by Rachel Hauck
Applauding, I stand off to the side while Dad comes forward, smiling.
“Well . . .” He scratches his head. His voice warbles. “On my way here, I must’ve told Posey a dozen stories, and now I can’t think of a one, other than the fact I was born here.”
“The bridge,” Posey prompts softly.
“Right, the bridge.” Dad’s face brightens. “In light of our high-tech, modern world, this seems downright primitive, but Tom Cantwell and I used to spend our Saturday nights watching the bridge open and close.”
“Me too, Hank” echoes about the tight dining room.
“Of course, I remember things like the Village Pizza Inn. When Ribaut and Boundary were two lanes. Movies at the Green Lawn. Best thing for me was meeting my wife, Posey.”
With that, he quickly exits the stage. When he slides in next to Posey, she kisses his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain. Dad is proof: no one is too old or too wounded to bloom under the light of love.
The stage is empty. Seconds tick by. I glance around to see if anyone looks close to coming up. No one. More time ticks by. Seconds feel like forever.
Please, Lord, don’t let Reminisce Night begin and end with Daddy.
“Well, guess I’ll take a turn.” A slender, seventyish woman maneuvers forward through the tables. “Hi, everyone. I’m Linda Stewart.” Her voice is sweet and shy. “My daddy was a World War II Marine colonel. About as strict as they come. Pat Conroy and I could swap a few stories. He mellowed when I got into my teens, thank goodness, just in time for me to start dating. We moved here when I was sixteen, and not long after, Keith Randall, the cutest boy in school asked me to the movies. I thought heaven had come to Beaufort.”
All eyes are fixed on her round, pink face.
“Daddy met Keith at the door, invited him in, and asked him his intentions.” Her gaze is distant, as if she’s watching the scene unfold in her mind’s eye. “Poor Keith. But he was a good sport about it and agreed to Daddy’s request to have me home by eleven. Sharp. Once ten o’clock rolled around, Keith checked his watch every two minutes, afraid time would mysteriously slip away from us. We headed home in plenty of time, but don’t you know . . .” She pauses. “We got caught by the drawbridge.”
Gasps rise from the listeners. Heads bob. Snickers chase around the room.
“Y’all know. Been there same as me. We sat there for thirty minutes while the slowest boat in the world sailed the Beaufort River. I could’ve walked home faster. Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway at eleven-o-five, Daddy waited with rifle in hand.”
Moans roll forward from a dozen or so ladies, followed by the laughter of what I assume are rifle-toting fathers.
“Since we were new to town, Daddy did not believe for one minute Keith and I were delayed because of a bridge. He sent me inside, fearing for my life, then gave Keith a tongue-lashing that curled hair better than Mama’s home perms. Told him to never call his daughter again. Two days later”—she laughs, holding up two fingers—“Daddy was caught by the bridge, making him very, very late to a very important inspection.”
The crowd bursts out laughing, applauding.
“A week later, y’all, guess who came to dinner?” With that, Mrs. Stewart bows, ending her story to great applause.
So, the pump is primed. One by one, young and old, newcomers and old-timers rise to tell their stories of life in Beaufort. Mercy Bea and Paris keep tea flowing, rotating in fresh baskets of Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits. The camaraderie flowing through the room is heartening. I hate for it to end. But at nine, I take the mike. “Can’t believe it, but it’s nine o’clock already. I loved every story.”
Whistles and applause.
“So, I’ll take one or two more stories. Any of you have a burning story to tell?”
“Are you doing this again?” someone asks.
“Yes, in January.” I won’t be here, but . . .
The applause tells me January suits them fine. Take note, Buzz Boys.
“So, last call. Going, going . . .”
Still in the back, Dale and Roland and their long-legged blonde friend seem pleased and amused. Seconds tick by, and I’m about to say “gone” when an older man, thin and shaky, rises from a table near the front door.
I’ve never seen him before, but I like him. The aura around him is genteel. His chin is square. His shoulders proud.
“Evening.” His voice is raspy, but strong.
“Evening.”
“My name’s Sebastian Fowler. I’m eighty-one this year, and like the first talker, Hank, over there, I’m a born and raised Beaufortonian. I got a story for this old Café and this young gal right here.” He motions to me.
Me?
“Jones McDermott was like a brother to me. Our parents were friends, and they stuck the two of us in a crib together, don’t you know. Our dads took us hunting and fishing out on St. Helena. We played football for Beaufort High, chased the same girls. But in our senior year, old Jones tripped and fell in love—headfirst—with a little ole gal from Port Royal.”
Sebastian smiles, gently rocking the mike stand back and forth.
“Never seen the boy so gone. Wrote to her every day while we was in the Army. He’d say to me, ‘Sebastian, I’m going to marry her.’” The old man gazed down the length of the dining room. “Even recorded an original love song at one of them fairground booths.”
I stand away from the wall. The recording we heard the night of the hurricane.
“This gal was a pretty thing. Sweet, a church girl, and loved Jonesy, but not like he loved her. The Army sent us TDY to Germany for six months. Hoo-wee, he was lovesick. But he had a plan.” Sebastian jabs the air with his finger. “Save money, come home, buy a business, marry this gal, and live happily ever after.
“About our third month of TDY, he got the letter.” Sebastian presses his hands over his heart. His eyes glisten. “She was engaged to another man.”
The room is quiet, steady on the story. Even Mercy Bea and Paris have stopped working.
“He had a rough go of it for a while. I tried to tell him there’d be other gals. We saw lots of pretty ones in Paris and Berlin. But he wanted this one particular gal. You’d think a fella would get over his heartbreak, but not Jones. No sir. But he saved his money, bought this place, and lived a good life. Happily some days. Not so happily others.”
Sebastian weaves his story with purpose, leading us to the dramatic end.
“The gal Jones loved was Gracie Kirby.”
My jaw drops. Nana? I look over at Dad. His sharp expression tells me this is the first he’s heard anything like Sebastian’s story.
“Gracie Kirby married Hank Sweeney Senior before our TDY ended. The catchall is Jones had asked Hank to look in on his gal while we was gone, make sure no other fellas invaded his territory. Hank agreed, but he kept telling Jones to cut loose of that skinny, stuck-up gal. Hank didn’t care much for Gracie, so Jones figured he was safe. But like Jones, Hank tripped over Gracie’s charms and fell in love.”
Nana was the object of Jones’s love song. And a love triangle? Nana . . .
“Jones never quite got over Gracie. The Café became his wife. My job moved me across the country, and we only talked a few times a year. But, one day out of the blue, he calls up and says, ‘I met the cutest gal.’ I thought, Good, you’re fifty-six, and it’s about time you settled down. I was already a grandpa.”
The serene Café ambience is pierced with laughter.
Sebastian turns toward me. “The gal he met was you, Gracie’s grand-daughter. Something about you, Caroline, watered his dry heart.”
The static questions from the summer have answers now—loud and clear. Jones’s affection for me came out of his love for Nana. For the first time, I understand why Jones gave me the Café. But instead of being shocked and surprised, my heart responds, Of course.
“Jones regretted Gracie died before he came to his senses and mended a broken friendship. When I heard he left the Café with Caro
line, I fig-ured it was his way of saying, ‘Gracie, you and me, we’re all right.’”
Sebastian pauses with a glance at me. “Guess that’s my story, and, young lady, how do I get off this stage?”
To: MusicMan
From: CSweeney
Subject: Reminisce Night
Mitch,
It’s late. The Café is closed, the deposit done, tips paid out, and the first Reminisce Night at the Frogmore Café is over.
Ding howdy, did you miss it.
Remember the woman Jones sang to on the record? It was Nana Sweeney.
Granddad stole her from Jones when the Army sent him to Germany. Granddad was supposed to keep the other guys away.
Jones never recovered, Mitch. He loved Nana and no one else.
Sebastian thinks he left the Café to me as his way of mending fences with Nana.
Afterwards, Dad, Posey, Henry, Cherry, and I talked with Sebastian and his daughter, Rose.
Daddy never knew about any of this. He just knew that one Friday after Thanksgiving, Granddad took me to the Frogmore Café (I was ten) and hit it off with Jones.
So here I sit, the center of a love triangle. Jones worked out his feelings for Nana by seeing me as a granddaughter.
One half of my heart is overwhelmed that Jones would entrust his life’s work to me. The other half angry. Why didn’t he talk to me? Tell me how he felt?
Odd, these small-town mysteries of who loved who. When and why. Friendships lost, friendships found. Hearts broken. Hearts mended.
Contrast this story to the potential buyers making an appearance tonight with their lawyer, an Amazon woman.
She said to me (in a deep voice), “Nice place.” Remember Rocky IV and “I must brrreak you”? She’s definitely not from around here.
There’s more to that story, but I just ran out of typing steam.
Love, Caroline
Tuesday afternoon, Andy comes in the office as I count down the cash drawer. “Here’s the inventory for the day, Caroline.”
I finish counting the one-dollar bills. Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. “Hard to believe we’re ordering almost every day.”
He whips off his beanie. “Business is good. Can I sit a minute?” He gestures to the empty chair across from me.
“Absolutely.” I bundle the ones, smiling up at Andy. “Why do you even ask?”
He strides over to the chair, swirling his beanie between his fingers. “Mercy Bea overheard them Buzz Boys talking last night, Caroline.” His tone is sober.
“Yeah? What’d they say?” Rocking back in my chair, I hook my foot around the desk leg to keep from tipping back too far. “They seemed to enjoy themselves.”
“Caroline, now, you know Mercy Bea can spin a yarn with the best of them, but she come to me this morning saying she overheard the Buzz Boys say things like ‘change’ and ‘get rid of ’ about a hundred times. She looked scared, Caroline.”
It’s not like Andy to worry over the small matters Mercy Bea claims to be tidal waves. Something about her claim rings true with him.
“Why hasn’t she come to me?” I ask.
“She’s afraid you won’t take the job in Spain.”
An unsettled feeling twists in my middle. “Did she hear any specifics?”
“She heard them talk about a French chef up to Charleston that has folks talking. One of them, the tall dude, thought they could get him to come down here. Then, the lady with them suggested selling off the Vet Wall to the city.”
I jerk forward so fast the chair lists to starboard, and I have to grapple for the desk’s edge. “The Vet Wall is part of the building’s structure. It’s had signatures for a hundred and fifty years. It belongs to the Frogmore.”
“Mercy heard them say something about the Wall reminding people of war and they don’t want them thinking of war, but of eating and drinking. Then there’s the folks who are against war, and the Wall might offend them.”
I’m stunned. “A few weeks ago they were getting the History Channel on the horn.”
“Well, the lady—she’s their lawyer—suggested getting rid of the Wall.” He looks over finally. “Mercy heard them talking about the Frogmore being the first in a chain where all the restaurants would look alike, serve the same menu.”
Did they lie to my face? The Buzz Boys are over-the-top, but to smile and lie right to me? “Andy, I’ll talk to Kirk. Clear this up.”
He rises slowly. “I’d appreciate it. I’m kind of fond of this old place. I don’t know nothing about French cooking.”
I watch as Andy plops his beanie on his head as he goes out. His shoulders are rounded with his burden. And reaching for the phone to call Kirk, a myriad of summer images—from Hurricane Howard to Reminisce Night—form a picture I’ve never seen before.
Andy arrives early every morning.
Works all day without complaint, singing most of the time.
Talks about the Café with tender affection.
Keeps true to all of Jones’s recipes.
Andy Castleton is the true heart of the Frogmore Café.
To: Carlos Longoria
From: CSweeney
Subject: Re: Offer
Dear Carlos,
Thank you for your offer. I am pleased to say I accept and look for-ward to working with you.
Saludos,
Caroline
DAILY SPECIAL
Closed—Sunday, October 14
Coming Soon!
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits delivered to your home
Child Abuse Prevention Association
Ghost Tours Oct 21—Oct 30
34
To Caroline.” Elle stands, raising her glass, taking in the faces around the table at Panini’s Café. “To Hazel and beauti-ful Barcelona, to the reality of ‘It’s never too late’ and ‘Miracles still do happen.’”
My party guests, Jess and Ray, Bodean and Marley, a few new friends from church, and J. D. (Ray invited him; he wanted to come) raise their glasses.
“To Caroline.” The salute is accompanied by the clinking of glasses.
The atmosphere of good wishes fortifies my confidence. I’m doing the right thing by selling the Café to the Buzz Boys, men with wealth and imagination. Men who can heal the wonderful but wounded Frogmore.
With my limited God experience, I believe He’s leading me. My call to Kirk relieved me of Mercy Bea’s fears. He assured me the Boys loved the Frogmore as is and the only changes they have in mind are cosmetic.
“When we close probate, they’ll be ready to take over and you’ll have a check for one-point-two million, Caroline.” He whistled over the phone. “What are you going to do with all that money?”
That’s when a brilliant idea hit me. Brilliant, I say. Just thinking of it warms me all over.
The table talk is lighthearted. We’re laughing and bantering so much the server has a hard time getting our order. I am so relaxed. Even J. D.’s presence is soothing. He catches my gaze and smiles.
Forgive me?
I smile back. Don’t sweat it.
In the middle of taking in a Wild-Wally story, a hand touches my shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone.”
“Mitch, oh my gosh,” I jump out of my seat, giving him a hug.
“When did you get home?”
“Just now. Drove straight here.” He keeps his arm around me as he sits in the empty chair, saying hi to the rest of the group. I glance at Elle. She’s beaming.
Mitch’s presence electrifies Panini’s—no surprise—and awakens the mellow atmosphere with whispers, craning necks, and a dozen auto-graph seekers.
Finally, his attention is on me. “Missed you.” He slips his hand into mine and kisses my cheek. The invisible fingers of my soul grasp at my evaporating confidence. Maybe I shouldn’t go to Barcelona. “I missed you too.”
His blue eyes search mine. “Want to hang out tonight, after we eat?”
“Absolutely.”
Dinner a
t elegant Panini’s ends with the gang standing around the table, saying “Good night,” “Let’s do this again soon,” “What a great time,” and doling out tip money. Mitch talks to Ray, standing so close to me we fit together like puzzle pieces.
“Ray, honey, come on. I’ve hit the wall.” Jess tugs on her husband’s sleeve with a sleepy-eyed wave at me. When she gets tired, that’s it; the night’s over. For everyone.
“Night, Jess,” I say, leaning over the table to meet her hug.
“I’ll call you this week.”
Then Mitch and I are alone by the table. “So, first selling, then Barcelona?”
“I wanted to tell you in person. It all happened so fast.” Facing him, I see two women approach from the opposite side of the dining room.
“Mitch.”
He turns as they ask, “Mr. O’Neal, can we have your autograph?”
Fame comes at a price. Public private conversations are a luxury. Two beautiful women hold out pen and paper, batting their eyes while sporting take-me-now smiles. Mitch is irritated, I can tell, yet he bottles it while talking with them.
“How are you two tonight?” His smile is slow, but sincere.
The large-bosomed woman arches her back so her exposed cleavage is right under Mitch’s nose. “I’m wonderful. How are you?”
Ho, boy. If Mitch has this coming at him all the time, no wonder he strayed over the yellow line. But he barely seems to notice this woman and her two “friends.”
“Thank you, ladies. Have a good night.” He takes me by the arm and steers me toward the door.
“I think they wanted more than an autograph, Mitch.”
“Those kind always do.”
I snicker, and he breaks into a soft chuckle, steering us to the river-walk where the wind off the water presses against us in tender, cold gusts. “When do you leave?”
“January, I think.”
He leans against the cement pylon and faces me, tucking his hands into his jeans’ pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to stay in Beaufort? The Café is doing well. You have family and friends. A church.”
