Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (7 page)

With extreme caution, I eyed the room again and decided I had had enough. I started for the steps and Baker followed right behind me. As we made our way back down the stairs, with no handrail and green indoor-outdoor carpet under our feet, I couldn’t help but think about my house back home. The one I had spent nearly a year remodeling, the one that had my very favorite wallpaper in the dining room with tropical plants and birds all over it. Over three thousand square feet of living space and Baker
and Ed wanted me to trade it in for what appeared to be less than eight hundred!

Ed headed out the front door, sensing, I’m sure, that he might lose the sale if we tarried too long in the superb owners’ quarters. I headed straight out behind him and right over to his car. He and Baker continued to chat while observing the outside of a little cottage with turquoise shutters in the middle of the garden.

On the way back up the mountain I stared out the backseat window of Ed’s car, with my foot on top of
Naughty Nurses
, forcing myself to keep an open mind. But that malodorous old house was not my idea of a home. The thought of waking up there every morning was downright depressing. Baker and I were due back there for dinner in a few hours to watch the restaurant in motion.
Maybe I could accidentally lose the car keys when we get back to our motel
, I thought.
Then, we’d never make it back!
I knew that was pointless, though. Baker would simply call Ed to pick us up and then I’d have to endure even more of his Yankee malarkey on into the evening.

When we made it to our car, Baker thanked Ed for his hospitality and told him we’d be in touch. Thank goodness Baker didn’t invite him to join us for dinner.

We made it back only five minutes late for our eight o’clock dinner reservation at the Vermont Haus Inn. We were seated on the screened-in porch. I had hoped we would be able to sit out there. It overlooked the perennial garden, but more important, it meant I’d have fresh air to breathe. I realize now I should have paid more attention to the fact that a space heater was cranking away in the corner of the porch taking the bite off the evening air. The
summer evening
air.

The hostess who showed us to our table was cute, but I honestly felt like she was a lot friendlier to Baker than she was to me. As she handed him his menu, I could have sworn she gave him a sultry look—right in front of me. Baker never acted like he noticed so I never brought it up. My
copy of the menu had no prices on it. The last time I’d seen one of those was at Antoine’s in New Orleans with Daddy.

Ed had told us the Vermont Haus Inn was the premiere restaurant in the Sugartree region. Rolf Schloygin was a renowned chef in Vermont. His clientele was loyal, mostly in the fifty-plus range, probably due to the higher prices and old-timey food. I say old-timey food because as I glanced over the menu, which was classic French, I noticed some appetizers that were completely foreign to me. Eggplant caponata? Vitello tunato? And something called
head cheese
? I was familiar with some of the other items like herring in sour cream, frog legs provençale, and escargots maison, but it didn’t mean I would ever
order
one of those.

“I’m not all that familiar with these appetizers,” I said to Baker, careful not to berate the menu. (What I
wanted
to say was, these appetizers aren’t that appetizing to me, but instead I zipped my lip.) “What do you think I should order, honey?”

“Why don’t you order the soup, or the prosciutto with melon? Can you believe this menu? Is it wonderful or what?” Baker gloated over it like he would his golf score. Baker thought everything about Vermont was wonderful by now.

Within ten minutes the waiter made it over to our table. “
Bonjour
,” he said, and then a big smile. No conversation. He just very politely looked at me and said, “Madame?”

“Hi, how are you?” I smiled back at him.

He just kept on smiling.

Baker nudged me under the table with his knee. “I think he’s ready for you to order.”

“Oh, pardon me. Okay, I think I’m going to try the soup du jour, please. What kind is it this evening?” I looked up from my menu.

“Soup es vichyssoise.”

“That will be lovely, and for my entrée I’ll try the duckling with cherry sauce.”

“And I’ll have the escargots and the beef Wellington, medium rare,” Baker said. “And please bring us a bottle of your, let’s see now, ahhh . . .
how about a bottle of your Châteauneuf-du-Pape cab.” Baker knows wine.

“
Merci
,” the waiter said, and dashed off. The poor thing was running around like a chicken with his head chopped off. For some reason, he was the only one taking all the orders. I felt sorry for him, really.

Halfway through our appetizers, Helga Schloygin—Rolf’s sister—stopped by our table for a brief introduction. She took me by surprise. Big-boned and very, very tall, Helga stood probably six feet, and she looked to be in her early sixties. Helga had gray hair that she brushed straight back off her face and wore twisted up in a tight bun. She had a hard-looking face, which bore not one trace of makeup. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck and her clothing was oddly preppy. She wore a pair of navy blue pants, a white button-down oxford cloth blouse, and navy blue flats.

“Hello,” she said. “I am Helga Schloygin. Proprietor of Vermont Haus Inn.”

Baker stood up. “Hi, Helga, I’m Baker and this is my wife, Leelee.”

I smiled at her. “It’s nice to meet you, Helga.”

She grinned and gave us both a firm handshake. “Vhere are you from?”

“Memphis, Tennessee,” Baker told her.

“I see. How long have you been vorking in ze restaurant business?”

“I was in management during college,” Baker said. “But I’m in the insurance business now.”

She turned to me. “Vhat is
your
job?”

“Baker and I have two young daughters. My time is spent with them.”

“I see.” Even with her heavy German accent I detected she was a smoker. Her voice was gravelly and had a slight wheeze to it.

“These vater glasses are filled too high,” she barked to the busboy at the next table. “Excuse me, ve are vedy busy. I am needed in the kitchen.”

“Oh sure,” Baker, who was still standing, said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

She nodded and was off.

“Helga has a strong personality, don’t you think?” I said to Baker after he sat back down.

“She’s German. All Germans have strong personalities.”

“Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like I have a lot of German friends.”

Baker rolled his eyes and changed the subject.

At the end of the dinner, which I have to say was delicious, Rolf Schloygin himself came out to greet us. When he walked up to our table, we knew right away he must be the chef by his white jacket and billowy hat. A bushy white beard and red cheeks made him look like Santa but I’ll bet the red in his cheeks was probably from high blood pressure. After all, he was huge. I would say he weighed in at just under three hundred pounds but oddly enough he couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six. Something must have gotten crossed in their family gene pool, I thought, considering his sister was a half foot taller. The man must have been pushing seventy; no wonder he was ready to retire.

“Hello, you must be ze Satterfields.” Rolf extended his hand to both of us.

“Yes, we are,” Baker said, and kept his seat. “This is my wife, Leelee.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, and then turned to me. “You have lovely hair, my dear.”

I gave him a bashful smile. “That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you. And I think your food is equally as lovely.”

“Vell, thank
you
vedy much.”
His
accent was intriguing and I found myself actually warming up to him. “How do you like Vermont so far?”

“I’m in love with it. I can’t think of anything I don’t like about it,” Baker said, and raised up his arms.

Rolf chuckled. “I’m sure you could find
some
zing.” Bless his heart, he absolutely reeked of perspiration. But at that point I was used to the smell. I always thought Daddy was being sarcastic when he said Europeans must use a different kind of deodorant than us.

“Baker is enchanted to say the least. Are you through cooking for the evening?” I asked him.

“No, not quite. I am only dropping by to velcome you to Vermont Haus Inn. I should get back,
rr
eally. Thank you vedy much for coming.”

“You’re most welcome.” Baker stood up to shake Rolf’s hand again. “Love the place.”

“I hope you come back soon.” Rolf took off his hat to bid us farewell and
I was surprised to see his nearly bald head, with only a scattering of long white hairs slicked straight back. Rolf Schloygin could have rivaled Edmund Gwenn in
Miracle on 34th Street
for Santa any day of the week.

“
His
personality’s not so strong,” I informed Baker when Rolf walked away.

“Sure it is. He’s just a better salesman.”

On the plane ride back to Memphis, Baker went back over all the reasons why Vermont was the perfect place to live and raise our family. He reasoned that life is short and you only go around once. Why not take a leap of faith and do something different. So, in his ever-present persuasive manner, Baker actually managed to convince me that moving to Vermont was the best thing we could do for ourselves, and especially for Sarah and Isabella.

North American Inns
magazine—the publication that would change my life forever. If it hadn’t been for that magazine, or Ed Baldwin who placed an ad in that July issue, or if it hadn’t been for the owners of the Vermont Haus Inn who wanted to sell it, where would I be today?

Mama, who had been raised in Greenville, Mississippi, used to tell me when I was a teenager, “It’s a woman’s duty to follow her husband.” Of course, the only place Mama ever had to follow Daddy was from the Mississippi Delta to Memphis, Tennessee. Big whoop-de-doo. If Mama were still alive, would she have really told me to follow Baker all the way up to the North?

It’s a definite that Daddy wouldn’t have. I can just hear him now: “Why in the Sam Hill would you want to leave God’s country and move all the way to the frozen wastelands of the North? I’ve given you life on a silva platta right here in Memphis, Tennessee.”

Poor Daddy, I’m sure the ground around him just rumbled and quaked when that moving van pulled up in front of our house. He had been gone only a year and here I was digging up my roots and spending
his money
on a dream that wasn’t even mine.

Chapter Five

When our former principal, Mrs. Carrington, got up to address the crowd—all dressed up in Sunday clothes—everyone instinctively stopped the chatter to give her their undivided attention. Everyone but me, that is. To think I was sitting at a luncheon, given in my honor, to bid me farewell was an out-of-body experience to say the least.

“Ladies, ladies, may I have your attention, please?” Mrs. C. announced into the microphone on the small podium at the front of the Red Room, and peered at us from over her reading glasses. I couldn’t believe she still wore those on the tip of her nose. She had not changed one bit and it felt like we were back in school. Out of habit, everyone at the luncheon who went to the Jamison School respectfully stood up for her. I know she got a big kick out of it because she responded according to custom: “Young ladies, you may be seated,” and everyone laughed out loud. Alice had come up with the idea of inviting her and Virginia thought it would be a hoot to have her emcee the luncheon.

“We know why we are all gathered here today. But it’s quite hard to believe we have to say good-bye to one of our own. Most everyone in this room, just like me, has known Leelee Williams Satterfield since she was a
little girl. It is an honor and a privilege to stand up here today and give a toast to her past, her present, and her future.” Her voice climbed and she held her tea glass high in the air.

Everyone raised their own glasses and Mrs. Carrington added, “And remember, we expect you back home for many, many visits.”

I can barely feign a smile.

Seated right next to me was Kristine. To this day I think of her as my true mother. She came to work for us when I was only six months old and she worked for Grandmama for ten years before that. She knows more about Daddy’s side of the family than Daddy did. When I was little I couldn’t pronounce my
R
s so Kristine became Kisstine. In time I dropped the
-tine
and changed it to
-issie
. Now, because of me, almost everyone she knows calls her Kissie.

The clapping seemed to last forever until Mrs. Carrington interrupted to say, “And now we have a very special treat for you. Some of Leelee’s best friends—and may I just take this opportunity to say some things never change—have gone to great lengths to entertain us all. Ladies, the stage is all yours.” She motioned her arm toward the back of the room.

The old familiar music of
The Bob Newhart Show
came out of nowhere and all heads turned around to see Alice, Virginia, and Mary Jule marching up the center aisle in between the tables. Each one was wrapped up in a heavy red plaid jacket, a lumberjack hat with earflaps, a scarf, gloves, and big chunky boots. Sticking out underneath the jackets were long peach-colored taffeta dresses. My bridesmaid dresses—only now with the added bonus of hoop skirts underneath.
Very funny, girls.
For their bouquets, they each carried Log Cabin syrup bottles with dead flowers poking out of the tops. As they made their way to the front, they pulled out handfuls of fake snow from their coat pockets and proceeded to throw it around the room. My guests were brushing it off their clothes and picking it out of one another’s hair while the three nincompoops laughed hysterically. One thing was for sure about my best friends. They weren’t going to make any bones about the fact that they thought this whole Vermont idea was ridiculous and each one of them was ready to kill Baker Satterfield.