Winnie as they come in at eight-o-two. signed “Signed us up for what?” Dupree asks, sliding into the booth. “Toilet overflowed at two this morning. Been up ever since. Bring extra coffee, Caroline.”

  “The Water Festival raft race. I needed eleven in the boat and . . . you boys are eight, nine, and ten.”

  Luke squares his shoulders. “The Frogmore is putting a raft team in the race?”

  “That’s the idea. What do you think? Get our name out there, show the town we’re alive and well.”

  Dupree laughs. “Alive, maybe. I’m not so sure about well.”

  “Never mind. Are you gents up for rafting?” I give them the details. They grunt and nod.

  “Looks like we’re all in, Caroline,” Dupree says.

  Good. Ten down, one to go. Mitch. I meant to ask him last night, but the gang dispersed after the movie. During intermission, Elle hauled me off to the ladies’ room and announced she’d booted Mitch from her back-up list.

  “Every time I look at him, I see your face.”

  “Wait seven years. When you call
for backup, it’ll be different.”

  She lined her lips with fresh gloss without looking in the mirror. “No, I can tell, Mitch is not for me. While charming and loverly to look at, there’s no spark—if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.” Spark is definitely—well, was definitely—not a prob-lem between Mitch and me. “Elle, then why are you still primping and glossing?”

  “I want to look good when the paparazzi pop out of the trees or swing down from the Spanish moss.”

  Her expression had me laughing. I wish I owned life like Elle.In the office, I dial Mitch’s number. Hey, have I got a job for you. Mitch, pullease, I need a favor . . .

  “What’s up?” This is how he answers the phone.

  I blurt. “I need a favor.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Far as I know. Will you row with us in the Water Festival raft race?” He chuckles. “Who is us?”

  “The Frogmore Café.” I run down the team names.

  “The breakfast-club boys?” he says slowly. “Miss Jeanne?”

  “I know, I know—”

  “I’m in. Now, will you do me a favor?”

  “Is it legal?”

  Mitch laughs. “Far as I know. How about letting me sing at the Café during the Water Festival? Try out new material. Might help draw some business.”

  I lurch forward. “You’re kidding? All nine nights?”

  “That’s the offer. Two shows a night. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “Yes, yes. Sing at the Frogmore. Mitch, that will be so great for business.” Maybe twenty-five thousand dollars great. Or close.

  “Well, I’ve filled a few stadiums.”

  “What do you—”

  Buster’s toothy grin appears around the office door. “Look what we found in the attic wall, Caroline.” He swings an electrified, petrified squirrel by the tail.

  “Buster, did you carry that thing through the kitchen? I’m running a food business here.”

  He frowns. The poor dead squirrel tick- tocks back and forth. “Don’t get your nose out of joint. Just thought you’d want to see what’s in the wall.”