Sweet Caroline

by Rachel Hauck

  “Come on, baby, stay on.” Mercy Bea grabs a clean towel from my closet with a quick review of the coloring directions. As she grabs the shampoo, Howard bears down with another giant gust.

  The lights flicker off.

  And stay off.

  Frogmore Café Feeds the Neighborhood After Howard

  BY MELBA PELOT

  WEDNESDAY, SEPT 5

  By normal standards, Caroline Sweeney is an average twenty-something, lowcountry born and bred.

  But Sunday, after Hurricane Howard blew through, she became the belle of Beaufort.

  Along with the Frogmore Café’s cook, Andy Castleton, Caroline and her crew fed more than a thousand people over the past two days at the Bay and Harrington Street café.

  Many customers brought food from home to be fired up on the grill, contributing to the giant block party.

  “Caroline shows extraordinary heart. Giving from the Café to people in need,” said Councilman Dave Williamson. “She donated all the food, water, and time she had.”

  “I saw people Sunday night after the storm I hadn’t seen in years,” said Beaufort dentist Dr. Gerry Collinsworth. “Mini reunions happened all around me.”

  Sunday night became even more magical when country great and Beaufort son Mitchum O’Neal pulled guitars with local favorite Branan Morgan and filled the hot, humid night with music. Later, they were joined by other local musicians, Penny Collins and Red Stebbins.

  “In times like these, I’m reminded of how many great people live in Beaufort,” said Connie Stern, a local realty receptionist.

  “Caroline Sweeney being at the top of my list right now.”

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Friday, September 7

  Fried Chicken

  Mashed Potatoes w/ Real Gravy

  Green Beans or Corn

  Andy’s Raspberry Cake

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $7.99

  Live Music

  Penny Collins

  32

  Elle sits at the Café’s counter, scowling over her Operation Wedding Day list, scribbled with lines and notes. It’s worn from being folded and unfolded so many times.

  “So, the preacher didn’t work out?” I refill her mason jar of soda, noting she’s been consuming a lot of Diet Coke and very little food.

  She lifts her shoulder with an exaggerated inhale. “No.” Exasperated exhale. “He hasn’t called back since our date.”

  Squeezing her hand as if to ease her pain, I search for comforting words. “Elle, you can’t schedule love. Are you losing weight?”

  “I’m not hungry.” She slaps her paper to the countertop and draws her soda close. “It’s stupid, and I know God has the perfect man for me, but I can’t see it, you know? The future seems dim.”

  “Just believe. Look at all the things God’s done for me, and I didn’t even know Him until a month ago.”

  Elle sighs. “Yeah, and it’s wonderful to see.” She folds the list. “Enough of this for now. So, Caroline, what’d Mercy say about your hair?” She squints. “It’s downright blinding.”

  I slip my hand over my very red ponytail. “She called her hairdresser, but they had some water damage from the storm. They should be open in a few weeks and Mercy’s going to pay for my appointment.”

  “A few weeks. You want to look like Carrot Top for a few weeks?”

  “It’s not that bad, Elle, and everyone’s already seen me. Shoot, I was photographed for the paper the day after. Splashed all over the front page.”

  Elle sips her drink, hesitates, then orders a cheeseburger with the works. When I come back from the kitchen she says, “I’ve never seen a grown woman so afraid of the dark.”

  “Well, the storm didn’t help. All that banging and shrieking.”

  “That wasn’t the storm, that was Mercy Bea.”

  The memory makes me laugh. “I thought Mitch would never get her detached from his arm. Don’t tell her, but he has fingernail scars.”

  “He was amazing. Calmed her down with prayer and a few songs. In fact, I was feeling a little scared myself until he started playing.”

  “Too bad music couldn’t save my hair.”

  The front bells ring as several customers enter the Café for a late lunch. I grab a couple of menus and lead them to a booth.

  “How are you folks today?”

  “Fine, fine. Been meaning to get by here since we saw the article in the paper.”

  “We’re glad to have you. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Beyond the Café windows, the sun is high and hot in a hazy blue sky, the memory of Hurricane Howard a small dot on the horizon. Yet, the storm did something for the Café no advertising, raft racing, or singing Mitch O’Neal could do: endear us to the heart of Beaufort.

  Opening up to feed the neighborhood simply seemed like the right and honorable thing to do. Giving away food in crisis is what love is all about, right? I didn’t even bother to calculate the cost.

  Once power was restored and life returned to the mundane, our business boomed. Here it is Friday midafternoon, and ten of our twenty tables are full. And we’ve had a dozen calls from folks checking on our dinner hour.

  I’m praying to add an additional five hundred in my payment to Buster this month.

  “Paris, customers in your section, table 12,” I say as I pass her on my way back to the counter. “Both want sweet tea.”

  “Caroline.” Luke appears around the kitchen opening. “Phone for you.”

  “Be right there.”

  Ol’ Luke. So faithful. Comes in for breakfast with the boys, then dons his apron. He keeps the floors mopped, the tables bussed, and the bathroom Lysoled without so much as a “will you?” from me. He sees what needs to be done and does it. With all his hustle, Luke’s silently challenge Russell to put more into his work.

  Smiling, I reach for the kitchen receiver. “This is Caroline. Can I help you?”

  “I certainly believe you can.” The timbre of his voice, the accented words . . .

  “Señor Longoria?”

  “What’s up with you? Your cheeks are flushed.” Elle’s eye’s follow me as I return to the dining room. Three more patrons have arrived at the counter. Mercy Bea indicates with a wild gaze she’s done covering for me.

  “Carlos Longoria called. Hi, Mr. Peterson, what can I get you?”

  While I take care of my customers, Elle interjects questions. “What did he want? Why are you trembling like a scared pup? Is there any more raspberry cake?”

  “He offered me a job. Hazel’s still been talking me up to him like I’m some kind of diamond in the rough.”

  “You are a diamond in the rough. Anyway . . .”

  I stick my tongue out at her and plate a slice of raspberry cake. “She sends him online links to the Gazette about me and the Café. The last one, where we served the city, really impressed him, I guess.”

  Elle licks the ketchup from her fork—from eating fries—and sinks it into the cake. “And he offered you a job?”

  I lean in close. “Three times the money I make here. Plus moving expenses and benefits. All I have to do is commit to a one-year apprenticeship. After that, who knows?”

  Elle drops her fork against the plate and grabs my hands. “Do it. Sell this place to the Buzz Boys and go. Caroline, it’s now or never.”

  To: CSweeney

  From: Carlos Longoria

  Subject: Offer

  Dear Caroline,

  It was a pleasure to speak with you the other day. Your answers to my questions were intelligent and delightful. Qualities I’m looking for in my first apprentice.

  Please find attached my formal offer letter. Feel free to e-mail me with questions.

  Saludos,

  Carlos

  President, CEO, Founder, SRG International

  I spend the weekend not thinking about my Friday conversation with Carlos, enjoying a good weekend crowd at the Café, then a lovely Sunday church service followed by a late dinner at Mitch
’s.

  He told stories from his life on the road—only the G-rated ones, I’m sure—until I double over laughing. The intimacy from our fancy night out smolders beneath the surface of our relationship, but neither one of us seems willing to stir the embers. For now.

  He asked how things were going at the Café, and I gave him the short roundup. When I told him about Carlos’s offer, a funny look crept across his face.

  “You’re selling and moving?” Then he spent five minutes encouraging me to sell the Café and take this “amazing opportunity.” He said “amazing opportunity” so many times I said he should write a song about it. I thought it was funny. Mitch? Not so much.

  Now, he’s in Nashville for a string of meetings, probably about to get his career back on track. His season home will end and . . .

  I should go to Barcelona. Really, I should. I mean, why not?

  “Jesus, what can I do here?”

  After closing the Café, I walk down to Elle’s gallery. I’m ready to toss her the hard question: do I really, sincerely, for real, no hesitation, this-is-for-all-the-marbles take the job in Barcelona?

  Paul Mulroney is chatting with customers in front of his Bistro. He waves. Wait ’til he meets the Buzz Boys.

  Fear is juxtaposed with excitement. Will I like Barcelona? Can I sin-cerely impress Carlos Longoria? Am I ready for such a big job when my greatest business feat is to give away several thousand dollars’ worth of food after a hurricane?

  What do I know about building projects, budgets? (Well, a little; I wrote a budget for Mrs. Farnsworth’s. But that was for plants and dirt.) Will I get lost in the marketing jargon?

  Ho, boy. Like the first day I braved Sunday school at Beaufort Community, I’ll need a translator.

  All that aside, as if it’s not weighty enough, I have one buzzing-me-like-a-pesky-fly question: is selling the Café the best for everyone, not just me?

  Will Roland and Dale honor the heart of the Café and all Jones poured into it? Will they treat the crew with respect? Will they love the Café as much as we do?

  The late afternoon sky is blue with white-cotton clouds.

  Elle and I drift along the Coosaw in Bluecloud.

  When I burst into Elle’s gallery two hours ago, ready to talk business, she wanted to drift on the water. “I need inspiration.”

  “But I need to talk.”

  “We can do both. On the water.”

  Right now, she’s reading Carlos’s offer letter. Her hair is kinky from the wind and humidity, her forearms pink from the sun. She looks up when she’s read to the end.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  She slides her sunglasses from her forehead to the bridge of her nose, folds the letter, and hands it back to me. “Caroline, if you don’t go, I’m going in your place. He doesn’t have a picture of you, does he?”

  “Saw me in the hurricane article.”

  “With all that red hair? And he still wants to hire you?” She laughs.

  “I’m trying to make a serious decision and you’re making fun.” I tuck the letter into my skirt pocket, then dangle my arm over the side of the boat, letting my fingers skim along the top of the cool, thick water.

  Elle lifts her face to the sunlight. “I’m hiding my extreme jealousy. Barcelona. How fantastic. What an amazing opportunity. You have to do it. Have to.”

  “But the Café—”

  Elle adjusts her position against the side of the boat. “Sell the Café. Sweetie, this is your time. You’ve done your duty here, Caroline. If Jones knew you had this opportunity, he’d demand you go. Maybe he left you the Café because he thought you needed focus, something to sink your teeth into.”

  “Am I that pitiful?” I bat away a surprising rinse of tears.

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Think of Jones as . . . as Beaufort’s Donald Trump. Giving a girl a chance.”

  My heart spews a much-needed laugh and suddenly the decision doesn’t seem worth all the worry I’m investing. “Kirk’s relationship with the Buzz Boys seems timely and providential, doesn’t it?” I slip down against the side of the old boat, resting my head on a life vest. “But is it the best decision for everyone involved?”

  “For the hundredth time, yes. They will earn more money. Get benefits. The Café will be remodeled, the hours expanded.”

  “So, it’s really better for them if I sell.”

  “Way better. Caroline, for the love of all that’s good in life, go to freaking Barcelona.”

  “Okay, here’s the deep, deep, can’t-see-the-sun, buried question I haven’t even asked myself yet.” I sit forward, drawing my knees to my chest. “What about Mitch?”

  “What about him? He’s in Nashville, working his career. He’ll be back there permanently before you close this deal with the Buzz Boys.”

  A loose string in the hem of my skirt blows in the low breeze. “Yeah, I know. We’ve been getting along so well. He’s the Mitch I’ve always known and loved, only new and improved. Special, you know? And there’s, this, like, smoldering thing between us. We ignore it as if reaching out will get one of us burned. ”

  Elle leans toward me. “Caroline, are you in love with him?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.”

  “You are the most patient, enduring, hopeful Pollyanna I ever met. Or, you’re plumb crazy.”

  “So, I go. Forget Mitch.”

  “Forget Mitch?” Elle pulls a sketch pad from the canvas bag she brought along. “Impossible for you, I think. But God has put an incredible opportunity in your lap.” She digs in her bag for pencils. “You’ve proven yourself to be faithful in the little things. Now prove to be faithful with the big.”

  “Want to hear something mind-blowing?”

  “Why not? It’s been a while.” Her pencil scratches against the paper.

  “Right now, I want Barcelona more than Mitch. Whenever I think of going, this funny, feeling flutters over me.”

  Elle grins. “My girl’s going to Bar-ce-lona.”

  DAILY SPECIAL

  Tuesday, September 18

  Fried Red Snapper

  Baked Squash

  Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits

  House Salad

  Cherry Cobbler

  Tea, Soda, Coffee

  $8.99

  33

  Mitch calls midmorning. “How’s my favorite redhead?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.” I twist my ponytail, thinking I should ask Mercy Bea for an update on the waterlogged salon. Until now, I wasn’t bugged by my redness, but my brown roots are starting to show. “How’s my favorite country star?”

  Hearing his voice stirs my longing for him. I love the texture of his voice, the way the scent of his soap mingles with his cologne, the way he shares his heart without restraint.

  “Miss me?” he asks.

  “My heart stopped beating.”

  “Mine too. I had to go to the emergency room.”

  He can’t one up me. “They had to break out those paddle-shocky things on me.”

  He laughs. “You win. So, how’s everything? Make any major decision? Hey, Caroline, hold on . . . Jack, in here. I’m on the phone. Give me a sec . . . Caroline, sorry. I need to get back to this meeting. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t jetted off without saying good-bye.”

  “O-okay.” Not what I expected him to say. “I’m still here. Can’t go anywhere until probate closes anyway.”

  “I’ll be home in a few weeks.” He pauses, and the moment practically aches for an I-love-you, but we don’t dare.

  “See you soon.”

  Slowly I drop the receiver to the cradle, my affections suspended between friendship and love, our past and my future.

  Monday, October 8

  Reminisce Night 7:00

  Come Share Your Memories & Pictures of Beaufort and the Frogmore Café

  Comeyas and binnyas

  Weaving my way between the narrow aisle to the Café’s stage, I take the mi
crophone.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Frogmore Café’s first Reminisce Night.” I smile, confident. The evidence of Mercy Bea’s hurricane lights-out panic is gone from the top of my head. Her stylist transformed my hair into a shiny chestnut brown and cut away all the dry dead ends. For about two minutes, I fumed over my short cut, until she showed me a picture of Cameron Diaz with the same style.

  “You could be her twin,” she said.

  Okay, maybe I see it in the eyes.

  “We’re so glad you came out—” The microphone screeches. My sound man, Luke, fumbles to turn the knobs like Mitch showed him. When he nods to me, I start again.

  “We’re so glad you came out for Reminisce Night. Please don’t be shy about telling your Beaufort or Frogmore Café stories.” I lift my free hand. “Whatever is on your heart.”

  About seventy pairs of eyes stare back at me. Ho, boy.

  “My name is Caroline Sweeney.”

  “We know,” a male voice hollers.

  “Dupree, was that you?” Squinting, I shield my eyes from the bright spotlight and scan the dining room for a sign of my breakfast-club boy. Instead of spotting Dupree, my eyes land on Roland and Dale, sporting wide smiles and Polo shirts, with a blonde, pale Amazon.

  I continue with the formalities. “Mercy Bea and Paris will take care of you tonight. Be sweet to them.”

  “Where’s Mitch?” a female voice calls this time.

  “Dupree, was that you?” I ask again.

  Laughter peppers the room. Roland and Dale tuck in next to the wall. Amazon chick studies the Café, firmly gripping her briefcase.

  “Sorry, Dupree.” I spot him off to my left with his wife, Helen. Next to him is Pastor Winnie with his Alva.

  “I still love you,” he says.

  “Love you, too, Dupree. No, Mitch is not here, but I’ll tell him y’all asked about him. Anyway, let me introduce the Café’s fab cook, Andy Castleton.” I motion to the back of the dining room where Andy tips his cap at the sound of applause.

  “Also, Luke and Russell are on the crew tonight, bussing tables, washing dishes, cleaning toilets, and are all-around champs. But you didn’t come to hear me talk. You came to reminisce. The ground rules are: one, share whatever’s on our heart; and two, keep the stories as short as possible so everyone who wants to share has the opportunity.” I gesture to the booth right of the stage. “To get things started, please welcome my dad, Hank Sweeney.”