by Rachel Hauck
Daggum, but he ticks me off. Want to play jilted lover? I own the game, wrote the rules. “And what did I win all the years you were seeking fame and fortune in Nashville, hmm? When you took beauty queens to country tributes and award shows? Heartache, Mitch.” I slam the counter with my hand. “Heart. Ache. You’ve had a few weeks of disappointment. I’ve had years of a dull, yet pulsating, longing. Like a toothache that can be ignored, yet persistent enough to make its presence known. Then, when I finally move on, finally do something for myself, here you come.”
“Oh, don’t play the ‘poor me with no life’ card. You could’ve left just like the rest of us. But you chose to stay and baby-sit your family, be Miss Goody Help Everyone. You didn’t have to work for your dad, or Henry, Mrs. Farnsworth, or Jones.”
“And you could’ve asked me to marry you nine years ago, Mitch. But you didn’t. You wanted your freedom, your chance. Maybe I came to the game during the fourth quarter, but I’m on the field and can smell a touchdown.”
“Caroline—”
Too late to “Caroline” me now. “No, Mitch, no. Don’t you dare come in here accusing me, throwing your pity party. If you want me, then wait for me. Like I waited for you. Not knowing when or if you’d ever come back. Man, I’m sick of this—”
I jerk the full coffeepot from the BrewMaster and slosh steaming black java into Mitch’s mug. “Still take it black, right?”
“You can change your mind.” It’s a statement buoyed with sugges-tion. “Yes, black.”
I fill my own mug with black java. “Mitch, I never thought I’d say these words to you, but I don’t want to change my mind. I’ll go crazy if I stay here and pass up this chance. Every time I think of going, excitement bubbles up in me. A feeling I’ve never had before, and something tells me it’s a God thing. As new as I am to God things . . . I’m going to give Him a chance to use me, change me.”
He grips the mug without drinking. “That’s how I feel every time I think of marrying you.”
My wind rushes out like I’ve been punched. “Then, Mitch, wait for me.”
Oh, for a heart-pounding second, I’m flushed with passion and con-sider grabbing his face and kissing him until he can’t breathe. Instead I dump a pound of cream and sugar in my mug. “So where are we?”
Picking up his coffee, he still doesn’t drink. “You tell me. Where does a couple go after, ‘Will you marry me?’ is followed by a ‘No’? Feels pretty much like a dead end.”
“Mitch, are you saying this is it?”
A loud tap at the door halts the conversation, piercing the tension. Mitch tucks away his response as I go to open the door. Dupree barges in. Seeing him causes my vision to blur under a watery sheen.
“Is it 8:02 already?”
“Close enough.” The ex-Marine unwraps his muffler—thick enough to keep an Eskimo warm—and drapes it over the coat rack.
“Coffee?” I ask, following him to the counter.
“Does a sheik have oil?” Dupree takes the stool next to Mitch. “Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about you leaving, Caroline. Good to see you, Mitch. I see you couldn’t kiss her into staying.”
Mitch shakes his head with a guarded gaze at me. “Gave it my best.”
“Well, what’re you going to do? Women are tough creatures to fig-ure out.”
Another tap resounds against the door as I pour Dupree’s coffee, half wishing Mitch would leave. Otherwise, I might just break. Jesus, a little help for Your friend, please.
Pastor Winnie and Luke are at the door this time. “More early birds?”
“Dupree called.”
“Caroline, thanks for the coffee.” Mitch rises from the counter stool. “Merry Christmas, fellas.”
“Leaving so soon, boy?” Winnie asks, taking the stool next to Dupree.
“I was hoping for a Christmas tune when I saw you sitting there.”
Mitch cuts a glance at me. “Another time. Don’t feel much like music today, Winnie.”
“I hear you, I hear you. Sad day for us all, losing Caroline.”
“A sad day for us all.”
Mitch leaves with a backward glance, allowing a flicker of good-bye in his eyes.
See you, Mitch.
By the time Andy arrives at four thirty, the four of us are good and caffeined up. I hide in the ladies’ for a good, solid, snot-running cry—just couldn’t hold it in any longer—then ordered a batch of eggs, bacon, and grits for the house. As dawn breaks over the lowcountry, I spend my last morning as owner of the Frogmore Café reminiscing with some of my best friends anywhere, while aching for the one who recently said good-bye.
At four p.m., Kirk arrives for the signing-away-of-the-Café. He’s jittery, never looking directly at me. His black suit is dot-ted with lint and dust.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep. Fine.” He starts arranging tables and chairs. “Let’s shove these two tables together. Sit here instead of the booth.”
“Ah, Kirk, we can’t give up the booth. We’ve done all our business there,” I tease. “I’m sort of sentimental about it.”
“It’s ridiculous for us to slide in together. We can’t get out without making everyone move.” Kirk’s briefcase thumps against the tabletop.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” A terrifying thought crossed my mind. “The Buzz Boys aren’t changing their minds are they, or lowering the price?”
“No, no. How about coffee and water on the table, eh?”
A few minutes later, the Christmas bells ring out. The Buzz Boys enter with their lawyer, Laurel the Amazon.
From the kitchen doorway, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Luke and Paris hover, watching the big deal go down.
Dale is Buzz-Boy cheery. “Caroline, isn’t this fantastic? Such a win-win.” He looks over at the watching and waiting crew. “We’re going to take care of y’all.”
I gesture for Paris to bring the baskets of biscuits and jam.
Meanwhile, Laurel and Kirk exchange whispers and documents. Kirk’s expression is tense. He mutters and shakes his head.
Laurel whispers to him in a way that sounds like flies buzzing.
Sitting tall, I ignore the sadness of saying good-bye by picturing the surprised faces of the crew when they open their Christmas cards. Elle designed the cards after we brainstormed something unique and special for each person.
Then tonight, I’ve planned a Christmas shopping spree that will make Bill Gates look cheap.
“Are we ready to get started?” Laurel speaks through her plastic expression. One blue peel too many is my guess.
“Sure.” What is wrong with Kirk?
Taking command, Laurel distributes the papers we need to sign, giv-ing us instructions.
Then she hands me six checks. “Divided up as you requested.”
Smiling, I flip through to see if each amount is right—Andy and Mercy Bea receiving their third. Luke, Russell, and Paris their bonuses.
How fun to be Santa Claus.
I stack the checks and turn them facedown on the table. “Ready to sign.”
Kirk remains disengaged, almost sulking. Ignoring him, Laurel tells Dale and Roland where to sign, then me, explaining the small print and conditions.
Shaking a little, I take the pen and aim for the signature line.
“Excuse me.” Kirk fires out of his chair, almost toppling it over. “Caroline, I-I, I’m not happy with my fee. No, not at all.” His glasses slip off the tip of his nose.
“Your fee?” He’s gone mad.
“Yes. I need to see you in your office.”
Laurel’s eyes darken. “Kirk.” She loses her fixed smile. “Sit down, please. I’m sure you and Caroline can renegotiate your fee after she signs. It’s not an emergency.”
Kirk lowers toward his chair, but buoys back up before his bottom hits. “Caroline, your office.”
Laurel stands, towering over him. “Kirk, what are you doing? You. Can. Talk. To. Caroline. In. About. Ten. Minutes.” Her jaw is tight. Dale and Roland chat among themselves as i
f unaware of Laurel and Kirk’s cloaked battle.
Without answering her, Kirk takes my arm and leads me away.
As we head toward the kitchen, Andy, Mercy Bea, Russell, Luke, and Paris scatter like barnyard chickens.
38
Behind my closed office door, Kirk whips off his glasses. Is he sweating? “Don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what? Sell the Café?” I cross my arms.
“What a bunch of . . . Caroline, I’m so sorry I mixed you up with those crooks.”
“Crooks?” Hello, not a warm-fuzzy word, Kirk. “What crooks?”
“Those two yahoos.” He flicks his glasses at the door. “Teach me to play golf with the country-club set. Poor kid from Charleston, wanting what they have. Who are they, anyway?”
“Kirk, please, save your identity crisis for the shrink’s couch. What about the Café?”
“They’re changing everything, Caroline. Everything Mercy Bea heard is true. Haute cuisine. After they remodel, the crew will go, even the name will change.”
Shaking, I fall against the desk. “Why didn’t they just tell me?”
“Why?” Kirk’s wild-eyed look tells me he thinks I’m crazy. “Because you wouldn’t sell to them if they ’fessed up. This location is incredible. There’s not another deal like it in Beaufort. They lowballed you on the price and I knew it.” He lands hard on the guest chair. “Here you are being incredibly generous with the staff. And I helped them cheat you.”
Wait, wait . . . My thoughts are melting. “Kirk, I’ve leased an apart-ment fifty meters off the Ramblas, bought a plane ticket, bought new knobs for my armoire and shipped it.”
“Greed. It’s always been my kryptonite.”
“When were you ever Superman?” Clark Kent glasses aside.
“Never. That’s just it.” Sighing, he rests his forehead against his palms. “Might as well confess: they offered me a bonus when the deal closed. A nice bonus.”
“They paid you to betray me?”
He holds up his hand. “Don’t. I already know what a lowdown louse I am—this is not my finest hour. I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t matter in the long run. The Café would have its deep pockets. You’d be in Barcelona with the job of a lifetime. The crew would have their fat bonuses. Then I caught the light in your eyes when Laurel handed you the checks. I couldn’t stand myself.”
“That makes two of us.”
“They were going to offer the Vet Wall to the city council for half a million.”
“What? The wall already belongs to the city, by way of the Café. Oh my gosh.”
Kirk’s arms sweep wide. “Caroline, I’m begging you. Don’t sell. Please. I’ll find another buyer. Whatever you need. I’ll contact Carlos for you. I’ll work with the bank to get you a loan to redo the place. Please, don’t let them win.”
Sitting, I reach for the straightened paper clip.
Kirk mumbles, “Think you can trust old college friends? No.”
Okay, God, this is a kink I did not expect in the works. What, what, what . . . At the moment, I care squat about myself. The money will be such a blessing to the crew. Mercy Bea can move out of her roach motel. Andy can wipe out Gloria’s medical bills.
“What am I going to do?”
“Don’t. Sell.”
“Then what, Kirk? That’s not an answer. We have to settle the Café—”
Then, the line from Jones’s letter materializes before my mind’s eye. Andy is the heart and soul of the Café.
Kirk stops mumbling and looks up at me. “What is it? You’re smiling.”
Christmas Eve
Daddy, Posey, Henry, and Cherry squeeze into Beaufort Community’s back pew with me.
This is the best Christmas, ever. “Freely you received,” Jesus said. “Freely give.”
When the choir leads us in singing “Silent Night,” my heart remembers Mama, wishing she’d found deliverance from her demons enough to enjoy times like this. Merry Christmas, Mama.
Mitch sits up front with his own mama. When the children’s choir sang “Let There Be Peace on Earth” he peered over his shoulder, search-ing the congregation. In the warm candlelight, his blue eyes found mine and held on for a moment. He nodded once, then faced forward again. A chill shimmied down my back and legs.
It’s really over. I know it.
Meanwhile, Hazel is frantic for the holidays to be over. She e-mails daily. “I want to see you here, in Barcelona, so I know nothing else is going to delay you.”
I decided to have some final fun with her and shot off an e-mail with only this subject: The Café sale flopped. She actually phoned at two in the morning to find out what happened.
The choir begins “O Holy Night.” I join in, eyes closed, sitting very still, remembering . . .
“Here’s your bonuses.” I handed the crew their Christmas cards.
Andy gripped his chest when he read the certificate Kirk and I made up: “You are now the owner of 70 percent of the Frogmore Café.”
Mercy Bea opened her card: “You are now owner of 30 percent of the Frogmore Café. P.S. Your debt is cleared.”
She screamed and screamed, gave me, then Andy, a flying hug. “Andy,” she squeaked, “you won’t regret being my partner. I’ll do some good stuff around here for you. I’ll work hard. What should we do first? Hold a staff meet-ing. Let’s plan—Oh, Andy, please, can I move into the carriage house? Please.”
Andy locked his misty eyes with mine. Then he shoved past Mercy Bea, still squealing like a poked pig, and buried me in a ginormous hug.
“God bless you, Caroline Sweeney. God. Bless. You.” Then, without shame, he cried.
Russell, Luke, and Paris open cards to find thousand-dollar Christmas bonuses. Courtesy of Kirk, who discovered his hunger for the joy of giving.
Then we had the best Christmas party ever . . .
“Caroline,” Cherry taps my arm softly. “The service is over.” She smiles. “You were lost down some memory lane.”
I stand. “It’s a nice place to get lost.”
“There’s Mitch.” Cherry nudges me. “Want to go over? Wish him a Merry Christmas?”
“Actually, we’ve said all we’re going to say to each other. Besides, look, he’s got a horde of lovely ladies waiting.”
“Oh, Caroline, are you sad?” Cherry bends around to see my face, pausing just outside the sanctuary doors.
“If I wasn’t, then Mitch never meant anything to me, right?”
“Nice thought.” She brushes my hair away from my face.
“So, yes, a little, but mostly I’m happy, Cherry, looking forward to the days to come.”
“Caroline Sweeney, you are my hero.”
I laugh. “Cherry, you’ve got to get out more. Really.”
Talking, we walk arm in arm toward the rest of the family in the churchyard. Elle calls “Merry Christmas” to me, waving as she heads off with her family.
“Ready?” Dad says, popping his hands together. He’s excited. His first Christmas in eons without loneliness, angst, guilt, or regret. The presents under our tree rival any kid’s dream.
But this year, I have a specific gift longing. Walking over to Henry, I link my arm with his. “Ready to give me my Christmas present?”
He balks. “Now? Tonight? Shouldn’t we wait for Santa to come?” Since hanging out with little kids, he’s fallen in love with this holiday.
“This is a special present I picked out for myself. From you to me.”
He narrows his eyes, glancing at Cherry. “Don’t look at me,” she says.
Henry: “What’s this going to cost me?”
Me: “Everything.”
After a small debate—some things never change—Henry reluctantly agrees to drive me where I want to go. Cherry heads home with Dad and Posey.
“Where are we going?” Henry asks, starting his car.
“To see Mama.”
“Sneaking around a graveyard on Christmas Eve . . . Sort of sick, don’t you think, Caroline?”
Henry’s protesting wears me down. But I refuse to give up my Christmas mission. “We’re not sneaking around. We’re visiting our mother’s grave.”
“This is ridiculous. She hated Christmas.” Henry slows by her grave-site and cuts the engine. He remains stiff and stubborn behind the wheel.
Reaching to the floorboard, I pick up the wreath I bought at a closing-down Christmas tree stand. “Let’s go.”
“I repeat, this is ridiculous.” Henry jerks on his door handle, chin up.
“Humor your little sister, then.”
After placing the wreath on Mama’s headstone, I stand back next to Henry. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”
“She’s laughing at us,” he scoffs.
“Your turn.”
“I’m not talking to a granite stone, Caroline. This is your deal. I only came because you claim this is your Christmas present.”
“Tell Mama you forgive her.” In the light of the street lamps, my brother’s raw emotions coat his round features. He is the physical image of our mother. “That’s my Christmas present—from you to me.”
I go first. “Mama, it’s Christmas. I know you didn’t care much for holidays, but Jesus’ birthday feels like a right time to forgive people. So, it’s okay, Mama. Life just didn’t deliver like you wanted, did it? I wish you could see how good Henry and I turned out.”
Henry begins to tremble.
Stretching forward, I pat the tombstone. “Rest in peace.”
He snorts, loudly, almost urgently. I wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I squeeze his hand. “Let her go. Forgive her. Not for her sake, but yours.”
He rolls his shoulders back and looks beyond her grave into the darkness. “Why should I?”
“Because being bitter hurts you, not her. Frankly, I’m tired of it. It shadows your relationship with Cherry, and your future kids. With me and Daddy. You’re not saying she was right, you’re simply forgiving.”
Henry’s turmoil increases. I can feel it, but I’m determined. “We’re not leaving until you say something.”
So we stand in cold silence.
Finally, as if punched from behind, he bursts out, “Mama, I used to sit up nights waiting for you to come home.” His confession is pluff-mud soft. “Cried myself to sleep more times than a teen should. I missed your perfume, your voice, the soft touch of your hand on my cheek.” He brushes his face with the back of his hand. “I hated you for leaving us. But I . . . I forgive you.”