Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (15 page)

“I’m sorry, I was trying to make a joke,” he said, and reached over and patted my leg. “I’m just tired. I’m working so many more hours than I ever have before.”

Really? I longed to say. Why didn’t you consider that before we moved? Much the same way you neglected to examine the finances this whole life change would require. Our hole had been getting deeper and the income from the inn wasn’t filling it back up. We had no choice but to dip into what was left of Daddy’s life insurance money. And once that was gone, we had no more reserve. Daddy, always the wise protector, had sheltered the rest of my inheritance. He left his money in trust and I couldn’t touch another penny until I turned forty.

I was too upset to say another word so we rode in silence the rest of the way into Manchester.

I was in the commercial kitchen fixing an early dinner for the girls, sometime in the middle of February, when I felt my first Vermont sonic boom. It was a Monday—I lived for Mondays because the restaurant was
closed
. No customers, no employees, and
no Helga
. I was carrying their plates into the
red-checked dining room when I heard a noise so deafening the whole house shook, like an earthquake had hit. It frightened me so that when I jumped back the chicken fingers on the plates flew up in the air and ended up on the floor. I squashed one running for cover. Since the girls and I were alone in the house, I yelled for them to jump into my arms and we all ran down cellar.

“What was
that
?” Isabella asked, as I was hurrying down the steps.

“Why are we hiding in the basement?” Sarah wanted to know.

“Mama’s not sure, but everything’s gonna be okay,” I said, by this time out of breath and trying to keep them calm. As far as I knew, earthquakes never happened in Vermont. I distinctly remembered asking Ed Baldwin last summer.

After fifteen minutes went by and no more noises, we tiptoed up the stairs and peeked out the basement door into the red-checked dining room. Everything was perfectly still. Not wanting to take any chances, though, the girls and I bolted for the apartment. I locked us in until Baker came back from Manchester. He thought I was making the whole thing up until Sarah convinced him that I was really telling the truth.

It wasn’t until Roberta came to work the next morning that I found out what really had happened. I waited until she had used the restroom before telling her about the noise I had heard. (The very first thing Roberta did when she got to work was slip right into the half bath in the kitchen. At first I wondered what her hurry was all about. Finally it dawned on me. Roberta saved her number two for the inn. Her woodchuck husband refused to install an indoor toilet at their house. Moe told her “pissers ain’t nothing but a luxury.” So poor round Roberta Abbott, nicest woman in Vermont, had to either squat over a bowl inside or traipse outside to an outhouse.) Before I had even finished describing the noise Roberta knew exactly what had happened.

“I’m happy to report you didn’t hear an earthquake,” she said confidently. “What you heard was roof ice.”

“
Roof ice
?”

“Yuup. It makes an awful bang, when it finally drops.”

“I don’t get it,” I told her.

“The first time the sun shines after a heavy snowfall, it melts the ice underneath the snow on the roof. When it cracks, the whole side slides off at once. It sounds like a bomb explodin’, I tell you. And it comes with no warnin’.”

“That could kill somebody!”

“It sure could. You better watch them girls, especially around the south side.”

From that day on, the children and I only entered and exited by way of the front door of the inn, which had the pointy side of the roof’s eave above it and no chance of our accidental death.

It should not come as a surprise that no one had bothered to forewarn me about Vermont’s killer roofs.

One February morning Roberta told me a nor’easter was headed our way. She heard the weather forecast on her scanner before she came into work. She and Moe listened to a police scanner—religiously—every evening of their adult life. They even slept with it on in the background. Occasionally their scanner picked up cordless telephone conversations. I don’t think Roberta meant to tell me that little detail; it just slipped out. Between Roberta Abbott and George Clark, privacy was a luxury, a downright precious commodity.

Nor’easter is slang for a Northeastern heavy storm. Before moving to Vermont, I had never even heard of a nor’easter. After Roberta’s warning we all dashed out to the grocery store to stock up on food, candles, and bottled water. Jeb brought plenty of firewood in from the porch and placed it around all the fireplaces in case the power went out. “Fill your bathtubs up,” he told me. “We could be without power for quite a while.”

“Why do we need to do that?” I asked him.”

“So you can flush your toilets and wash your clothes.”

Lovely
, I thought.

Snow started falling around lunchtime. When it came time for the restaurant to open, every one of our reservations had cancelled. Nor’easters
are quite stressful in the restaurant biz. An overhead-only evening makes for a tense climate in the kitchen. Not only were the waitstaff upset over the loss of tips, Rolf would grumble and drop hints to Baker about getting his mortgage payment on time.

I, for one, was happy about the storm. It gave me a family night alone with my husband and daughters. We played Hi Ho Cherry-O together and then watched
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
until the power went out, right as the magical car first took off in the air. Baker and the girls fell asleep on the couch. I sat alone in the dark listening to a branch scrape against the window and gazed out over the backyard. The snow was falling so heavily I couldn’t see a thing. This must be the “whiteout” Roberta had warned me about.

Fortunately, the power came back on within an hour. Though once we crawled into bed the inside temperature had dropped dramatically.

“I’m gonna bring the girls in with us,” I said to Baker, snuggling up behind him.

“No, there isn’t enough room.” He never even turned around.

“But they’ll be scared. Just listen to the wind.
I’m
scared.”

“They’ll be fine. They’re asleep.”

“Issie wakes up during every thunderstorm at home and this one is ten times worse.”

“Then go get in bed with her.”

“Fine.” I rolled off the bed and dashed into the girls’ room.

Cuddled up next to my baby daughter, I listened while the house creaked and the crevices around the windows and doors whistled an eerie tune. It must have been after 2:00
A.M.
by the time I fell asleep.
Something about Baker isn’t right. He’s a different man up here.

The next morning, Baker and Pierre pitched in to help Jeb with the snowblower. (Incidentally, a snowblower is another piece of equipment that was foreign to me.) It took them all day to clear the walkways. We had accumulated four feet of fresh snow and that was on top of the five feet we already
had. By the time the guys finished, our dormant European garden had been transformed into a labyrinth of snow. The brick walkways leading to the doors were now hedged with pure white powder.

Inside we had a different problem; the pipes in our apartment froze. Instead of blowing snow, I spent the majority of the morning in the bathroom, blow-drying my pipes.

I physically survived my first nor’easter. Mentally surviving it was another matter altogether. My life had become a nor’easter.

Chapter Ten

Princess Grace Kelly had the hardest time adjusting of anyone. She only stood nine inches tall at the top of her ears. When it came to doing her business outside, I’ll just say she wasn’t up for the challenge. For fourteen years, Gracie was used to me opening the back door and letting her run outside. In Memphis, Gracie spent a lot of her time outside no matter the season.

The first time I opened the door in Vermont, the arctic wind blew the long hair around her face sideways and covered her eyes. She looked gorgeous, though, in her new faux mink coat. (I ordered it out of a doggie catalog before I left home.) “Go on, Gracie,” I said. “Go potty.” She just stared at me with a “you’ve got to be kidding” look on her face and never budged. I’ll admit it—I didn’t want to get out in the cold, either. So I pushed her out the door anyway. Gracie fell right off the steps and I watched in horror as my poor little senior citizen dog sunk into the middle of a four-foot snowdrift. Horrified, I went running outside in my socks to rescue her, screaming, “Gracie, Gracie, hold on, I’m sorry.” I dug her out and frantically brushed off the snow. My lesson was learned after that. There was no way she was going to venture out alone, in the snow, ever again. My only choice was to bundle up myself and trudge on out with her.

Gracie hated putting her paws down on the snow because the hair around her feet always froze and she got little ice balls in between her toes. She’d just stand there three-legged with one foot up in the air like she couldn’t bear to take another step.

Helga and Rolf insisted that I scoop her poop and cover up the yellow snow behind her. Before long, Gracie got back at all of us for making her freeze her little fanny off. Little did I know it, but Gracie had been escaping into the inn on a regular basis. During the day when our apartment door was open she’d slip under the six-top table, and once she knew the coast was clear she’d be on her merry way. Gracie’s secret prowl remained undiscovered until one momentous night when she decided to leave the state of Vermont a small token of her appreciation.

The restaurant was in full swing; seventy-five reservations on the books. The front dining room was a favorite among the regulars. It was quite intimate with only four tables, hand-carved corner china cabinets, and a small fireplace. It was the only room with carpeting on the floor—forest green shag. There is no telling how long Gracie had gotten away with it, since number one was easy to conceal on a dark-colored rug.

What about the smell? Wasn’t that a dead giveaway? Lest you have forgotten, the Vermont Haus Inn already stunk to high heaven. I tried eliminating the houseitosis by placing potpourri in bowls all over the inn. Downstairs, upstairs, and in every bathroom. When I ordered a case of magnolia-scented candles from home and scattered them around, Helga complained the place smelled too sweet. So I switched to lavender and she grumbled that the scent didn’t go with the gourmet food. “People vant to smell the gah’lic—the aroma of the cuisine, not a flower shop!” What choice did I have but to give up the fight?

Anyway, Helga was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Richard Peabody that evening for the first seating; their dinner reservations were at 6:30
P.M.
When a very proper couple opened the front door, exactly on time, I had a hunch it must be the Peabodys. I was standing in the foyer holding their menus when they stepped inside.

“Hi, are you the Peabodys?” I asked.

“We are indeed.” The woman spoke for them both.

“I’m Leelee Satterfield, the new owner of the inn. It’s nice to meet you. Helga’s told me so much about you.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” the Missus said in a snooty way with her Northern aristocratic voice. “Is Helga here this evening?”

“Yes, ma’am, she’s in the back mixing drinks. But I told her I really wanted to introduce myself. We’ve got the table you requested all ready.”

“How nice. The rest of our dinner party, the Fikes, have they arrived?”

“No, ma’am, they have not.”

“Well then, let’s be seated anyway.” She barreled right past me to get to her regular table. Mister didn’t seem to be in as big a hurry, so he and I walked together.

As I approached their table, I happened to notice something small and brown poking out from underneath one of the chairs. As I got closer I realized it was no Tootsie Roll. In a panic and not knowing what else to do, I kicked it up under the table.

Now I was really in a pickle. I had to think fast. Mr. and Mrs. Peabody were seated at the table and someone’s foot was only inches away from Gracie’s poop piece.

I handed them both a menu and kept talking while my mind raced for a solution. “So, where are y’all from?”

“Connecticut,” she said. No emotion. Mr. Peabody never even looked up from his menu.

“Really? Seems like there are lots of people here from Connecticut. Do y’all own a home here?”

“Why, yes. It’s been in Richard’s family for several generations.” She closed her menu and placed it in front of her.

Just then Pierre walked in, followed by the Fikes, and as Pierre pulled the chair out for Mrs. Fike, I cringed at the thought of what might happen next.

My immediate concern was hiding it from Helga. I envisioned her as Elvira Gulch from
The Wizard of Oz
—wearing goggles, hunched over the handlebars of a snowmobile, and driving off with my Gracie locked in a basket on the back.

My only hope lay with Pierre. He seemed to really love Gracie. He would take her into his little cottage and the two of them would lie up on his bed watching the daytime soaps. Pierre started saving her the leftover pâté that came back on the dirty dishes. Thanks to Pierre, Gracie stopped eating anything but real goose liver pâté.

I excused myself from the Peabodys’ table and when Pierre came out of the dining room, I pulled him off to the parlor where I was out of anyone’s earshot or eyesight.

“It’s Princess Grace Kelly,” I said in a loud whisper, and made the shape of a little dog with my hands.

When he clearly had no clue, I said again: “Gracie,” and barked, “Ruff-ruff.”

This time his face lit up and he nodded and smiled.

Shaking my head, I said, “Gracie pooped at table four.”

Pierre, of course, just shook his head in confusion.

“Gracie
doo-dooed
under table four,” I said louder, holding up four fingers and pointing over to that dining room.

Still nothing. No comprehension whatsoever.