Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  “I see.” My mind churns, figuring how much I have in the Café account. I don’t feel right about giving her Café money when Andy works just as hard. And I’m still paying off Buster.

  But my personal account has a small reserve now that I don’t have to feed Matilda.

  Mercy Bea drops her fork and shoves the pie plate forward. “Know what, Caroline, forget it.” She moves to the edge of the booth. “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

  “How much do you need? I’d rather you take money from me than borrow from that goon. He’s frightening.”

  Mercy Bea stares into the dark Café. “Tell me about it.”

  “So, how much?”

  She shakes her head. “Too much. I can’t—”

  I snatch her arm to keep her from leaving. “Don’t be stubborn. You’ve confided in me; now let me help. How. Much?”

  “Ever seen that picture of the iceberg where the part above the water is like a small mountain, but the part below is a berg ten times the size? The part that sank the Titanic?”

  I whistle. “Still need a dollar amount, Mercy.”

  “Three thousand.” I only have half of that.

  The figure just hangs in the air between us.

  “Three . . . thousand.”

  Her hands shake as she fishes for another cigarette. “That’s just to break even. Pay rent and electric. And don’t you know that nasty trailer is the world’s largest roach motel. They come in, sit right up to the table, and ask what’s for dinner.”

  Think . . . Think . . . Borrow from Café and pay it back out of my check. “I’ll lend you the money.”

  She lights the cigarette. “I can’t pay you back. Not soon, anyway.”

  “Fine, I’ll give you the money . . . on one condition.”

  A sad, unsure shadow darkens her eyes. But she waits to speak.

  “Don’t ever deal with that man again. You might be putting yourself and young-sons in danger.”

  Mercy crisscrosses her heart. She tries to speak, but emotion steals her breath. Then the tears come with streams of black mascara. I shove into her side of the booth to wrap my arm around her shoulders, trying hard not to peek at my watch.

  Mercy Bea Hart buries her head against me and cries away her burden.

  30

  Mitch beats me to the carriage house. After Mercy Bea’s confession, she talked for another half hour, eating all of her pie and the last half of mine. The tough broad from the South needed friendship today as much as money.

  I gladly wrote out a check, feeling even more satisfied to be giving Mercy Bea a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on.

  “Sorry,” I say to Mitch, dashing through the front door, then stop-ping all forward motion when I see him. “Wow.” The door clicks closed behind me.

  “Wow, yourself.” He’s smiling and teasing. Maybe flirting?

  “Me? No . . .” I gesture toward him. “You . . . look . . . amazing.”

  Mitch stands tall and broad-shouldered in a rich black tux. His blond locks are cut and styled, revealing every fine detail of his beautiful face.

  “You cut your hair.”

  He runs his hand over his head. “Keeping it long got annoying.”

  My heartstrings pluck like a twangy old guitar—trying to make a song, but very out of tune. I toss my keys onto the table. “Is Elle here?”

  “She ran back to her place.” He steps toward me. “Muttered some-thing about ‘Black-tie is not the same as evening-wedding nice.’”

  Crossing my arms, laughing, I face Mitch. “Trying to give the girl a heart attack. So, what’s up, O’Neal? Where are you taking me?”

  “The Performing Arts Center fund-raiser for the hospital. I bought tickets awhile ago, not planning to attend. Thought Dad could take Mom. Then I thought of you. Actually, Mom suggested you, and it seemed like a fine idea.”

  He steps closer, and all my senses move to full alert status.

  “The roses are beautiful.”

  He raises his chin. “I didn’t send them.”

  “Technically speaking, no. I understand that.”

  “I did pay for them, and gave the florist the address.”

  I kick off my work clogs. “Why’d you sign it the way you did?”

  He steps closer. “Yesterday, I was working on a song, praying at the same time, and—”

  “He told you. Like He told your Dad?”

  “Does it mean something to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I wasn’t sure. Especially figuring you’d know I had some-thing to do with the flowers.” Mitch stops in front of me. “This is an official date by the way.”

  Just then, Elle burst inside, breathless, a pile of dresses draped over her arm.

  “Caroline, where have you been?” She grabs my elbow. “Mitch, I don’t have much time, but I’ll do what I can with her.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Elle skirts the edges of my personal boundaries. She frets, fluffs, and weed-eats my eyebrows. I complain a lot, but seeing Mitch’s face when I walked into the living room might just be the highlight of my year.

  “You will be the envy of the ladies this evening,” he says, rising from the couch.

  My hand brushes down the side of Elle’s black, off-the-shoulder gown with the A-line skirt. “Because of you.”

  “No, it’s all you. Ready?”

  I twist to check the mirror by the door. The red marks from Elle’s no-pain-no-gain eyebrow waxing have faded. “Ready.”

  In the truck is one luscious white rose. “This one is from me.”

  The evening is divine. No wonder Cinderella forgot her curfew. Mitch never leaves my side. He walks beside me, resting his hand on the small of my back, or lightly touching my shoulder blades.

  I feel found—like a precious treasure. My mind snaps mental pictures, then couples them with emotional impressions and stores them in a new heart corridor. When blue days come around, I’ll visit tonight’s memory hall for a ray of sunshine.

  The evening is classical, with performances by the South Carolina Philharmonic and local quartets. I’m carried away by the beauty of the music . . . and Mitch.

  During intermission, our Washington congressman beckons Mitch over to his large circle of people with a sweeping gesture. Yet I’m in mid-conversation with the head of child protective services.

  “Caroline, let’s definitely add the Frogmore Café to the Ghost Tours this Halloween.”

  “I’d love it.” I nudge Mitch with my elbow. Go ahead. But he waits for me to finish. “I’ll e-mail you about fund-raising for the Ghost Tours too. Maybe we can figure out something with Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits.”

  “Oh, wonderful. Caroline, please, send along the information about the Vet Wall. Shame on us for overlooking it all these years.”

  When Mitch escorts me over to the congressman’s circle, he introduces me as a respected Beaufort businesswoman.

  The congressman shakes my hand. “The Frogmore Café. I’ve heard of it. Home of Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits.”

  “Yes sir.” Impressive.

  He turns to Mitch. “How’s Nashville?”

  “Still there.”

  The circle laughs. Yuk, yuk, har, har, phony, phony.

  Mitch body whispers, as Hazel would say, when he brushes his hand over my shoulders.

  The congressman aims his charm on Mitch, asking him to help out on his next campaign. “Running for Senate this time. People would come out to see us with you on the ticket, hear what we have to say.”

  His impression of Shere Khan is fantastic. I glance at Mitch. He’s no Mowgli.

  “I’m flattered, Congressman, but I’m unimpressed with the celebrity-politics mix of the day.”

  Brief moment of shock and dismay. Mr. Congressman recovers with only a small blip in his smile. “Mighty narrow view, Mitch. People trust celebrities—they have a lot of influence.”

  Mitch smiles and stares the tiger down. “Exactly my point.”

  Touché, Mitchy
.

  The circle coughs and looks away. The congressman fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket with a shift of his shoulders. “Think about it. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Mitch bows slightly and leads me away. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  “Mitch, wow. You were amazing.”

  “Don’t be impressed. The congressman is a liar and a cheat. I’d prefer to debate his inconsistencies, but this isn’t the place.”

  “I remember a Mitch who wouldn’t turn down any opportunity to perform, be the center of attention.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the old Mitch, and he’s dead.” He holds the auditorium door for me. As I pass inside, he touches my hand. I stop and peer into his eyes. “Caroline, you were by far the most charming and beautiful woman in that room. Everyone wanted to talk to you. You never have known how amazing you are.”

  Our relationship leaps to another plane.

  As the house lights dim for the second half of the performance to begin, Mitch offers his hand. “May I hold your hand, Caroline?”

  Gulp. I nod.

  His hand is firm and broad; his fingers lock perfectly with mine. “Mitch,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid of falling.”

  He presses his lips to my ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.

  “Caroline, it’s Kirk.”

  It’s Thursday evening and we are hustling. The town is starting to come out, little by little. “Yeah, what’s up? Paris, refill the teas on table 10 for me, please?”

  Exchanging the old wall phone, with the out-of-shape twist cord, for a portable was one of my best ideas yet, if I say so myself.

  “Sounds like you’re busy.”

  “Is that why you called?”

  He laughs. “No. Listen, did you renew the insurance?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  “Don’t be snippy; just checking. Keeping an eye on you. Looks like Hurricane Howard is tracking your way.”

  “Yeah, we’re watching the news. I think Savannah is going to get the worst.”

  “Either way, you’re insured. Good news—Dale and Roland are back on the Frogmore Café kick. The other deal didn’t work out. They want to come down tomorrow, check out the Café, chat with you. See what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, fine, nothing like being second choice.” I motion for Russell to run out the order sitting under the heat lamps, flashing the table number with my fingers.

  “Don’t be bitter. At least you’re getting an invitation to the prom.”

  “Kirk, there’s no prom.”

  “No prom? Are you saying you don’t want to sell?”

  “Don’t talk crazy. See you tomorrow.”

  The Café is hopping when Kirk walks in the door with Roland and Dale, strutting like a Hollywood celebrity team. John Travolta in Saturday Night Live. Cheesy yet confident.

  Kirk shoves me toward the kitchen before I can barely greet them. “Give us a minute.”

  “Go ahead and take the booth in the back . . . Mercy, will you see to these gentlemen?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Kirk leans close. Coffee breath. “What is it?”

  “On the way down, they talked about how much they want to get in this area. You’re looking at a million-two, maybe a million-three.”

  I glare at him. “H-how much?” In all the talk of selling, I never considered the price.

  “Over a million.”

  My knees buckle a little. “W-wow.”

  Kirk grins. “Also, wanted to tell you I’m your lawyer on this deal. I told the Buzz Boys to hire representation. I don’t want to be compromised.”

  “Oh, Kirk, thank you.”

  “Don’t look all sappy. I’m doing it as a favor. Well, a little, but set aside a teeny bit of that mil-plus for me.”

  “Gladly.” A million dollars. Jones McDermott, bless your old-coot heart.

  For the better part of an hour, Kirk, Dale, Roland, and I sit in the booth, talking. They ask a lot of questions, and I answer them all: staff, menu, suppliers, average business day, average income, history, clientele, and potential clientele.

  After a while, I go to the kitchen to get Andy. “Go meet the Buzz Boys. Tell me what you think. Then send out Russell, Luke, and Paris.”

  Luke protests. “I’ll retire when you go, Caroline.”

  “Luke, no, you love working here. They seem really wonderful, and I do believe they’ll take care of you all. Just now, they talked about incentive programs and employee insurance.”

  “Well, only for you, Caroline. I’ll talk to them, but I ain’t promising nothing.”

  “That’s all I ask.” I kiss his cheek. Don’t know why; I just did.

  His face reddens as he goes back to mopping the kitchen.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, the crew parades out one by one to meet the Buzz Boys while I sit at the counter and watch. I can tell they’re charmed. Even, reluctantly, Luke. But finally the party’s over.

  “Caroline—” Dale settles his hand on my shoulder. “We love this place. Love it.”

  Roland spears a bite of Pluff Mud Pie he’s eating. “This is fabulous. Pluff Mud Pie. Fabulous. So local. Brilliant idea. Brilliant.”

  “Jones bought the mix from a Gullah store over on St. Helena.”

  “And that—” Dale gestures to the Vet Wall. “I mean, a wall with sig-natures. We love it. Love it. Incredible. Caroline, do vets still sign?”

  “There are new signatures from last December. The wall was Jones’s project. I haven’t devoted time to it.”

  “Roland”—Dale reaches in his tennis shorts pocket for his Palm- Pilot—“call your buddy over at the History Channel; get a story on the wall. It’d be great publicity.”

  Roland stabs the air with his fork in agreement while chewing and swallowing a bite of pie. “Larkin TerBerg. Brilliant. Let’s do it.”

  “The wall has already been on the History Channel,” I note.

  “Excellent, we’ll use that info to get us on again.” They talk as if the Café sale is a done deal.

  Clearing my throat, I decide to ask a few questions of my own before they leave.

  “Dale, Roland, I’m really glad you’re interested in the Frogmore Café. She’s a town treasure. But I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  Since Roland is still eating, Dale answers. “Absolutely. Ask whatever you want. We are an open book, Caroline.”

  “Absolutely, Caroline, ask away. We want this to be a comfortable arrangement for all of us.” Roland motions to Paris as she hustles by with a loaded tray of drinks. More pie. She smiles and nods. Good girl.

  “The Café founder, Jones McDermott, worked hard to develop an authentic lowcountry menu. Will you stay with the menu and motif of the business? Our cook has created some wonderful new dishes.”

  “Yes, yes, sure. Oh, absolutely. Can’t see it any other way.”

  “What about the staff? Andy and Mercy Bea have been here a long time. They know this place and its customers. The other three work hard. They’ll do right by you.”

  “See no reason whatsoever to jettison the staff. We believe in people, Caroline. The heart of every company is the people.”

  I’m starting to get a really, really good feeling selling to them.

  Dale puts his arm around me. “Ease your mind. We’ll see to the staff. Like we said earlier, our plan is merely to expand the hours, fix up the inside, and convert the carriage house into a dining area.”

  Roland is into the second piece of Pluff Mud Pie Paris brought. Or is it his third? And not even an inch of extra around his waist. “Maybe add a coffee bar.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Mercy Bea breezes past.

  Dale reaches to the counter for a napkin. “We didn’t plan on doing this today, but when you see a good thing—” He fishes a pen from his hip pocket. “It’s unofficial, but here’s something to think about.”

  It was one thing to hear a million dollars. It’s another thing to see it. Dale wrote th
e amount on the napkin like a check. Even signed his name.

  One-point-two million. My knees go weak again. “W-what if I decide not to sell?”

  Yeah, and what if the world ends or Godzilla storms Beaufort?

  “Then we’ll have to call in our muscle.” Roland laughs with a look at Dale.

  “Our wives. They can get blood from a turnip. You think I’m lying?”

  “They can’t make you sell, Caroline,” Kirk interjects softly. “They’ll offer a letter of intent by weeks’ end, right?” He glances at Dale, then Roland. “Bottom line, it means you won’t sell out from under them.”

  “Okay.” Clutching the paper napkin check, I watch them go. The first brick in the sale, and a whole new life for me, is laid in the dirt.

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Saturday, September 1

  Closed for Hurricane Howard

  Will Reopen ASAP

  Coming Soon: Reminisce Nite—First Monday in October

  Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café

  God Bless!

  31

  T o: CSweeney

  From: Hazel Palmer

  Subject: Re: Call with Carlos

  Caroline,

  Carlos has been out of country on business, so not sure when he wants to call, but I told him you guys were prepping for Howard. I’ve been singing your praises, still. Keeping hope alive.

  Be safe, girl. Are you scared? I hate storms. Will keep up with the news online.

  Update: Fernando called. Totally different tone and attitude.

  Upshot: dinner tomorrow night at 7:00.

  “You can’t handle the truth.”

  Ciao, Hazel

  CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

  Beaufort braces for a weak category-one Hurricane

  Howard. The news stations out of Savannah and Charleston urge us to execute hurricane preparedness. Howard is expected around midnight over Savannah, with the northeastern rain bands dumping buckets of rain on Beaufort. We spent Friday night, and so far most of today, prep-ping. Business is off anyway—folks are battening down or bugging out—so I closed the Café at noon.