Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter Read online

  “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 Rs 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.

  Once they got to the front of the room they stood side by side with the edges of their hoop skirts touching. “Raise your glasses for a toast,” Virginia bellowed out to the crowd. All three pulled the dead flowers out of their Log Cabin bottles and raised them in the air. “To Leelee, the soon-to-be Yankee.”

  That earned her some laughs from around the room. After they set their syrup bottles on the floor, Virginia ran over to the side of the room where a pile of red and blue pom-poms lay. She dramatically threw two to each girl and then bopped back to her place in line. They huddled together and then came out cheering.

  Virginia yelled out first. “Give me a V.”

  “Give me an E,” shrieked Alice.

  “Give me an R,” shouted Mary Jule.

  “Give me a mont,” all of them hollered together. “What’s that spell?”

  “Cold weather,” Alice yelled.

  “What’s that spell?” Mary Jule belted out at the top of her lungs.

  “Snow,” Alice answered, and then screamed, “WHAT’S THAT SPELL?”

  “Maple syrup!” Virginia shouted.

  Virginia and Alice dropped down on all fours. Mary Jule climbed on top of their backs and raised her pom-poms in the air. “Yaaaaay, Leelee! Hope you and Baker are practicing your Northern accents.” Then she climbed back down and they doubled over and laughed uncontrollably. Most of the people at the luncheon giggled and the rest forced a smile. Y’all are somewhere between nuts and ridiculous.

  “Don’t be mad at us, Leelee, we really do love you,” Mary Jule said, and then looked straight at me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.”

  Alice got herself together and took the microphone. “Okay, y’all, oops sorry, I mean you guys. In all seriousness, our best friend has decided to move far, far away to somewhere up there.” She pointed up to the sky and shook her finger. “Much to our horror, but whatever. But to show you how much we love you, Leelee, we’ve put together a toast.”

  I’m thinking they rehearsed it for hours, because their delivery was in perfect time and by memory. They alternated verses and recited the last one together.

  Here’s to Leelee, our faithful, forever friend

  From K through college, hours we would spend

  Gabbing on phones, they grew out of our ears

  Staying up all night talking, after too many beers.

  A crazy cohort, a character, a damsel in distress

  Part Lucy, a lot Daddy’s girl, Leelee you’re a mess

  A lover of laughter, she’s got a truly infectious giggle

  Don’t sit with her in church, or you’ll be in a pickle.

  We all love our music, whatever would we do

  Without the Beatles or the Stones, and the Beach Boys, too

  “Turn up the radio someone!” She never misses a chance

  To twist, jerk, or pony, Leelee’s always ready to dance.

  Gracie is her third daughter with whom she’s obsessed

  Come on now, Leelee, may we humbly suggest

  A person she is not, though you treat her as such

  A fur coat for a dog? Now that’s a tiny bit much.


  She’s a wonderful mother, a happy devoted wife

  Baker and the girls are the true loves of her life

  Never did we expect to see our best friend go

  Life won’t be the same, we’ll be missing you so.

  Although you’re moving far away from here

  You’ll never be a Yankee, not in a million years!

  You’re a real Southern belle from Memphis, Tennessee

  With a heart that—GOD FORBID—will never stop whistlin’ Dixie!

  After the applause from the toast died down, and I got up to give each of them hugs, the girls took their seats at my table. Mrs. Carrington pulled down a projector screen, dimmed the lights, and closed the curtains. Everyone sat back to watch the “This Was Leelee Satterfield’s Life in Memphis, Tennessee,” video. The Beatles’ “In My Life” began in the background. “There are places I remember . . .”

  Kissie reached over and took my hand in hers. Her heart had been broken in two when I told her the news. The last thing she wanted was for me to leave Memphis, although she, like Mama, ascribed to the notion that a woman’s place is with her husband. “Ooooh, baby,” she said, “why Baker wanna git so far away from home? You not s’pose to live anywhere takes your family three days to travel. I’ll sure ’nuf miss you when you’re gone.” Not as much as I’ll miss you, Kissie, not nearly as much. When my first little baby picture came on the screen Kissie looked over at me and the tears were already in her eyes. That’s all I needed to see, and through the rest of the video I never turned off my own faucet of tears.

  With each picture that flashed I started reminiscing about what home meant to me. There were Mama and Daddy all dressed up in front of our church with Mama holding me in my christening gown right next to my grandparents. Daddy and me at the father-daughter dance, Mama and me baking cookies.

  Pictures flashed of Kissie lighting my birthday candles and Kissie fixing my hair at my wedding. There was Kissie holding Sarah and Isabella as newborns. She had been there for me during every milestone of my life. And here I was right next to her—all eighty years of her—with her old veined hand in mine. My sweet Kissie looked gorgeous all dressed up in her cream Sunday suit and hat to match.

  There were pictures of my age-seven dress-up party where Alice was Florence Nightingale, Virginia was Huck Finn, and Mary Jule was Mary Poppins. I, of course, was a ballerina. I’ll never forget that pink tutu Mama made me wear with itchy sequins on the bodice and the straps. Kissie put my hair up in a tight bun, and when I saw those photos I could still feel the hairs around my temples pulling, and smell the Adorn Mama sprayed all over my hair making it stiff to the touch. I can still see her now covering my eyes with her left hand and spraying with her right. All I wanted was to be Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, but Mama made me be a ballerina.

  I looked around the room and everyone was engrossed in the video. Mary Jule was seated on the other side of me and I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Can you please kidnap the girls and me?”

  She put her arm around me and whispered, “You know I would if I could.”

  I had forgotten all about the picture of Mary Jule and me standing in front of the Mid-South Coliseum, age eight, holding up Monkees posters. I remember our mothers going outside during the concert to smoke after the screaming had finally gotten to them.

  Next up was a picture of Alice and me around ten years old, all dressed up in our English riding habits and holding up ribbons in our hands. Alice was sitting on the other side of Kissie. I leaned over and whispered, “Why did we give up horses?”

  “Cheerleading,” she said, and leaned back in her seat.

  Then came a picture of Virginia and me at the sixth-grade science fair when we won the blue ribbon for hatching chickens in a homemade incubator. That event marked our big debut in the Memphis Commercial Appeal with the caption reading: “The first chicken was christened Columbus after another famous first.”

  The very last picture was of Baker, Sarah, Isabella, Princess Grace, and me on the back porch of our home looking like we were the happiest family on earth. I remember when the picture was taken. We were the happiest family on earth.

  I had no choice but to follow my husband. Baker is a good husband. He let me have children. He doesn’t get mad when Gracie poops in the house. He lets me shop for clothes wherever and whenever I want. Sure we have issues just like everyone else but nothing so terrible a little romp in the sack can’t fix. He always wants to make love. My friends hardly ever do it these days. Lots of women tell me their husbands never want them anymore. Mine wants me.

  I was Mrs. John Baker Satterfield, a name I had wanted since the tenth grade. I’d show him a devoted wife. I’d be right at his side in Willingham, Vermont. One day, I knew Baker would finally come to his senses, drop the dream of being an innkeeper, and take me home! I was sure of it.

  Our family picture remained while the music faded into silence. Within moments the applause returned and everyone resumed their conversations.

  I sat frozen in the dark of the warm, familiar room, unable to move my eyes away from the screen.

  Chapter Six

  Baker was leaning on a post in the gate area when the girls and I got off the plane, just three weeks before Christmas.

  “Daddy!” Sarah yelled when she spotted him. She and Isabella ran to Baker and he scooped them both up and twirled them around. He leaned in to kiss me while holding one girl in each arm.

  I reached up and touched his face. God, he is beautiful. He takes my breath away . . . still. No wonder I moved all the way to Vermont.

  “I missed y’all,” he said. “How was the flight?”

  “It was good, and the girls were so good. They colored most of the time and we read stories the rest.” Sarah wriggled down out of Baker’s arms and hunted through her Barbie backpack to show him her coloring book.

  Baker and Princess Grace had left two weeks earlier in his Ford Explorer, pulling my little BMW behind on a trailer. He wanted to meet the moving van and get a head start on the restaurant operations and the apartment renovation. As we walked toward the baggage claim Baker chatted me up a blue streak. The only people he had been keeping company with were two locals he had hired to help him with the painting.

  “I can’t wait for you to see all the work I’ve done. The place looks fantastic.” He grabbed a cart on the way over to our baggage carousel. “And the staff can’t wait to meet you. Remember the French waiter we met when we were here before? Pierre?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll just love him. You mark my words, he’s gonna be a granddaddy to the girls.”

  “So, is there still snow on the ground?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject. “We wanna build a snowman, right, girls?” They both jumped up and down and squealed.

  “Is there still snow on the ground? This is Vermont. There’s a ton of snow on the ground. It’s everywhere.” The girls and I watched as Baker grabbed the first of our many suitcases off the belt.

  “Well, I didn’t know. For all I know it could have melted already.” I was talking to his back.

  “Ed Baldwin was telling me”—he grunted while lifting my suitcase—“the snow stays around all the way to spring.” He hurled it onto the cart and turned around quickly for more bags. “Aren’t the girls lucky? Remember how he said that skiing is part of the public school curriculum?”

  I nodded my head, but I was more interested in making sure all our bags made it.

  “I’ve met all kinds of people who say it’s one of the greatest things about living here.”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to buy them cute little snowsuits.” Living in Memphis there had been no point. We were lucky to get a dusting.

  “Hey, guess what?” Baker said, as he stacked the last suitcase onto the cart, which was loaded up to his chin. “I’ve already got your winter pass to Sugartree. Innkeepers get free passes to the mountain for selling lift tickets. Just one of the many perks of innkeeping.�
� He labored over the weight of the cart as he awkwardly maneuvered it toward the door. “Wait ’til you see the skis I’ve got my eye on.”

  “Let me guess, they’re black with trout painted all over them.”

  Baker rolled his eyes, but I shrugged it off. I was used to it.

  ______

  As we journeyed north from Albany toward Vermont, I saw that Baker was right. There was snow everywhere. Curiously, no one was driving slowly, and the streets were completely clear. There were big piles of snow all along the sides of the highway, though, like someone had pushed it over to the side and left it there.

  I saw my moose sign again but didn’t ask for a stop. It just made me excited all over again. Where will I be when I spot my first moose? I wondered. Are they shy like deer? Is there a better time of the day to see one? I hadn’t been this thrilled about wildlife since the days of Mutual of Omaha.

  “Have you seen a moose yet?” I asked Baker.

  “Not yet.”

  “What does a moose look like?” Isabella asked from the backseat. Her curly strawberry-blond hair was wild and free; she had pulled out her ponytail holder hours earlier.

  “Oh, they are big, baby girl, with big ole antlers. They kind of look like horses but they’re much, much larger. And Mama can’t wait to see one. Let’s watch for moose, everybody.” I cleared my throat to get Baker’s attention. He would never have to correct me on that one again.

  We had settled on a price of $385,000 by the time the negotiating was all over. The CPA we hired made a determination based on the Schloygins’ last five years of gross income. With the additional expense of a mortgage and a chef’s salary, we could not afford to pay a penny more.

  Ed Baldwin was elated when he called with the news. “Do you realize what a concession this is? The Schloygins have lowered the price by nearly two hundred thousand dollars! And would you like to know why?”