Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (8 page)

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?”