by Rachel Hauck
As the party guests arrived, I tried to pretend all was well—despite the fact we had no cake, no food, nor tea.
Convinced Mama would pop through the door at any moment, wearing her beautiful smile with an armload of presents, I did my best to hostess my confused guests.
When Dad and Henry came home, I sat alone in the dark living room, dirty tear tracks on my face.
The memory is old and rusty, and I’d rather die than attend a tea party, but I would endure for Mrs. O’Neal. “Your mother is very sweet, Mitch, but can we talk about something first?”
“Sure.” He’s gathering a second armload of wood. I crouch down next to him, gathering logs.
How do I say this, God? “About getting married, Mitch . . .”
He snaps to attention. The muscles in his arms bulge from the heavy pieces of firewood he cradles.
“Recently, I’ve made several decisions—selling the Café, accepting Barcelona, accepting your proposal—and I just, um, well . . .” My throat pinches closed. My hands shake as I add another log to my small stack.
“Caroline, say what you want to say.”
Oh, please don’t hate me. A nauseating swirl leaves me weak. “I can’t marry you, Mitch. Not before Barcelona.” I drop my firewood back onto the pile, as confidence begins to bloom. “Mitch, I love you. Most of my adult life, I’ve lived with the hope of someday being your wife. But, I’m learning and growing, coming to some idea God’s given me gifts and talents I haven’t begun to explore. Like when you moved to Nashville, hung with stellar musicians, and discovered you had the talent to play any instrument you pick up.”
“I can’t play the oboe.”
He makes me laugh. “Yeah, well, who can?”
“Caroline, honey, you can do whatever you want with your life, even after we’re married. Want to keep the Café, fix it up, and hire Andy to manage it? Great. Want to go to college? I’ll help you cram for tests. Want five babies, I’ll be more than happy to do my part.” His grin is slightly wicked. “Think a month in the Brazilian jungle, learning about indigenous worms, will enhance your life? I’ll support you.”
“Mitch,” Oh, the look behind his eyes . . . I can’t, God. I can’t. “I want to move to Barcelona and work for Carlos Longoria.”
Standing there with his arms still wrapped around firewood, he studies me for a second. “I don’t want a long-distance marriage. Being apart for a few weeks or a month is fine, but for a year with thousands of miles and a half dozen time zones between us? No.”
“No? You’re not making decisions for us, Mitch. We are.” I circle my hand in the space between us. “This has been the hardest decision of my life. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since you pro-posed. When I try to dream of wedding plans, I get cranky and snap at the crew.” I press my hand over my middle. “I feel sick and confused.”
Without a word, he pushes past me, taking the firewood inside. I watch him disappear, shivering. Night approaches with a distinct chill.
In a minute, Mitch reappears with a thick jacket. “Here, it’s getting cold.” He stoops for another load of firewood. “I suppose I could see about living in Barcelona.” He glances up at me. “I could fly back and forth. It’d be awkward, just signing with a new label and putting out a new album, but it might work.”
Tears bubble. “Oh, Mitch.” I crouch next to him. “How the timing between us got so whacked, I’ll never know, but I’m going solo, Mitch. Just Jesus and me. I need to do this . . .”
Holding my hands low at my waist, I slip his ring from my cold fin-ger. When I offer it back, his countenance darkens, and his load of wood drops to the deck floor.
“I want to marry you . . . someday. If you still want me.” My confession is thick and true.
He cups the ring in his hand. “Caroline . . . I—I . . .” His words wobble. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’m so, so sorry.” Tears glide over my eyes and pool in the corners.
Mitch leans against the table, looking out toward the beach. Silence screams. It seems like minutes go by, but it’s only seconds when Mitch gathers me in his arms.
We cry, holding each other tight.
“Best let me drive you home,” he finally says.
“Mitch—” My heart yearns for him to know. “I love you, still. I’m trying to follow God here. I can’t explain it, but there’s something for me in Barcelona. Something intangible, something . . .”
“I know.” He steps toward the door.
“I do love you.”
“Just let me get my keys.” He disappears in the house, and for one brief, frightening moment, I fear I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.
To: Hazel Palmer
From: CSweeney
Subject: Better be worth it
Hazel,
Here’s the nutshell update. I’m too emotional and exhausted to go into detail. But we are soooo talking when I get there.
Mitch asked me to marry him. I said yes. After I accepted Carlos’s offer. For days, I couldn’t sleep. I begged God for answers, laying it all out on the table. Selling the Café, accepting the job with SRG, and marrying Mitch.
In the end, I knew selling the Café was right. I knew working for SRG was right. I knew marrying Mitch was wrong. Not wrong, really, but wrong timing.
The night I gave him his ring back, he drove me home in com-plete silence. Oh, how I missed Matilda at that moment. As he drove away, I sank down to the parking lot and cried until there was a puddle of tears in the sand.
Hazel, I miss him something fierce. This is it for us. We’re over. Not like the other times when he got busy with his career and we simply drifted apart.
This time when he dropped me off and said good-bye, I heard the clink of a door.
I’m sad and weepy, but I know I’ll regret it the rest of my life if I don’t try Barcelona.
Good night.
“Letter for you, Caroline.” Mercy Bea drops the Café mail on the counter.
“Letter?”
“Looks like Jones’s handwriting. Want me to put the rest in the office?”
Letter? “Yes, office, thanks.”
On the back is a note from Kirk. Jones wanted this mailed to you after the ninety days. Sorry, just now found it.
I tear open the letter and read.
Dear Caroline,
By the time you read this letter, I hope you’ve stopped cursing me. I suppose inheriting the Café came as a shock. Please forgive me if the deed unduly burdened you. That was never my intent.
On the other hand, if you’re reading this, I’ve crossed over to the Golden Shore and am happy to be away from worldly troubles.
My prayer is for the Café to bless you. She’s been around a long time, and as I write this letter, I’m filled with sentiment.
Why the ninety days? So you’d have time to think before acting.
I didn’t know what to do with the Frogmore. No kin to leave her to, or close friends.
Then, you came to mind and I knew you were the right one.
Perhaps you’re wondering why not Andy, or Mercy Bea? Other than the satisfaction I felt whenever I thought of you, I don’t know. Andy is, in many ways, the soul of the Café.
I just knew you’d do the right thing by all of us.
The other reason is your grandma Sweeney. I loved her. She broke my heart when she married my friend, your granddad. But, over time I forgave her, but never humbled up to speak to her about it. I reckon this is all out of the blue for you, Caroline, but your Nana was the love of my life. After she died, your granddad came to me and said, “Gracie told me, ‘Go see Jones. Don’t let the bad blood linger.’”
Giving you the Cafe is my way of saying “All is well, Gracie.”
I yank a napkin from the dispenser and blow my nose.
Best of everything to you, sweet Caroline. I hope you have a good life, full of love, family and well, a basket of my ole Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits and Frogmore Stew. My chili weren’t bad neither.
Yours truly.
Jones Q. McDermott
P.S. Never did know what the Q stood for. Best find my mother in heaven and ask her.
DAILY SPECIAL
Thanksgiving Day—Closed
Friday, November 23
Turkey and Gravy
Stuffing, Mashed Taters
Cranberry Sauce, Sweet Potato Soufflé
Yeast Rolls
Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, or Cherry Pie
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$9.99
36
The crisp, bright Sunday after Thanksgiving, Mercy Bea and I string Christmas lights along the Café’s front porch while Andy Williams sings from the boom box. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”
“Hmm, cinnamon.” Mercy Bea draws in a large portion of air, turn-ing her nose toward downtown.
“Makes me hungry and I just ate.” I hold up the next string of lights. “Pay attention, Mercy Bea; we still have the inside to decorate.”
She taps a small hook into the porch board with her hammer, then hangs the next section of lights. “What’s your favorite Christmas memory, Caroline?”
I shrug. “Mama had a thing about man-made traditions.”
“Like how? Hand me another hook, Caroline, please.”
“Like she hated them. Daddy did his best to give us a nice Christmas, but without her participation, it was hard. He’d put up a tree Christmas Eve, buy us presents most years, but the tree went down two days later.”
Mercy Bea shakes her head with an mm-mm-mm, tapping in the hook and looping the light cord over it. “Wonder what got into your mama.”
“I don’t know, but it’s time for new memories and new traditions, starting with this Christmas. I have a feeling it’s going to be my best one yet.” A bolt of electric excitement zaps my middle as I think of the crews’ surprise.
She glances down at me, her face pinched. “This Christmas? The best? Girl, after letting that hunk Mitch get away—which, by the way, I still can’t believe. Today’s the first day I’ve seen you smile without a frown behind your eyes.”
“Yeah, well, life isn’t always what we want it to be.” Getting over Mitch is taking more sleepless nights than I imagined, but today during church, I decided: God, I trust you. Peace came, and so far it’s winning the war on worry.
“What’s so special about this Christmas?” Mercy Bea asks, dragging the box of Christmas decorations down to the next section of porch.
“You’ll see.” It’s all I can do not to burst with the sheer thrill of my secret.
To: CSweeney, JesslovesRay
From: Elle Garvey
Subject: Operation Wedding Day
Okay, y’all, Operation Wedding Day is closed for Christmas. I want this to be a happy time, celebrating with friends and my family. Why purposefully risk depressing myself with a dateless holiday season. Or worse, remember it as How the Geeks Stole Christmas.
Caroline, I sold the sketch of you today. Half goes to you. Merry Christmas.
So, let’s get this holiday season started. I say girls’ Christmas party at my place, gift exchange, and fun food. What do you say? I’ll make up a party list and send it to you. I heard Carrie Campbell just moved back to town. Too fun. Haven’t seen her in far too long.
Love, Elle
By the first week of December, my flight to Barcelona is booked. Hazel and I have chatted a dozen times about travel plans and living arrangements. She hooked me up with the company that moved her belongings. I don’t have much, but the armoire is coming with. She sympathized with me over Mitch, while commending me for making a bold decision.
Naturally, she informed Carlos. My stock soared.
In the evenings, I’m cleaning out the carriage house. Daddy and Posey agreed to take Jones’s furniture for the sunroom they’re adding onto the house, and his books. When Posey got a close look, her eyes rolled back in her head and she drooled.
Except the Bible. That goes with me.
Cherry wanted his antique chest of drawers and footlocker. She and Henry are doing so well, and we never talk about the night Cherry came into my office afraid for her marriage.
Tonight, I must decide about Jones’s old records. Tapping my cell phone gently against the palm of my hand, I pause, knowing what I want to do, but nervous to try.
Inhaling, I dare myself to dial. I’m surprised when he answers.
“I didn’t expect this call.”
“Hey, Mitch, how are you?” As I walk toward the bookshelf, nervous tension chills my fingers.
“Doing well. What’s up?”
The tenderness his voice used to carry for me is missing. Now his tone is the one he uses with all his regular friends. But, I made my choice. I won’t lament it.
“I’m packing up the carriage house. I wondered if you wanted Jones’s old LPs.”
“Really? I’d love to have them. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas.” I run my finger along the shelf ’s edge.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Will I see you before I go?”
“I don’t know.”
I swallow. “Oh, of course. Well, then I guess this is Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
“Guess so.” There’s resolve in his voice. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too. I’ll drop the albums off at your folks’.”
“I hope Barcelona is all you want it to be, Caroline.”
I want to remind him of how much I love him, but I don’t. “So, see you around?”
“See you around.”
Two days later, Kirk calls. “Judge granted our petition. Probation is closed. Congratulations.”
My skin tightens with excitement. “So this is it.”
“On to phase two. Dale and Roland want to set a time to come down and close the deal. They’re ready to hand you a check.”
“They divided the money, right?”
“Confirmed it with them yesterday. After taxes and my fee, taking out ten-grand bonuses for Russell, Luke, and Paris, the remainder is divided evenly between you, Andy, and Mercy Bea.”
Is my smile breaking my face? “I’m putting their checks in their Christmas cards.”
“They’re going to flip.”
“Thank you, for everything, Kirk.”
“Caroline, it’s been an honor. Never met anyone like you.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Monday, December 17
Country Omelet
Shrimp Grits
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Sausage, Bacon, Country Ham
Fried Apples
Eggnog
Tea, Soda, Coffee.
$7.99
37
At three in the morning, I’m wide-awake. Today is my last day as owner of the Frogmore Café. By the afternoon, Jones’s legacy will be in the Buzz Boys’ hands. Trying to sleep when I’m restless is annoying, so I get up. Andy will be along in an hour anyway. Might as well get ready and head over to the Café, get the coffee started.
The morning is calm and quiet, but clean, cold, and exhilarating. I plug in all the Christmas lights, then sit in the breakfast-club boys’ booth.
The Café is quiet—no moans or creaks—as if sitting with me in soli-darity. Thank you, Caroline.
In the warm, white glow of the lights, the worn places in the Café disappear. The vinyl booths shine like new, and the walls aren’t dirty and dull. I’m lost in a sleepy thought when a loud bang resonates from the front door. Jumping awake, I peer through the window.
Mitch is on the other side.
Unlocking the door, I step aside for him to enter, leaning against the frame. “Hey.” My heart thud-thuds when his clean, showered scent kisses my nose.
“Hey.” He brushes my arm with his fingers. “I saw the lights . . .”
“You just happened to be up and about?” Should it feel odd to see him at the Café, so early, on selling day? Yes, but somehow it doesn’t.
“Something like that.
Elle e-mailed today was the day.”
Figures. “Coffee?” I walk over to the counter, but he remains by the door. Is he going to leave? Stand there staring at me? Get hit in the back-side at 8:02 when the breakfast-club boys arrive?
“Last call for coffee.”
Finally, he steps toward the counter. “If you have a pot going, I guess one cup would be all right.”
The coffee’s not going, but it will be in a second. He sits at the counter as I scoop sparkling grounds into the filter, watching me, man-aging confidence and vulnerability in a single expression. The race of my pulse slows so my emotions can rise up and take over.
Heart: He looks good. How can we leave him?
Head: And in twenty years, how will he look? Like the one who robbed us of Barcelona? Stay the course, heart. Stay the course.
“Everything’s all set, then?”
“Yes, just formalities, signing papers . . . and stuff.” Two feet from me, and I can’t throw my arms around him or feel his lips caressing mine. Two feet from me and I “miss” him.
For a few seconds, only the coffeemaker speaks, gurgling and exhal-ing the fresh-brewed aroma of Santa’s White Christmas.
“Say,” I finally venture, “your new album is going well?”
He picks at the corner of the paper placemat. “The new songs are going down great. Recent events in my life make for great lyrics.”
“Oh—” I reach under the counter for a couple of mugs. What am I supposed to say to that? “I wish you many number one hits.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Silence interjects itself again, though not strong enough to cover the subconscious murmur of wonder between Mitch and me. Like, Is this it? We’re over? What will we do in a year? Do you still love me?
“I dropped Jones’s records at your parents’ last night.” I had to say something.
Mitch circles his mug on the countertop between his hands. “Ah, my consolation prize: antique albums. Mitch O’Neal, what do you win? The girl? No, but a hundred scratchy vinyl albums of great country crooners bemoaning the loves they lost.” He sweeps his arm through the air, his voice deep like a game-show host.
