Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (45 page)

Mama never worked. Not a single day. But she made up for it volunteering at Le Bonheur Children’s Hospital, our church, and the Junior League. She was a Master Gardener, and her roses were, as Celia, one of her best friends, often said, “The most gorgeous specimens in Memphis.” Her Lucky Ladies and Velvets were often featured in her friends’ floral arrangements and her garden club meetings, as their fragrance could sweeten any size room.

I was her only child. When I asked her why, she said, in her heavy,
r
-rolling, Mississippi drawl, “I didn’t want my fig’a marred any more than it already was. One day, when you’re lookin’ at your post-pregnancy body in the mirr’a, Leelee dear, you’ll unda’stand what I mean.” Despite all that, there is one thing I know for sure about Mama: I was her heart. She used to tell me so over and over again.

Once Mama died, Kissie became even more important in my life. Someone had to step in. Daddy’s mother had already passed away, and Mama’s mother, my namesake, lived down in Mississippi, more than likely an alcoholic herself. Nobody ever admitted to being an alcoholic in those days. A “social drinker” was the term Mama used to describe herself, a phrase my grandmother used as well. “I only drink durin’ cocktail hour,” Mama liked to say, with a defensive tone. “I would nev’a take a drink durin’ the day.” I guess she had forgotten about her Budweisers on Saturdays during Ole Miss games or her “Bloodies” with Sunday brunch.

Thank goodness Daddy had the foresight to keep Kissie around. Looking back on it now, I can’t imagine how my life would have turned out without her. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have a clue how to cook, how to clean, or how to properly fold our laundry. But as wonderful and helpful as she is, that lady can put me in my place in half a second. I can always tell when I’m in trouble by that glare of hers.

The Memphis heat during August was hotter than “blowed coal,” according to Daddy.
As
Alice and I readied ourselves for Jay Stockley’s summer boy–girl party, Alice sat tailor-fashion on the floor in front of the full-length mirror in my bathroom and I sat on top of the counter with my feet in the sink. We painted enough baby blue eye shadow on our eyes to look more like cartoon characters than like fifteen-year-olds and wore enough Heaven Scent to warrant an arrest from the perfume patrol. When we were ready to leave for the party, we pranced out of my bedroom wearing short shorts and halter tops and headed down the long hall toward Kissie, who was waiting on us at the other end. She had the car keys in her hand—Mama and Daddy were out of town—and her eyes narrowed as we got closer. Her lips were pressed together and the glare on her face spread from one side to the other. At first she didn’t say anything but her head turned with each step we made around the den. Finally, after she was convinced we weren’t going to change clothes on our own accord, she said, “Where’s your brassiere, Leelee?”

“Halter tops don’t need bras,” I told her.

“Hmmmm,” was her only response.

The next time my back was toward her, she yanked the sash of my paisley halter top, springing it loose with ease.
“Kissie,”
I said, clutching my arms over my chest. (Incidentally, at that point, my tender breasts were A’s. It would be the end of my junior year before my D’s finally sprang to life.)

“Don’t Kissie me,”
she retorted. “What you gone do when some junkyard dog gets you in a lip lock and starts running his hands all over your back? Huh? You think he ain’t gone do what I just did? You need to get back in your room and change outta that thing you’re calling a shirt, young lady. Put on a blouse. Something
decent
.” Kissie pointed her finger down the hall. “You, too, Alice. What would your mama say? Y’all’s shorts are bad enough. Might as well be wearing underpants. You girls ain’t gone go out under my watch looking like you’re askin’ to be taken advantage of. Get on back there, ya hear? Hm hm hm, hm hm hm. You girls gone put me in Bolivar.”

Bolivar is a place people from Memphis talk about ending up when they finally have a nervous breakdown. I’ve never seen it before but I’ve heard about it my whole life. It’s actually the Western State Mental Health Institute in the town of Bolivar, Tennessee. People have just shortened the place to “Bolivar.” Mama talked about it and so did Daddy. In fact, everyone’s parents did. When I was little I remember Mama calling mental hospitals insane asylums, and the very image of that scared the daylights out of me. I hear the town is as charming as any small Southern town could ever be, but I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the citizens. I bet they are sick to death of people asking them all about the mental hospital when asked the simple question: Where are you from?

Daddy passed away of complications from diabetes ten years after Mama died. That was unquestionably
the
worst time of my life. I think something else dies when a girl loses her father, something inside the deepest caverns of her heart. Her sense of security suffers a crushing blow. He’s the one person she can count on to be there for her no matter what.

Copyright @ Lisa Patton 2013

Acknowledgments

There are many people I want to acknowledge and thank from the bottom of my heart. This book has been my dream for more years than I care to count. The people I mention here have all contributed to the fruition of that dream, and I want each of you to know how much you mean to me.

My sincerest gratitude to all of the lovely people at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press. Katie Gilligan, editor extraordinaire, who laughs her way through the day. You have greatly enhanced the lines on these pages. Not only did you fall in love with my book, you went to bat for me over and over. You got the vision, and for that I am deeply grateful. Sally Richardson, you did also—I am one fortunate woman. Thomas Dunne, Matthew Shear, and Peter Wolverton, I’m thrilled to have you all on my side. Thank you to Matthew Baldacci, Courtney Fischer, Lisa Senz, and Sarah Goldstein for your phenomenal marketing skills, and to Michael Storrings and Ervin Serrano for your creativity and
brilliance
with the cover design. In production, thanks to Julie Gutin and Christina MacDonald for your razor-sharp eyes. And in publicity, Rachel Ekstrom, Joe Rinaldi, and Jessica Rotondi.

Huge thanks to my wonderful, witty, super-smart agent, a real fireball,
Holly Root at Waxman Literary. You plucked me out of oblivion and believed in me. It’s an honor to have you on my team.

Michael and Will, thank you for hanging in there with Mom all these years. I wanted to show you what can happen when you want something so badly and are willing to invest all the sweat equity you’ve got. Roll up your sleeves and go for it, no matter how long it may take or what struggles life may throw your way. I love you with all my heart.

My sisters, Laurie, Leslie, and Melanie. Thank you for your love and encouragement. They mean so much to me. I love you.

There are a few dear friends of mine who have not only lent me an unyielding ear, but have encouraged and edified me for years. Kathy “G” Peabody, you have gone way beyond the call of duty with all the drafts you have read, the help you have given me, and all the
Whistlin’ Dixie
news you’ve listened to. Thank you, my dear friend, for your love and always being there. Penny Preston, your friendship and love mean everything to me. You are truly my blessing. Gail Donovan, without your love and reassurance I might not have done this. Becky Barkley, old movie buff, Princess Grace and I thank you. Sarah Berger, Steve Berger, Kim Carnes, Gail Chiaravalle, Jan Cross, Emily Kay, Scarlett McDonald, Robin Morrison, Anne Marie Norton, Ron Olson, Vicki Olson, LeAnn Phelan, and Margie Thessin, thank you all for investing your time into my dream. Mike McDonald, you believed in me from day one. Because of you, I actually started to believe I might have what it takes. Thank you.

Jeff Bridges, Christopher Cross, Karin Gillespie, Linda Francis Lee, Tracy McArdle, Michael McDonald, T. Lynn Ocean, Lee Smith, and Adriana Trigiani, thank you for taking time out of your insane schedules to read
my
book and offer up your praise. My head’s still reeling.

Thanks to Mary Helen Clarke, an early editor who gave me a crash course in novel writing. You are fantastic. Wes Yoder, thank you for lending me your publishing expertise and guidance. Thanks to Linda Yoder, cussing coach, your much-needed consulting was invaluable.

I have been blessed to have lifelong friends from childhood. We wore the needles out on hundreds of albums and got into our share of teenage
trouble. You have been the inspiration for some of the characters in this book. Lisa Murphey Blakley, Cary Coors Brown, Katy Collier Creech, Elise Norfleet Crockett, Wilda Weaver Hudson, Emily Freeburg Kay, Mimi Hall Taylor, and Lisa Earp Wilder. All of you have deposited more fun and laughter into my life account than one should be allowed. I love you.

Four of my dearest friends from college, Alice Davis Blake, Mary Gaston Long Catmur, Genie McCown, and Leelee Thomas Walter, have also contributed to hours of belly laughter, and I thank you for the inspiration that came out of it.

My gratitude and love to others who have labored through the reading of drafts or offered up encouragement, help, and inspiration: Kathy Aicher, Stephanie Alexander, Tasha Alexander, Allison Allen, all at Backspace the Writer’s Place, Bill Barkley, Clemé Barkley, Tammy Baskin, Matraca Berg, Heather Berger, Josiah Berger, Mel Berger, Jim Bergmann, Julia Black, Mildred Bonner, Genie Buchanon, Chris Burke, Angela Calhoun, Teasi Cannon, Sherry Carr, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Bernie Chiaravalle, Pat Clonts, Hilda and Wayne Collett, Margaret Connelly, Kayleen Cox, Bill Crew, Gigi Crichton, the late Jenny C. Crumbaugh, Laura Elkin, Dave Ellingson, Maureen Ferguson, Denise Foster, Lark Foster, Ben Fowler, Helen Freeburg, Tara Gero, Dawn Goldman, Jennifer Hart, Matt Huesmann, Debbie Ingram, Eric Jacobson, Kim Jamison, Tammy Jensen, Dr. David Johnson, Harvey Kay, Lisa Kloepfer, Candy Kopald, Linda Abston Larsen, Dan Mann, John Marx, Jodie McCarthy, Amy McDonald, Susie Meeks, John Moore, Sherrie Moore, Penny Nelms, Mary Norman, Jessica Olson, Oxbow School, the Pastiche Girls, Rick Peabody, Michele Place, Terry Robbins, Molly Robinson, Emily Roley, Linda Roley, Scott Roley, Dick Runyan, Ed Ryan, Andrea Santee, Melissa Sarver, Gigi Steele, Joanna Stephens, Elizabeth Stout, Barbara Swan, Roger Thorn-Thompson, Grady Walker, Kathy Walker, Treat Williams, and Lisa Winters.

Mama, Daddy, and Chris—I know you’re up there wishing like crazy you could be in the front row. All three had contagious laughs and wonderful senses of humor. Thank goodness they rubbed off on me.

And to you, dear reader, thank you for buying my book. Part of the proceeds will benefit struggling single mothers and their children in Williamson County, Tennessee.

Above all, I owe this book to God, my Redeemer. Without Him, I would have never been able to write it in the first place.

Reading Group Gold

Whistlin’ Dixie in a Nor’Easter

by Lisa Patton

A Reading Group Gold Selection

A
bout the Author

• A Conversation with Lisa Patton
  

F
ood for Thought

• Recipes from the Peach Blossom Inn
  

K
eep on Reading

• Recommended Reading
  
• Reading Group Questions
  

For more reading group suggestions,
visit
www.readinggroupgold.com

ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN

A Conversation with Lisa Patton

What was the inspiration for
Whistlin’ Dixie in a Nor’easter
?

I really was an innkeeper in Vermont. Even better, a Southern innkeeper in Vermont! After surviving three sub-zero winters, discovering Vermonters don’t bury their dead in the winter, suffering from vampire bug bites on the back of my neck, and enjoying a four-week summer where I still had to wear a coat at night, I knew I had a story to write.

“Like Leelee, I’m a work in progress.”

How has your personal life experience influenced this book? What similarities do you have with Leelee Satterfield?

The first thing that comes to my mind is the way Southern girls are brought up, at least in my era. We were taught to be agreeable and polite. I’ve heard people criticize Southern women for not saying what’s on their mind. That’s because we are taught from a young age to be great hostesses and make everyone feel comfortable. It might not be the best way, but it’s what we’ve learned. Sure, there’s a bit of me in Leelee. I get caught up in the same trap of sacrificing my needs for everyone else’s and wanting people to like me. Like Leelee, I’m a work in progress. Then again, so are most of my closest friends.