by Rachel Hauck
”
Meanwhile, Posey works in the kitchen, putting away the glasses and dish towels she had left over from combining her life with Dad’s. “All this avocado and rust decor is giving me seventies flashbacks, Caroline.”
“Well, Mitch,” Dad says, with a sad, sorry twang of resignation, “let’s do this. One last shove.”
“All right. Like birthing a baby.”
With a low, growling grunt, Mitch shoves the wardrobe through the door, scraping off the sunflower antique-brass doorknobs. They fire like shiny bullets across the room.
“Hey, those cost me $9.88.”
Dad doesn’t call whoa, so Mitch just keeps driving forward.
“Mitch, Mitch, Mitch . . .”
Dad stumbles. The armoire tilts. I dart to catch it, but it crashes to the polished hardwood floor.
Posey scurries in from the kitchen. “What is going on in here? Land sakes.” She anchors her fist against her hips, a dish towel dangling from her grip. “Why didn’t you bring it in through the French doors?” We look beyond the kitchenette. “Open them up and you can drive in a tank.”
Well, a-hem, now we know.
It’s late. A tick or two before eleven o’clock. If I had known pizza tasted this good in my own place, I’d have moved years ago. At least considered it.
But today I’ve taken the first steps toward becoming the person I’m meant to be. And contrary to my lifelong belief, I’m not the Elmer’s Glue of the Sweeney family.
Who knew?
The ornery armoire is backed up against the wall between the front door and the kitchen. “We’re not getting this thing through that bed-room door,” Dad surmised earlier, mentally measuring the width of the doorway against the size of the armoire.
We decided it looked just lovely and knobless in the great room.
The carriage house is just right for a single girl. Or an old bachelor like Jones. A large bedroom and a bath off the great room, opposite the kitchen. And a smaller room that doubles as an office/den/guest room. Beside the kitchen is a built-in dinette, then a set of double French doors out to a covered brick patio.
It’s not Barcelona, but it’s better than my ten-year-old-girl’s bed-room.
Sitting next to me on the western-style leather couch, Mitch flips through my old photo albums, snickering, munching on the last slice of pizza.
In high school, I went through a phase. For two years, I shot every-thing that crossed my path with a Nikon F3. I’d signed up for a photography elective with Elle, dug out Mama’s old camera, and, I don’t know, went berserk. Maybe I was desperate to capture my fleeting youth, or just trying to tick people off, but I was obsessed with snapping pictures.
“Wild Wally . . . and that orange jersey.” Mitch taps one of the pictures, his laugh rattling around in his chest. “He wore that thing every day for months to win a bet with Sam Evans.”
I wrinkle my nose. “How could I forget? He was so mad when his mom made him wash it after the first two weeks.”
“In every picture, Caroline, all football season, he’s wearing that freaking orange jersey. Even under his pads. When the opposing team’s defensive linemen got a whiff of Wally—” Mitch falls against the couch cushions, slaps his leg, and laughs, laughs, laughs.
I grin and snicker a bit, trying to laugh along, but after a few seconds I admit, “Guess you had to be there.”
“Man, I’ve got to get with Wild Wally.” He flips to another page and laughs all over again.
“He’d love to hang out, I’m sure.” It’s a good moment for me; to see Mitch relaxed and reminiscing. He’d gotten egotistical and intense for a while. My eyes slip closed and I hear the photo album being set back on the built-in bookshelf next to the fireplace. “Barcelona will always be there, Caroline.”
“Not for me. Not with this opportunity. But I couldn’t—it’s weird, Mitch, inheriting a man’s life.”
“I can imagine. For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”
“It’s worth a lot. And for now, I stand by my indecision.” Opening my eyes, I sit forward. “So, tell me, what happened in Paris? What happened to make you see the mysterious yellow line?”
His lips form a half smile as he settles back against the couch. “A fan threatened to blow up the hotel we were staying in. At first we thought it was a terrorist attack.” He stares off. “Caroline, you can’t know your heart, your fears, until . . . Thinking terrorism had found me changed me. I thought I was so invincible. While the police investigated, I did a lot of praying. Turns out the threat came from some insane fan wanting to get close to me.”
“Oh my gosh, Mitch. What happened to her? Very John Lennon, by the way.”
“Never envied the man. They arrested her, which made me feel both relieved and sad. She was completely whacked, but I felt compassion for her. She risked her life for a man she didn’t know—a flawed, weak, bro-ken man.”
He looks over. Something flickers between us, eye to eye. Oooh, weird vibe.
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, Mitch. I see why you felt for her. You always did have a tender heart.”
“I’ve done a lot of talking to God, examining my life.” His confession is humbly intense.
“What did you conclude?”
“Several things.” In one graceful move, he’s off the couch, carrying the empty pizza box to the kitchen. “One, I’m too far away from my faith. Two, the landscape of my life is barren and brown. Too many parties, too many women—” He stuffs the box in the trash with vigor. “My career became my God—my name, my fame, Jesus who?”
“Aren’t you being hard on yourself? I mean, God’s got a world to run and all. Maybe you’re not as high up on His list as you think.”
“No, Caroline, just the opposite. I’m way higher on His list than I wanted to be.”
I draw my knees to my chin. If such a loving Deity exists, it would be nice if He’s like Mitch describes. “What else did you conclude?”
“That I owed a few people apologies. Dad for one. I created such bad blood between us that in nine years he’s never come to one of my shows.”
“I didn’t realize.”
He lowers himself to one of the kitchen chairs. “Then there’s you.” The bass of his voice vibrates in my chest. Oooh, the vibe again.
“Mitch, you don’t owe me—”
“Yes, I do.” For a split second, our eyes meet; then he looks down. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I made a lot of promises to you that I wanted to keep, but wasn’t man enough to follow through on.”
“It’s okay. We were young—”
“Stop. Don’t let me off the hook. I told you I loved you, I wanted to marry you. We were going to buy a farm in Hendersonville or Franklin county, raise horses and kids, hobnob with the country music elite. Not one promise was kept.”
“But don’t you see, those are pie-in-the-sky dreams. We didn’t really—”
“Are you telling me you didn’t believe what we said?”
My eyes tear up, and I can’t look at him. “I believed.”
Mitch rejoins me on the couch. “I’m sorry I broke your heart.”
“You think highly of yourself, Mitch.” I yank one of the throw pil-lows to my lap and fiddle with the short fringe.
“Well, then I’m sorry I made a bunch of promises I didn’t even try to keep. Please forgive me.”
“I told you, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Caroline, stop throwing up walls. Say you forgive me.”
I slap him with the pillow. “I forgive you.”
“Thank you. Geez, you’re getting more stubborn with age.”
With the clearing-the-air behind us, we sit side by side for a long, contemplative moment. “I’m glad you’re home.”
He looks over at me, his blue eyes full of light. “Come to church Sunday.”
My heart pulsates. “What? I have a church. The old live oak.”
“Caroline, I’m serious. Come with.”
“Why? M
itch, don’t tell me one terrifying moment now makes you want to save the world.”
“No, only you.”
“In twelve years of friendship, you never once asked me to church.”
His gaze is intentional and intimate. “I’m asking now.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Thursday, June 21
Ham w/ Pineapple
Potatoes, Mashed or Fried Green Beans
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Cherry or Pluff Mud Pie
Coffee, Tea, Soda
$6.99
12
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Re: The Frogmore and me
Caroline,
Your decision is sound. I’m disappointed for you to have to pass on such a rare, great opportunity. But, I understand, I do. Now, to tell Carlos. Do you suppose I can tell him you were in a tragic accident? No, no, of course not.
On a personal note, I was looking forward to dropping movie lines in conversation and Saturday movie night. I quoted a great line from A Few Good Men the other day—not one flicker of recognition. Blah.
All the best with the Café.
Love, Hazel
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
P.S. Have a date. Fernando. Will let you know.
Midafternoon Thursday, while decluttering Jones’s office—I reckon the new owner won’t mind—Andy comes in with an inventory sheet. “We’re low on everything.”
I blink away the dust cleaning has stirred. “I’ll get to it when I fin-ish filling this trash bag.”
Andy snatches up the two already filled. “I’ll cart these out. How’s the money?”
“Not great.” What did Jones want with all these broken oven knobs? “But I have a credit card and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Andy chuckles. “Caroline, thank you. I appreciate you saving the Frogmore.” He shuffles around. “Never realized how attached I was to this place. Jones hired me when I was really down on my luck, about to lose my family.”
“Andy, I never knew.” The weight of responsibility sinks deeper.
He’s off to the dumpster. A second later Mercy Bea pokes her head around the door. “Mrs. Carrington is here.”
“Who?” Menus from nineteen eighty-four? Jones, what in the world? Into the trash they go.
“Reese Carrington.” Mercy Bea snatches a clipboard off the wall and points to a name and number. “Caroline, the Carrington birthday party.”
“What . . . Oh, crud, when is it?” Truth is, I never intended to be the one hosting the Carrington birthday party.
Mercy Bea passes me the clipboard. “Not this Sunday, the next. July first.”
A shadow falls over Jones’s old event schedule and I look up to see a regal Southern woman in the doorway. “Mrs. Carrington.” I wipe my hands on my apron and motion for her to come in. “Please, have a seat.”
She perches on the edge of the office guest chair. “Thank goodness, someone is here. I’ve been trying to call for weeks. Weeks.”
Mercy Bea shoots me a good-luck glance as she hustles out.
“Weeks. Really? I’m sorry we’ve—”
“And you are?” Mrs. Carrington demands in a clipped tone.
“Caroline Sweeney, ma’am.” I sit tall like a good third grader, hands clasped on top of the desk.
“Caroline.” Mrs. Carrington clutches her rich-leather handbag. “I heard a horrible rumor. Is the Frogmore closing?”
“No, ma’am. We’re staying open.”
She exhales, resting her manicured hand at her throat. “Thank goodness. Now, who’s in charge since Jones passed on?”
I pop a smile and motion to myself.
“You?”
“I’m the new owner, yes.” The confession already feels familiar.
“Oh, dear,” she mutters. “Well, I suppose I have no choice.” She snaps open her handbag and produces a list. “As you know, my husband’s family is coming in from the four corners of the earth to surprise his mother for her ninetieth birthday. And against my better judgment, we booked the party at this establishment. Apparently, my father-in-law proposed to Mother Carrington here seventy years ago.”
“The Frogmore Café wasn’t around seventy years ago, Mrs. Carrington.” I launch Outlook. I’m going to need a Task List.
“It was a boarding house. My father-in-law lived here after being dis-charged from the Marines. Now, are we on for July first or not? And don’t you dare say no. It’s way too late to rebook.”
“We’re on for the first, Mrs. Carrington. Sunday evening,” I peek at the clipboard and type “6:00” into Outlook.
“Now, what food do you have planned? Shrimp is a must, naturally. My mother-in-law adores shrimp.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve planned several shrimp dishes.” At least we have now. I type “lots-o-shrimp.”
Andy appears with a large slice of cake. “Here you go, Miz Carrington. Would you like coffee?”
“Oh, lovely, yes. One Splenda, two creams.”
I mouth a thank-you. When Andy returns with Mrs. Carrington’s coffee, he hands her a menu. “Anything on the menu, Mrs. Carrington, we can make for your party.”
The menu. Of course. Mental slap to the forehead. “Yes, Mrs. Carrington, pick anything from the menu. Did Jones negotiate a price with you?”
“Four hundred dollars.”
“Okay, and how many people?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Four hundred? For everything?” One quick glance up at Andy and I read his thoughts: we’re going to eat it on this one. Four hundred dollars for fifty-eight people to eat lots-o-shrimp?
Mrs. Carrington is um-ming over the cake. “This cake is divine. Add it to the menu.”
I type in “Andy’s butter cream cake.” “Mrs. Carrington, Andy makes a wonderful—”
“Caroline.” Mercy Bea barges in. “You’re needed in the dining room. Pardon the interruption. Mrs. Carrington, do you remember me? I went to school with your girl, Sharon.”
“No, I don’t recall—”
“Mercy Bea Hart.”
“Right.” Mrs. Carrington has no idea who is standing in front of her. Mercy Bea looks stricken. “Caroline, Kirk’s out there with a couple of bright-teethed, tanned dudes.”
I make a face. “Did you tell him I’m busy?”
“Yes, but he said he only needs you for a sec.”
Of all the . . . “Excuse me, Mrs. Carrington.”
Mercy Bea falls in stride with me, growling, “I only spent the night at the Carringtons’ house a dozen times. Snotty, snobbity snob.”
Sure enough, in the middle of the dining room stands Kirk with two men. Bright-toothed and tanned like Mercy Bea said. “Kirk, hey.”
“Ah, there you are. Caroline, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. Dale Westmoreland and Roland Hill, otherwise known as Buzz Boys, Inc.”
“Nice to meet you.” Handsome, probably in their midthirties, the Buzz Boys reek of old Charleston money.
“We came down to golf again and take in the town,” Kirk says. “Dale wanted to stop by the Café.”
“Great place.” Dale rubs his palms together. “Buzz Boys is looking to invest in restaurants. This looks to be the right size for starters.”
“O-oh, okay. Sure.” What do I say here?
“They know it’s all tentative,” Kirk says, “and we have to wait for probate to close. But they wanted to check it out.”
The front door’s Christmas bells jingle. Miss Jeanne enters. Like the breakfast-club boys, she’s right on time. Three fifteen. A sense of satisfaction settles over me. Keeping the Café is a good thing, for now, if only for the breakfast-club boys and Miss Jeanne. And the crew.
“Hey, Miss Jeanne, how are you this afternoon?”
“Sore. Started tap classes.”
“Tap classes? Goodness.”
“Ain’t getting any younger.”
Back to Kirk, who’s leaning into me, motioning to the Buzz Boys, who a
re studying the Vet Wall. “Deep pockets, very deep.”
“O-oh, well, yahoo.” I admit, I feel slightly jerked around. A few days ago I had to take the Café or close it down. The decision kept me awake at night. I left a good friend in the lurch. Finally, I’ve made peace with my Beaufort life, and now Kirk brings around these tire kickers.
He reads my expression through his dark-rimmed glasses. “No one’s asking you to sign on the dotted line. They’re just investigating.”
Dale pokes his head into my powwow with Kirk. “The Vet Wall is incredible. The place is everything you said, Kirk. Charming, homey, but—” He sniffs as Mercy Bea passes with a basket of Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits for Miss Jeanne. “Needs a lot of work.”
Roland walks the length of the dining room. “What’s capacity? Sixty, seventy?”
“Seventy.” They’re browsing and Mrs. Carrington waits. “Kirk, I have a customer in the office.”
“Fine, we’ll just look around. I’ll call you later.”
“Nice to meet you, Dale and Roland.”
However, Mrs. Carrington didn’t miss me. She’s in a lively conversation with Andy about the changing shrimping industry. The cook has her completely charmed.
“Sorry for the interruption.” I take my seat behind the desk.
“We got the menu planned out, Caroline.” Andy hands me a slip of paper with a got-you-covered grin. “She’s going with Jones’s popular mushroom casserole, batter-fried wings and sauces, pot roast, and chicken casseroles . . . Well, you see it all there. Some platters of veggies and cheese. Of course, shrimp in all forms.”
Yes, I see the more-than-four-hundred-dollars’ worth of food here. Should I tell her?
Mrs. Carrington addresses me. “This is a huge event, Caroline. I cannot stress enough that everything must go perfectly. The family is spending a great deal of money to be here.”
“She said Mr. Carrington’s people have names on the Vet Wall,” Andy says.
“Really, now.”
“Winston’s parents ate at the Café once a week for thirty years until his father died. His mother hasn’t been here since, but she speaks of it so often, my husband insisted we hold the party here.”
Mrs. Carrington’s words sober me. This is not a casual hey-ho-it’s-your-birthday-hope-it’s-happy kind of party. This is celebrating a woman’s life. I reach for a wadded napkin tucked under the computer monitor and pat my brow.
