Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  “Please, take it to the dumpster. Don’t let any customers see you.”

  “Caroline?” Mitch’s tone is deep and serious. “What’s up?”

  “Buster and a petrified squirrel.”

  “His dinner?”

  “No. What’s wrong with you? He found it in the wall. Okay, you were saying? Something about filling stadiums?”

  “You will get a crowd. A very large, crazy crowd.”

  This is just what the old Frogmore needs. Someone to say, hey, it’s cool here. “How much should I pay you?”

  “Nothing. You’re doing me a favor. This gig is back to basics for me. Just a man and his music.”

  “Okay, okay, great.” I smile, then fade to a frown. “What if we don’t get a crowd?”

  “I’ll shoot myself.” He laughs. “You’ll get a crowd. How about for the two shows, just have drinks and appetizers on the menu. Keep it fast and simple.”

  “Tell you what: you worry about the music, I’ll worry about the food.”

  With the Festival kicking off in a week, I decide to place an ad in the Gazette.

  Exclusive @ the Frogmore Café

  Country Sensation Mitchum O’Neal

  Live!

  Beaufort Water Festival Week

  Nightly shows @ 8:00 & 10:00 p.m.

  Drinks and Appetizers Only

  Reservations open an hour before each show

  Monday, I hire Andy’s boy, Jack, and his buddy Donny to work after-noons and evenings during the Water Festival.

  “Good, good,” Andy says when I tell him he’s in charge of their training. “I’ll work them hard, get them ready for football camp.”

  Russell mentions his friend Paris Truman. “She loves Mitch O’Neal.” He jots her name and number on a napkin.

  “Fine, but does she work hard?”

  He nods. “Putting herself through school, and so far she carries a four-point.”

  “She’s hired.”

  Tuesday, Andy reminds me of another Café problem. A stinky one. “If we’re going to pack this place with people, you’re going to have to get the toilets fixed. Only one of two works in the ladies’.”

  “Right, right.”

  “And you best make sure Buster gets done, or close to it. I’ve worked up an appetizer menu—baked bread and cheese, shrimp, chips and salsa, cheese fries—but we’re going to need the Café at full steam during the day.”

  “Right, right again.”

  So I missed a few details. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not working for Carlos Longoria. Caroline, you’re fired.

  I check with Buster, and he promises me he’ll get the rest of the wiring done before the Water Festival. “So, Mitch O’Neal is going to sing here, huh? Don’t tell my wife.”

  “You better hide the newspaper. I put in an ad.”

  Next, I call Stu Green to come out and fix the toilets. He hammers around the bathrooms, shouting and cussing all afternoon, then finds me in the office.

  “I hate to tell you this, Caroline”—he drops to the guest chair—“but I’ve patched up those pipes for the last time. The bathrooms need complete redoing.”

  My shoulders droop. “I’ll put it in my letter to Santa. Can we sur-vive the Water Festival?”

  “I reckon. You don’t get a big crowd here—” He hands me a bill.

  Holy can’t-flush. “This much for patching old pipes?” I look up at him. “And I am having a crowd here during the Water Festival. I hope. Mitch is singing.”

  “Mitch? Whatcha know. I’ll have to find a date and come out.”

  I arch my eyebrows. “Front-row seating for you and your date . . .” I pass the plumbing bill back to him. “For a teensy-weensy discount.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll check the pipes for you the night I come to a show. How’s that? This”—he flicks the bill sticking out from my fin-gers—“I’ll take in cash or a check.”

  “Spoilsport.” Plopping down on the squeaky chair, I pull out the book of rubber checks and pray this plan with Mitch works.

  Stu takes the check, twisting his lips into a smile. “How’s Henry these days? We had a lot of fun playing smashmouth football back in the day.”

  My brother and the plumber were offensive guards for Beaufort High, seniors when sophomore Mitch O’Neal became a star quarterback.

  “Henry’s good. He took over Granddad Sweeney’s construction business a few years ago. Married his college sweetheart, Cherry.” I put the checkbook away, then double-click on QuickBooks.

  “We lost touch after your mom died.” He stares at the floor. “I’m sorry about that too. Death is not a good time to desert a friend.”

  “It happens, Stu.”

  People don’t know how to respond to tragedy. Especially tragedy like ours. A mother who just doesn’t want to live up to her responsibilities and commitments. A free spirit forever roaming. What kind of woman in her right mind chooses to abandon her children? But she did, then died of her own devices.

  “Call Henry, Stu. He’d love to hear from you. Beaufort isn’t big enough to avoid him for long.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Stu taps the check against his palm and for a brief, oh-hallelujah moment, I think he’s going to tear it up or some-thing. He stands. “I’ll redo the bathrooms after the Water Festival.”

  “I suppose you’ll want to charge me for it.”

  He reaches for the door. “That’s how it usually works.”

  Wednesday morning, Luke offers to work the Festival. “I’m getting tired of sitting around all lonely. I can run the dishwasher, Caroline, or mop floors. Run food.”

  I pump his hand with a firm, CEO shake. “You’re hired.”

  “I’m pretty handy in the kitchen,” Pastor Winnie offers. “Put me on the schedule too.”

  We simultaneously look at Dupree—who growls. “Oh, all right. Put me down, Caroline. Bunch of bullies, y’all are, the lot of you.”

  WEEKLY SPECIAL

  Country Sensation Mitch O’Neal!

  Appearing Nightly 8:00 & 10:00

  19

  Good evening.” Mitch rests his arm on his guitar, smiling, his eyes surfing the faces of the room. Friday evening and we have our first full house.

  Dupree, new-hire Paris, and I squeeze between the crowded tables, taking orders. The house lights are down, and I can’t see—ouch—where I’m going.

  A crowd has been on the porch and in the Café yard for most of the afternoon. The off-duty deputies I hired for security—an unexpected expense—were kept busy with crowd control.

  Two fights.

  One auto accident.

  One near hit-and-run.

  And a lot of flirty-flirts with the scantily clad women waiting to see Mitch.

  “Um, helloooo, miss, I need a large Diet Coke over here.” A blonde stabs me with her claws as I hurry by.

  “Large diet? Would you like an appetizer?”

  Nothing. She’s so glued to Mitch, she doesn’t bother to answer. The Café is stuffed to the brim with gorgeous, sexy women vying for one man’s attention.

  If only they knew. Mitch is off the market.

  “This is the Frogmore Café, a Beaufort treasure owned by my good friend Caroline Sweeney.” He points to me. “The gorgeous brunette serving you tonight.”

  The blonde leers at me as I set down her soda. I smile. “Enjoy.”

  “I’m in the midst of writing new material,” Mitch says. “Y’all are my guinea pigs.”

  Gorgeous blonde tosses her hair over her shoulder, beaming her sex-ray vision Mitch’s way.

  No wonder he needs a break from “love.”

  “I’ve been making changes in my life, coming back to my faith, reconnecting with friends and family.” He gazes around the room. “We’re living in a time where we can’t be dispassionate about what we believe or we’ll end up driving down the yellow line of life.”

  Mitch is being transparent in front of standing-room-only strangers. “Anyway—” He starts a chompy beat on his guita
r. “Here’s a song to get us started. One you’ll remember. It hit number one on the country and pop charts.”

  The song energizes the room, and when he starts to sing, every voice rises with his.

  The Frogmore Café Raft Race Team

  Saturday, July 14

  Come cheer for us

  Saturday morning. Raft race. Nine o’clock. The Frogmore team gathers on the riverwalk with all the other rafters.

  Andy, Russell, Mercy, Luke, Dupree, Pastor Winnie, Jack, his friend Donny, me, Mitch, and, last but not least, Miss Jeanne.

  Walking among my very tired-looking team, I try to stir them up.

  “Look around; we size up all right with the competition.” I smile broadly. Paul Mulroney’s team looks older and more tired than mine. “We might just win this thing. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  They moan. Ho, boy. What a ragtag bunch. Maybe it was a bad idea to draw my raft team from the senior-citizen set and the crew I’m working half to death at the Café.

  “Can’t believe I let you do this to me.” Miss Jeanne is the only one who looks half-awake. And she’s sipping coffee. “I could die today.”

  I hook my arms around her shoulders. “What? You die? I know you’re going to cheat death many times.”

  Sheree, the race coordinator, finds me. “Good news. Y’all are in the first race.”

  I whirl around to my team, cheering. “Woo-hoo, gang. We’re up. Let’s go.”

  They respond with a weak and sloppy, “Woo-hoo.”

  “Come on, y’all, wake up.” I bounce around, patting each one on the back. “We’re outside in the sun and wind. Life is good.” I’m really believing we can win this thing. Why not? The underdog spoilers. “Sheree, who do we race?”

  Wincing, she points beyond my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Caroline, it was the luck of the draw.”

  My eye follows the line of her finger. The team gasps collectively as we watch eleven muscle-bound men move in one stride toward us as if in synchronized slow-mo.

  The few, the proud . . .

  “The Marines?” I whirl around. “Sheree, you have us racing Marines?” She curls away from me. “We drew names from a hat, Caroline.”

  “What about the teen girls, the Pirettes? Or the OB-GYN team? I want publicity, not humiliation.”

  Sheree cringes. “We drew from a hat.”

  I can’t take my eyes off of the “dogs.” “We’re dead.” The plan was to put us back on the Beaufort map, not wipe us out.

  Andy drapes his arm around my shoulder. “I think we can take them.”

  “Take them?” I say, shaking Pastor Winnie’s shoulder. He’s sleeping standing. “We can’t even stay awake.”

  “Have faith, Caroline,” Andy says into my ear.

  Faith? There’s not enough in the world. I huddle my team. “All right, so our first race—”

  “And last,” Dupree says with confidence.

  At that moment, our opponents’ voices boom over us. “Death dogs, booya.”

  Yeah, they’re going to cream us.

  One by one, the Marines pile into their raft with disciplined order as if executing a military exercise. Their faces are painted with black and green stripes. Not one of them smiles.

  Their raft captain—they have a raft captain—commands them in a solid, even voice as they row to the starting line. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  Eleven strong backs and shoulders shoot the raft across the water.

  “Caroline, my back went out.” Dupree hunches over, pressing his hand to the small of his back.

  “You don’t have back problems, Dupe.”

  “Just came on me, suddenlike.”

  Mitch whispers in passing. “You know they’ve got to be disappointed we’re their first heat.”

  “Caroline, let’s go.” Sheree motions for us to get into our raft. Mitch and Andy take the front, while Jack and Donny anchor the back. Waiting their turn, the breakfast-club boys watch their younger military counter-parts with hard glares.

  “I looked like that once,” Dupree mutters.

  “Sure you did,” Pastor Winnie says. “When your eyes was closed, dreaming.”

  Luke guffaws.

  “I’ll have you know, I was a champion welterweight boxer.”

  Focused on his past physical prowess, Dupree missteps off the dock while getting into the raft and flops into the drink with a big belly splash. Pastor Winnie and Luke double over, slapping their knees. Dupree shoots out of the water, cursing and sputtering.

  Andy angles backwards. “Dupe, give me your hand.”

  But the old retired Marine refuses. “Coming aboard.” Dupree hooks his arms over the side of the raft and with a strenuous “ugh” tries to hoist himself up. He struggles and kicks, his white, skinny legs flailing in the air.

  I’m positive one of the Death Dogs cracks a smile.

  Finally, Mitch yanks him aboard by the back of his shorts. He flops inside the raft and picks up his oar.

  Pastor Winnie goes next, gracefully landing in the boat. Then Luke.

  “All right, Miss Jeanne, you’re up.”

  She hops in with a cheery “Weee,” which makes Dupree’s mishap all the more humiliating.

  “Dupree, how’re you doing?” I ask.

  “Let’s get this race started.” He smacks the water with his oar.

  Mercy Bea and Russell go next. And last, me. I assume the role of captain. “All right, stroke, stroke, stroke.” Lowering my voice. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  We turn in a circle. Mitch and Andy pull forward to back, Jack and Donny stroke back to front, and I’m not sure what the rest of us are doing.

  I cut the air with my paddle. “Stop. Stroke front to back, front to back. Ready? Stroke, stroke, stroke.” A sneak peek over my shoulder. The riverwalk crowd saw the whole thing.

  Great publicity, Sheree said. Wait’ll I see her.

  We move toward the starting line with some amount of ease and precision. Once we’re in place, I smile over at our competition. “Good luck.”

  Their eyes are forward, faces set. Not one response. Not a wave or how-do.

  I pump up the team. “Everyone ready? Let’s go. We can do this.”

  On the riverwalk, a man holds up an air horn. “Ready?” he calls.

  “Oars up,” I call like a good captain.

  The Marines are stiff, poised with their oars about a foot above the water.

  I refuse to be intimidated.

  The air horn blasts. My heart careens into my chest. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Adrenaline spikes my voice an octave or two. And I don’t care.

  We move forward, wow, with surprising swiftness, gliding over the water.

  “Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I repeat.

  “My oar! I dropped my oar.” Mercy Bea. Good grief. Behind us, her paddle floats on top of the water. “I can get it.”

  “Mercy Bea, no. Leave it.”

  Too late. As she stretches back, her hand slips off the side of the raft, and in she goes, head first.

  “Start treading, Mercy Bea.” The Jet-Ski guys will rescue her. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

  A few more strokes and we are halfway to the finish line. I look back to see the Death Dogs have not left the start line. What gives?

  “Keep going.” I cheer my team. “We’re winning.”

  The breakfast-club boys stroke hard, putting their lean muscle into it.

  “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Hope abounds in my heart. We’re going to win this thing.

  The crowd watching along the riverwalk goes bananas. The weak- lings from the Café are smoking the Marine Death Dogs. Even if they launched right now—

  “Stroke!”

  I whip around to see the Death Dogs oars in the water, pulling in unity.

  “Stroke.” The captain’s voice explodes in the sunny, Beaufort air. Another unified pull and the Death Dogs are practically halfway to us.

  “Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I yell, sounding every bit like a doggy chew toy.
“Go, y’all. Go.”

  The muscles in Mitch and Andy’s back ripple. The breakfast-boys grunt. We surge ahead. The finish line is right in front of us. I can taste it.

  “Stroke.” The Death Dogs’ raft glides alongside ours.

  “Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I holler, my voice weakening along with my hopes.

  “Stroke.” The Death Dogs shoot past us.

  My mouth drops as I watch, stunned.

  “Stroke.” One last pull and they power right over the finish line. The waterfront crowd watches in stunned amazement.

  Dupree jumps up. “I’m bringing y’all up on charges of insubordination.”

  Miss Jeanne yanks on his swim trunks. “Sit down, old man, and hush up.”

  Being bossed by an old woman doesn’t sit well with Dupree any more than being beat by a raft of younger Marines.

  “Don’t touch me, Jeanne.” Dupree jerks away from her, twisting to his right, catching his foot on Luke’s paddle. He stumbles. Arms flail. And over the side he goes. He comes up sputtering and cursing—again.

  The Death Dogs celebrate in macho silence, raising their oars over their heads and barking, “Semper Fi.”

  Dupree wags his fist. “Semper Fi this.”

  Pastor Winnie leans over, plants his hand on Dupree’s head, and shoves him under.

  SATURDAY-NIGHT SPECIAL

  July 21—Final Performance

  Mitch O’Neal at the Frogmore Café

  Last Day of the Water Festival

  Appetizers, Tea, and Soda

  20

  The last Saturday morning of the Festival, in the midst of a three-hour breakfast rush, I walk through the kitchen, sweating. “Did we forget to turn on the air?” Unthinkable, but I have to ask.

  Between last Saturday’s raft race and Mitch’s nightly appearances, the Frogmore Café is back on the Beaufort dining circuit. Business picked up Tuesday and we’ve been busy all day, every day since.

  We’ve done nothing but work and sleep. J. D.’s popped in most afternoons, dragged me back to the office for a little light necking, then left me breathless and, well, slightly heated. The man does things to me. Clearly, I’m not fifteen anymore. Wonder if the blue-light special speech has a statute of limitations?