Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter Read online

  The nerve of this man. “I . . . I’m not really sure, but I can check my schedule and get back with you,” I said, with a tinge of irritation.

  “I don’t mind holding. Take your time.”

  I’m not believing this. “All right,” I said, miffed. I put my hand over the phone and whispered to Virginia, “You’re not gonna believe this guy.” Then I hustled into the house, obeying this total stranger. My calendar was blank on that day but it was still two weeks away. I never planned that far in advance.

  “Mr. Baldwin?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t have anything on my calendar for that weekend right now. There’s a chance we may be able to make it up that weekend, I suppose.” I motioned to Virginia to share the phone with me so she could listen to this Northerner’s voice.

  “Good, it’s settled then, I’ll call you back when I’ve secured your accommodations.”

  Unbelievable. “But I haven’t confirmed it with my husband yet.”

  “He seemed quite eager to see it when I spoke with him on the phone. It sounded to me as if he wanted nothing to stand in his way.”

  “Oh . . . well, I wasn’t aware of that.” I didn’t know what else to say. He obviously wasn’t even picking up on the fact that I was peeved.

  Virginia mouthed the words “hang up” and made a phone slamming motion with her hand.

  “I’ll check to see if the Vermont Haus Inn is available. It stays booked up months in advance, you know. I’ll let you know ASAP. Talk to you soon, Leelee. Good-bye now.”

  “Bye.” I hung up the phone, sat back in the swing, and looked at Virginia. “Well, I’ve never!”

  Virginia shook her head in disgust. She wasn’t used to people just barging in and taking over, either. “Damn Yankee!”

  “I just agreed to fly up to Vermont on the first weekend of August. I can’t believe I just did that.”

  “You should have told him that you’d have to get back with him. You’re way too nice, Leelee.”

  “I tried, Virginia, really I did. He just railroaded right over me. Why is it that I always find myself in these kinds of situations? Do I look like I have train tracks branded on my forehead?”

  “Of course you do. No, really I think you just have a hard time saying no because you want everyone to like you. I hate to say it, but Baker does it to you, too.”

  “I know and I’m sick of it. He wants to make all my decisions for me. Daddy did that, too. You know what?” I said, standing up, now in a take-charge mood. “I’m going up to Vermont and if I don’t like it I’m gonna tell Baker he can go without us.”

  “Atta girl! And hey, you never know, Baker might get up there and hate it.”

  “Fat chance. He discovered a river running right through the middle of town—about a block from the inn. That boy will be in trout-fishing heaven. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he decided to wear waders on the airplane.”

  I had no say-so in my own life. Thinking back on it, Daddy started all this. I never placed my own restaurant order until Baker became the head of my household. Daddy always ordered for me. In fact, if he was entertaining a group of my girlfriends, he would order for all of us. When it came to Mama, he insisted upon her waiting in the car until he came around and opened her side. My grandmother never went out to Sunday lunch after church without an orchid from Daddy pinned on her dress, and he certainly never let a woman, no matter who she was, pay for one thing. He took pride in taking care of the women in his life. A quintessential Southern gentleman—that was my daddy.

  But if that’s the way gentlemen are supposed to be, why was I feeling so vulnerable?

  Chapter Four

  Just fourteen days after Baker first announced his aspirations of becoming an innkeeper, a Northwest Airlines flight 727 touched down in Albany, New York. Aboard was one starry-eyed Southerner who was ready and willing to defect to the other side without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Another Southerner on board with him was anything but willing, and as the wheels of the jet screeched to a stop, I had to force myself into a cheery mood.

  We knew Albany to be the state’s capital. That’s it. Nothing else. Neither of us had even traveled to a single state in all of New England—unless New York City is considered part of New England.

  “It’s about a two-hour drive from Albany,” Mr. Baldwin had informed us over long-distance. “I’ll meet you around one P.M. at the Sugartree Mountain base lodge. That gives us just enough time to grab lunch and do a little sightseeing before our three o’clock tour of the Vermont Haus Inn.” Ed Baldwin had come through with his promise of making all the arrangements. All Baker and I had to do was pay for everything.

  When we set out toward Vermont in our rental car, Baker agreed to let me be navigator. Navigating is one of the few things he admits that I do better than him. It was a perfect day—eighty degrees, blue sunny skies, a gorgeous drive—and I had a happy Baker all to myself. No TVs, no scores, no golf clubs. Not even a fishing pole.

  I could see the mountains in the distance as we approached Vermont. I was a little puzzled. “Those are the mountains?” I asked Baker. “They seem smaller than the Smokies—are they?” I had been picturing the massiveness of the Rockies.

  “Maybe, I don’t know. But who cares?”

  “I’m not trying to be negative, honey, I just think of mountains as being vast with snowcaps . . . that’s all. I mean, I’ve heard people ski out west in some places well into the summer and I’ve also heard that the skiing in the Northeast is icy.”

  Baker whipped his head around and snapped at me. “Who told you that?”

  “Alice. Actually Richard told her.”

  “Richard doesn’t know what in the hell he’s talking about. He’s never skied in Vermont. The skiing here is just as good as anywhere. You’ll see.”

  The moment we crossed the Vermont border, about an hour from the airport, I started to perk up. The billboards had disappeared. In New York, a billboard looms at you every quarter mile like a buzzard inspecting roadkill. The contrast made Vermont look like a much prettier state. Black-and-white cows, the Ben & Jerry’s kind, were grazing on either side of the road. A dairy farm sat on top of a hill with an old-fashioned silo, and the wildflowers scattered out for miles in the pastures. I had to admit it was a charming place after all, and I decided right then and there to make the best of the trip.

  Just before the Bennington city limits, on the left, I saw my first Vermont inn. It was a stately mansion sitting on a large, manicured lawn, with black-and-white-striped awnings covering several of the windows. The sign out front read FOUR COLUMNS INN. It’s a shame we aren’t looking to buy that place, I thought.

  Bennington was adorable. Bungalow-style homes, window boxes brimming over with healthy, vibrant flowers, and a town square with the usual businesses. A tall monument poked into the sky from the center of town. I read on my map that it was erected in remembrance of the Battle of Bennington, fought during the Revolutionary War.

  On the way between Bennington and Fairhope I got a thrill that made the whole trip worth it. If I had been looking down at my map, navigating for one more split second, I believe I would have missed it. There, on the right-hand side of the road, was the most extraordinary road sign I had ever seen.

  “OH MY GOSH!” I shrieked.

  Baker swerved our rented Blazer over to the right like he was trying to avoid hitting something in the road. Gravel on the shoulder kicked up underneath the tires and spit off to the sides.

  “DID YOU SEE THAT? GO BACK!”

  “What? See what? Damnit, Leelee, are you trying to get us both killed? You scared the shit out of me. What is it?”

  “That sign back there. Didn’t you see it? It said moose crossing. Turn around, Baker, please. I want to get my picture made in front of that sign. Virginia and them are gonna die! Turn around.”

  “Okay. I’ll turn around. But I don’t want to be late for our appointment.” I knew he didn’t want to turn around at al
l, but he was trying to be extra nice.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I was gonna get to see a moose? I’ve never seen a moose in person. I can’t wait.”

  I jumped out of the car and Baker hopped out to take my picture. “Smile,” he said. I stood right next to the sign and put my arms around it. It was the most unbelievable road sign I’d ever seen and I knew my friends would feel the same way.

  “You never told me they have mooses here,” I said to Baker as we were getting back in the car.

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know that, either. And it’s ‘moose,’ Leelee.”

  “I knew that.” Know-it-all. I hate it when he corrects me.

  Baker just shook his head and for the rest of the trip up the mountain to Sugartree, I never took my eyes off the side of the road, hoping against all hope that I might spy a real, truly live moose.

  We turned into the Sugartree Ski Resort on time, at exactly 1:00 P.M. . . . BST (Baker Satterfield Time). After parking the car we followed the signs to the base lodge where we were to meet Mr. Yankee himself. When we walked in the front door I looked around at the rustic décor set amid large woodsy murals painted on the walls. It had a quaint feel like I was stepping into a Swiss postcard. Baker stopped at the information desk to ask a young girl the way to the dining area. She told us to go down the hall and that we would run right into it.

  Our toes were barely in the room when Ed Baldwin came barreling right up to us. “Baker and Leelee?” he inquired. “Ed Baldwin. I’m glad you made it. How was your trip?”

  “Great,” Baker answered, smiling widely and pumping Ed’s hand.

  “Are you guys hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving,” Baker and I both answered at the same time.

  “Good, why don’t you two grab a table and I’ll go through the line and get you something to drink for starters.”

  “I’d love a Coke,” I said.

  “Make that two,” Baker added.

  “Should I make yours a diet?” Ed looked straight at me.

  “The real thing’s fine,” I answered, with a fake smile. Do I look like I need to be on a diet to you, a-hole?

  “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  When Ed walked away, I shot Baker a look that could kill. He closed his eyes, waved his hand back and forth, and shook his head, like, please, Leelee, not now.

  So I just swallowed it, crossed my arms in front of me, and decided to soak in the surroundings instead.

  A large moose head (I was getting closer) hung over a massive stone fireplace, which had benches in a semicircle around it. No doubt this was the gathering spot for winter skiers to warm their frosty noses and toes.

  When Ed returned with our Cokes, he swung his leg over the bench and sat down opposite Baker and me.

  “So,” he said, placing the Cokes down in front of us. “You guys had no trouble with my directions, I hope.”

  “None whatsoever. We came straight here. Leelee’s a great navigator,” Baker said, and smiled over at me. When I took my first sip, I could tell right away it was Pepsi. I hate Pepsi. But I never said a word.

  Ed Baldwin was quite the inquisitor. He questioned us on our occupations, asked if we had any children, inquired about our heritage and how much money we had in the bank. He wanted to know all about Baker’s daddy’s insurance company and why he would want to leave his position. The one thing he didn’t quiz us on was the extent of our restaurant background. Baker never picked up on this, but I did. Slick, very slick.

  “It’s a perfect day for a chairlift ride,” Ed said, when we had finished our lunch. “What do you say we ride to the top and get a better look at the Sugartree valley? You can get a terrific view of the region from the top of the lift.”

  “Sounds great,” Baker said.

  Baldwin ushered us out of the lodge. Baker took hold of my hand and the three of us strolled over to the lift. It had been years since Baker had actually held my hand in public. Who does he think he’s trying to impress?

  While Baker and Ed chitchatted about the skiing industry, I focused on Ed Baldwin—the pushy man. He was tall and lean, I’d say around forty-five years old, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. Whenever he opened his mouth to talk, I had to stop myself from staring at his teeth—well, actually his veneers. Bless his heart, he must have used a bad dentist because they were a little on the thick side.

  His hairline was receding and what was left of his dark hair was streaked with gray. His dress was conservative—khaki pants, a white golf shirt, and a pair of Timberland hiking boots. The only thing New Englandy about him at all was his accent and the Patagonia fleece vest he wore (in the summer) over his shirt.

  On the ride to the top of the mountain, Ed informed us that Vermont had the lowest crime rate of any state in the country. Baker jabbed his elbow into my arm as soon as he heard that. I was sitting in between the two guys, and the fourth chair was empty. I wished I had been on the outside because they were the ones doing all the talking. Besides, I was dead set on finding a moose.

  Ed went on to talk about the wonderful public school system in the area, the reasonable property values, the abundant wildlife, and, of course, the fresh mountain air. “Skiing is part of the public school curriculum,” he said. “Our kids get out at noon on Tuesdays, and the school buses transport them here to Sugartree to ski for the rest of the day. They have a blast. As a matter of fact, my children have become competitive racers.”

  “That’s neat,” I said, thinking that might be something I’d like the girls to take up.

  “They went to a high school over on Stratton Mountain, about thirty minutes away, called the Stratton Mountain Ski School.”

  “Do they get any studying in?” Baker chuckled a little when he asked.

  “Oh, sure, but they ski every single day.”

  “Do they accept girls?” Baker wanted to know.

  “Of course, are you kidding? It’s coed. Several of the Stratton Mountain Ski School graduates have gone on to become members of the U.S. ski team.”

  “I’ve heard the skiing in the Northeast is icy,” I heard myself saying. Baker jabbed my arm again.

  “Well, that’s debatable. Folks out west don’t like to admit that Vermont has some pretty nice conditions here. In my opinion—and I don’t speak for everyone, mind you—skiing in Vermont is as good as any mountain out west.” He sounded convincing. But then again wasn’t that his MO?

  “Have you ever seen a moose?” I bent down to look at the thicket of evergreens below us.

  “Yuup, when you live here, you see them quite often. They’re all over the place.”

  “Are they on this mountain?” I perked right up.

  “Well, sure.”

  “What about on the side of the road?”

  “Sometimes, or they could be in a field—just keep your eyes peeled. You’ll see one.” (I didn’t find out until much later that really spotting a moose is about as likely as spotting a freckle on your own fanny.)

  “What about tornadoes and earthquakes?” I asked. There’s bound to be something wrong with Vermont.

  “Nuup, we don’t have to worry about earthquakes and tornadoes around here. The mountains protect us from tornadoes and, to my knowledge, there are no fault lines anywhere close.”

  “Then what is the downside to living here?” I asked. Somebody needs to ask this question. “There must be something—a stinky paper mill perhaps, or contaminated rivers?” I knew Baker was about to kill me, but wasn’t it my job to play devil’s advocate?

  “Oh no, my dear lady, not here. Vermont is protected. There’s a domineering group of environmentalists who practically control the legislation in this state.” Conveniently for him, the chairlift came full circle and into its base just as he finished his sentence. “Well, it’s about that time. Why don’t you guys hop in my car so we can all ride over together.”

  Once we got to his Subaru station wagon, Ed invited Baker to join him up front. I slid into the backseat. He�
�s no Southern gentleman, I told myself.

  It was a short ride to Willingham just down the mountain. When Ed took a sharp turn, a DVD came sliding out from underneath Baker’s seat and landed next to my foot. Three naked girls were on the cover wearing nothing but old-fashioned nurse caps. I thought about kicking Naughty Nurses back under the seat but decided to leave it out in plain view instead.

  As we drove into town, we crossed a river with white water. Baker turned around and glanced back at me with a wink. Ed told him it was the Deer-field River and of course it had trout in it.

  Straight up a hill, about a block from the river, Ed turned on his left blinker. “It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for.” He glanced over at Baker and then craned his neck back at me. Ed pulled in, crept down the driveway, and parked his car on the side of a white picket fence. Baker flung his door open and jumped out. I tiptoed out of my side. At last, the Vermont Haus Inn and I were face-to-face.

  I recognized it immediately from the pictures. It looked as if it could have been a big farmhouse at one time. The not-so-fresh whitewash on the outside was still passable but the green paint on the shutters was peeling in a few places. A wonderful old slate roof of coral, blue, and light green made a basket-weave pattern that, when mixed with the afternoon sunlight, gave a warm, inviting feel to the place. Two dormer windows peeked from the right side of the roof and a large front porch, perfect for rocking chairs, stretched all the way across the front of the house. To the left of the porch was a front door, which opened into a small enclosed area.

  The flowers in front of the porch were stunning. Not at all like Southern gardens; there were many flowers I didn’t recognize. No azaleas or hydrangeas, gardenias or rhododendron. It resembled a European garden. I couldn’t help noticing that there were no shrubs, like boxwoods or hollies, up close to the house. (I found out later it’s because they’d never survive the winter due to the snow and ice that crashes down upon them from the roof. That should have been my first clue.)

  We walked through an arbor with blue morning glories tangled up in the overhead lattice to reach the front door. I looked over at Baker and he was smiling, full of anticipation, unafraid and adventurous. Goose bumps started to crawl all over me and they weren’t the good kind. More like the kind you get from panic.