Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (11 page)

“For the fiftieth time,” Baker added sarcastically. An awkward moment followed.

“I wanted to stop in and say hi, and also to say there are a bunch of us meeting at Donovan’s tomorrow night. There’s a great band playing. Do you like music, Leelee?”

I looked at Baker to step in and say: Leelee’s been listening to music since she was yea high. And he only said, “Donovan’s is a local hangout.”

I said, “I love music. I haven’t figured out the babysitter thing yet, but I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“Be happy to babysit anytime, all you have to do is ask,” Roberta said. “I love children. Moe’s got three but we never had any of our own. They’re
like
mine though.”

“Thank you, Roberta,” I said. “I may take you up on that.”

“Oh, and Monday is ski day. It’s great fun.” Kerri looked over at Baker for affirmation.

“Oh, yeah, Mondays are great.”

“Well, I’ve got lots to do, I’ll see you guys tomorrow night, maybe?” said the bunny.

“Yeah, we’ll try,” Baker replied.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
,” she said to Helga and Rolf, and shot all of us a smile that revealed fluorescent white teeth. She flipped us a ta-ta wave and skipped out of the kitchen.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
,” Rolf hollered after her from behind the line. (The line, I learned, is the place in front of the stove and behind the counter where the chef places the plates for the waiters to retrieve their orders.)

“Baker, would you mind checking on the girls?” I said. We had much to discuss.

“Sure.” Baker told the kitchen staff he’d be back shortly and sprinted out of the kitchen.

I counted backward from one hundred and then hunted him down.

“Kerri seems like she already knows you,” I said, when I found him in our bedroom. “What’s the deal?”

“I was at Donovan’s one night and she and her friends were there. The guys who helped with the painting took me out to get a beer—after working hard all day. Is that okay?”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, sarcastically. I act that way sometimes when I’m threatened, and my head felt flushed with fear.

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

“No
big deal
, I was just curious how Kerri already knows you so well.”

“She works here, for God’s sake. Was I supposed to be rude to her when I saw her?” He stood up from the bed and angrily yanked the curtain on our closet shut.

“No, I just felt funny back there. Plus, Helga obviously likes her and it’s obvious she does not like me.”

“Why would you say that?” Baker turned back around to face me. “That’s not true, there’s no way she couldn’t like you. What’s not to like?”

“I’m just telling you she doesn’t like me. She changed everything I did in
the inn back to her way of decorating. Our styles are completely different. I have to feel like it’s my house if you ever want me to feel comfortable here.” I sat down on the side of the bed.

“Helga will back off. Just give her a little time. Remember how you said Germans have strong personalities? That’s just how she is.”

“Everybody in Vermont has a strong personality.”

Baker sat down next to me. “It’s just different from the South. You’ll get used to it, I promise.” He put his arm around me from the side and kissed my cheek.

I wanted so badly to get a four-way conference call to Memphis going right then and there. But honestly, I didn’t know what to tell the girls. I figured I’d better wait. They’d tell me to catch the next plane home.

One more full-time employee was included in the acquisition. Pierre Lebel, now
my
French maître d’, had spent the break in France visiting relatives. He had returned from his travels a few days before, and spent most of the time since then sleeping off his jet lag.

Pierre lived in the little cottage with turquoise shutters that sat in the middle of the European garden. He lived alone and, as I would later come to find out, played solitaire and worked jigsaw puzzles for pleasure. He had a full head of jet-black hair, which he combed straight back, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. Pierre’s hair was kept short and neat, and his slender frame made him appear younger than his sixty-two years. In the months to come, I always knew when he was mixing his Lady Clairol, because he’d turn out his light and pretend no one was home. Like Roberta, Pierre had been working at the Vermont Haus Inn for nearly twenty years.

When I met him again, early that same evening, Pierre greeted me with enthusiasm. His accent sure was thick. “
Bonjour, madame
.” He smiled and gave me a European kiss.

“Hi, Pierre. It’s nice to meet you again.”

“
Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Avez-vous passé un bon voyage?
”

“I beg your pardon,” I said with a smile, “I don’t speak French. Oh wait, let me try this, no poly vous Francais,” I said, shaking my head.

Pierre repeated slowly, “Eh, eh, ple-zeer to see you, ta voyage, est vedy good,
oui
?”

I understood this time and proceeded to break into an oration about my day. “Oh yes, thank you for asking, we had a
great
trip. I’d like to apologize for the mess, Pierre. See, we had a large house full of furniture and I’m really not sure where I’m gonna put it all. Helga is scared to death it won’t be cleared up before we open for the season but I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

Pierre was smiling and nodding his head up and down as if he were in agreement with me.

“Helga tells me you’ve been working here nineteen years. Did you move here directly from France or have you lived somewhere else in America?”

Pierre still kept on smiling and nodding.

“Great! Do you still have family in France?”

More nodding.

“What part?” It was this last round of nodding that clued me in to the fact that he had not understood one word I had said. Just for the heck of it I asked one more question. This time I spoke a little louder and slower, something I inadvertently find myself doing when I speak with Chinese people at a Chinese restaurant. “WERE . . . YOU . . . BORN . . . IN . . .
MEXICO, PIERRE?
”

When his head kept nodding this time, I knew I was in trouble.

“Well, it’s been great talking to you. I better get back to my girls.” I backed out of the room waving. “
Adiós
.”

Before he met me, Pierre Lebel had never exchanged two words with a Southerner, bless his heart. I would discover that even though Pierre had lived in the States for twenty years, he still spoke French 90 percent of the time. Rolf and Helga were fluent, so they all conversed in French. In the dining room while he was taking orders, Pierre knew the English names of the food items by heart, so translating the menu was no problem.

Daddy always told me I’d regret it one day—taking the easy way out and signing up for Spanish instead of French.

Chapter Seven

After three solid days of unpacking, I couldn’t stand being cooped up inside another second. I longed to get outside and check out my new surroundings. Willingham, my new city, was calling my name. Actually, “town” is the correct word. I would later learn that Northerners believe anywhere with less than one million people is only a town. City hall was town hall and the mayor was referred to as the town clerk.

I had a bona fide reason to meet our town clerk. A woman by the name of Betty Sweeney had called from his office early one morning to inform me that our liquor license was in. She went on to say I might as well register my dog and get sworn in while I was there, too, seeing as how I was a new citizen and all. Betty warned me they left by three o’clock most days, so if I wanted to be sure to get the license, I had better come before then.

When I arrived at the town clerk’s office, around noon, a man was sitting behind the counter. I walked in, all smiles and eager to meet our town diplomat. He slowly rose to greet me. “Can I help you?”

“Hey there. I’m Leelee Satterfield. My husband and I just bought the
Vermont Haus Inn.” I pointed in our direction up the street. “I’m here to pick up our liquor license.”

Apparently, it’s a big deal to obtain a liquor license. The state looks into your background and the town aldermen (we say councilmen) have to vote in unanimous agreement before they will issue one.

The man from behind the desk spoke with a thick Vermonter accent. “Yuup, I’ve gut it reet here. The name’s Jack Sweeney.” He laid the document on the counter.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney. I spoke with your wife, Betty, on the phone this morning. She was so helpful. Is she here?”

He hesitated before answering. “Nuup. She’s gun to lunch.”

“Oh well, maybe next time. How long have you been the town clerk?” I asked, as I was signing the documents.

“Close to ten years now, I suppose.”

“Is that right? Have you and Mrs. Sweeney been working together all that time?”

“Yuup.”

“Have you really?”

“Yuup.”

“Is this a full-time job for both of you?”

“Yuup.”

For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what could keep two full-time employees busy all day. The town hall had an office and a meeting room and one more small room. (A month later I rented the smaller room for Isabella’s third birthday party and the cost for the afternoon was eight dollars. I got the resident rate.)

We chatted for about ten minutes, mostly about moose. When I asked if he’d ever seen one in person, he said, “Only once’t. And that was somewhere close to the Canadian border. All the moose crossin’ signs for Willingham and Fairhope are ordered through this office but it’s pretty silly if you ask me. Moose are rarely seen around here.”

I can’t even tell you how disappointed I was to hear that. Even still, I was determined to beat the odds.

As I started to leave, I remembered Betty Sweeney’s other requests. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’m supposed to register my dog. We get licenses back home in Tennessee, too. It proves they’ve had their rabies shot each year. Is that what your registration is for?”

“Nuup, we need to know how many dogs we’ve gut in town. Is yours a bitch or a stud?”

“Princess Grace Kelly is a girl,” I told him, rather indignantly. “And she’s up to date on all of her shots.”

“That’s good.” He slid the registration papers and the liquor license across the counter, and handed me a pen.

“Oh, and Betty mentioned something about getting sworn in?”

“Raise your reet hand, please.”

I obliged.

“Do you swear to support your town and vote faithfully and attend all town meetings?”

“I do.”

With that I finished the paperwork and drove back to the inn to check on the girls. As soon as I walked through the door, our personal telephone line in the apartment started ringing.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Mrs. Satterfield?”

“Yes.”

“Jack Sweeney here, how are you?”

The same as I was forty-five seconds ago
. “Fine, Mr. Sweeney, how are you?”

“I’m alreet, thanks for askin’. I thought I’d call and let you know something, ’fore you hear it from anyone else. Betty’s not my wife.”

“She’s
not
?” I know I sounded shocked but I couldn’t help it.

“Nuup, hasn’t been for five years now.”

I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure if he was calling to cry on my shoulder or let me know he was available. Come to think of it, he did smile an awful lot while I was there. He may have even winked a time or two. I just thought he was being polite.

“Mr. Sweeney, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.

“Well, I thought I should be the one to tell you. There’s no doubt that damn George Clark would have told you as soon as he had the chance.”

“I’m glad you told me. And who’s George Clark, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The town gossip.”

“
Oh my
. Well, have a nice day, Mr. Sweeney.”

“Yuup.”

I found out later from Roberta that Jack Sweeney had left Betty Sweeney for a much younger woman. Betty stayed on in her position as town secretary just to spite him.
Go, Betty!
I thought. What a wonderful day at the office that must be for ole Jack.

My next and most important order of business was to enroll the girls in preschool. Ed Baldwin had told me all about the Elfin Academy. Housed inside an old clapboard church and located two towns over in Shipley, the fifteen-year-old preschool used the Montessori method of teaching.

When I drove up to the building, around two o’clock, the children were just getting out of school. They were bundled up in winter garb from head to toe. Little tiny hats and snowsuits, boots and jackets—each one wore bright-colored mittens and gripped their prized artwork of the day. Their mothers held their other hands as they sloshed through the partly melted snow in the parking lot to their cars.

I met with the preschool director, Miss Susan, and she was delighted to accept both girls into the program. Since Issie would turn three in a few weeks, she could attend two days per week from nine until two. Sarah, having just turned five in November, missed the kindergarten cutoff, but the Elfin four-to-five-year-old program met every day. Personally, I thought it was a lot of school for a little girl, but Miss Susan assured me that the nurturing, hands-on Montessori approach kept the children relaxed and learning at their own pace. The school incorporated naps and lunch and she further contended that each child enrolled absolutely adored their teachers, Miss Penny and Miss Becky.

Sarah and Issie would love the school, I just knew it. As for me, I was
glad we had the holidays to get used to the transition. I wanted them home.
Right after the New Year
, I thought,
I’ll think about the book
vork
, as Helga called it.
But there was no way in hell I would so much as pick up a pen until my children were settled into their daily routine and my apartment was decorated the way I wanted it.