Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (43 page)

I headed straight toward the back of the barn. Sure enough, amid the debris, it had been tossed into the middle of the brush pile. My car had very little room but I’d have sooner thrown out one of my suitcases than leave my sign with her. There was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she would burn my beautiful sign. So after cramming it in the car next to Gracie’s cross, I ran back inside the house and scribbled out a note:
Thanks for the sign!
I propped it up in front of the big fat head hippo and ran out the door.

Just past the entrance to Sugartree the snow picked up even more and in what seemed like seconds turned into half-dollar-size flakes. No matter how long you live, I don’t think you ever grow tired of watching snow fall.

“The snow is pretty,” Sarah said.

“Yes it is, baby.”

“Will it snow in Memphis?” she wanted to know.

“Sometimes, but not like this. Are you watching, Issie?”

“Mmhmm,” she said, through her paci.

I was careful to take my time and we inched along at only twenty miles per hour. The city snowplows hadn’t made it back around this stretch yet.

Just beyond the next curve I noticed something in the distance in front of the right side of the thicket. Large and black—I wasn’t sure what it was—but it was motionless. Perhaps a vehicle had lost control and slammed into the embankment ahead. After all, the street was overly treacherous. I couldn’t be sure, but in an effort to be extra cautious, I lightly tapped my brakes. And as my car slowed down to a roll, I recognized him.

Majestic and virile, he was just as I had imagined. After waiting for him all this time, I wasn’t about to simply drive past, so I slowly pulled off onto the shoulder, making sure to keep twenty yards or so between us.

“Look, girls. I don’t believe it. A moose!”

“Where?” Issie squealed.

“I can’t see him,” Sarah cried.

Ever so slowly I inched up toward him, hoping with all my heart that he wouldn’t dash away. The closer we got the more his distinguishing features came into view. His antlers were gigantic and I couldn’t help but wonder how in the world he could keep his head held so high. His tail was much smaller than I would’ve thought. Seeing it up close, it was more like a cow’s tail. In awe, the girls and I gaped at him. He was covered in snow but didn’t seem to mind.

Now we were only thirty feet away and as I was eager to get as close to him as I could, I guess the engine startled him. He turned and looked at us dead-on. I noticed his face and his big, round nose.

“What took you so long?” I whispered.

I know we sat there staring at each other for a full sixty seconds before he gradually turned and started walking away. His gait changed and he trotted several feet ahead. As he picked up his pace, I edged onto the road. Before long and almost miraculously, we were gliding along, the moose and
I, at the same rate of speed. Only a few feet ahead of us, it seemed as if the moose was escorting us away from Vermont.

Just at the edge of town the road curved off to the left. As my little car veered off toward home, our bull moose disappeared back into the thicket.

Epilogue

A Lovely Warm Autumn Day
M E M P H I S, T E N N E S S E E

“I’m so proud of her. Who would have actually thought she’d have the courage to do it?” Virginia said.

Mary Jule piped up from the backseat. “I couldn’t do it. No way.”

“Personally, I think I could. But we’re not talking about me,” said Alice, who was sitting in the passenger seat of Virginia’s car. “Let’s get down to Agency business. Mary Jule,” she said, turning around to face her, “did you sneak into Leelee’s address book?”

“Yes, I did. No address, only a phone number.”

“No
address
? That’s odd, how are we gonna find it?”

“We can call Roberta,” Virginia said. “Who knows her last name?”

“I don’t remember. Do you, Alice?” Mary Jule asked.

“Heck no.”

“How about Jeb? What’s his last name?” Virginia asked.

The other two shrugged.

“Don’t tell me we’ve hit a dead end.”

“I’ve got it!” Alice squealed. “Mary Jule, what’s his phone number?”

“You’re not gonna call
him
, are you?”

“Just give me the phone number and watch the master at work.”

“I don’t know about this but,
okay
: 802-555-9998.”

“Thank you very much, may I have total quiet, please?” Alice pulled out a Virginia Slim, cracked the window, and took a puff before punching in the numbers. “I did a star-sixty-seven, just in case.” Alice put a finger to her lips. “Shhh, it’s ringing. Still ringing. Hi-eee,” she said in her best Yankee voice, “is this Sam?”

“You’ve got the wrong number.”

Alice held the phone out from her ear so Virginia and Mary Jule, who were huddled toward the phone, could hear every word. “This isn’t Sam Owen?”

“Nope. You’ve got the right last name, but my first name’s not Sam.”

“Oh, well. That operator must have given me the wrong Owen. I’m looking for my old college boyfriend. He lives in Vermont on Acklen Road and I’m desperate to find him. Do you have a
cousin
named Sam Owen?”

“No, I don’t have a cousin named Sam.”

“Is your middle name Sam?”

“No, Sam isn’t my middle name.”

“Are you sure you’re not pulling my leg? Sam, this really is you, isn’t it?” Alice pinched her two fingers together and glided her hand through the air, pretending to be writing. Mary Jule quickly dug in her purse and handed her a pen.

“It’s not Sam,” he said with a chuckle. “And I’m not your old boyfriend. What’s your name anyway?”

“Shauna.”

“Nice to meet you,
Shauna
.”

“You too, Sam, I mean, whatever your name is.”

“Peter.”

“Okay, nice to meet you,
Peter.
Listen, would you please do me a favor?”

“I’ll try.”

“If you ever meet Sam Owen up there, will you tell him I’m trying to find him?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks. Hey, what’s your address? Maybe I’ll send Sam a letter in care of you.”

“It’s 415 Forrest Drive, but I doubt I’ll ever meet him.”

“In Willingham?”

“No, Dover.”

“And that zip?”

“05356.”

“Alrighty then. Thanks, Peter Owen. Good talking to you and have a
greet
day.” When she got to the day part she accidentally lost her accent. She recovered, though, when she said good-bye. “Byeeee.” She closed her cell phone and blew two smoke rings. “And that’s how it’s done.”

“I gotta say. You never cease to amaze me,” Virginia told her.

“All in a day’s work of a good detective at the Gladys Kravitz Agency. I can’t believe we actually caught him at home. What are the odds of that?”

“Oooooh, I’m getting excited,” squealed Mary Jule.

“Who’s got the letter?” Alice asked.

“It’s in my purse,” said Virginia.

Alice ruffled through Virginia’s pocketbook and opened the unsealed envelope. She took out the newspaper clipping, which had one of the want ads circled with a black Sharpie, and read aloud:

CHEF NEEDED Peach Blossom Inn—small, gourmet restaurant in mint condition. Must have nice attitude, pleasing personality, GOOD HYGIENE, and expertise in classic and nouvelle cuisine. Historic Germantown, 462 Old Poplar Pike, Memphis, Tennessee 38108. Call 901-555-8912 or apply in person.

“Leelee’s left us no choice but to take matters into our own hands, and we’re all in agreement, right?” After nods from the other two, Alice folded up the ad and stuck it back inside the envelope. She gave it a lick and under Peter Owen’s name she copied down his address.

“Here’s a stamp,” Mary Jule said, leaning over the front seat. “I’ve only got a love stamp. Do y’all think that’s too obvious?”

“So what if it is?” With a quick lick, Alice placed the stamp on the letter and handed the envelope to Virginia.

They pulled into the post office and got in line for the drop box. Virginia
rolled down the window and reached out to place the letter on the edge of the mail slot. “Okay. It’s worth a shot.”

She gently let go of the envelope and let it slide down, deep into the mailbox.

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT

SOUTHERN AS A
SECOND LANGUAGE

Lisa Patton

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SOUTHERN AS A SECOND LANGUAGE

By Lisa Patton

Chapter One

Sometimes a little white lie is just the kindest thing. I mean, what in the world was I supposed to tell Riley, my agitating next-door neighbor, when he rang my doorbell one October morning and asked if he could work at my brand-new restaurant as Peter’s sous chef? My mind raced in a thousand directions and my initial thought was to say, “That is so nice, Riley. I tell you what, though, I’ll need to talk to Peter about this and get back with you.” At the very least, it would have taken the onus off me. But just as I was about to open my mouth, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Kissie standing in the doorway leading from the dining room to the kitchen with hands firmly planted on her hips, mouth drawn tightly, and her head was shaking from side to side. That was her not-so-subtle way of telling me that what I was about to do was a big fat no-no. She knew me all too well.

I knew she was right, but it’s hard for me to be brutally honest with people, especially guys like Riley. I feel sorry for him, bless his heart. He’s … well, he’s pitiful really, and he can’t help it. He speaks with a soft
r,
so when you first meet him you think his name is Wiley. Wiley Bwadshaw. Kissie, on the other hand, doesn’t feel in the least bit sorry for him. She says he’s just plain annoying and that his speech impediment has nothing to do with it. She says there’s no reason to feel bad for him. “He got a plenty money, a full head a hair, nice stature, and two strong legs to find honest work. There ain’t no reason in the world to feel sorry for that man.”

As he stood on my front stoop wearing a white apron and a chef’s hat with
RILEY
embroidered in black, he tried selling himself. “Working as a Pampa’ed Chef Consultant qualifies me as a perfect candidate for this position.”

“I thought you gave up Pampered Chef for Amway,” I told him, still not having invited him in. Kissie would rather spend an entire afternoon behind a shopping cart with a bad wheel than five minutes face-to-face with Riley.

“Actually, I did, but I’ve weconsidered my decision and I’m back in business. Anyway, these days,” he went on, “PCCs have to do cooking shows as part of the job.” Riley adjusted the tie around his waist and it was then that I noticed the lettering on the front of his apron:
THE PAMPERED CHEF® DISCOVER THE CHEF IN YOU.
“I’ve alweady hosted close to seven cooking demonstwations featuring the Pampa’ed Chef’s best thirty-minute wecipes.”

I stood silently in my doorway trying my best to be polite, bobbing my head with a kind note of approval. Quite honestly, at this point, my neck was beginning to hurt.

He went on. “That alone is another benefit, as I could make a huge diffewence in the efficiency of your westauwant opewation.” An ear-to-ear smile spread across his face as he popped his index finger in my direction. “And here’s the best part, you could stock your kitchen exclusively with all Pampa’ed Chef pwoducts, declaring the Peach Blossom Inn the first all-PC westauwant in Tennessee. Hey, you could even put a PC logo on the fwont door, as well as on all your menus, boasting that you are the first!” He further added that that one detail alone was sure to increase our foot traffic by at least 75 percent—given the Pampered Chef reputation and all. “It’s a win–win!” Riley exclaimed as he snapped his fingers in the air and poked his head inside the entryway of my rental home, scanning his eyes from side to side. Riley’s thirst for information could never be considered his strong suit.

Not only is Riley a Pampered Chef salesman (“consultant” is his word) but he “reps” Tupperware, Cutco, and of course, Amway, too. Kissie says that line of work is meant for women only and that he’s flat-out embarrassing himself, but as he puts it, “It’s a gweat way to meet the ladies.” I can’t help but feel sorry for him there, too, because he’s in his late thirties, still a bachelor, and sports a military hairdo to boot. His cropped brown hair ripples in the back when he bends his head down, but he keeps a two-inch flattop growth on the top. When you go into his home, he’ll show you around the house but you can’t sit on the furniture. It’s covered in plastic. So are the rugs. In fact, there’s a see-through runner that extends all over the house. The one time I had to go over there to borrow an egg and made mention of the vast amount of Tupperware products in his kitchen, he swept his hand over the coated furniture in the den and said, “Well, how do you think I got all this? Never, my dear lady, underestimate the power of plastic.”