Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter Read online

  “Furious is what he is,” I told her.

  “Good. Then maybe, just maybe, he’ll get an idea of how furious we are at him. He makes me sick.” Alice’s always hated him.

  Even though she was across from me on the bed, Mary Jule noticed something when I put my hand to my mouth. She sat straight up. “Leelee, look at your ring!”

  I jerked my hand around to look and sure enough, the emerald-cut diamond at the center of my engagement ring was gone. The four lone platinum prongs and the two baguettes on either side were all that were left of my ring.

  “It was there this morning,” Alice said. “I remember distinctly because I was wondering when you were gonna finally take the damn thing off.”

  “It probably fell out on that mountain,” I said, feeling depressed all over again. “It’s up there with the rest of Baker’s belongings.”

  “If you want to go look for it,” Mary Jule said, “I’ll help you.”

  My initial reaction was to jump back in the car and whiz off toward Powder Mountain, but my better judgment set me straight. “Oh, what’s the point? We’ll never find it. I’m not even gonna try. It doesn’t mean anything to me anymore, anyway.”

  “It’s no coincidence that you lost it up there,” Mary Jule said. “Truth is, he’d already taken your heart with him up to that mountain.”

  “I, for one, am excited about it,” Virginia said, looking me straight in the eye.

  “Excited about it? How come?” I asked her, thinking of all that was lost today.

  “Just thinking about how you’re gonna spend the insurance money, that’s how come. I’m thinking Tahiti.” Her devilish smile returned.

  “With whom? Jeb?”

  “Yeah, right. I think you should take Jeb. Me. I’ll go with you,” Virginia said.

  “So how do you get to be the one to go?” Alice bolted straight up. “Y’all are just gonna leave Mary Jule and me at home?”

  “Did I say anything about leaving y’all at home? Y’all can go. We’ll all go,” Virginia said.

  The only place I wanted to go was home to Memphis with my friends. Telling them good-bye on Monday was going to be excruciating, but I knew I was on the downhill stretch. I could “stay in hell a little while longer” as Kissie would say, because I knew I was getting out. I could practically taste Tennessee, and Tahiti for that matter. Time was so close now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If, after Baker left, someone had told me that I’d still be living in Vermont in August, I’d have said, I think not. But it was most definitely August and I was most definitely still here. Hard to believe, but my friends had been gone two months already and Ed Baldwin hadn’t darkened the doorway of the Peach Blossom Inn in three months. He hadn’t brought a single soul through to show his listing that he told me would be “no problem whatsoever to move.”

  “People will be clamoring to buy it, you wait and see,” he said at first. Then it went to “Folks like to wait until fall when the leaves are turning,” and then to “Vermont is depressed right now. Nothing is selling at all.”

  Vermont is depressed right now! Why else would people drive around with a bumper sticker that says MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT OR STARVE? Or, WORKING VERMONTER: ENDANGERED SPECIES. It’s beyond me how these Vermont real estate agents stay in business at all. The only thing I can come up with is that late July, August, and September in Vermont spell redemption. June gets off to a buggy start but by the time mid-July rolls around, Vermont is magnificent. Late summer is the payoff for the whole year. Now, make no mistake about it, it’s fleeting. A six-week summer is all you get. But it is quite lovely.

  The garden outside our apartment was stunning. Red and white hollyhocks reached up past the windowsills pointing to the sky and the lupines were big and bright. Butterfly bush, dianthus, foxglove, purple coneflowers, columbine, lavender, you name it—the perennials were vibrant and crisp. The lilac bushes were enormous and you could smell them from across the yard. And the roses. Oh my gosh, the roses had no yellow leaves or black spots at all. Granted they were short-lived but they were gorgeous and smelled oh so sweet. They hardly needed watering because of the cooler temperatures at night. To tell you the truth, that was my only gripe with the summer at all—the cold nights. And most people, even Southerners, might tell me I was crazy to wish for a hot August night.

  “Hey, boss!” Peter shouted from his truck. He was driving up to work at the exact same time my girls and I were returning from our dip in the river. (FYI, there are very few outdoor swimming pools in Vermont and the few in existence are located at a select inn or two. What’s the point, right?)

  “How many reservations on the books tonight?” he asked as he grabbed his gym bag out of the back of his little black truck.

  “Sixty-two so far.”

  “And the day is young. I predict we serve eighty dinners.” Peter’s smile really is something else. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d worn braces or if his teeth were naturally that straight.

  “I sure hope so. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have cash flow,” I said, and rubbed my hands together.

  “I knew we could do it.”

  Without warning, Peter threw me his bag, which I barely caught, and scooped up the girls. He sat Issie on top of his shoulders and let Sarah ride piggyback. Their little bathing suits were still wet but Peter didn’t seem to mind. “We’ll race ya, Leelee. Hold on tight, girls.” They took off running toward the inn. I dropped his gym bag and ran with all my might. We both reached the gate under the arbor at the same time. That’s where I got my edge. While Peter took the time to open the gate I decided to hop the little white picket fence instead. He’s already six-foot-two and with Isabella on top he had to duck up under the arbor, and by the time he finally reached the apartment door I was propped against the post. I glanced at my wrist like I was checking out the time when he made it to the door.

  “You cheated,” he said, out of breath. “Right, girls?”

  Sarah agreed with him. “Yeah, Mommy, you jumped over the fence.”

  “Cheated? I did not. You never said hopping fences was against the rules. I won fair and square.”

  Isabella squealed and clapped her hands. “Yay, Mommy!”

  Suddenly, Peter’s eyes dropped. My bathing suit wrap had fallen off while I was running and all I had on was my light green strapless bikini. I could feel his eyes on me as I ran over to the grass to pick up my sarong and wrap myself back up. Peter put the girls down in front of the door and opened it to let them run on through.

  We stood there staring at each other for an uncomfortable moment. “I’ll see you in the kitchen a little later,” he said, and winked.

  “See ya,” I called from the yard, and watched him walk in through the porch.

  We had become good friends over the summer. With a lively sense of humor, Peter had a great way about him. When he spoke to me he looked directly in my eyes. The edges of his mouth always curved up when I was speaking to him and he never glanced around the room or let anything distract him from giving me his undivided attention. Whenever I was in the restaurant, he made a point to find me and find out how things were going with the girls and me. Someone in Vermont actually cared how my day was going.

  He never seemed to mind working late. When it came to breakfast though, he started out cooking for the first week or two and then he made sure I learned how to do it. I figured out real quick Peter was not a morning person, but he sure was a big help to me, anyway. Jumping in and handling all the restaurant duties, such as ordering the food and the wine, was only the beginning. Peter designed a new wine list and taught me about matching wine with food. One of the guys he had worked with at the Wild Duck, Jim, heard the news about Peter’s new position and applied to be his sous-chef. Head chef Peter Owen was on his way.

  Right after Helga and Rolf left, the two of us got to work on our new menu for the Peach Blossom Inn. The first thing I wanted to do was throw out that nasty head cheese. Next it was out with the canne
d eggplant caponata and a big sayonara to the pickled herring. Peter spent a great deal of time creating the new menu and both of us spent time designing it. We felt it was important to keep some of the old traditional favorites for which the Vermont Haus Inn had become famous. We needed a balance of old and new.

  For starters, our new appetizers included smoked North Atlantic salmon, served in buckwheat crepes, with horseradish cream and golden caviar. We added a chilled jumbo shrimp cocktail, served with either traditional cocktail sauce or a creole remoulade sauce. We kept the house favorite from the old menu, escargot maison, as well as a soup of the evening and a European style pâté. Peter changed the pâté recipe a tad but since it was the only thing Princess Grace Kelly would eat now, thanks to Pierre, we couldn’t change it all that much.

  The final appetizer was created in honor of Daddy. His favorite first course came from an old famous restaurant in Memphis called Justine’s. Lump crabmeat, lightly seasoned and topped with hollandaise, served over toast points. We named that one after him: Crabmeat Henry.

  Our new entrées were equally as delicious. The first item on the menu was a roast Statler breast of chicken, served with sautéed seasonal fruits and a sauce supreme, which was a creamy yet light sauce made with crème fraîche. Veal scaloppini was next, prepared either classic way—marsala or piccata. Peter’s filet mignon was always perfect, served with either a fresh béarnaise or sauce au poivre. Roast Long Island duckling was another old favorite that needed to stay on the menu; Peter just changed the sauces du jour more frequently.

  A daily pasta was added, as pasta was Peter’s specialty. He could conjure up the most beautiful creations with the most delicious flavors. Peter changed the lamb dish a little to a roasted rack of baby lamb. He served it with roasted garlic and a port wine rosemary sauce. Another one of my favorites was the shrimp dijonaise. Jumbo shrimp were sautéed with shallots and tarragon, flamed with cognac, and finished with a white wine and grainy mustard cream sauce. The next item threw me for a loop when Peter suggested it, though. Calf’s liver was permanently added to my menu—thinly sliced and sautéed with balsamic vinegar and red onions, topped with apple-smoked bacon. Peter told me to trust him and that’s exactly what I did.

  A grilled fillet of salmon topped with a mango chile salsa was added and the sweet of the fruit mixed with the salmon formed a delicious sensation. Last but not least was a loin of pork, center cut, boneless, and grilled, wrapped in apple-smoked bacon and glazed with apricot and curry.

  Our desserts were finally something to boast about, too. I found a local lady whose cakes were works of art. Instead of canned peach melba, I was proud to offer homemade peach cobbler. Alice came through with her promise of sending me fresh peaches from home, so I could remain true to our name. And finally, my all-time favorite dessert was added—straight from the kitchen of Kristine “Kissie” Johnson—Southern pecan pie.

  All this delicious food aside, I still missed my good ole down-home Southern cooking. You simply could not buy grits in the grocery store. When I called the Smuckers 800 number to inquire about where to buy a simple jar of cherry preserves, the guy on the phone told me that I’d have to go down south to find them. Barbecue to Northerners meant “grilling out” so if I wanted a barbecue sandwich I might as well set my taste buds on a hamburger.

  If you do find a restaurant that serves fried chicken, it’s usually chicken tenders, and you can flat forget about a decent glass of sweet tea to go with it.

  So, one night Peter surprised me by featuring Southern fare as his “chef’s special” for the evening. He made fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, corn pudding, and spoon bread, just like Kissie would have made it. I had told him all about Kissie and her famous Southern cooking. I wondered why he wanted to know, in detail, my favorite Kissie meal and how she made it. Now it made sense.

  Right before the dinner rush, in late August, he knocked on the inside door to my apartment. His hands were behind his back when I opened the door. “I have a surprise for you. Okay if I come in?”

  My hair was still wet, but I was dressed for work. “Of course. What’s behind your back?”

  “Close your eyes and open your mouth wide.”

  “What for?”

  “Just trust me,” he said, as he had numerous times before.

  So I did. Even though I was embarrassed he would see my gold filling, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. A spoon filled with the most delicious thing I had tasted in so long rested upon my tongue. White chocolate—creamy, rich, and so yummy—along with a whole, fresh raspberry. It created that bite, that salivating sensation I get on my tongue when tasting a perfect blend of tart and sweet.

  I opened my eyes to his big, wide smile. “That’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. What is it?”

  “White chocolate mousse.”

  “How’d you know I love white chocolate?”

  “Roberta told me. White chocolate, moose, and Leelee seem to go together, so I thought it was the perfect dessert—even though it’s not peach.”

  “And who needs peach, when you can have this?” I threw my arms around his neck to hug him and when I did, he held on to me an extra second or two. Something curiously familiar shot through my body. I quickly pulled away. “Thank you, Peter. That was mighty sweet of you.”

  “Anytime, Leelee. I mean, boss.”

  Could it be that I was enjoying what I was doing? I was spending time in the dining room at night, getting to know the customers. I even made the bold step to convert the front parlor into a dining room and turn the back dining room, right off our apartment, into another sitting room and waiting area. Now I could go in and out of our quarters at will, without going outside during dinner to get to my children. Moving that table made life so much simpler. It was my second big step toward independence.

  For the first time in ten months, I didn’t wake up every morning dreading my day. Sure, I was still looking forward to going home, but at least the weather was nice, the Schloygins were gone, I had a little money in my pocket, and I had a new fun friend in Peter.

  When Kerri got an offer to move back home to Idaho to work at a dude ranch, I would be lying if I said I was really all that sorry to see her go. I know she had nothing to do with Baker leaving and all, but she was still a big flirt and I don’t know, that gets under my skin after a while. I’m not saying that I really cared all that much, but when she flirted with Peter it was truly nauseating. Even Roberta thought so.

  She would steal behind the line every chance she could and offer to knead Peter’s neck muscles. Then she’d work her way down his back. “You look beat,” she said once. “I bet you could use a good rubdown. My neighbor’s getting her masseuse license and she’s been practicing on me. Here, sit down on this stool and I’ll get your neck.”

  Roberta’s face killed me. She raised her eyebrows and nodded her head up and down. As if she knew exactly what Kerri was doing. Peter let her knead his neck. I mean who in their right mind turns down a massage? I certainly wouldn’t. Male or female—I love nothing more than having someone caress my flesh.

  Sarah started kindergarten at Fairhope Elementary and I have to say it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Her teacher, Miss Bev, was adorable and Sarah seemed to be crazy about her. The bus picked her up in front of the inn each morning and dropped her back off every afternoon around 3:30 P.M. Tears welled up in my eyes the first morning she boarded, proudly displaying her Barbie backpack and clutching her Little Mermaid lunch box. She hopped on eagerly, as Issie and I waved from the curb. Sarah never let on, but I was sure of the void inside her that must have ached without a daddy there to see her off. The idea of what it meant to be the child of a single mama had not yet taken root, but in the months to come, I was sure she would become more aware.

  Since Issie’s fourth birthday was approaching in January, the Elfin Academy admitted her into their three-day-a-week program from nine to two. I had a few hours to myself in the morning, but I still hated
all the time I had to spend away from them at night.

  Fall arrived in a blaze of color. Leaf Season starts around the last week of September and lasts through the middle of October, with the peak occurring around October 5. I had heard about the fall foliage, but until you are there for Leaf Season there is no way to fully appreciate it. It’s the maple trees that make all the difference. They take on a pink tint at first before turning into their full vibrant shade of crimson red. The birch and the aspen will glow yellow; and the oaks will become a warm purplish brown.

  People come from all over the world to experience Vermont during the foliage. Leaf peepers they’re called and the rooms in the area get booked a year in advance. My inn was no exception. Theoretically, we were supposed to make enough money during those three weeks to sustain us through Stick Season. We were serving on average ninety dinners per night, and every room we had was booked solid. We were right on track to get us back in the black.

  Smack dab in the middle of Leaf Season, an older couple with heavy New York accents joined us for dinner, just as we were opening for the evening. We had been running an ad in The Sugartree Gazette that offered half-price entrées to anyone arriving by 5:00 P.M. That helped to stagger the seatings, easing the burden of the 8:00 turnover. We could even turn the tables three times per night if we were lucky, with seatings at 5:00, 7:00, and then 9:00 P.M.

  Pierre could always tell by someone’s drink order what kind of meal they would have. No drinks usually meant no appetizers, maybe one dessert to split. When Pierre gave me the order he immediately knew the type.

  “No drinks, table nine. Cheap. Vedy, vedy cheap.” As he said “cheap,” Pierre pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and flipped his hand in the air. When he did that, he wasn’t expecting much tip.

  Pierre cynically announced table nine’s order to Peter, “Un pork, deux plates. That’s it. Sheet.” I had figured out by now that “sheet” meant “shit.” They ordered the cheapest item on the menu.