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Cash
The weekend goes about as smoothlyas grinding gears.
Dad is resting at home with a new physical therapy plan. I’ve put Mom on a schedule of only helping Dad get ready in the mornings until his nurse arrives, and then Mom is under strict orders to go and have coffee with her friends.
This new plan has only been in place for two days, and Mom still insists on puttering around the bait shop. But between Matthew and me, and our other friends on Paradise Lane, we keep the boat repair garage running and man the register.
The coffee pot is full, and so is the ice cream freezer. I have more coffee and ice cream than I know what to do with, yet I’m miserable.
Because Caroline is not here.
Her meet and greet on Friday went well, she said. Saturday’s book signing and VIP event were fantastic but draining. Caroline insisted that her assistant took good care of her, but when I called to say goodnight on Saturday, she sounded hoarse and dehydrated.
“You’re being overprotective of me. Trust me, I sound like this from laughing and talking with my friends.”
And then I said something genuinely dumb because I have no sense of self-preservation. “Are you going to regret moving here, where you won’t see your friends as much?”
No, actually, this isn’t a dumb question. This is a mature, responsible question from a guy who cares about Caroline’s happiness. From a man who wants his girl to live life on her terms.
“I have friends on Paradise Lane. You, your parents, Gretchen and Matthew, and I met fun people at the fish fry. Penny and Josh, Cody and Bree. They don’t live too far away.”
As she talked on, my worry dissipating.
“And also, I’ve been researching the town of Sault Ste. Marie. It’s only thirty minutes away, and they have an active writers’ group that meets at the library. And there’s even more going on across the bridge on the Ontario side. Don’t worry about my sanity, Cash. I’ll speak up if I need something.”
I laughed, “You sure will.”
That was Saturday night. Her connecting flight in Chicago was canceled yesterday, and I had half a mind to run down there and get her. Barely 72 hours apart, and I’m unraveling. But once again, my Caroline assured me she would spend the day seeing the sights with an author friend in Chicago, who was putting her up for the night.
And now it’s Monday morning, and I’ve been working extra hard trying to focus on my work, between answering emails from my restaurant managers in Dallas, working on a particularly ornery boat engine, reminding my mother to stop making ice cream and relax, and making sure all the customers’ twenties, tens, fives and singles left on the counter get responsibly stashed in the till.
The doorbell dings and I look up at the connecting door between the garage and the shop, just like I’ve been doing all morning.
Like a vision, Caroline appears in an oversized pink tee shirt and leggings. Even looking a little tired from travel, with no makeup and her hair piled on top of her head, rolling a bag behind her, she is a sight for sore eyes in this room full of old tools, engine grease, and rusted boat parts.
I drop what I’m working on, eat up the distance between us, and stop short, not wanting to smear grease all over her. “I told you to call me when you were on your flight to Traverse City, and I’d come get you,” I say, annoyed.
She smiles. “I got a last-minute connecting flight to Kinross, and I took a car from the airport.”
“You booked an Uber all the way out here from Kinross? That’s gotta be an insane fare!”
Caroline rolls up on the balls of her feet and presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. It was someone from Paradise Lane, not an Uber.”
“You took a ride from a stranger?”
“Not a stranger. I’m open to serendipitous moments. See? I’m adapting to life here already.”
Caroline circles her arms around my middle and rests her head against my chest.
“Baby, I’m covered in grease.”
“That’s fine. I’m so happy to see you.”
“That shirt looks new, Caroline.”
“It is,” she says, her voice muffled as I hug her awkwardly, trying to avoid leaving a handprint anywhere. “If you stain it, that will just be a reminder of the day I came back to you.”
And how could I not agree to that?
