Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  After digging through the foam bits, which have partially spilled onto the floor, I pull out a box from the Magnolia Bakery. Twelve cupcakes, all different flavors, are a wee bit squished from the journey south. There’s also a T-shirt with “I ♥ NY,” and several brochures from tourist attractions: the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the Staten Island Ferry. When I had called Liam back, he had asked me what I liked most about New York. Besides Broadway shows, which are my very favorite thing about New York, I had told him that although I’d visited several times, I’d never been out to the Statue of Liberty or ridden the Staten Island Ferry. He even included a Statue of Liberty bobblehead and an umbrella with logos from all the famous Broadway shows. Opening the box feels like Christmas, only better, because it’s the first time a man has bought me presents in a long, long time.

  “Hm, hm, hm,” Kissies chants, while she’s taking a stick of butter out of the fridge. “Hm, hm, hm.” Now she’s back at the stove checking her rice. Her gravy’s starting to boil and she’s still not saying a word, although I’ve caught her peeking at me when she doesn’t think I’m looking. I know dang well she’s interested in what’s in this box. When I stroll up behind her with my T-shirt held up to my chest, she turns around with her wooden spoon in her hand. Her head is slightly shaking, her bottom lip tight, as she chooses her words carefully. “I ain’t studyin’ no rock star.” What she means by that is, I’m not interested in him. Or, in other words, I’m not impressed.

  I’m confused. What is it about Liam White that’s got Kissie so upset? She’s never met him so she can’t have any reason not to like him. She has no idea of his music so she can’t have an opinion on that. Finally it dawns on me. She thinks I’ll be sharing his room.

  “Kissie,” I say, nonchalantly, as I’m picking up the foam peanuts from the floor. “Just in case you’re wondering, Liam has reserved me my own beautiful room in New York.”

  Standing right there in front of the stove with the steam from the rice moistening her face and without turning around she says, “Nobody else knows that. They’ll be thinkin’ you are shackin’ up with him.”

  Before I have the chance to respond she keeps talking with the top to the rice in one hand and a fork in the other. “What do you think those little girls in there will be thinkin’?” Sarah and Issie are in the next room on the couch in front of the TV with Roberta squeezed in between. Kissie extends the rice top in their direction.

  “They don’t have to know the details. I won’t be gone that long. It’s just a couple of days,” I say. Reasoning with her is normally a futile experience.

  Instead of answering me she moves over to the drawer and counts out the silverware. After she finishes setting the table and she’s had time to give the situation more thought, she places both hands on her hips. “Life has thrown you a curveball, baby. But it don’t mean you need to throw all you know out the winda’ neither. The Lawd is gonna give you another chance at love but you must be smart about it.”

  “I am being smart about it.”

  “How do you call runnin’ off to New York with a man every woman in the world wants to be with smart? That’s what you did the first time around. Picked yourself a man every woman in Memphis wanted to be seen with. And what did that git you? Nothin’ but heartache. Hm, hm, hm.

  “Now I sat back and watched it happen the first time but I ain’t gonna keep my mouth shut this time.” She opens the oven and removes a pan of her yeast rolls. The smell normally sends me into a state of bliss, but tonight I’m in the middle of a reprimand.

  “Kissie, he’s getting me my own room. He’s not even going to try to take me to bed.”

  “That’s cuz he has any woman he wants tryin’ to take him to bed!”

  I thought about that for a moment. “That might be, but I’m different. You know I’m not like that.”

  “What do he want with a woman half his age anyway?” she asks while drizzling clarified butter onto the top of her rolls.

  “I’m not half his age.”

  She continues on as if she didn’t hear me. “That’s what happens to men when they get older. They want to be seen with young women. Lust is real funny, Leelee. And you are very vulnerable. You never can predict what might happen when a man with all the right words and a real pretty face is sweet-talking you. You might think you are strong enough to resist him, but that ain’t always the case. Ole Kissie knows what she’s talking about.” She heads back to the stove and turns off all the burners.

  Following right behind her I say, “I am not going to let him sweet-talk me into anything. I realize now Baker was like that, but I’m not going to ever let that happen to me again. I’m a new person.”

  “New person? When a handsome man is buyin’ a woman things, taking her on trips, tellin’ her how pretty she looks, he’s ha’d to resist. Especially if he’s rich and famous. The Lawd wants you to flee from the devil. Not run right into his arms.”

  “He’s not the devil, Kissie. Of all things.”

  “I’m not sayin’ he’s the devil.” Her voice is shaky and her lips are pressed tightly together. “I’m sayin’ it’s the devil hisself who puts the temptation in your path in the first place. Hm, hm, hm.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Cancel my trip?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you what to do. I’m only tellin’ you how you need to be thinkin’. Settin’ our minds on what’s right is the best way to beat that ole devil at his own game.”

  I open my mouth to comment but she interrupts me.

  “I know what I’m talkin’ about,” she says, pointing to her chest. “I didn’t get to be eighty-one years old without plenty of stumbles in a whole lot of potholes. I’m just tryin’ to save you from another big scrape on your knee.” Her voice is softer now. If there’s one thing I know about Kissie, she only wants the very best life has to offer me.

  “I know. And I appreciate it.” Wrapping my arms around her I rest my head on her shoulder. “I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll know if he’s not a nice person.”

  She squeezes me into her large frame and strokes the back of my head. “Well, there’s gonna be plenty of clues along the way. Just make sure you keep your eyes wide open.”

  * * *

  One big fat fib to Edward and a few days later, I’m standing in the check-in line at the Memphis International Airport ready to board a Delta flight to the Big Apple. My nails and toes are pale pink and I’ve been sprayed a fake golden brown. (It looks marginal at best considering my lily white skin could no more get this tan than an albino’s could, not to mention the orange in the tanner clashes with the orange in my hair. The girl at Tan-tique talked me into medium when clearly I should have opted for extra light.) I’ve got on a darling outfit, though. Mary Jule picked me up bright and early Saturday morning and we spent the whole day running back and forth from the Laurelwood Shopping Center to the Oak Court Mall until we found the perfect dress—a pale yellow sleeveless sheath with a wide stretchy black belt, black leather peep-toe pumps, and a short black cardigan with tiny, knotted buttons to match. Mary Jule thought it was the cutest ensemble she’d ever seen and told me not to be surprised if she copied. Looking at myself now, here in the airport, I’m wondering if I don’t look more like a bumblebee.

  After struggling to place my extra large, overstuffed piece of luggage on the scale, the woman behind the Delta counter smiles when she hands me my boarding pass. At first I thought she was being friendly, but when I’m seated in row three and the flight attendant passes me a warm wash cloth with a silver tong, it hits me. I’m flying first class to meet a dang rock star in New York City. Right before I have to turn off my phone I text Virginia: “Loving my seat on the plane. Can’t decide between the filet or the snapper.” There’s not a full meal offered today but she’ll get the picture.

  Two hours, a bowl of warm mixed nuts, and an emergency glass of wine to calm my nerves later, the flight attendant announces on the overhead that we’re only fifteen minut
es from the gate and the butterflies in my stomach come alive. My heart catapults back and forth against my chest as I ponder what’s ahead and the possibilities the weekend might bring.

  I step confidently off the plane and as I’m walking down the corridor toward the baggage carousel I notice a man holding a sign with my last name. I walk on past, never dreaming it could be for me, when something tells me I might as well ask. Just for the heck of it, I look him square in the face and say, “You’re not here for Leelee Satterfield are you?” When he tells me yes, and that he would help me with my luggage, I’m tempted to scream.

  Moments later, my coachman is whisking me away in a black Lincoln Town Car to the Mandarin Oriental hotel. As we weave in and out of the traffic, amid the honking and the near misses of cars colliding, my face is glued to the window. I’m fascinated by all the people outside, scurrying as if each is running their own personal race, trying to beat the clock.

  When we pull up to the hotel, after rounding Columbus Circle and edging into a spot right in front of the curb, the doorman opens the rear door of my coach and a bellman takes my bag. Deke is waiting for me under the porte cochere when I step out of my carriage and as I dig in my purse for cash to tip both the driver and the doorman, he stops me. “I’ve got this,” he says, deadpan, and hands the doorman a five. “The car company will bill us. You can put your money back.”

  “Well, thank you. You didn’t have to do that,” I say, as I stand face-to-face with Mr. Grouch.

  “No problem,” he says. I can’t help but wonder how he’s feeling about me now that I’m here as Liam’s date.

  “So how are you?” I ask. There’s no reason for me to be ugly just because he’s a mean ole grump.

  “Not bad.” There’s a Liam White laminate around his neck with a penlight and a Sharpie clipped onto the lanyard. “Liam’s at sound check. He wants me to bring you up once you’re situated in your room.” He hands me my room key. “I’ve already checked you in.”

  “Okay,” I say, and shrug my shoulders. “Thank you.” I wonder if he’s planning on apologizing for how mean he was to me on the phone.

  “I’ll meet you back here in the lobby in, what, ten minutes?” He glances at his watch. “Is that enough time?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes. I’ll be back in less.”

  * * *

  When I open the door to my room, my eyes are first drawn to a floor-to-ceiling picture window covering an entire wall. I hurry over, tear open the sheers, and peer down below. From the twenty-second floor, the tops of the trees in Central Park form a canopy of green, resembling clusters of broccoli. A white loveseat sits in front of the picture window with a desk off to the side. There’s a white coverlet on the king-size bed with large shams bearing the hotel’s monogram. When I turn around, I notice my suitcase is already set up on a luggage rack in the corner. I practically float over to the bathroom, which is equally elegant. The oversize sauna tub is underneath another large picture window and there are two sinks with flower vases containing birds of paradise at either end. A separate black marble shower, with dual shower heads, invites the imagination to run wild.

  The big question is whether or not I should meet Liam in my bumblebee suit. After staring at myself in the full-length mirror for a full five minutes, pivoting my foot and trying desperately to see my backside, I decide to go ahead and keep it on, minus the sweater. Hurriedly, I fluff my hair and reapply a little blush and lipstick.

  Exactly fifteen minutes later, I’m stepping out of the elevator into the lobby, ready to greet my rock ’n’ roll prince.

  Deke’s on the phone. He waves me over but talks the whole time we’re walking together. It sounds like he’s speaking with someone at a hotel, something about an early check-in. We step back onto another elevator and take a ride to the thirty-sixth floor. Although he’s now finished with his phone conversation, Deke and I stroll in silence down the hall and stop in front a wide set of doors. He moves through ahead of me into a beautiful ballroom with floor-to-ceiling windows covering three sides of the room. The Hudson River is on one side, Central Park is on the other, with Columbus Circle underneath the third set of windows. The tables are elegantly set for a formal dinner, each graced with topiaries as centerpieces. Liam is on a short stage in the middle of the room singing and I recognize the same band members who were with him in Memphis. I know the song, “Dusty Love.” Once it’s over, he lays down his guitar and happens to spot me standing with Deke in the middle of the room. He leaps off the stage and heads straight over, reaching out his arms.

  “Hi, baby,” he says, once his arms wrap around me.

  Baby? Normally, I would think a guy was sleazy for calling me that so soon but coming from him it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “Hi, Liam,” I say, entirely convincing myself that this is what it felt like the first time Grace Kelly met Prince Ranier.

  “You look gorgeous.” He takes a step back and I watch his eyes travel from my hair down to my toes.

  “I do?”

  He slowly exhales. “Yellow is your color. It looks great with your hair,” he says, lifting a long lock off my shoulder and holding it in his hand. “Wow. So beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” I smile coyly.

  Reaching out for my hand, he leads me to the stage where he helps me up onto the platform. “Hey everyone, remember Leelee from Memphis?” They all nod and say hello. He wraps one arm around my waist and speaks close to my face. “Why don’t you sit at one of the chairs at that table,” he points to the foot of the stage. “I’ll be finished here shortly and we’ll go for a drink.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, still quite shy in his presence.

  Once seated I send a three-way text to the girls that reads: “Sitting at a ballroom table with a penthouse view of Central Park on one side and the Hudson River on the other waiting for Liam to finish his sound check. He just called me ‘baby.’”

  Virginia immediately writes back, “Might leave John for a band member. I want the guitar player.”

  Mary Jule writes, “I’m so jealous.”

  Finally ten minutes later, Alice responds. “I admit it. I would KILL to be there. Have fun.” I can’t help but smile to myself at Alice’s admission while glancing toward the stage where Liam is playing the first bars of “Miss Thing.”

  The second sound check is over Liam grabs my hand, walks me through the ballroom, and whisks me out the door. We step onto an elevator, and it seems to stop on every floor on the way down. With my hand clutched tightly inside his, he scoots me farther back to accommodate each person. Once we reach the lobby he leads me through to the bar, where he heads straight for two empty bar stools.

  He throws his leg over his stool and pats the one next to it. “Have a seat, young lady.”

  It’s higher than most stools and since my pale yellow sheath hasn’t much give in the skirt, I have to wriggle my way onto the seat.

  “You gonna make it there?” he asks jokingly, while reaching over to help hoist me up.

  “Yes, I’ve got it now,” I say, awkwardly scooting my backside into the chair. Clearly there’s a disadvantage to a sheath, though I’m sure this wasn’t the scenario my mother had in mind when she told me a good sheath dress would be indispensable. With all the maneuvering my dress has twisted and the back is now around the front. I try smoothing it back around, slowly hiking up one hip after the other, all the while looking like a seal writhing about in a chair. I don’t have to look into the mirrored bar to tell my face is on fire.

  I catch him looking at me as I’m situating my purse over the back of the stool. “How’s your room, Leelee Satterfield?” he asks me confidently.

  “It is beautiful. And the view? I had no idea,” I say as gracefully as possible, considering I’ve just been squirming in the seat like a five-year-old being forced to pose for a portrait.

  His green eyes sparkle as he speaks. “I know. My room has views of both Central Park and the Hudson. It’s definitely an advantag
e of these corporate gigs.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I say, slightly out of breath from my unexpected workout.

  “Some of the larger companies have events or conferences for their employees, say once a year, and they hire guys like me as their entertainment. The best part is that they have big budgets, so the fee is great, plus they’re usually held at a wonderful hotel like this one. But, like everything, there’s a downside.” He looks down the bar and tries to attract the bartender’s attention. “The audiences are terrible.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that, either,” I say, when he looks back at me.

  He smiles and chuckles a bit. “For one thing, they never stop talking. And they’re usually shit-faced by the end of the night. They’re not paying to see us, so they normally aren’t too attentive.”

  The bartender finally arrives and Liam orders a Heineken. “And for the lady?” the Asian bartender asks.

  “Do you have peach daiquiris?” I say.

  “No. But I could make you a peach bellini martini.”

  “What’s in that?” I ask.

  “Peach schnapps, vodka, peach nectar.”

  “Hmm, that sounds a little strong for me.”

  “It’s very good, though,” he says, wiping his hands on a bar cloth.

  “Maybe I’ll have … a … okay, I’ll take it,” I tell him.

  When our drinks are served Liam leans over and holds up his Heineken bottle for a toast. “To Leelee, who looks like a Southern belle in her yellow dress, with peach bellini-daiquiri-whatever-you-call-it, and who puts all these Northern women to shame.” He never takes his eyes from mine, and gently taps our drinks together.

  I deftly lean in to sip from the precarious rim of the martini glass, and lower my eyes away from his. The first swallow melts deliciously down my throat—a dangerous combination of peach and fire and deep, deep warmth. I make a futile mental note to watch out for these concoctions … not to mention the man I’m sitting across from.