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Authors: Rachel Hauck
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keep the Café for a certain amount of time, it will be shut down, sold, and the proceeds donated to charity.”
“Really?” Clickity, clickity, clickity.
Instant regret fills my chest. Why did I tell her? “Melba, listen, this is between you and me. Off the record.”
“Umm-hmm. Well, good luck with your decision.”
“Melba, what are you—”
The dial tone speaks to me. That comeya has hung up on me.
Saturday I sleep in, tired from a long and somewhat emotional week. Andy and Mercy Bea are opening the Café today while Russell and I take closing.
Saturday business is schizophrenic—mind-numbingly boring to hectic. We’ve been managing to keep all the balls in the air without Jones, but we miss his extra set of hands in the kitchen. If I keep the Café, I’m going to have to hire help.
In a half-dreamy state, I hear Dad banging down the hall with his suitcase. Oh, it’s wedding-trip day. I kick off the covers and swing open my bedroom door.
“Ready to go, Dad?” My shaggy hair slips over my eyes.
Dad looks back from the second stair down. “Sorry to wake you, Caroline.”
“Off to get Posey?”
“Yeah, and I’m late.”
I wrap my arms around my waist and lean against the banister, peering into the great room below. “Have a lovely wedding and a wonderful honeymoon.”
Dad grins sheepishly “I’m planning on it.” I do believe I’m blushing. “The hotel name and number is on the refrigerator door. Call if you need anything.” He starts down the stairs, then pauses. “If the Mustang breaks down, drive the truck. Keys are on the kitchen hook.”
I prop my chin in my hand. “Do you get tired of taking care of me?”
“Suppose I could ask the same of you.” He stares off and away, clearing his throat. “I can’t count the number of times you kept me this side of sane after your mama left. Those nights you watched TV with your old man instead of going out with friends . . .” Laughter gurgles from his chest. “Know what came to mind the other day? The summer you hired the lawn service. ‘The dang grass is cutting my calves.’”
The memory is a soft favorite. “It became apparent no one in the Sweeney household could fire up the mower.”
“Caroline, you all right? You don’t seem yourself lately. I heard Mitch is back in town . . .”
Daddy knows me well. Watched me ride the Mitch roller coaster a few times. “No, it’s not Mitch, Dad. Actually, I’m sort of dating J. D. Rand.”
“J. D.? Didn’t he have a crush on you in junior high?”
My sleepy eyes pop wide. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Careful around him, Caroline. I hear he’s a ladies’ man. He’s—”
“Treating me very nice, Daddy. Don’t worry. Go get married. I’m fine.”
Why tell him about the Café and Barcelona? It’ll only add to his load. And on his honeymoon. I can’t be responsible for that.
“Well, guess you’re grown. I’ll leave you to your business.” He takes the last of the stairs down, bumping his old suitcase the entire way. “See you in a week.”
Once he leaves, I decide to take advantage of the morning and ponder my options from high up in my live-oak sanctuary. It’s a lovely but warm June day, fragrant with the scent rising from the dewed ground.
Between the ages of eight and nine, I begged Daddy to take us to church. All the kids in my class went.
Daddy refused. “Caroline,” he’d say, pointing me to the front yard, “if you want to talk to some supreme being, climb the old tree. You’ve got more chance of communing with the Almighty out there than in some stuffy sanctuary.”
It was the beginning of the Mama Years. When she started slipping away from us.
So I climbed the tree. Especially when Mama went missing or acted out—screaming with Daddy about her horrendous life—and I didn’t want her to see me cry. The tree became my refuge. When I was fifteen Mama left us for good. I probably logged more hours in the tree than in school.
Now I sit here
“Really?” Clickity, clickity, clickity.
Instant regret fills my chest. Why did I tell her? “Melba, listen, this is between you and me. Off the record.”
“Umm-hmm. Well, good luck with your decision.”
“Melba, what are you—”
The dial tone speaks to me. That comeya has hung up on me.
Saturday I sleep in, tired from a long and somewhat emotional week. Andy and Mercy Bea are opening the Café today while Russell and I take closing.
Saturday business is schizophrenic—mind-numbingly boring to hectic. We’ve been managing to keep all the balls in the air without Jones, but we miss his extra set of hands in the kitchen. If I keep the Café, I’m going to have to hire help.
In a half-dreamy state, I hear Dad banging down the hall with his suitcase. Oh, it’s wedding-trip day. I kick off the covers and swing open my bedroom door.
“Ready to go, Dad?” My shaggy hair slips over my eyes.
Dad looks back from the second stair down. “Sorry to wake you, Caroline.”
“Off to get Posey?”
“Yeah, and I’m late.”
I wrap my arms around my waist and lean against the banister, peering into the great room below. “Have a lovely wedding and a wonderful honeymoon.”
Dad grins sheepishly “I’m planning on it.” I do believe I’m blushing. “The hotel name and number is on the refrigerator door. Call if you need anything.” He starts down the stairs, then pauses. “If the Mustang breaks down, drive the truck. Keys are on the kitchen hook.”
I prop my chin in my hand. “Do you get tired of taking care of me?”
“Suppose I could ask the same of you.” He stares off and away, clearing his throat. “I can’t count the number of times you kept me this side of sane after your mama left. Those nights you watched TV with your old man instead of going out with friends . . .” Laughter gurgles from his chest. “Know what came to mind the other day? The summer you hired the lawn service. ‘The dang grass is cutting my calves.’”
The memory is a soft favorite. “It became apparent no one in the Sweeney household could fire up the mower.”
“Caroline, you all right? You don’t seem yourself lately. I heard Mitch is back in town . . .”
Daddy knows me well. Watched me ride the Mitch roller coaster a few times. “No, it’s not Mitch, Dad. Actually, I’m sort of dating J. D. Rand.”
“J. D.? Didn’t he have a crush on you in junior high?”
My sleepy eyes pop wide. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Careful around him, Caroline. I hear he’s a ladies’ man. He’s—”
“Treating me very nice, Daddy. Don’t worry. Go get married. I’m fine.”
Why tell him about the Café and Barcelona? It’ll only add to his load. And on his honeymoon. I can’t be responsible for that.
“Well, guess you’re grown. I’ll leave you to your business.” He takes the last of the stairs down, bumping his old suitcase the entire way. “See you in a week.”
Once he leaves, I decide to take advantage of the morning and ponder my options from high up in my live-oak sanctuary. It’s a lovely but warm June day, fragrant with the scent rising from the dewed ground.
Between the ages of eight and nine, I begged Daddy to take us to church. All the kids in my class went.
Daddy refused. “Caroline,” he’d say, pointing me to the front yard, “if you want to talk to some supreme being, climb the old tree. You’ve got more chance of communing with the Almighty out there than in some stuffy sanctuary.”
It was the beginning of the Mama Years. When she started slipping away from us.
So I climbed the tree. Especially when Mama went missing or acted out—screaming with Daddy about her horrendous life—and I didn’t want her to see me cry. The tree became my refuge. When I was fifteen Mama left us for good. I probably logged more hours in the tree than in school.
Now I sit here
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