Sweet Caroline(9)
Running my hand through my hair—it feels dry against my fingers—I correct her. “Hazel, I didn’t help Dad rebuild his business. I filled in when his office manager quit.”
“You organized an entire network and computer installation. Did the same thing for Henry. Brought all the accounting and inventory online.”
“Right, but I didn’t help them rebuild anything.” My thoughts form a pleasant thanks-but-no-thanks reply to my overeager, overachieving friend.
“Well, look what you did for Jones and the Café.” Her enthusiasm is undaunted.
I laugh. “Okay, you got me. I introduced computers to Jones and learned to run a very small café. Woo-wee. The business world just tilted.”
“Caroline, you’re a team player, a problem solver. You work well under pressure and have phenomenal people skills.”
“I do?” I ease against the back of the sofa.
“Never mind your amazing ability to see good in people. Your com-passion toward your mom always blew me away.”
“Now you’re just talking crazy.”
“C, wouldn’t we have so much fun? Living in Europe together? But, if you agree to this, you can’t change your mind because of some family or hometown emergency.”
Her summation of my skills does little to bring clarity. Me? In Spain? “Hazel, you really think I can do the job?”
“One hundred percent. You are ready for this kind of challenge, girl. And, you’re exactly what Carlos is looking for—raw material.”
Well, in that case . . . But, I catch my “yes” on the tip of my tongue before Hazel hears it. Never, ever have I done anything like this. Daytona Beach for spring break my senior year is my biggest brouhaha so far.
Well, except for the time Mama got a wild hair and decided to rearrange holidays, celebrate Christmas on Halloween, New Year’s on Thanksgiving. For my fourth-grade Halloween party, she sent me to school wearing a red-velvet dress and black patent-leather shoes, carry-ing a free gift bottle of Clinique’s “Happy” wrapped in Santa paper.
Yeah, this Barcelona thing requires some thought. “Can I call you in an hour?”
Hazel’s slow sigh billows in my ear. “Call me at the office. I’ll e-mail you the number. Caroline, just say yes.”
As I hang up from Hazel, a shout rises from the dining room. Dad and Henry finally won a hand.
I grab the kitchen flashlight and steal out the back door, heading around front to my sanctuary—the ancient live oak. Parting the Spanish moss that dangles from gnarly limbs like hippie beads, I hike my skirt to my knees and climb to my pew about ten feet up, wondering if the God of Andy might be available to talk.
DAILY SPECIAL
Tuesday, June 5
Country Ham
Butternut Squash, Green Beans, Cheese Coins
Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits
Upside-Down Apple Cake
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$6.99
5
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Carlos’s call
Caroline,
Carlos is extremely pleased you said yes. He buzzed into my office first thing this morning asking for your number. He’s calling you at four your time—TODAY. Be ready.
Questions you might want to ask him are his expectations, job description and duties, your role on the team and with other projects. Think outside the box when you talk to him.
He’ll probably ask you questions like your strength and weaknesses, expectations, give you a salary range. BTW, he realizes this is all new to you.
This is muy fab, Caroline. Muy. Figure your arrival date for a week on the Mediterranean, in a villa, my treat, so we can have some fun together before work consumes your life.
Love, Hazel
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
Late in the afternoon, the Café is bathed in warm, sleepy sunlight that falls in speckled patterns across the thin threads of a weary carpet. The old walls and ceiling beams creak and moan, sounding every bit like an old man stretching as he rises from his favorite chair. Funny, I’ve been hearing the sounds for two years, but today I listen and am comforted.
The old girl’s going to be all right. Get some new owners—by inheritance or sale—who have the wherewithal for an extreme makeover.
Across the counter from me, Mercy Bea leans against Joel Creager’s table, telling him about her youngest young-son’s basketball shoes.
“Two hundred dollars. Can you believe it? And he ain’t done growing.”
Joel sips his coffee while shaking his head. “Glad I never had no kids. Who can afford them?”
Smiling, I wipe down the ketchup bottles. I’ll miss afternoons like this once I’m in Barcelona.
An electric flutter runs down my torso, causing me to draw a long breath.
While sitting in the tree last night, talking to the stars, or perhaps God if He wasn’t otherwise involved—solving crime or formulating an eighth world wonder—this strange peace blanketed me. I’d felt some-thing like it once before—the night Mama died.
When it persisted, I figured it to be my answer, climbed down from the tree, ripping my favorite skirt in the process, and called Hazel.
The Café door’s Christmas bells jingle. Kirk Harris, Jones’s lawyer, walks in.
“Kirk, hello.” What perfect timing. He’ll give me the terms of the will; I’ll give him my resignation. When Carlos calls—TODAY—I’ll be ready to talk start date.