Read Online Sweet Caroline by Rachel Hauck - Free Book Online Page B

pondering how one man died and, in a way, changed my life.
    If I refuse Jones’s inheritance, I’ll be the one responsible for the demise of the Frogmore Café. Reminiscing old-timers will shake their heads and click their tongues. “Remember the Frogmore Café? That Sweeney girl shut her down.”
    Okay, so they might not remember me as the one. But I will.
    If I keep the Café and give up Barcelona. I’ll forever be the one who passed up an incredible, amazing opportunity with Carlos Longoria. The envy of Hah-vard grads. Years from now, Carlos won’t remember.
    But I will.
    “I need an answer.”
    Closing my eyes, I rest against the trunk and form a picture of the God Mitch claims slapped him with some reality. Oh, this Deity is frowning. I refuse to talk to someone who frowns.
    I force the image in my head to smile—like Granddad Sweeney used to do when he’d tell me stories about growing up in the lowcountry, hunting quail on St. Helena Island. There, that’s better.
    Now, where’s the peace I felt the other night when I decided to go for Barcelona? Maybe it’s because the sun is out instead of the stars.
    God, if You’re real and can hear me, tell me what to do.
    “We’re busy?” I rush past Mercy Bea into the dining room, tying on my apron. Every stool at the counter is occupied and almost a third of the booths and tables.
    “You got eyes. What do you see?” The ice she’s frantically scooping clatters into four iced tea jars. “Russell came in early for a bite to eat and ended up clocking in. Did you see the paper?” She tips her head to the bottom counter shelf.
    “No.” I take over behind the counter. “Hey, Mr. Feinberg, I haven’t seen you in a while. More coffee?”
    Mr. Feinberg taps his cup with his fork. “Sure, Caroline, freshen her up.”
    I fill Mr. Feinberg’s cup, then tend to the rich-looking, retired couple’s iced teas and clear away a plate of half-eaten fries shared by three teen girls. When the lull comes, I sneak around the wall with the newspaper and stand inside the kitchen door.
    Front page. Below the fold. A story on the Café with a then-and-now picture. The headline makes my heart jump: “Saying Good-bye to the Frogmore Café.”
    Answer to my early question? I should not be honest with the press. Small blurb in the Living Section, my eye, Melba Pelot.
    I skim the article. Stuff about Jones, the history of the Café, and the old doctor’s home. Then:
    Sweeney, twenty-eight, who inherited the café from McDermott, is undecided about its future.
    Town Councilman Davis Williams: “I’d hate for Beaufort to lose the Frogmore Café. It’s true lowcountry, part of our rich heritage. And where else can hungry folks find Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits?”
    In the early ’60s, McDermott defied Jim Crow laws by removing the separate eating sections for blacks and whites.
    “It caused quite a stir,” Williams said. “But if I heard Jones once, I heard him a hundred times. ‘If I can share a foxhole in Korea with a colored, I can certainly share a meal in public. Jim Crow laws be damned.’”
    I crinkle the paper to my chest. “Oh, Melba, why’d you do this to me?” It’s one thing to shut down a beat-up old diner no one remembers. It’s another thing to shut down a man’s legacy.
    Mercy Bea zips around the corner with her arms loaded with dirty dishes, almost crashing into me. “There you are. Mr. Feinberg is calling for you.” She nods toward the paper. “Well, you done it now.”
    “I suppose.”
    “If you haven’t made up your mind, there you go. Folks aren’t going to want the Café to go away, Caroline.” She drops her load on the counter for Russell to wash later.
    “Yeah, well, then folks are going to have to find their way here to eat once in a while. Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills.”
    I sound brave, but inside, I’m terrified.
    Sunday I have the whole day off. After sleeping in late, doing a load of laundry, and surfing cable channels, I call