by Rachel Hauck
“Caroline, let me see.” Elle knocks on the dressing-room door once, then barges in.
“Ta-da.”
“Lovely,” she says. “We’re getting it. All of it.”
“Elle . . . Thank you,” I whisper to my friend. “You’re too kind.”
Elle doesn’t leave herself out of the fun. Her new tops, slacks, and undies slide into The Limited bag right along with my things.
Since shopping and hunger go hand in hand, we head for the food court.
“Japanese?” Elle suggests, motioning to Sakkios.
“Sounds good to me.”
We order, then carry our trays around until we find a clean table. “I have a date tonight.” She gives her shoulders a prissy shake.
“Tonight?” I’m in mid-rip on my straw paper. “With who?” I’m sus-picious. “Operation Wedding Day is suddenly going well?”
“If you must know, yes.” Elle can’t keep her delight hidden. “The new associate pastor at church asked me to dinner.”
I jam my straw into my soda cup. “Jeremiah Franklin? You’re kid-ding. I thought he was married.”
She laughs, biting into her garlic chicken. “Me too. How does a man that cute go through Bible college and come out single? It’s a miracle.”
I stir my chicken and rice together. “So, do tell. How’d this happen?”
“He came by the gallery; we started talking and this morning he asked me to dinner. Caroline, I think this could be it.”
“It? Oh my stars, you are too much, Elle. Can he spell renaissance?”
“Forward and backward.”
Laughing, I toast her with my soda cup. “Kudos and congratulations. You’ll make a good pastor’s wife.”
Elle freezes, a piece of fried rice sticking to the edge of her mouth.
“What? Wait . . . I never thought of it like that. Being a pastor’s wife.” Her expression slowly morphs from exhilaration to terror.
“Well, if he’s the one—”
“Stop, Caroline, stop. It’s one dinner. What do I know? I’m getting ahead of myself here. There’re still more men on the lists, right? Jeremiah and I may have nothing in common but art.” She gulps a calming breath. “It’s one innocent date. No big deal.”
“Right, NBD.”
As quickly as the terror overtook her, it fades. Our conversation returns to normal. Until . . .
Elle jumps from her chair, her gaze fixed on some point across the food court. Her bracelets clank as she cups her hand around her mouth. “Conroy Bean, over here!”
Whipping around, I scan the mall shoppers. Where’s Conroy? Sure enough, ducking under a Titans baseball hat is Conroy Bean.
Grinning, I watch as he tries to maneuver the crowd without being noticed. Years ago when Mitch first went to Nashville, Elle invented a code name for him so when he gained mild notoriety, we could address him without creating a stir.
One afternoon, we took my little boat out to the sandbar, and Elle smacked Mitch in the head with a pluff mud ball. “I dub you Conroy Bean.”
“Conroy Bean? No way.” He smacked her back. A baseball-sized chocolate mud ball slid down her hair.
“Too late. Your alter ego is Conroy Bean.” She smacked him dead center in his chest with a softball-sized mud ball.
Hazel and I hovered together in the marsh grass like tall, featherless egrets. J. D. was with us that day. He called the mud fight like a sports announcer.
“Mitch O’Neal’s pitch is high and outside. Oh, Elle Garvey, strike one. Clean over center plate.”
Then a drunk guy came paddling by in a dinghy. “Wrestle her down, boy; it’s more fun that-a-way.”
Eight years later, Mitch-Conroy strolls across the Savannah Mall food court toward us without the slightest flicker of irritation over his alias. Under the shadow of his hat, I see his jaw is dusted with a light beard. He’s wearing jeans and an oversized white pullover. He exudes a masculine aura that makes it hard to imagine him singing a love song with power and emotion. But, boy, he does.
A picture forms in my mind. Mitch as a daddy, strolling down Bay Street, grasping the hands of his little girls. One on each side. Each with blonde curls and Precious Moments blue eyes.
And me.
No. I squirm and shovel rice and chicken into my mouth and try to ignore the cloud of butterflies beating around inside my chest. I never pictured Mitch as a daddy before. Never, ever pictured me as a mama. I was always half-scared I’d inflict my kids with the pain Mama inflicted on Henry and me.
That’s Henry’s problem, I know, when Cherry brings up the subject of children. But he’s too proud to admit it.
“Hey, you two.” Mitch-Conroy slides into the seat next to me.
“What have we here?” Elle rubs her palm against his light beard. She is brazen against personal boundaries. Re: the dressing room earlier.
He ignores her question, turning to me. “Hey, Caroline.”
“Conroy.” I smile, though my middle quivers. Ever since J. D.’s been out of the picture, the air between Mitch and me deepened—it zaps and pops with electrons as if something’s brewing.
Elle points to his shopping bag. “Conroy, you’ve been to the Family Christian Store.”
Mitch scratches his forehead with his thumb and turns his Titans hat so the bill is in the back. “I have.”
Elle snatches the bag from him. “What’d you get?”
Mitch grabs it back. “Nosy.”
But it’s too late. She’s already dipping her hand inside. “A Switchfoot CD, a Max Lucado book, and, oooohh—” Elle pulls something from the bag. “A new Bible. I looove new Bibles.” She pops the lid off the box.
“Elle.” I cover the Bible with my arms, glancing back at Mitch. “She’s can’t help it; she’s part puppy.”
He laughs. “Where’s a rolled-up newspaper when you need one?”
“Hey—” Elle shoves my arms off the Bible. “I’m right here, listen-ing. Oh, Mitch—”
The Bible is a beautiful burgundy leather with a name inscribed on the bottom right corner.
Caroline Jane Sweeney, Beloved
With wide eyes, Elle snaps her gaze up at Mitch. “You’re unbelievable.” With one fast-forward motion, she plants a kiss on his furry cheek. “And incredibly sweet.”
The country crooner blushes.
Taking the Bible, I smooth my palm over the leather cover. Beloved. “
This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”
Mitch shifts around as if he’s embarrassed by his own charity. “I didn’t know if you had one, and . . .” He shrugs, then whispers, “I hope you like it.”
“I love it.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.” Hugging the Bible to my chest, I tell them about Jones’s worn-but-loved Bible.
“Remember, read the red words, and pray hard.” Mitch hooks his arm around my shoulders and gives me a tender squeeze. “Maybe we can do a Bible study or two.”
“I-I’d like that.” Ho, boy! Down, girl. I recognize the feeling in my heart.
We’re only friends. Just friends.
Munching on a broccoli floret, Elle yips, “What’d you buy me?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? So what I needed.”
Mitch gets up for something to drink and Elle peers at me like, See.
“He’s your lobster. Your Ross.”
“More Friends? Elle, we’re just friends. Don’t make more out of this.”
“I just love lobster.”
“What are we talking about?” Mitch asks, sitting next to me, sipping from an iced latté.
“Friends,” Elle puts out. Yes, definitely puppy.
“Friends? As in you and me or the TV show?” Mitch shifts his gaze from Elle to me and is waiting for an answer when we hear a rumble from the other side of the food court. Gasps of recognition. Mitch O’Neal. Where? Over there.
I feel the stares on my back and the suffocation of a gathering crowd. Peering at Mitch, I realize with his hat on backward too much of his f
ace is exposed.
“They’re onto you, Conroy,” Elle whispers, cleaning up the last of her garlic chicken.
The Mitch O’Neal rumble grows louder. I slip the Bible back into the bag and grab my purse.
Mitch turns his hat bill around. “It’s the thunder before a storm. Ease away from the table.” He rises slowly. “Act casual.”
But the clouds break. “Mitch O’Neal.” Screeeaaam.
In synchronized motion, Elle, Mitch, and I take off down the main mall thoroughfare. My toes grip against the soles of my Clark’s clogs as they thunk, thunk over the terrazzo floor.
Elle immediately falls behind. “Wait, I’m wearing flip-flops. Wait.”
A bird’s-eye view of us running paints across my mind, creating a whirlwind of laughter. I can barely keep running.
“What’s so funny?” Mitch asks.
“T-this,” I eek out, glancing back for a visual of Elle. Oh no, she’s surrounded by a sea of Mitch-crazed teenyboppers.
“Conroy, wait,” she calls. I can’t even hear her clattering bracelets for the squealing. “Watch out, kid. That is not Mitch O’Neal. It’s Conroy Bean. Get back, you. Oh my gosh, what did you just call me? Does your mother let you eat with that mouth? Conroy . . . Caroline . . .”
DAILY SPECIAL
Tuesday, August 14
Andy’s Submarine
Chips or Fries
Cole Slaw or Molasses Baked Beans
Pluff Mud Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99
28
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Re: The hits just keep on coming
Caroline,
J. D. and Lucy McAllister, huh? Rat-fink. Guess he’s not changed at all.
I baby-sat her. What is she, eighteen, nineteen? You’re better off, C. Once a ladies’ man, always a ladies’ man.
Fernando update: He hasn’t called in a while, then I ran into him the other night. He was body whispering with this waif of a thing I believe was once a blonde Swedish woman. Who can tell with all the protruding bones and translucent skin. (Thin is so overrated.)
And Caroline, I ignited with jealousy. I couldn’t believe it. The pure evil gren stuff. Until now, I thought he was rather pushy and overbearing. It so surprised me I wanted to run, but he saw me and called me over.
I tried to be cool, but I blathered and tee-hee’d like an American Idiot and almost groveled at his feet.
I need help.
Matilda: Gone! I can’t believe it. A tidal wave of homesickness crashed over me when I read you’d sold her, leaving behind old shells echoing of good memories. I dug out my photo albums and for about an hour lived in Beaufort, nineteen ninety-six, -seven, and -eight.
You know, if I go in tomorrow and tell Carlos your latest sacrifice for the Café, he might just hop on a plane and fly over to meet you. He’s really on this kick of back-to-basics business. He’s tired of formula marketing and tricky practices. He’s not picked an apprentice, yet. You’re his Cinderella, fleeing the ball. Prince Carlos is convinced he won’t find someone as perfect as you. Even if half of what he believes is his own created fantasy. (No offense.) I’m not sure he’d hire me after envisioning a hardworking, self-sacrificing, business-savvy woman like Caroline Sweeney.
It’s late. Better get a few hours sleep.
“I said good day, sir. I said good day!”
Hugs, Hazel
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
The second week of August starts off slow, but by Wednesday, business picks up enough that I call Paris to come in and help with lunch. Luke notices how busy we remained after the breakfast-club boys take off and ties on an apron.
Miss Jeanne arrives precisely at three, wearing a big smile and a pill-box hat.
“Nice hat.”
“Thanks.” She walks toward her favorite table. “Found it in the downstairs closet.”
“Very Jackie O.” I pour her iced tea at the waiter’s station.
“Bought it the day after I saw her wearing one.” Miss Jeanne sets her pocketbook on the tabletop. “Just came from the film-committee meet-ing. Tom Cruise might film a movie in Beaufort.”
I set down her tea and a straw. “Tom Cruise? Well, well.”
“Sure enough. Now, where’s my pot-roast casserole? Add a salad today, Caroline.”
“Sure thing, Miss Jeanne.”
In the kitchen, Andy stands in front of the convection oven, grum-bling and growling. I frown as I stick Miss Jeanne’s order on the slide.
“Miss Jeanne’s here. Are you okay?”
“Thought I’d see if I could get this old convection oven working, but it’s shot.” Andy looks square at me. “Caroline, we’ve got to get a new one.”
“Why? We never used that one.”
“Look around, girl. We’re getting busy. I can barely keep up with making biscuits now. A good convection oven will speed up cook time and keep the kitchen cooler.”
I exhale through tight lips. Where the money will come from, only God knows, but I’ve managed to save a little for emergencies. If Andy says we need a new convection oven, then we need one. I hate to turn him down. He works so hard for so little.
Andy plates Miss Jeanne’s pot-roast casserole. “There’s a place going out of business down in Port Royal, Caroline. Casa Verde. We can get their oven for a song.”
“A song? Should I send Mitch then? He can sing a song or two.” I pick a couple of hot Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits from the baking sheet.
Andy chuckles. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
Heading out with Miss Jeanne’s order, I answer over my shoulder, “If I can get a ride, I’ll check it out this afternoon.”
An hour later, I’m sailing toward Port Royal in the good ship Miss Jeanne, a ’56 Plymouth. The windows are down, and the wind gushes past, whipping up the ends of my hair. My knuckles are white as I hang on to the door handle, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of a possible collision. Out of our way—land yacht coming through.
And I have absolutely no faith in the antiquated lap seat belt, which I’m trying to wear up around my ribs.
Miss Jeanne’s faithful companion, a border collie named Ebony, hangs out the back window, nipping at sunbeams and licking the wind.
My dear senior citizen friend offered to drive me to check out the convection oven when I mentioned it in passing. In passing! Daddy and Elle were busy—Daddy with a job in Bluffton, and Elle scouting out a new artist. Wonder how it went with the associate pastor. She never called me afterwards. (Note to self . . .)
Mitch left a message yesterday saying he was going up to Nashville for a few days. Jess is back teaching. And Andy—the one I’m doing this for—promised his youngest boy he’d stop by football practice.
Up ahead, the light changes to red, but Miss Jeanne barrels toward it like she’s playing chicken. “This is the first car I ever bought,” she says.
“About a year after I started my law practice.”
“Y-you were a lawyer?” The car in front of us brakes, slowing to a stop. I inhale sharply and brace for impact.
“For twenty-five years. Had an office right on the Bay. Then Mother died and I closed the office to take care of Daddy.”
“What kind of law practice?” My foot grinds into the floorboard. Houses and trees whiz by my window. Miss Jeanne, brake . . .
“Taxes, wills, real estate, and neighborly disputes. Back in them days, folks didn’t have wills like they do now. Land was simply passed from father to son, father to daughter, what have you.” Two inches from the car in front of us, Miss Jeanne mashes the brakes, hard. “But as families grew and spread out, disputes started happening, and I found myself a nice little niche.”
I exhale with a gush as my taut stomach muscles release. How she stopped this monster on a dime, I’ll never know, but thank you, Jesus.
“I’m impressed.” In more ways than one. “How many women were in your law class?”
Her seasoned la
ugh fills the car. “I was the only woman in the law class of ’54, University of South Carolina.”
Propping my elbow out the window, I mutter, “Amazing. And here I am in the twenty-first century, fumbling through life.”
“Fumbling? Dear girl, you’re running a town institution. I’d hardly call it fumbling. Don’t shortchange yourself, Caroline. You’re just get-ting started. Life is far from over.”
The light changes to green, and Miss Jeanne ambles along, picking up speed, maneuvering the boxy car around a slow-moving Toyota.
Casa Verde is in a strip mall. The outside is green stucco walls with a Guatemalan man painted on the outside. Bienvenidos, amigos!
Inside, the restaurant is cool and dark. I squint as my eyes adjust to the low light.
“May I help you?” A lovely, brown-skinned woman comes out from the back.
“I’m here to see Mario. I’m Caroline Sweeney.”
“Excuse, please, for a moment.”
Miss Jeanne stands next to me, digging in her pocketbook, shoulders squared. “I forgot to freshen up my lipstick.”
Miss Jeanne is full of surprises. “You look lovely.”
“How about you? Want a little lip paint?” She swishes the open lip-stick tube in the air in front of me.
“I’m trying to cut back.”
She cackles and snaps the lid on. “So, where’s this Mario fella?”
Now that my eyes have adjusted, I see the restaurant is very quaint, with a Central American decor—colorful walls, wood trim, brick walls, tile floors, rustic furniture.
From a side dining room, a man’s laugh mingles with the high, fast chatter of children. The sound is fun and carefree, so I peer into the room, curious. At a four-top in the far corner, a man sits with three boys. One white, one black, one Hispanic. They’re munching on tortilla chips, swinging their legs, reaching for too-full coke glasses. The man is dressed in khakis and a pullover. His shoulders are lean, and the back of his dark hair is neatly trimmed.
My heart is touched by their affection—a man and his sons, per-haps, taking after Brangelina.
One of the boys notices me and stops giggling long enough to wave. The man turns slightly in his seat.
