by Rachel Hauck
But right now, I have heat issues of a different kind. Mercy Bea hov-ers over Andy’s oscillating fan, arms spread like bird wings. “Caroline, I think the air’s broken.”
“You’re not serious.” I check the thermostat while Luke drags a step stool under the vent. “Eighty-eight.”
“Nothing coming out, Caroline.” Luke jumps off the stool.
“No, no, not today.” I head out the door. “Not today.” Sure enough, the rusty AC unit sits in the afternoon sun, frozen.
We throw open the doors, click the ceiling fans to high, and send Dupree out for emergency fan buying. But by the evening, the Café is just too hot.
I call Dad’s AC guy, but his cell message says he’s “Boating. Back on Monday.”
So, in the very hot Café, Mitch prepares for his final night. He’s so gracious and fantastic about the heat. In fact, he’s been great all week. Last night he even helped carry out the trash—I let the crew clock out a little before eleven— and gave me a God talk.
Slinging the first trash bag into the dumpster: “Just because things aren’t going well, Caroline, it doesn’t change the fact He loves you. Don’t assign your mama’s weaknesses to God.”
I handed him the next bag. “I’m not. But when will I know God is on my side or whatever?”
He tossed the second bag of trash. “Just takes faith.” Dusting off his hands, he stared toward the amber bloom of the street lamps. “When I was twelve Dad signed me up for church camp. Did I ever tell you this? He really ticked me off and I stayed ticked off. On the last night of camp, there was a consecration meeting. All the parents came to witness their children pledging their lives to Jesus and His service.
“Dad was one of the speakers and I determined not to pledge my life. I wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction. The preacher’s kid—” He exhaled. “What a brat.”
I dug my clog’s heel into the sand-and-shell parking lot. “Did you embarrass your dad?”
“No, actually, God embarrassed me.” He gazes down. Half his face is lit by the moon glow through the trees. “And I deserved it.”
“So much for the kind, loving, compassionate God your daddy talks about.”
“Don’t get confused, Caroline. God is all of those things and more, but when an arrogant teen digs in his heels, sometimes a good exposing is the only thing that gets his attention. There I was, standing stone still during worship. But one song into the set, God whacked me. I mean, wham!” He slapped his chest. “He invaded every pore of my being. Next thing I know, I’m face-first on the ground, bawling like a newborn calf.” He laughed. “They could hear me all the way down to the lake. After that night, Caroline, I knew. Jesus loved me and there was no denying Him. But I sure as heck could run.”
One last bag of trash. “You never told me this before.”
He tossed it. “And you never told me about the pink room with the blue clouds.”
“It’s not a fun memory. Who do you think told your dad?”
He slung his arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the Café. “Jesus, I reckon. You’re going to have to give on this Jesus thing, Caroline. He’s pursuing you. Now, you can accept it, or be like me. A running fool.”
Easier said than done.
Back to the death of the AC—if it had to break, tonight was the best night. The Water Festival’s Commodore’s Ball is going on across the road at Waterfront Park, and even the wonderful Mitch O’Neal can’t draw a large crowd. By eight, my crew is sweating and begging to meet their family and friends at the Ball.
“Go, go. Have fun.” We had to shut down the kitchen anyway on account of the heat. I can handle serving a few iced teas and sodas.
“Looks like it’s just you and me in the room tonight.” I hand Mitch an ice-packed mason jar of tea.
He pauses from tuning his guitar for a gulp of tea. “I’ve faced worse.”
“It’s been a great week. Thank you.”
“Did you make money?”
“We’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to sort it out. I’ve just been putting the money in the safe each night. But, I’ve gone to a third money bag.”
Mitch raises a brow. “A third money bag?”
I laugh. “I know, big deal, right? But before this week, I could keep an entire month’s revenue in one money bag and hardly tell the differ-ence between the empty ones.”
A little after eight, the house is half-full. I set pitchers of water, tea, and soda on all the tables and tell folks to help themselves, on the house.
After that, I perch on a counter stool with a mini fan blowing directly on me, ready to listen to Mitch, undistracted for the first time all week. I would’ve liked to have done something with music—learned an instrument. But Daddy worked long days and Mama was too unpredictable to schedule lessons.
“Thank y’all for coming out tonight,” Mitch says, starting the set.
The audience applauds.
“Caroline is your server. Take good care of her. She’s an excellent woman.” His gaze fixes on me. The vibe again. What is up?
The Christmas bells ring as the front door opens. Pastor O’Neal crosses the threshold. I hop off the stool.
“Pastor, welcome.”
He tips his head toward my ear. “I came to hear my boy. Is there a table?”
“Y-yes.” I motion to a table near his son.
Mitch hesitates for the slightest second. “Everyone, please welcome my dad, Pastor Eli O’Neal.”
Again, the crowd applauds.
“Can I get you anything?” I whisper to Pastor O’Neal.
He shakes his head. “Just want to hear my famous son.”
My gaze locks with Mitch for a moment. I’m almost disappointed the Café isn’t packed like the previous nights. But by the expression on Mitch’s face, this moment is worth more than a packed Café or even a stadium of fifty thousand.
“Dad . . .” Mitch’s voice fades a little, but he holds on. “It’s an honor to have you here.” He looks out over the dining room. The guests’ smiles seem permanently fixed. “Anyway, I want to play this new tune for you. It’s called ‘Caroline.’”
Back on my stool, I sit straight. Me, Caroline?
The bells clank and jingle again. In walks Elle, whom I haven’t seen all week, with Chris Barry. One of the victims on her list.
I smile and give her a thumbs-up. She gives me a curled lip. I wince. Sorry, not good?
No . . .
As Mitch plays, the music swirls around me, and I feel like I’m taking a cool dip in a clear, blue pool at the end of a hot day. His voice is rustic, yet sophisticated, and perfectly pitched. I forget time and space. Mitch’s music reached into the unseen and capture the melodies of the lowcountry.
Sing to me, Caroline
A lowcountry lullaby
Sunday afternoon a banging on the front door wakes me from a sound sleep. Groggy, I stumble to the door. Able to finally pull the plug on a whirlwind Water Festival, I crashed a little after one this morning and am not yet ready to face the day.
Dad stands on the front porch. “I came to check out the Café’s AC unit.”
“How’d you know?”
“Ran into Elle.”
“Ah . . . I called the AC guy, Dad. Hopefully, he’ll be able to stop by tomorrow.” My brain is fuzzy, my thoughts thick. “Want something to drink?” Schlepping to the kitchen, I jerk open the fridge door. It’s empty. Not even a bottle of water.
“No, I’m good. Let’s go look at the AC. I bet all it needs is a swift kick. Save you a repair bill.”
A swift kick? “But of course.” Dad’s solution to everything is a swift kick. Even for Henry and me on occasion.
Still in my pajamas, I follow Dad across the Café parking lot. He circles the rusty AC unit, stooping and squinting. Sniffing.
“Dad, you’re ridiculous.” I cross my arms and yawn. “I don’t see how a swift kick is going to fix this thing, but, hey, free meals for a month if you get it running. Andy won’t last long in a
hot kitchen without central air.”
“Shh.” Dad presses his ear against the grate over the unit’s fan, then shakes the rusty monster, analyzing the rattle. “Hmmm . . .”
My dad, the AC whisperer.
Nevertheless, he has me curious. I tilt my head to listen. Speak to me, AC. Nothing. I hear nothing.
“All right, here we go.” He draws back his leg, then—BAM!—drives his foot into the side of the metal.
With a screaming laugh, I jump sideways. “Dad!”
The monster shudders. Dad draws back and swift-kicks again. WHAM!
Unbelievable. “You’re going to break your toe.”
The monster shudders. The fan spins once, then stops. “Come on,” Dad yells with a precise pound on the unit with his fist.
Whishhhh. The fan starts to spin and a nice, gentle whir fills the air.
I stare at him. “No way.” In all his swift-kicking days, I’ve never seen Dad do this.
He dusts his palms. “Had a twig or something in there, gumming up the works.”
“Dad, this is nothing short of a miracle.”
He hitches up his shorts while puffing out his chest. “Ain’t nothing to it.”
Since he’s here and fixing things, might as well see if he can swift-kick the plumbing.
In the soft light of day, I discover the Café is a disaster. Three bro-ken chairs, a hole in the front wall, a cracked mirror in the ladies’ room (I don’t want to know), a sink coming off the wall in the boys’ room (I really don’t want to know), and a tear in the threadbare carpet. A tear!
In the ladies’ room, I flush one of the toilets to show Dad how it floods. As we watch the water swirl over the rim of the bowl and onto the floor, Dad settles his hands on his hips. It’s then I notice he’s not wearing faded, holey jeans, nor his trademark plain T-shirt and loosely laced work boots.
No indeed. He’s wearing an ironed, oversized button-down with khaki shorts and Top-Siders. My stepmother is a miracle worker.
“You best call Stu,” Dad says.
“Stu? What about a swift-kick?” Toilet water oozes around my flip-flopped feet. “Come on, Dad, give it a good kick. Maybe all it needs is to loosen up a stuck twig or, you know, a log.” I can’t help it, I had to say it.
Dad looks at me with wide-eyed disgust. “Good grief, Caroline. Mind yourself.”
Crawling back into bed a few minutes later, I’m still laughing.
The closing credits roll on White Christmas as J.D. and I cuddle on the couch, singing at the top of our lungs, arms and legs intertwined.
“With every Christmas card I write . . .”
Candles flicker from the end tables and bookshelves. The carriage house is cozy and romantic.
“Only you, Sweeney.” J. D. tugs me onto his lap, pressing his hand around to my back.
“Only me what?” His touch sends fiery tingles racing down to my toes. The past week’s quick interludes of passion in the Café office have left me smoldering and stirred.
“Watch a Christmas movie in July.”
“Why not?” Reaching for the remote, I aim at the black-and-white fuzz on the TV and click it off. “Why wait all year to watch a great”— his hot breath swirls around my neck “[swallow] romantic movie.”
His hand is sliding under the edge of my shirt as his lips caress my neck. Ho, boy.
“You are so beautiful, Caroline. Sexy as the day is long.”
Apparently, we are not talking about Christmas movies in July anymore.
“J. D. . . .”
Slowly he lays me back on the couch, his hands finding skin, his lips finding mine. He drinks deep, then whispers in my ear. “Let me stay over, Caroline. Please.”
How is it possible to burn at the sound of his desire? But I do. His wanting blankets me, and, oh, surrender seems sweet. My breathing becomes rapid and deep.
“I don’t know, J. D. We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
Raising up, he flashes his luminous, square smile. “Eight weeks, Caroline. My parents were married in six.” With a laughing growl, he rolls me off the couch and onto the floor. “Don’t you care about me?”
I brush my hand over his hair. “You know I do. And you?”
“Would I be here if I didn’t?”
Grinning, I press my lips on his. “You do have a rep.”
“Okay, okay, I was a scoundrel once. But Caroline, you’ve reformed me.”
“Oh, what power I have. Hmm . . .” I touch my finger to my chin.
“What else can I get you to do for me?”
Wiggling his eyebrows, he says, “Let me stay and I’ll show you.”
He’s trying to be funny and light, but a tremor of trepidation causes me to shove him aside and sit up. “J. D., this is, um, well, new territory for me.”
“Baby, it’s okay, I know.” He runs his hand along my jawline. “You won’t regret it.”
The passion burning in my middle begins to cool and solidify. “Oh, you are so tempting, J. D., but I need more time. I’m the girl with the blue light in her car, remember? The girl with the daddy who said, ‘Wait for the ring and the wedding.’”
“Sure, babe, but you’re not that fifteen-, sixteen-year-old girl any-more. You’re a woman with your own business, your own life.” He traces his finger along the neckline of my top. “Your own desires.”
For a long moment, I study the curves of his face. Am I in love? Do I need to be in love for him to stay over? How will I feel in the morn-ing when I can’t undo the night? “J. D., please let me think about it.” I grab his hand away from its journey.
He hesitates, then kisses me slowly, softly. “Okay, I don’t want to rush you, but Caroline, decide yes. You don’t know what you do to me.”
For a long time after he leaves, I lay in bed, staring at what would’ve been his pillow, thinking about life, Daddy and Mama, Mitch and his camp-God story. Despite the ache J. D. stirred in me with his kisses and touch, an overwhelming peace comforts me that tonight I sleep alone.
After a five-minute inspection of the bathrooms Monday morning, Stu calls me into the office. Summation: It’s bad.
“How bad?”
Sitting at my desk, he writes out a quote, referencing a thick book from time to time. I tap a pen against the faux-wood desktop.
“Annoying . . .” Stu says without looking up.
“Sorry.” I jam the pen into the holder and start to pace back and forth. My clogs thud against the floor. Aren’t plumbers, like, millionaires? What does Stu earn—eighty dollars an hour? My gnarly plumbing is going to buy him a new truck, I just know it.
First Buster, and now Stu.
After Dad left Sunday afternoon, I showered, met J. D. at Panini’s for a quick bite—he was on duty—then spent three hours going over the Water Festival revenue.
We did well, and I even said, “Thank you, Jesus,” but once I calculated the extra payroll, the food charged on my credit card, paying for the rent-a-cops, plus standard monthly bills, like electricity and water, there was only enough left over to pay half Buster’s bill. Never mind whatever damage Stu is planning.
My heart is ready to wave the white flag, but my head shouts not to surrender yet.
Meanwhile, Stu fishes out a prehistoric calculator from his toolbox.
“Where’d you find that thing, caveman, under a rock with the fire?”
“Oops, look, I added too many zeros.”
I frown. Plumbers have no sense of humor. Better make myself scarce. “Wonder what Andy is doing in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, go see what Andy is doing. And Caroline, if a basket of Bubba’s Biscuits showed up right here . . .” Stu points to a spot on the desk in front of him.
“Gotcha.”
“Well, what’s the damage?” Andy looks up from mixing a couple of Pluff Mud Pies.
“He’s calculating it now. But I have a feeling it’s going to be bad.” I grab a basket, layer it with a napkin, and drop in a few fresh, hot biscuits.
“We had
some plumbing done at the house awhile back. It ain’t cheap.”
Worry creeps in. How am I going to pay for this? If I’d have known all this would come down on my shift, I might have opted for Kirk to put the Café on the auction block.
Next to me Andy hums. A hymn, I think.
When I return to the office with the biscuits and an added bonus of iced tea, Stu is finished with the plumbing estimate.
“I cut where I could.”
Exchanging biscuits for a bill, I close my eyes. Think cheap. Think cheap.With one eye, I peek at the bottom line. Holy cow. My other eye pops open. “This is your bargain price?”
“Have you been in those bathrooms?” Stu snatches the estimate from me and points out detailed expenses. “I’m not just fixing a few toilets and sinks. We have to tear up the floor and wall. Replace all the pipes. Get new fixtures. Replace the plaster with drywall, retile.”
I grimace. “Right, of course. When can you start?”
Monday evening I lock up the Café with Jones’s box from the attic tucked under my arm. It will look nice on the carriage house bookshelves. I can prop the picture against it.
In the parking lot, Mercy Bea leans against Matilda, taking a final drag on her cigarette before mashing it into the dirt with the toe of her clunky shoe. “Did we clear the tower last week? Make some money?”
“We did very well, but we still owe Buster, and now Stu.” I fall against the car door next to her. “You wouldn’t happen to secretly be a rich heiress would you?”
She tosses her head back with a laugh. “No offense, I wouldn’t be here if I were. Guess Jones checked out just when the ole Money Pit started sinking deeper.” She picks at the Mustang’s peeling paint. “My brother had an old car like this. A ’71 Dodge Charger. He and his friends would race down 170.”
“The good ole days when there was no traffic after nine o’clock. Dad has a few racing stories. Almost got killed once.”
“My brother too. Probably more than once.” Mercy Bea pats Matilda’s door. “So, has she broken down lately?”
“I haven’t been driving as much. Guess she just wanted to retire and sit in the shade.”
“Sounds good to me.” The dyed and painted waitress taps another cigarette from a crumpled pack. “You have plans with J. D. tonight?” She flicks her lighter and touches the flame to the cigarette. “Don’t you just like to look at him? I think his face is just about perfect.”
