Sweet Caroline by Rachel Hauck

the time we sat up all night talking out on your dock? Right before I left for Florida State? You said you didn’t have any idea of what you wanted to do with your life, and you were half-afraid you inherited whatever made your mama weird out and run off, but you also didn’t want to wake up at forty and wonder where the years went.
    Wake up. Take a chance. You’re not your mama, Caroline. Nor will you be. You’re already light-years different. Ten times sweeter. Kinder. Smarter. Sane.
    Do you realize how many Hah-vard grads would kill for an opportunity to work with Carlos? Literally. First-degree murder. Risking twenty to life. Please don’t let this opportunity pass you by. I really did push Carlos on this. He’s traveling this week, so he’s distracted, but he wants to talk to you.
    What do I think about you owning the Café? It’s a run-down, has-been dinosaur. A Beaufort knickknack. It needs investors with vision and money. Is this really where you see your life going? Is owning the Café the thing you’ll regret not doing? I don’t think so, Caroline.
    Hazel
    CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
    There’s a fast knock outside the office, and Mercy Bea pops in before I can call, “Come in.”
    “So, what’d the snooty lawyer say yesterday? Are we in business or not?” She crosses her arms. An unlit cigarette protrudes from her fingers.
    “We’re in business.” I click out of Hazel’s e-mail, then stand, stretch-ing. “Is it still slow out there?”
    It’s a little after eleven a.m. The breakfast crowd was solid this morn-ing, and now I’m hopeful for a lunch rush.
    “Dead as a doornail. So, girl, come on. Are you going to leave us hanging? What’d the old coot put in his will?” Mercy Bea motions for me to follow her to the back porch, where she lights up her cigarette. “Do I have a job? Youngest young-son came home with a list longer than Clinton’s ex-girlfriends of stuff he needs for a basketball camp. As if money ain’t tight enough.” A wispy trail of smoke slithers upward. “Picked up an extra shift at the nursing home, though.”
    “Yes, you still have a job.” For now.
    The blonde bombshell taps her ashes toward the ashtray, but misses. Gray flakes flutter to the concrete porch. “Dang their daddy. Gave them his athletic ability, but not one plug nickel to help them out.”
    “Plug nickels aren’t worth anything, Mercy Bea.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    Figuring now would be as good a time as any to tell them about Jones’s dying wishes, I peer through the kitchen’s screen door to see what Andy is doing. Cleaning under the ovens. “Come inside, Mercy. Let’s talk about the Café.”
    I ask Andy to take a break from the toothbrush and bucket of soap, then call Russell from the pantry where he’s cleaning shelves. Mercy Bea joins them on the other side of the prep table.
    “As you know, Kirk was here yesterday.” I face my small band of people. Their expressions make my heart thump.
    As if listening in, the Café creaks and groans. The AC kicks in, and the lights brown out for a second. Then the entire Café goes black.
    “Ah, no, not again.” Andy shoves past the prep table toward the fuse box. “Jones should’ve fixed this mess—all this old wiring. I tell you, Edison was alive when they installed these glass fuses.”
    Electrical problems. Definitely a negative for saying yes to Jones’s will.
    Andy pops open the fuse box and in the soft light coming through the windows, bangs around, pulling fuses and putting them back in.
    With a buzz, the lights flicker on.
    Then off.
    Then on.
    I exhale, unaware I was even holding my breath. For years, Jones knew the Café needed an electrical overhaul. He just never got around to it. One more reason the Café needs a moneyed owner.
    “Spit it out, girl. You’re making me nervous.” Mercy Bea brings me back to the business at hand.
    “Right, the will. Well . . .” I glance at my loyal crew. “You see . .