Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (32 page)

The night before we closed, though, while I was making my routine check on the girls during dinner, I got an unexpected surprise. Sarah was standing in front of the wall phone in our apartment when I strolled in a little after eight. “Bye, Daddy,” she said, and put the phone back on the hook.

It caught me completely off guard and before I had time to purpose my words I heard myself say, “Wait, Sarah, let me talk to him.”

“He hung up already. I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Didn’t he ask to speak to me?”

She shook her head.

“Oh. Well, what did he have to say?”

“He left our presents on the screened-in porch. Come on, Isabella.” She tugged on the front door and when she opened it a blast of frigid air whooshed inside.

“Sarah! Haven’t I told you not to open this door? It’s freezing enough in here without you letting more cold air in.” I slammed the door behind her and bolted the lock. They both stared at me like I was the meanest snake on earth. Any mention of Baker turned me totally upside down. “I’m sorry.
Mama’s just tired. Forgive me?” I squatted down and reached out for them. “Come on. Let’s go through the restaurant.”

I opened the inside door and the girls blasted past me, heading straight for the porch. Once we were outside, it looked like Christmas morning already. A pink Barbie jeep was in the center of a sea of silver and gold packages.

Sarah jumped up and down and squealed. “It’s just what I wanted!”

“It’s just what I wanted!” Isabella always copies Sarah. Bless her heart, she idolizes her sister.

The girls jumped into the jeep and tried starting it. Fortunately, Baker must have forgotten to charge the battery.
And where in the world does he think they’ll be able to ride this? It sure is easy to waltz in and take credit for all the presents. What about Santa? Isn’t he supposed to be the one that gets the glory? All my gifts, hidden upstairs in the attic, are from him.

“Let’s carry the gifts upstairs, y’all. It’s cold out here.”

Sarah started to push the jeep toward the door.

“No, honey, that’s too heavy. Let’s leave it outside.”

“No, it’s my favorite. I want it under the tree.”

“Sarah, I can’t carry it by myself. I’ll get Mr. Peter or Jeb to bring it up after dinner.”

“Need some help?” All three of us turned around at once at the sound of the voice emanating from the yard just outside the porch.

“Daddy!” they both screamed, and ran out the door.

“Girls, you don’t have on your coats or boo—”

The street lamp illuminated the yard and I watched as Baker grabbed them both at once and lifted them up in his arms. My heart felt like it was speeding down a freeway and my stomach was about to drop out of the floorboard. I didn’t know what to say or how to act. Should I go back in the house, or go outside and scream at him? The last thing I wanted was for my girls to be hurt even more, so I took a deep breath and said a prayer. Almost seven months had gone by since I’d laid eyes on him. Every time he picked the girls up for dinner I couldn’t bring myself to come to the door. He’d called about sending money, but never wanted to talk long and I was always too hurt to ask many questions. He told me to get an attorney and he’d sign all the papers. Here it was going on seven months and I still
hadn’t done it.
Did he break up with fake-face?
I wondered.
Is that why he’s here? Did
she
dump
him
?
I wanted to know and, then again, I didn’t.

I picked up as many of the presents as I could carry and headed back upstairs into our apartment. Baker’s flood of gifts would make the few I would put underneath look pitiful. But after all, Santa wasn’t due to arrive until tomorrow night. Mandy was watching TV and jumped up to help me. Just as we finished placing the gifts under the tree, Baker reached the top of the stairs with the Barbie jeep. The girls were loaded down with presents behind him.

“Hello, Leelee.”

“Hi, Baker.” Oddly enough, I was calm when I said his name.

He looked exactly as he had seven months ago when I last saw him in this very room. The same eyes, the same black hair, and his familiar sleek slender body. Once my storybook prince—now all I could see were the stains and blemishes my friends had always known were there.

“You’re looking well,” he said.

“I am well.” I couldn’t return the compliment.
“
I need to get back to work. Are you gonna stay with the girls a while or do you need to rush right off?”

“No, I wanted to watch them open their gifts . . . if that’s okay?” He turned around to Isabella and Sarah, who were diving into their presents. “I’ll be right back, girls. Don’t open anything ’til I get back. I want to tell your mommy something. Mandy, please don’t let them open anything.” Baker followed me down the stairs and into the sitting room. He looked off to the left and then down at his feet before his words finally spilled out. “Leelee, look, this is awkward as hell. I know you think I’ve been a dick. But things are much better for me now. I’m happy! For the first time in my life, I’ve got a job that I feel good about. I’ve raised the revenue this season at Powder Mountain by thirty-eight percent over this time last year.
My degree’s in marketing.
I’m intelligent and I want to be successful. I was dying in insurance. You know that. Then, when we came here, the stress of the move and your reaction to it nearly killed me.”

“
My
reaction?”

“You hated it from the minute we got here.”

Instead of arguing, I just stood there—silent and indifferent.

“Why haven’t you gone back home, anyway?”

I didn’t want him knowing that I hadn’t had a single offer on the inn. That was my business now. I didn’t want him to know anything about me, actually. “I don’t know. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. What’s it to you, anyway?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead he appeared quizzical. I could tell he was taken aback by my audacious approach.

“And what about our daughters? What’s your plan for them, Baker?”

He hung his head, but only for a moment. “They’re better off with you . . . in Memphis. I know that. They can spend their summers up here. I mean, shit, it’s paradise in the summer. You have to admit that.”

“All six weeks of it?”

“Whatever, Leelee.”
It was always all about Baker. Whatever Baker wanted Baker got. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
“The place looks nice. New name. New look. When’d you move the six-top table?”

“Right after I fired Helga.”

“
You
fired Helga?”

“I certainly did.”

“I heard she quit.”

“Well, you heard wrong. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a business to run . . . with employees who are
counting on me
.” With my hand on the doorknob, I turned around to face him. “Have a merry Christmas, Baker,” I said in a cheery voice, and passed on through to the inn.

Moments later, I was walking back in the kitchen and right up to Peter. I even went behind the line (a no-no with most chefs) and gave him a hug, dirty apron and all.

He took a small step back and furrowed his brow. “What’s that for?”

“For being my friend.”

He seemed confused.

“Aren’t you my friend?”

“Of course I’m your friend.”

“Good.” I went to grab the food for table four that he had just placed on the line, when he reached out and grasped my shoulder.

“Wait.”

My head whipped around with a startled look to find his face close to mine.

Instead of words, his eyes dropped, but only for a moment.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Don’t
do
that to me,” I said, and lightly stomped my foot. “I hate it when people change their mind about telling me something.”

He went back to his stove and tried ignoring me, but I refused to budge. “I’m waiting.”

Finally, with faltering words, he said in a kind, tender way, “I’m happy you’re my friend.” He looked right at me.

My face felt flushed. I couldn’t tell if it was from the warmth of the stove or from him. “And I’m happy you’re
my
friend.”

He looked at me a second longer than normal. Not one for discomfort, no matter how brief, I grabbed the plates from the line. Smiling to myself, and happy for friend-boys, I sashayed back out to the dining room.

Chapter Nineteen

If there’s a holiday that spells fun for me, it’s New Year’s Eve. Not because it’s a drunk-fest, but because of the ambiance and the luscious feeling it evokes. I love the fact that everyone is happy, and looking forward to a new start. Hope is alive and resolutions have a chance. Kisses are brand-new and full of promise.

And for those who don’t receive one, emptiness forms a hole in the heart and leaves it hungry.

It never crossed my mind, in thirty-three years, that I would ever have to spend this wonderful evening carrying a bar tray. But we had 106 reservations, we were completely sold out, and I was officially now a bartender with a bar tray.

Since Peter knew it was one of my favorite holidays, he helped me plan a midnight countdown with balloons, hats, shakers, and scads of confetti. We hired a piano player, ordered tons of booze, employed extra waitstaff, and really went all out to make the Peach Blossom Inn the site of a memorable evening for all who dined with us.

Our kitchen had to be the busiest place in all of southern Vermont that day. While Roberta cleaned the kitchen, Jim, the sous-chef, worked on the
stock and chopped potatoes and veggies. Peter cut fillets, readied his soup, and prepared the pâté. I was helping out in the front of the house, arranging fresh flowers on the tables and replacing melted-down candles. Pierre was restocking the fridge.

Around noon, Peter came up from the dry storage room in the cellar with some bad news. “Something is leaking, you guys,” he told all of us in the kitchen. Then he turned to me. “I think you better call a plumber. I have too much work up here in the kitchen to take time to stop. Hey, Jeb, help Leelee, would you? You can stop what you’re doing.”

Jeb was already hard at work. Peter drafted him, as well as another guy, Tim, to help with the prep work—washing veggies, deveining the shrimp, and anything else that didn’t require a chef’s expertise.

“This is why I’m the
o
fficial handyman here. I’ve got my hand in everything,” he muttered, in a semi-begrudging way. He untied his apron and laid it over the deep chrome sink. Jeb’s laziness amazed me sometimes. I didn’t make an issue out of it and waited for him to take his sweet time.

I led the way down cellar. Just off to the right, at the bottom of the stairs, a pool of water had collected. Jeb took one look at it and knew right away the source of the leak.

“That’s a fine how-do-you-do. Now we really have a problem. It’s the Hobart. And it’s not for me to fix. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, no siree, Bob. You better call Mountain Plumbing. They’re your only hope.”

Mountain Plumbing promised to make it sometime that day but couldn’t guarantee me a time. And as the day went by, I sort of forgot about it, to tell you the truth. I spent the afternoon running to the phone—more New Year’s Eve hopefuls. We had been booked solid for over a week, with a mile-long waiting list. I had John Bergmann to thank for that. When his review came out in
Food & Wine
the phone had hardly stopped ringing. “Superb cuisine. Warm ambiance with real Southern charm. Call well in advance for a fireside table.”

I don’t think there was one dinner reservation left in southern Vermont and I know there were no available rooms. Kathy at the Chamber told me there was absolutely nothing else left in the entire region.

Mandy arrived sometime around two and bundled up the girls for a
romp in the snow. She had become indispensable to me by now. Although, as much as I appreciated her, I could never shake the feeling that I had abandoned my daughters.

About 4:00
P.M.
my last four houseguests arrived from New York City. They had rented the two-bedroom suite and were in town to par
teee
. I had explained to the guy on the phone that the Peach Blossom Inn was not the party palace they were looking for, but he rented the room anyway, hoping to find the action elsewhere. He asked me lots of questions about the size of the suite. Their wives, the guy explained, did not want to be cramped. After informing him there were no TVs in the rooms, telephones, or honor bars, I suggested again that maybe they should think about staying somewhere else. He assured me the suite sounded fine and they were going to try something different for a change. Maybe the peace and quiet would do them good. Besides, he said, there was nothing left in town and he was tired of calling around.

“Hi, y’all,” I said, when they walked in the front door. “I’m Leelee, the innkeeper here. Welcome and happy New Year.”

“Same to ya,” one of the guys said, with his arm around his girl, who was smacking her gum. “I’m Nick, this is Denise.” He pointed to his friends. “Timmy and Cheryl.”

They reeked of smoke, and I could smell the liquor on their breaths a mile away. I hated to have to break the news to them, but the minute I fired Helga I instituted a no-smoking policy in the kitchen and the guest rooms.

On the way up to their room, Denise, a short girl with a severe New York accent, remarked, “This is our first time at a B and B. We tried renting a place up at the ski resort but everything was booked. Thank gawd you guys had an opening.”

“Wait ’til you have dinner. You’re really gonna love that. Our chef is fantastic,” I told her.

Once inside their suite, I pointed out the closet and the suitcase racks.

“Hey, where’s the honor bar?” Denise asked. “
Just kidding
.”

Timmy and Cheryl were busy scouting out the bedrooms and the bath with solemn looks on their faces. “We won’t be spending that much time in
here, Timmy,” Nick said. “When we’re not on the slopes, we’ll be in the bar. Lighten up, man, it’ll be fine.” He said it under his breath but I still heard him.