Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter Page 16

  May was here and the girls were finally, finally able to play outside without snowsuits, hats, scarves, gloves, and boots. Actually, I take that back. We still had to wear jackets and boots and toe heaters but it was still wonderful to be outside.

  Notwithstanding the fact that my departure was drawing near, the garden was still beckoning me. Crocuses were popping up and the peeping heads of the daffodil foliage were making their first show of the season. It looked like February back home instead of May to me, but I was elated to finally get a glimpse of color. White was the only color I’d seen in Vermont for months—white houses, white snow, white skies, white people, Rolf’s white beard—I surely had had enough of white. Back home, the azaleas and dogwoods had finished blooming by this time and the leaves on the trees had long since popped out.

  “Something’s stinging me.” Sarah ran toward me, crying. “Right here on my neck.” When she pulled her hand away her little fingers were spotted with blood.

  “What in the world?” I pulled up her dark wavy ponytail to see the back of her neck. Seconds later, Issie had the same complaint only she could hardly get a breath from crying so hard. Upon examination I learned that undeniably both the girls’ little necks had been bitten. But by what? Mosquitoes don’t draw blood, and neither do bees nor hornets. (The real reason for this unexpected disturbance, I would soon learn, would have been enough to put any relocated Southerner in bed for a week.)

  “It’s gonna be fine, sweet girls. Go on back to play. It was just a freak accident.” The girls headed back to the swing set and I got back to digging.

  I was daydreaming about my backyard in Memphis when something stung the back of my neck. I jerked my hand around almost as fast as it happened to try and catch the predator. No luck. It kept on hurting but I kept on digging—until it happened again. This time when I touched my neck, and blood stained my muddy fingers, I did the only thing I knew to do. I called the definitive authority on the state of Vermont herself, Roberta Abbott. She and Moe were to be spending the day chopping wood to store up for next winter. I told Roberta that it was still this winter as far as I was concerned. Lucky for me she was inside getting a drink of water and answered on the first ring.

  “Roberta! Have y’all started chopping yet?”

  “You bet we have. Me and Moe have chopped two cords already. What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

  “I am upset. The girls and I were outside no less than five minutes when we were bitten by some vampire bugs. All three of us have blood dripping down our necks. Do you have them at your house?”

  “Welcome to spring in Vermont.”

  “Hang on, Roberta, I must be hearing things. I could have sworn I just heard you say ‘Welcome to spring in Vermont.’ ”

  “I did! I’m talkin’ about blackflies. Don’t yous have blackflies in Tennessee?”

  “Of course we have blackflies in Tennessee. But I’ve never in my life had one bite me, much less draw blood.”

  “Well, they draw blood here, and it hurts like a son of a gun.”

  “I’ll say it hurts. Our flies back home hang out in the windows and around the food. Then, of course, there are the green ones that buzz around the dog . . . well, never mind, that’s gross. They may drive you crazy by flying around your head but they don’t bite you, for heaven’s sake.”

  “You’ve gut the wrong fly. I’m talkin’ about the blackflies that are nearly impossible to see.”

  “No-see-ums? We have those. They’re annoying but they don’t bite you. Tennessee doesn’t have y’all’s kinds of blackflies.”

  “Well, don’t worry, you’ll get used to them. Just make sure to use bug repellant every time you go outside and keep the rest of your body bundled up, too. They love kids. Moe’s kids got covered in bites every year because their darn mother was too busy to wrap ’em up.”

  “You’re not gonna tell me this goes on all summer, are you?” I said, just kidding around.

  “Nuup, I’m happy to report they only last about seven or eight weeks.”

  “SEVEN OR EIGHT WEEKS?” I shrieked into the phone.

  “Yuup. Them are usually gone by Fourth of July.”

  How much more could I possibly take? After we hung up I was ready to murder Ed Baldwin. I’d been dreaming of warm days and nights for five months. Here it was May and not only was it still chilly, with highs around fifty-five, we couldn’t even go outside. The thought of keeping my girls back indoors until July because of a swarm of vampire bugs was my final straw.

  When the bugs bite the back of the neck the lymph nodes swell up. It feels like little tumors back there. The first time I felt one on Isabella I nearly lost my mind. I called the doctor’s office in a frenzy. “It’s only the blackflies,” they told me. “Their bites make the lymph nodes swell up for a while. Not to worry, they’ll go away.”

  I learned a blackfly repellant trick from Jeb: Spray a bandanna really well with Skin So Soft and tie it around your neck and they won’t come near. It finally occurred to me what Jeb’s mama was talking about at the Christmas party when she told me that Skin So Soft would really be handy come spring.

  Here we go again, but I have to say, nobody ever told me about Vermont’s kind of blackflies.

  I don’t think it had really sunk in to Sarah and Issie that Daddy wasn’t coming home. They asked a few questions, about where he was and who he was with, but I managed to be evasive, trying to avoid the subject and divert their attention to other subjects. Like movies, books, or . . . actually, that’s all there was for kids to do in Vermont around Mud Season. Read stories or watch movies. Period.

  I was reading in bed, late one night, when Sarah slid into my room. A little sniffle alerted me that she was standing right next to the bed with her thumb in her mouth, rubbing what was left of her blankie under her nose.

  “Can’t sleep?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “Where’s my daddy, Mommy?”

  It killed me to hear her words and I reached out and pulled her up on the bed. She nestled in next to me and continued to fondle the corner of her blanket. “He’s decided to live away from us, sweetie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s found another job, and another . . .” I forced myself not to continue the sentence. “He wants to live on his own now.” I looked lovingly into her sad little blue eyes.

  “Is he coming home?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m here with you. And you know what? I love you this much.” I stretched my arms out as wide as I could. “And even though Daddy’s not here, he loves you this much.” Again, I stretched my arms.

  She listened to what I was saying, but didn’t speak. I seized the lag in the conversation and changed the subject. I didn’t know what to tell her any more than she knew what to ask.

  “Hey, we need a new movie. Why don’t we drive to Rutland in the morning to pick out a new one?”

  “Issie, too? Can she get one so we can have two?”

  “Let’s get three, why don’t we?”

  A big smile transformed her sullen face and she sat straight up. “Can we get four?”

  I would have agreed to buy her ten movies that night, just to take her mind off the heaviness she felt from being separated from Baker.

  My dreams of never working with Sergeant Helga Schloygin again were dying fast. The restaurant was due to reopen in only two weeks and I had no sale contract for the Vermont Haus Inn. Ed brought a couple of interested buyers traipsing through the inn but no one was ever interested in seeing it the second time. The price was too high. The chance of finding someone with a spare $450,000 who wanted to lose it in the restaurant business in Vermont was as remote as that of spotting a Vermont moose.

  I went ahead and put an ad in The Sugartree Gazette for a sous-chef. But here’s the hitch. I had never hired anyone before in my whole life. I knew myself well enough to know that it would not be easy, especially when it came to explaining my reasons for not offering someone the job. I didn’t really know what
to look for in a chef—but nice attitude and pleasant personality were numbers one and two. Cooking skills came third. (Just kidding.) I knew cooking skills were important but the former two requirements were paramount in my book nonetheless.

  The first candidate I interviewed was a definite no. He showed up in his chef clothes, having come straight from his current job, stinking to high heaven with BO. I couldn’t get past it. No more stinkiness needed around here, I told myself. But then again, what reason would I give for not hiring him? You stink, fella? I decided to worry about it later.

  The second guy I talked to was better. He was dressed nicely and didn’t smell bad at all and he was quite pleasant. Upon glancing at his résumé, I learned that he had tons of experience and was a chef at a smaller inn, two towns over. I was close to offering him the job when he told me he needed fifty thousand per year to make the switch. That was the end of that interview.

  After interview number two, panic struck. What if I couldn’t find anyone and Rolf came back to no assistant? What if I really had to pay someone a ton of money? Let’s not ignore the fact that I knew nothing about the restaurant business and now I was the one in charge. Who in the world could I trust at this point? Absolutely no one.

  At straight up three o’clock on a Monday, exactly eleven days before we were due to reopen, I had scheduled my third interview. I was dreading this interview, too, because this particular guy was the sous-chef at a little restaurant called the Wild Duck down in Manchester. It had a great reputation although I had never eaten there before. I knew the food was pricey so my biggest fear was that he would want to be paid fifty thousand dollars like the last guy. I was embarrassed to be looking for an experienced sous-chef with no money to offer.

  I never heard him come in. He didn’t knock; no one did. He was standing quietly in front of the fireplace in the red-checked dining room when I ambled in from our apartment.

  “Oh! I didn’t know you were here yet.” Although I was startled I still thought to extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Leelee. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “No, I haven’t. I should have called out or knocked. I’m Peter.” He made straight eye contact with me and smiled. Perfect teeth.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Great place you have here,” he said, looking around.

  “Oh, well, I appreciate you saying that.” Embarrassed that this man might think the inn was a reflection of me I added, “Actually, I’ve lived here only five months and haven’t been able to do anything to make it feel like home. We bought the place furnished and not one thing has changed.” I cringed when I remembered the smell. “I’m terribly sorry about the odor.” I waved my hand under my nose. “It was here before we moved in.”

  “No worries. I’ve never been here before, only heard about it. It’s hard to eat out at other restaurants. Most of the good ones are closed on Mondays, and that’s my only night off.”

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t been out to eat anywhere else, either.” An awkward moment followed, like neither of us knew what to say next. “Would you like a Coke or something?” I said, trying to push through the discomfort.

  “No, thank you, but do you mind if I see the kitchen?”

  “Of course not, it’s right through here.”

  After a thorough tour of the kitchen we meandered back out to the dining room, having had a nice conversation. Peter took a seat at the table in the bay window. He had the classic little boy, all-American look—sandy blond hair, light blue eyes, and a cute nose. There was nothing little boy about his body at all. He must have been six feet tall and thanks to the T-shirt he was wearing I got to sneak peeks at his strong forearms.

  We chitchatted for a few minutes longer, mostly about skiing and moose, and I found out that he loved to ski but, like me, had never seen a moose. Another awkward moment of silence followed. “Do you know Rolf and Helga?” I finally asked, getting back to the real reason he was sitting at my table.

  “Never met either of them. I know Rolf’s reputation, of course.”

  “I think everyone does.” I wanted to say more but bit my tongue instead. I didn’t even hint that we had . . . issues.

  Something about this guy seemed right. He was pleasant and confident and easy to talk to. He stood out far above the other two guys I had interviewed. As a courtesy I felt I had to be up-front with him about the impending sale of the inn. Out of nervousness, I combed my hair behind my ears.

  “Here’s the situation, Peter. I’d like to hire you but I need to be up-front. The Vermont Haus Inn is for sale. Another chef could buy this place and then I’m not sure what’ll happen to your job.”

  He thought for a moment before speaking. “I appreciate you telling me, but I’m not worried about it. I can find a job anywhere,” he said. “I’m looking at this as another stepping-stone anyway. It’s a great opportunity to apprentice under a renowned chef.” He stared out the bay window for a second before adding, “Now here’s my truth. I want my own fine-dining restaurant someday. I need to take advantage of any and all opportunities that lead me to that end.”

  This guy was the one, no doubt about it. “By any chance, could you start next Friday? I know it’s soon, but we reopen for Memorial Day weekend and I’m kind of in a bind. The truth of the matter is, and you’ll find this out soon enough, my husband was the sous-chef but he left.”

  “He left his job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he be coming back?”

  “I guess not, I mean . . . no, he won’t.” I glanced down at the table. My nerve endings had been set on fire.

  He sat silently for a second like he was choosing his words carefully. “Are you saying he left you?”

  I could feel the lump in my throat growing and I didn’t want to cry in front of him. “That’s what I’m saying, but . . . looking toward the future. Do you think you could start next week?” My eyes brimmed with tears but—oh well, I couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sure I can work something out,” he said, sooo laid-back. I appreciated the calm yet confident way in which he spoke. He was quite the contrast to my fizzy self.

  “Oh wait!” I suddenly remembered a vital interview question that I should have asked long before now. “Baker—that’s my husband—wasn’t getting paid, so I don’t know how much to pay you?” Leelee, interviewer extraordinaire.

  “What if you pay me what I’m getting now? Twelve dollars an hour?”

  I couldn’t believe it. “That sounds just right! It’s a deal. Thank you.” The fervor in my voice surely let him know how elated I was to have him.

  “Thank you.” He shook my hand and winked at me.

  I escorted Peter to the door, and told him I’d see him next week. I stood behind the curtain and peered out one of the front windows, watching him walk to his truck. There was something about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it but I felt good about hiring him. My only worry was a potential loyalty to Rolf birthed out of admiration for Rolf’s culinary skills. But I won’t be here much longer anyway, and none of this will matter after I’m gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was only one good thing about Mud Season—well, two. Besides a two-month vacation from Helga, I got to spend all my time with my girls. Five days before the opening, we were inside (of course) baking cookies for Sarah’s year-end party at preschool the next day. It was approaching 5:00 P.M. when the loveliest sound I’d heard in months emanated from the foyer.

  “You-hoo, anybody home?”

  Sarah and Isabella looked over at me and crawled down from their stools in the commercial kitchen. In an instant we tore off running. We met three beautiful Southern faces just as they were walking into the red-checked dining room, loaded down with suitcases and boxes. I almost fainted when I saw them.

  “What are y’all doing here?” I shrieked when I saw them, amid long hugs and kisses.

  “We figured you might need some help about now, you poor little thing,” Mary Jule said while
glancing about the room. Looks of astonishment transformed each of their smiling faces as they slowly pivoted around. My abandonment by Baker wasn’t the only thing that blew their minds. The décor of the Vermont Haus Inn had them completely unnerved.

  “How long can y’all stay?”

  “About a week,” Alice said, examining the red-checked wallpaper.

  “We waited until the children got out of school so the guys wouldn’t have to fool with all that,” Virginia said.

  “I can’t believe y’all kept it a secret. Did you fly into Albany and rent a car?”

  “Of course. And we’re kidnapping you on the way back and taking you to New York for a wild girls’ weekend!” Virginia said. Oh, how she loves New York City.

  “Oooooh, I’d love that. But I don’t know,” I said, reconsidering when I thought of what lay ahead. “Opening night is in five days and there’s so much to do here.”

  Virginia stood in front of the mantel, studying Helga’s hippo collection. “You can say that again.”

  “You just calm your little self down. We’re gonna help you do all of that and lots more, darlin’. What could it hurt to run off to New York for two little nights?” Mary Jule asked.

  “Nothing, I suppose. I’ll have to see. But right now, I’m just so glad y’all are here.” I hugged all of them again. We each pulled out a chair at one of the tables in front of the bay window. Sarah climbed up in Alice’s lap and Isabella hopped up with me.

  “Girls, y’all look so pretty, but your mama sure seems a little pale. It’s nearly June and you’re still white as a ghost,” Alice said, giving me a once-over.

  “Does it feel like bikini weather here to you?” I asked her.

  Virginia just had to comment on the interior design. “Fiery, I’ve got a great idea, we can help you decorate!”

  “Fat chance. I told all y’all that Helga undid all my decorating on our second day here. Remember?”

  They all nodded.