by Rachel Hauck
The memory of his face from last night is etched in my mind. My heart skips one beat. “Just about perfect, yes.”
“You know, I never took to handsome men for myself.”
“What kind of men do you like?” I shift the box from one arm to the next.
Smoke billows from her nose like she’s a steaming kettle. “Roughed-up looking, but with soft hearts. The boys’ daddy was sweet, but he could rumble if need be. Broke his nose in three places, had a crushed cheekbone that never got fixed, and a scar right here.” She slashes her red nail across the side of her face down to her neck. “Never would tell me how he got that one.”
“Where’s he now?” This is the most Mercy Bea’s ever opened up to me.
“Only God in heaven knows. He got weird and ran off.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her cigarette crackles and burns as she takes a long drag. “Your mama was a loose nut. Prettiest girl around, too, but—” Mercy whistles cuckoo and makes the crazy circle with her finger. “Ever get scared you’ll turn out like her?”
“Once a day and twice on Sunday. But I try to think of her good qualities. Creative, uninhibited, free . . .”
“Your mama did one good thing.” Mercy flicks her second cigarette to the ground. “You.”
The compliment surprises me.
“Guess I have to give your old man most of the credit for you turning out so nice.” She gestures toward the Café. “Your mama would’ve never kept this place if she’d had a chance to fly off to Barcelona. Didn’t look after her kids, why would she care for a dang Café?” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t fret none over it. You’re not like her. Not that I can see.”
A light wash of tears blurs my vision. Go figure. Encouragement comes from the strangest places. “Good to know.”
“Well, better head out.” Mercy Bea starts to walk off but stops, digging the toe of her shoe into the gravel. “I lost my job down at the nursing home. Wanted you to know.”
“What happened?”
“They said I was snippy with the old folks.”
Not surprised. “I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”
She flicks her wrist at me. “Shift happens, doesn’t it? So, I’m avail-able for more work if you aren’t keeping that skinny gal Paris around.”
“Paris wants to keep working. For now.”
Mercy Bea clicks her thumbnail against her middle fingernail. “If you need me, let me know.”
“Will do.” I wait for her to walk off, but she stares off toward the river for a long moment. “Is there something else?”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Naw, I’m good. See you in the morning.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Tuesday, July 24
Meatloaf
Choice of Three Sides: Baked Beans, Cole Slaw,
Mac and Cheese, Mashed Potatoes, Green Salad,
Turnip Greens, French Fries, Okra, or Peas
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sweet Caroline Pie à la Mode
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99
21
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Re: The Frogmore and me
Caroline,
Sorry, got swamped with end-of-fiscal-year accounting. Meant to e-mail about Fernando. Charming, lovely Fernando. Oh, Caroline . . .
He took me to Semproniana, a muy romantic place in L’Eixample. It’s converted from a ’60s factory. Has these great iron columns, old furniture, paintings. A very cozy atmosphere.
Handsome Fernando (think Antonio Banderas without the wrinkles) is all habla, habla in español with his arm lightly around my waist, body whispering. I might have swooned a little because I don’t remember walking to the table.
He knew everyone, including the owner, who sat down with us for a few minutes.
We ate, talked, drank a little wine, but not too much. I’m still a Southern Baptist girl, but when in Rome—in my case, Barcelona . . .
We strolled the shops, and C, it felt like we’d known each other for years. His English is perfect, yet sprinkled with the most delicious accent. He tried to coach my Spanish along and we laughed so hard we couldn’t speak at all.
He kissed me tenderly good night and said, “Hasta luego.”
Apparently, his “luego” was ten minutes later. He dropped me off and called me on his way home! Shocked me so much, I didn’t even know it was him for the first minute of the call. I’m like, “Who is this?”
LOL. I’m meeting him again for dinner tonight.
So, J. D., huh? I haven’t been around much in the last four or five years, but isn’t he a ladies’ man? The more the merrier? Big surprise to hear you’re interested in him.
Didn’t he have a crush on you in junior high?
I keep up with home by reading the Gazette online and loved seeing you on the front page in the raft race. I loved the quote you gave Melba Pelot: “The Frogmore is here, bubba.” Cracked me up. I called Carlos “bubba” the next day. Didn’t get it. (Thank goodness.)
And Mitch singing at the Café? Brilliant. By the way, what is he doing in town? I e-mailed the story links to Carlos. Your stock soared with him. I swear, he drooled. He loves that you’re saving an old Café, helping people keep their jobs. If you’re loyal to the Café, you’d be loyal to him.
If you need $25K, go to the bank. It’s a business loan. No biggie.
Please tell Elle and Jess I love them. I owe them both e-mails.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Love, Haz
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
Kirk calls Wednesday. “How’s it going?”
“Besides the bathroom plumbing being ripped out as we speak? Peachy. What’s up?”
“Do you know someone named Elle?”
“Yeah, I might. Why?”
“It’s weird, but the other night I had this garbled voice mail, and all I could make out was her name, yours, and a wedding?” His voice goes up on the end.
What is wrong with El? Did she completely abandon cool when she launched Operation Wedding Day?
“I’ll talk to her.”
Confiding she’s on a manhunt would be wrong, right?
“Thanks. Also, I wanted to let you know Roland and Dale spent a couple of days down at the Water Festival with their wives. Loved it. They are more interested in Beaufort than ever. Roland’s wife heard Mitch O’Neal at the Café one night, and I think she envisions becoming his best friend or something.”
“Did you tell her he doesn’t live here most of the time?”
He snickers. “No. Listen, Caroline.” His tone sobers. “They saw other properties they liked. There’s a restaurant on Lady’s Island for sale. Needs way less work than the Frogmore. Their business is ten times better. It’s close to the beach, tourists, and retirees with money. Are you get-ting the picture?”
“Grimly, yes.” My heart sinks, dragging with it my chance for freedom.
“I’m sorry, but listen, I’ll keep looking for a buyer. You do the same, okay.”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are. Olly, olly, oxen free.”
Kirk’s laugh is warm. “Don’t get discouraged. The Buzz Boys are still interested. It’s just you have some competition. If they don’t buy now, maybe they will in a year.”
“In the meantime, Kirk, did Jones happen to leave a secret cash stash behind?”
“Sorry, no. Why?”
“We’re broke and the Café repairs couldn’t wait.” I reach for the straightened paper clip that’s always on the desk and twirl it between my fingers.
“You’ll get the money back when you sell.”
“When. I’m more in a now need.”
“Hang in there. I think we can close the informal probate by Christmas, bar any unforeseen roadblocks.”
“Christmas?”
“Ninety-nine percent chance, yes. If you still have the Barcelona opportunity, you could be there by January.”
“One more thing, Caroline. I was going through some papers, looking at copies of bank statements, and I found Jones’s property insurance policy.”
“Finally, I’m rich. How much?”
“Ha, you’re funny. The Café is currently uninsured.”
I plop my head down to the desktop. “You’re kidding, Kirk.” Jones, you quirky little man. “Why’d he let the insurance lapse?”
“He probably forgot, Caroline. Just call the agent. I’ll overnight the policy to you. Get it renewed quick. You don’t want to be caught with fire or storm damage. Plus, any buyer will want to know you have a cur-rent policy.”
I scribble a note on a yellow sticky and tack it to the computer monitor: PAY INSURANCE. Not that I’d forget.
As I hang up, a loud crash, a resounding thud, and a booming voice seep in from the other side of the wall. Stu is tearing up the bathrooms, telling the pipes what they can do with themselves.
The second meeting of Elle’s Operation Wedding Day is at the Café after closing. From behind the counter, I fill three glasses with soda. “El, did you call Jones’s lawyer, Kirk?”
She scrunches up her nose. “You gave me his number.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually call him.”
“Why not? He’s on the list. I liked his voice. He sounds smart and sexy.”
At this, I laugh. “He looks like a rumpled Ross Geller.”
“Oo, does he whine?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” I pass around the drinks. “But if you call him again, do not mention me, please.”
“What? I have to mention you. You’re the only thing we have in common.” Elle holds up her manhunt list. More than half the names are scratched off. “Water Festival pretty much took care of the list. I’m down to three names. And I can tell you right now, two of them will be a no go. I’m merely giving them a courtesy date.”
Jess gives her side glance. “Desperate girls can’t be so picky.”
“Speaking of . . . Elle, is your meeting over?” I ask. “I need advice.”
She pounds the handle of a butter knife on the counter. “Temporary pause of Operation Wedding Day discussion to deal with Caroline’s problem. You have the floor, Miss Sweeney.”
“Okay, well . . .” Gee, I’m nervous. I didn’t think this would be so embarrassing. “First of all, Jess, wherever Ray gets his information, he’s dead-on. J. D. is a great kisser.”
Jess flashes her palm for a high five. “You go, C.”
I slap her a light five. Not sure this is a real celebratory moment. “Yeah, well, as you know, kissing leads to other things—”
A bang and clank come from the ladies’ room, where Stu is still working and swearing. Jess and Elle lean back and stare toward the bathroom.
“What’s going on in there?” Jess asks.
“Stu Green, bathroom pipes, old plaster walls.” I point to Elle. “Hey, he’s single. Add him to the list.”
“What? No.” She leans and whispers. “Mean-machine Stu Green?”
In high school, he had a wicked mean streak, which unfortunately influenced my already angry brother.
I tap Elle’s paper. “He’s really nice now, and he’s eligible, fairly hand-some, and I saw him without a shirt. Great abs. Come on, add him to the list.”
“All right, smarty britches, I’ll add him. Even though his potty mouth matches the toilets he fixes.” Elle grunts as she writes Stu Green . “But I’m not worried. There’s no way he can spell renaissance.”
“Fine, Stu’s on the list. Caroline, back to J. D. What’s up?” Jess props her elbows on the counter and chin in her hands.
“Yeah, well, he wants to stay ooover.”
Elle gasps. “What? He said that?”
Jess remains unchanged. “Can’t blame the guy, Caroline. He’s been there, done that, if you know what I mean, and you’re a very sexy, beautiful woman.”
Elle gapes at her. “So what, Jess? How does her beauty give him a free pass to the Caroline show?”
“It doesn’t, El. Bring it down a notch. I’m just not surprised.”
“So, what do I do?” I glance between Elle and Jess, who simultaneously answer.
“Tell him to take a hike.” Elle.
“Go for it.” Jess.
Hearing Jess’s response, Elle launches out into Incredulous-Indignation Land. “Jess, didn’t your mama raise you better? Caroline, no way. You’re willing to give it up for a good kisser?” She huffs. “What happened to the blue-light queen?”
“For crying out loud, El, she’s not fifteen anymore. And my mama raised me just fine.” Jess focuses on me. “You’re a grown woman. This is the twenty-first century. Do what you want.”
“Who cares what century it is? Some things do not change with age or time.” Elle shakes the knife at me. “If he wants you that much, why can’t he commit?”
“Ring and a date seem like a lot to ask,” I say. “I’m not sure I want those things from him.”
Fire flares in Elle’s eyes. “Oh, really? Then what’s the point of this discussion? Caroline, giving the most precious part of yourself, a one-time gift that can’t be undone or taken back had better be worth a heck of a lot more than a sleepover.”
Well, there’s a point.
Another crash resounds from the bathroom, and Stu bursts into the dining room, lugging a rust-stained, water-dripping toilet. He stops when he catches us staring.
“Afternoon, laa-dies.” He drops the once-white ladies’ throne right in the middle of the dining room. I gasp. Elle and Jess jump against each other.
“Stu, what are you doing?” I run around the counter. “You can’t put that nasty old toilet in the middle of the Café.”
“Don’t worry, Caroline, it’s only temporary.”
“Move it now, Stu. If the health inspector sees this—”
“Health inspector?” He clicks his tongue and winks, holding up crossed fingers. “He and I are like this.”
“Stu, come on, think of my customers.”
“You’re closed, Caroline.”
“Move the toilet.”
“Bossy.” Stu hoists the toilet and carries it out back.
Returning to my place behind the counter, I distract myself by rolling silverware for tomorrow’s business. “So, no sleepover.”
“No. Caroline, respect yourself.” This from Elle. Emphatically.
“I have to admit, she’s right, Caroline. If you’re not sure, wait. Please, don’t let J. D. talk you into something you’ll regret.”
I nod, still unsure. “Right. Right.” Truth is, it’s enticing and alluring to be wanted by someone like J. D. All-out handsome, sexy, built, macho with a little-boy cuteness.
After a moment of silence, Elle pounds the counter again with the end of the knife. “Are we done with Caroline? Good. Back to the meet-ing at hand.”
As she bangs her makeshift gavel, Stu rounds the kitchen corner. I rush to pour him a glass of iced tea. “Tea, Stu?”
“Yeah, Caroline, that’d be great. Hotter than blazes out there.”
“Say, Stu, the girls and I were arguing over a word.” I peek at Elle. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to spell renaissance, would you?”
“Renaissance, huh?” He lifts his chin in the air, eyes squinting. Elle snickers, and I hear a pencil scratching. “Great revival of art and literature in Europe, beginning in the fourteenth century, lasting well into the seventeenth. Launched the world into the modern era out of the medieval. R-e-n-a-i-s-s-a-n-c-e. Renaissance.”
We all blink at him. He’s looking at us. Is that all? I clear my throat. “See, I told you there were two s’s, Elle.”
Stu snaps up his jar of tea and heads off to the ladies’ room. “You’d think you’d know that, Elle, being an artist and all.”
“Yeah, you’d think I would.” Elle slowly rewrites Stu Green on her list.
“I’m more than a simple plumbe
r, ladies.” Stu spreads his arm with a bow, walking backwards to the bathroom.
When he’s out of sight, I fall against the counter, laughing.
22
On a remote part of St. Helena’s, the beach is lit with dozens of sandbag candles. “J. D., how beautiful.” “Thought you’d like it.” His chest is warm against my back as he cradles me in his arms and kisses my cheek. “Beyond the palmettos is the house my great-granddad built. We use it for family events, and Mom comes out here sometimes. Did I tell you she’s trying to become a novelist?”
“Really? What’s she writing?”
“Who knows?” Wrapping his hand around mine, he leads me down the sandy, candlelit path. “She won’t show anyone. Hungry?”
“Starved. Bubba, this is amazing. Your first major romantic date . . . scoring big points here.”
He glances over his shoulder. “My plan is working.”
Smiling, I cuddle his arm, pressing my face against his bulky muscles. “Ah, there’s a plan? We shall see if it’s working.”
Since our hot-and-heavy Christmas-movie night, he’s been respectful and patient. Tonight, though, looking over the romantic beach setting, a fleeting thought of his patience wearing thin breezes through my mind.
At the end of the candles path, a small fire burns. There’s a blanket, a picnic basket, and a boom box playing something soft and classical.
The serenity of the twilight sky and ocean surround us.
“Sit here.” J. D. points to a spot on the blanket with a bow. “How does milady feel about steak and shrimp?”
“Your lady feels wonderful about steak and shrimp.” I shake the sand from my flip-flops before stepping on the blanket.
“How do you like your steak?”
“Medium.” I open the picnic basket to find treasures from the Café. Andy’s apple crumb cake, baked beans, Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits. And a jug of tea. “You sneak, how’d you order this without me knowing?”
He raises his brow. “I have my ways.”
He grills and I set up. As usual, he gets me laughing over some deputy story and I tell him about Mercy Bea finding a critter in the pantry.
