Sweet Caroline(11)

His matter-of-fact tone irritates me—like inheriting a man’s life is an everyday occurrence for me. “There must be some mistake.” I flip through the pages, scanning for any small “Just kidding” clause. “Just because I don’t want it doesn’t mean we shut it down.”

“According to the will, there is no alternative. Jones specifically requested the Café be given to you, or closed down and sold.”

“What about just sold? To the highest bidder.”

Kirk exhales, sending a puff of hangover-mouth-mixed-with-coffee breath. I turn my nose. “You can argue all you want, Caroline, but my options are you or shut it down and sell it for charity.”

“But I am charity. This whole place is charity. What about Andy, Russell, and Mercy Bea? The breakfast-club boys and Miss Jeanne? Our other regular customers? The Vet Wall?” I poke the air with my finger. Kirk twists to see behind him.

“Very inspiring. Are you accepting the Café or not?”

“Are you telling me Jones wanted these guys to lose their jobs? That it’s me or no one?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. This is the man who gave money away faster than he made it.”

“Caroline, I don’t have the time or patience to dialogue about Jones’s heart or motivation. Yes or no.”

“This isn’t fair.” My heart pulses. Beads of sweat break out over my neck and back. The future of the Café cannot be left to me. It cannot. “Don’t I get twenty-four hours to think about it? Or a couple of days? A year? How about when I get back from Barcelona?”

The Donald Trump of Europe is calling me in twenty minutes.

“Fair enough. I made you wait; guess I can give you a couple of days. Shoot, take a week. I’ll be back next . . .” He whips out a PalmPilot. “Tuesday. Meanwhile, let’s go over some details.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Kirk rattles on about taxes, probate, creditors, and a personal representative. But I can barely hear him for the internal turmoil.

Head: This is a fine mess.

Heart: You’re not sending me positive thoughts. I neeeed positive thoughts. I’m feeling weepy.

Head: Stop badgering me. I’m doing all I can to listen and not freak out.

Heart: [Sniff] Do you have any tissues?

Back to Kirk: “Doing business shouldn’t be a problem since your name is on the accounts. But if you need a loan from the bank . . . ?”

“A loan?”

He gulps the last of his coffee and reaches for the pot to refill. “A loan . . . to pay bills, fix up the place. I’ve seen the books, though. You’ll be hard-pressed to convince a loan officer to back you.”

“Mr. Mueller runs when he sees me at the teller window.”

“I’m not surprised.” Kirk caps his pen. “Do you have any questions?”

“Only a thousand and one. Kirk, why me?”

He shifts in his seat, tucking the unruly sides of his wrinkled shirt into his waistband. “He never said.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“It’s not my business.”

“But, I—” The Christmas bells chime, and I look to see Miss Jeanne coming in for her late-lunch-early-supper.

“Hey, Miss Jeanne.”

“Warm day, Caroline.” She makes her way to her favorite spot—a two-top by the fireplace. She’s slightly hunched and gray headed, but hip looking in her mom-jeans and terra-cotta-colored blouse. Time-earned wisdom lines her broad features, but her cherubic smile reflects the youthfulness of her soul.

“I left Ebony in the car. Do you think it’s too hot?” She gazes out the window as if it can help her gauge the heat index.

“You left the windows down, didn’t you?”

She grimaces. “Don’t go insulting my intelligence, young lady, or I’ll tell this young man how you almost burnt down Beaufort High School.”

Kirk’s brow crinkles. “Burnt down?”

“There you go.” I flip up my hand. “Another reason Jones should’ve never left the Café to me. I’m a fire hazard.”

Sliding out of the booth, I hunt down Russell, carrying with me the shock of the will. He’s in the kitchen helping Andy prep for tomorrow’s special. “Miss Jeanne’s here.”

Without missing a beat, Russell recites her order. “Pot-roast casserole, fresh Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits, side dish of strawberry jam. Side salad with blue-cheese dressing.”

“Perfect. I’ll get her tea . . . Oh, Russell, she’ll want a slice of rhubarb pie.”

At the wait station, I fix Miss Jeanne’s mason jar of sweet iced tea while the idea of owning the Café flies around my head looking for a place to land.

But all the runways are closed.

When I return to the back booth, Kirk’s downing another mug of coffee and eyeing the biscuits.

“Let’s say I take the Café. Can I sell it?”

Kirk removes his glasses and rubs his bloodshot eyes. “After probate, I don’t care what you do. Neither will the law.”

“Kirk, are you sure Jones was sane when he signed this will?”

He laughs for the first time since he walked in. “More sane than you and I are right now.” He puts on his glasses and exits the booth. “Caroline, get advice, talk to your priest, visit a Gullah spiritualist, do whatever it is you do for guidance. But next Tuesday I need an answer.”