Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

Yes, I’m ready. No. Wait, what is it? Will I like it? Can I do the job? I’ll do it. Mrs. Atwater stopped by today. Yeah, I got the speech. So, I’m seriously considering “yes.” Tell me more.

  Love, Caroline

  When Dad and I walk through the kitchen door, his petite, fifty-something (she won’t confess her true age, other than, “I’m between fifty and a hundred”) fiancée, Posey Martin, stands at the stove, muttering.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” Dad turns her so he can kiss her smack on the lips.

  Dad! My gaze shoots down to my feet.

  I confess: the kiss gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s weird to watch my father behave like, well, a man. He and Mama were never affectionate in front of Henry and me because she got weird on him just when we would’ve started curling our lip with an, “Ah, gross.”

  “Chicken ain’t frying up right,” Posey says when Dad releases her. “Hey, Caroline, the Mustang giving you fits again? Hank, why don’t you mix up your famous corn bread?”

  Dad claps his hands together. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Some—mostly Dad—say his corn bread is the best in the county.

  But instead of digging out the mixing bowl, my father grabs Posey from behind with a growl. She squeals. He snarls against her neck.

  Oh, my eyes . . .

  Head: Eyes, why didn’t you warn me?

  Heart: Grow up. Have you ever seen him so happy?

  Eyes: Hey, don’t blame me. I just look where you tell me, head.

  Head: Eyes, look away. He’s almost touching her . . . you know, chest area.

  Heart: For crying out loud, he’s hugging her. Again, have you ever seen him so happy?

  Never, actually.

  The kitchen door bumps me in the rump. “You’re in the way, Caroline.”

  Ah, there it is . . . snarkiness. That is more like my family. Henry opens the cupboard for the tea glasses. “What’s with your car now?”

  Dad answers for me, retrieving a mixing bowl from the bottom shelf. “Carburetor. Wayne’s going to flush it out again. Be ready in the morning.”

  “Why don’t you get rid of the thing, Caroline?” Henry props him-self against the counter, elbows sticking out. “People are starting to talk, calling you Breakdown Sally.”

  “Who is they, Henry? Hmm?” He’s making it up, surely. Getting a rep is one thing, but a nickname?

  “Everyone in Beaufort.” He laughs—not in a ha-ha-isn’t-this-funny kind of way, but in a you-are-so-naive kind of way.

  Cherry pushes through the door. Another bump in my rump. “Oh, hey, Caroline, sorry. Baby, I thought you were getting glasses.”

  Henry holds them up.

  “Say, Cherry, have you heard people call me Breakdown Sally?”

  Studiously avoiding my gaze, my sleek-haired, china-doll-faced sister-in-law steps around me. “Posey, what can I do to help?”

  It’s true. I’m Breakdown Sally.

  “Wayne’s ready to take the Mustang off your hands, anytime,” Dad offers gently, pouring corn bread mix into a pan. “Bet you could get eight thousand out of him, Caroline. Buy yourself a nice, dependable car.”

  Translation: snoring.

  “Good to know.” Still . . . not selling.

  “Why do you insist on holding on to that piece of junk? Don’t you see? It’s a metaphor of how Mom felt about you, Caroline.” Henry’s bitterness stands under the spotlight of his words and takes a bow. “She missed Christmases, birthdays, and graduations. Marriages.”

  His birthdays, his graduations, his wedding. Cherry never even met her.

  “Henry.” Dad’s tone sends a caution: tread carefully, son.

  “Come on, Dad, even you think she should dump that old car.”

  Dad stirs the corn bread mix with vigorous strokes. “Because it’s a lemon. Not because your mother gave it to her.”

  “How much are you making down at the Café, Caroline? Enough to keep that thing running?” Henry holds up his hands. “Don’t answer. I already know.”

  I stare down my big brother. “Drop. It.”

  “No, Caroline. You know what that stupid car is? A picture of your life. Hanging on to something old and broken, afraid to try something new, still living with our father ’cause you can’t afford a life of your own.”

  “Stop it, Henry.” If his tone wasn’t so brutal, I’d see his point. I bat away the sting of tears.

  “Am I wrong?” He holds out his hands, each gripping a glass. “Am I?”

  “Henry. Move on. New topic.” Dad’s command leaves no room for argument.

  My brother holds his next thought, but the dark light behind his eyes reminds me his bitterness will reappear. He wears it like a badge of honor.

  “Well,” Dad says in a Mr. Rogers voice, “since you’re all in here . . . Cherry, want to wait on those glasses?” Dad takes Posey’s hand. “We’ve set a wedding date,” he says without preamble.

  “Dad, that’s wonderful.”

  “How marvelous.” Cherry slips her arm through Henry’s.

  Dad clears his throat. “We’re leaving Saturday for the Bahamas.”

  After a moment in which we all stare with mouths open, Cherry giggles. “You’re eloping?”

  Dad cuts a glance at Posey. “We got to looking at schedules and finances—”

  “Dad, you and Posey do what you want. We’re not children. We under-stand.” This from Henry in his CEO-of-Sweeney-Construction voice.

  “Yes, Dad, please do whatever you and Posey want,” I chime in. “A wedding in the Bahamas sounds very romantic.”

  Posey presses her fingers under her expressive green eyes and sniffs. “We didn’t want to leave you kids out, but I had my big wedding the first time around. When Eric died, I never thought I’d marry again. Then I met your dad . . .”

  “Met me? Rammed your Miata into the back of my truck.” Dad raises her hand to his lips, gives it a grinning kiss.

  Head: Look away, eyes.

  “Well, how did I know there was a stoplight in the middle of a bridge?”

  Posey is what the Gullah call a comeya—a lowcountry newbie.

  Henry strides forward and shakes Dad’s hand in a manly-man way. “May you have a long, happy marriage. If anyone deserves it, Dad, it’s you.”

  I stifle the oncoming tears. “Here, here.”

  4

  H azel cannot keep the “amazing, incredible” job opportunity confined to cyberspace. She has to call.azel “Isn’t it like three in the morning there?” I ask, though I love hearing her voice.

  “Three thirty, actually.” Her rushed tone is high-pitched, excited. “I get up at four thirty on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday so I can be in the office by six. So I’m only losing an hour of sleep.”

  “Have you been consuming caffeine?” I stretch out on the sofa as Dad, Posey, Henry, and Cherry play hearts at the dining room table. Jim Croce croons from Dad’s old turntable.

  “Only a cup. Listen, about this job—”

  In my mind, I envision Hazel pacing a Spanish-style living room in baggy, silk pajamas and slappy slippers with little heels. “Do I have to get up at four thirty for this incredible job?”

  “No, you don’t have to get up at four thirty. I like to get into the office before the meetings and phone calls start.”

  “So, this job . . .”

  “You know about my boss, Carlos Longoria, right? Sure you do; we’ve talked about him. As a matter of fact, he’s on the cover of this month’s Forbes.”

  “Sure, Carlos.” I’ve seen him on many magazine covers, read about him via Hazel’s e-mails. “The European Donald Trump. Runs a large development and property company. Y’all build and buy apartments, condos, villas.”

  “Right. If you can live in it, we own it.”

  “A grass hut?”

  “Sri Lanka.”

  “Mud hut?”

  “Okay, no mud huts. Even Carlos draws the line somewhere.”

  “And he considers himself a Donald Trump?” I tug the s
crunchy from my hair and shake it free.

  “He does. With great pride. And he’s a big fan of The Apprentice .” I bolt upright. “I’m not going on TV.”

  “No, no, he’s not talking TV . . . yet. For now, all he wants is a hard-working individual with a bright mind he can mold into a Mini Me, rather a Mini Him.”

  “And you offered up me?”

  From the dining room, Cherry and Posey slap high fives as they win another round of cards. A frustrated Henry jerks away from the table with an, “I need more tea.”

  “I’ve convinced Carlos you are perfect to be his first apprentice. You have no preconceived ideas or agenda or college professor telling you it should be like this instead of that.”

  “Hazel, I’m a waitress. A bookkeeper. Hometown girl with only a high-school diploma.”

  “Actually, he loves that about you. When I told him about how you helped your dad and Henry rebuild their businesses, his eyes glowed.”

  Running my hand through my hair—it feels dry against my fingers—I correct her. “Hazel, I didn’t help Dad rebuild his business. I filled in when his office manager quit.”

  “You organized an entire network and computer installation. Did the same thing for Henry. Brought all the accounting and inventory online.”

  “Right, but I didn’t help them rebuild anything.” My thoughts form a pleasant thanks-but-no-thanks reply to my overeager, overachieving friend.

  “Well, look what you did for Jones and the Café.” Her enthusiasm is undaunted.

  I laugh. “Okay, you got me. I introduced computers to Jones and learned to run a very small café. Woo-wee. The business world just tilted.”

  “Caroline, you’re a team player, a problem solver. You work well under pressure and have phenomenal people skills.”

  “I do?” I ease against the back of the sofa.

  “Never mind your amazing ability to see good in people. Your com-passion toward your mom always blew me away.”

  “Now you’re just talking crazy.”

  “C, wouldn’t we have so much fun? Living in Europe together? But, if you agree to this, you can’t change your mind because of some family or hometown emergency.”

  Her summation of my skills does little to bring clarity. Me? In Spain? “Hazel, you really think I can do the job?”

  “One hundred percent. You are ready for this kind of challenge, girl. And, you’re exactly what Carlos is looking for—raw material.”

  Well, in that case . . . But, I catch my “yes” on the tip of my tongue before Hazel hears it. Never, ever have I done anything like this. Daytona Beach for spring break my senior year is my biggest brouhaha so far.

  Well, except for the time Mama got a wild hair and decided to rearrange holidays, celebrate Christmas on Halloween, New Year’s on Thanksgiving. For my fourth-grade Halloween party, she sent me to school wearing a red-velvet dress and black patent-leather shoes, carry-ing a free gift bottle of Clinique’s “Happy” wrapped in Santa paper.

  Yeah, this Barcelona thing requires some thought. “Can I call you in an hour?”

  Hazel’s slow sigh billows in my ear. “Call me at the office. I’ll e-mail you the number. Caroline, just say yes.”

  As I hang up from Hazel, a shout rises from the dining room. Dad and Henry finally won a hand.

  I grab the kitchen flashlight and steal out the back door, heading around front to my sanctuary—the ancient live oak. Parting the Spanish moss that dangles from gnarly limbs like hippie beads, I hike my skirt to my knees and climb to my pew about ten feet up, wondering if the God of Andy might be available to talk.

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Tuesday, June 5

  Country Ham

  Butternut Squash, Green Beans, Cheese Coins

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  Upside-Down Apple Cake

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $6.99

  5

  To: CSweeney

  From: Hazel Palmer

  Subject: Carlos’s call

  Caroline,

  Carlos is extremely pleased you said yes. He buzzed into my office first thing this morning asking for your number. He’s calling you at four your time—TODAY. Be ready.

  Questions you might want to ask him are his expectations, job description and duties, your role on the team and with other projects. Think outside the box when you talk to him.

  He’ll probably ask you questions like your strength and weaknesses, expectations, give you a salary range. BTW, he realizes this is all new to you.

  This is muy fab, Caroline. Muy. Figure your arrival date for a week on the Mediterranean, in a villa, my treat, so we can have some fun together before work consumes your life.

  Love, Hazel

  CFO, SRG International, Barcelona

  Late in the afternoon, the Café is bathed in warm, sleepy sunlight that falls in speckled patterns across the thin threads of a weary carpet. The old walls and ceiling beams creak and moan, sounding every bit like an old man stretching as he rises from his favorite chair. Funny, I’ve been hearing the sounds for two years, but today I listen and am comforted.

  The old girl’s going to be all right. Get some new owners—by inheritance or sale—who have the wherewithal for an extreme makeover.

  Across the counter from me, Mercy Bea leans against Joel Creager’s table, telling him about her youngest young-son’s basketball shoes.

  “Two hundred dollars. Can you believe it? And he ain’t done growing.”

  Joel sips his coffee while shaking his head. “Glad I never had no kids. Who can afford them?”

  Smiling, I wipe down the ketchup bottles. I’ll miss afternoons like this once I’m in Barcelona.

  An electric flutter runs down my torso, causing me to draw a long breath.

  While sitting in the tree last night, talking to the stars, or perhaps God if He wasn’t otherwise involved—solving crime or formulating an eighth world wonder—this strange peace blanketed me. I’d felt some-thing like it once before—the night Mama died.

  When it persisted, I figured it to be my answer, climbed down from the tree, ripping my favorite skirt in the process, and called Hazel.

  The Café door’s Christmas bells jingle. Kirk Harris, Jones’s lawyer, walks in.

  “Kirk, hello.” What perfect timing. He’ll give me the terms of the will; I’ll give him my resignation. When Carlos calls—TODAY—I’ll be ready to talk start date.

  Mercy Bea abandons Joel and shoots over to Kirk. “Darlin’, we’ve been watching for you.”

  In his early thirties, the genteel lowcountry lawyer looks like a disheveled Ross Geller from Friends. Unruly dark hair, quirky, uneven manner. Today he looks as though he might have slept in his suit.

  “Caroline, you ready to see the will?” He starts for the large booth in the back with a quick step, shrugging to shed Mercy Bea.

  “Mercy, why don’t you get Kirk some coffee. Looks like he could use some. Bring a plate of biscuits.” I trail after Kirk, ignoring Mercy’s scowl. “How’d the inheritance case turn out?”

  Kirk drops his briefcase to the tabletop as if he’s just used up his last ounce of energy. “We settled it last night. Then celebrated . . .”

  “Party too much?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him as he pops open his case.

  “I forgot I’m not in college anymore.”

  He passes a document to me. Jones’s will.

  This is it, Jones. Our final good-bye. For a moment, I entertain sadness.

  “Unless you love reading a bunch of legalese, just flip to the red sticky flags.”

  “Kirk, before we do this will thing, I want to give you my resignation. Of course, I’ll stay long enough to—”

  Kirk snaps his eyes to my face. “Resigning? Oh, no, no, no, Caroline.” He chuckles.

  “‘No’? What do you mean ‘no’? I have a job. In Spain.” I spit out “Spain” in case the drank-too-much fog has hampered his hearing. “In Barcelona.”

  “Here we are .
. .” Trailed by Andy, Mercy Bea sets down a whole pot of fresh-brewed coffee, an oversized hand-painted mug I’m pretty sure was made by one of her young-sons—the handle is crooked—and a heaping plate of biscuits. “Move on over, Caroline.” She shoves against my shoulder. “Slide in next to Kirk there, Andy.”

  “Don’t look like we’re needed, Mercy Bea.”

  The Charleston lawyer pours his own coffee and downs a big swig without waiting for it to cool. I wince.

  “I’d like to talk to Miss Sweeney. Alone,” he says.

  “We share information around here. No secrets.” Mercy Bea keeps shoving me around until she’s sitting square in front of Kirk.

  Andy doesn’t bother to sit. “If you don’t need me, I got work to do. Look, all I want is to keep my job and pay.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find things satisfactory, Andy,” Kirk says, bestowing a long, hard gaze on Mercy Bea, who pinches her face into a stubborn expression. But she’s met her match in Kirk. He sits back, gulps more coffee, and stares her square in the eye.

  She can’t last long . . . Three, two, one . . .

  “Oh, all right.” Mercy Bea exhales a blue word while sliding out of the booth. “You’d think a loyal employee would get some special consideration. But, no . . . it’s too much to ask. Caroline, I’m clocking out.”

  “Wait fifteen minutes, Mercy Bea, please. Miss Jeanne will be along for supper soon.”

  “Russell is here.” She tosses her head. “Apparently, I’m not needed.”

  Ho, boy. “Fine.” I glance at Kirk. “Miss Jeanne is one of our loyal customers, a born-and-raised Beaufortonian.”

  “Interesting.” His tone betrays him. And he’s looking a little green. The boy needs two aspirin and a long sleep. “Turn to the red sticky flags, please. By the way, that’s your copy of the will.”

  “My copy? O-okay.” I flip to the page marked by the flag and read.

  WILL OF Jones Q. McDermott, a resident of Beaufort, South Carolina. I hereby make this Will and revoke all prior Wills and Codicils.

  BENEFICIARIES: I give the Frogmore Café and carriage house to the following persons: Caroline Jane Sweeney.

  Caroline Jane Swee— “Me?” I fire my gaze toward Kirk. “That’s my name. Kirk, what? Jones left the Frogmore Café to me?” My middle tightens with an eerie shiver.