Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  Alice and Mary Jule have decided that they will be happy to be on my waitstaff, one night per week—and Virgy said she’d act as cohostess. When I first showed them the house, they were beside themselves and could not wait to begin the decorating. “I couldn’t have come up with a better idea if it hit me in the face,” Virgy said, when I told her. She also wanted to know why I wasn’t hiring the Yankee Doodle. I reminded her, yet again, that he has a good paying job in Vermont and that I haven’t heard from him in seven months. Besides, I told her, I’m moving on, something Frances Folk has been completely supportive of. She, like Peter, is not a fan of long-distance relationships.

  Since I’m having to spend every day, all day, here at the Peach Blossom Inn, Kissie has had to move into my spare bedroom. She’s used to it though. When my grandmother got sick, Kissie moved into her home to care for her. When Daddy was sick, she did the same thing for him. Of course, Mama, in her final stage of cancer, had in-home health care nurses, but Kissie supplemented all the extra care. There’s always been a thing in my family to be able to die at home, away from a nursing home. Although I’m far from needing nursing home care, I’m in major need of Sarah and Issie care. If not for Kissie taking care of them during this transition time, I would never have been able to open this restaurant. Nor would I have wanted to.

  * * *

  I’m leaving the house early for my extra full day of interviews when I spot Riley in his driveway. His face is buried in the trunk of his car and Luke is perched right next to him. My car engine startles him and I watch as he leaps across the grass divider between our driveways, yelling my name as he’s running. “Leelee, Leelee, woll down your window.” My coffee splatters on the console as I try rolling it down and positioning my mug into the cup holder at the same time. Growing more panicked at the distressed look on his face, I’m just this side of yelling myself when he reaches my car. “What’s wrong, Riley?”

  “Nothing’s wong.” Now he’s leaning in my window.

  Oh for gosh sakes. I slap my hand on the steering wheel and sigh heavier than I had intended. “Then why did you run across the yard screaming my name?”

  “Because I have something vewy important to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I feel howible about this but I’m going to have to cancel our Pampa’ed Chef Pawty.”

  It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. Naturally, I’d forgotten all about it. For months, I cringed every time I saw him for fear he’d bring it back up. Either that, or he’d offer to help out on another home improvement project. Not only have I not had the holes in the bathroom wall fixed, I’m quite positive I can’t trust my friends to take Riley seriously while he’s performing his cooking demonstration. Poor Riley would be one soft R away from Virgy breaking into hysterical laughter. It’s hard to conceal my elation but I try.

  “Oh Riley, don’t you worry about that one little bit.” Of course, I have to admit I’m a little shocked. It’s not like him to cancel anything. I’m almost afraid to ask why. “Well, I’ll see you later,” I say. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “The weason is I’ve decided to let go of my Pampa’ed Chef consultancy.”

  “You have?” Now I’m more than a little shocked. I’m flabbergasted.

  “Guess what line of work I’ve decided to go into now,” he says. Ah, the other shoe drops.

  “You’ve decided to become a member of the paparazzi,” I say with a touch of sarcasm—starting a business has shortened my patience bandwidth.

  “No,” he says, catching on to my joke. “Too much work. To tell you the truth I’ve decided there’s more money to be made in Amway. Not to mention more fun. As a matter of fact, I’m headed wight now to Gwand Wapids, Michigan, to the Amway Gwand Plaza Hotel for a confewence.”

  Naturally, I had no idea that an Amway Grand Plaza Hotel even exists.

  “You won’t believe the cool pwoducts we have for weight management, energy drinks, vitamins, and supplements. And we have pwoducts for skin care, hair care, body care, cleaning supplies, and an automotive line. They even sell wightbulbs and battewies. Twust me, you will be much happier in the long wun having an Amway wep in your life.”

  Bless his heart. “Well, have fun, Riley. See you when you get back.”

  “Say, would you mind checking on ole Lukey boy a time or two? I have a pet sitter coming to take him out and go on walks but it would be nice if he could come to your backyard at some point and play with Woberta.”

  “That would be fine, Riley. I’ll be happy to bring Luke over. Or take Roberta to your backyard. Either one.”

  “That would be gweat. See you when I get back.”

  “Yeah, see you soon, Riley. Enjoy your trip.” I pat him on the hand and drive off down the drive. Through my rearview mirror I see Kissie peeking through the front dining room window. As I’m turning out of my driveway I look to my right and watch as the curtains close.

  * * *

  Just for kicks, I decide to open a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay. It’s a bit self-indulgent, and I can’t help but be a tad melancholy because of the connection to Peter—but the real truth is, it’s the only chilled wine I have on hand. The wine fridges arrived yesterday and were easily installed. Before I left, I’d opened a mixed case of wine and unloaded the bottles of red into their shelves in one fridge. In the other, I loaded up the whites—but the only kind that had arrived was the shipment of Rombauer. After a day of interviewing six chefs—whose talent will pretty much determine the failure or success of my restaurant—I’m in need of some serious therapy, and I don’t mean the kind that Frances provides. I still have one more interview to go, but my energy, enthusiasm, and even my faith in this venture is nearly as frazzled as my mess of hair, currently knotted in a loose bun at the nape of my neck.

  The cork slides out with ease and just for fun I sniff its end, letting the crisp, biting scent hit my nostrils. Grabbing the glass and the bottle, I shuffle to the table and collapse into the worn wooden chair. After pouring an obnoxiously large serving, I take one delicious sip and check my watch—if the next guy doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to be loopy when he arrives.

  As much as I’m the one conducting the interviews, a skill I’m far from mastering, I’ve been aware that my applicants were evaluating me as well. The Peach Blossom Inn looks full of potential but there are too many unpacked boxes, loose wires, and odds and ends lying about to really look like anything at all. So, to make things a little nicer and certainly more businesslike, I set up a table with a couple of chairs in the middle of the east dining room. But despite my best efforts the day started off poorly.

  When I first arrived in Vermont, I spent months trying to deodorize the Vermont Haus Inn. It not only stunk from Helga’s stale cigarette smoke but the entire place smelled like a mélange of garlic and old, musty upholstered furniture, with a profusion of BO. Rolf was the reason for the latter odor and he left a trail of it wherever he went. The first guy I interviewed this morning stunk to high heaven himself, and honestly, he may as well not have bothered applying. After Rolf, I swore I’d never work with anyone again who had so little regard for his, or her, personal care. I even put that in my ad. “Must have good hygiene.” But Mr. Dan Dunwoody from East Tennessee must have completely ignored that part. I could smell him the second he stepped his big toe into the foyer. The stench of body odor permeated the entire room. I was so terribly distracted by the reek that I couldn’t concentrate on a word he said. How in the world he thought I’d ever consider him for my head chef is beyond me. Obviously “smelling like a goat,” as Daddy would have said, didn’t bother him in the least. People never cease to amaze me.

  I suppose the woman with long brown hair who I spoke with around lunchtime might be a possible candidate. I’m guessing she’s in her twenties by her I’m-out-to-prove-myself-to-the-world attitude. Fresh out of Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Miami, she even wore her checkered chef pants and white chef coat with her na
me embroidered on the pocket to the interview. Gung ho and confident, she had a PowerPoint slideshow of her “art”—her culinary creations, left me with a folder of references, and had already taken the liberty of designing a menu, with wine pairings, for the Peach Blossom Inn. Her ambition was nearly as overpowering as Dan Dunwoody’s perspiration. Honestly, I’m not sure that I like her well enough to hire her, but there is nothing to dislike about her, either. When she left I told her that I’d be interviewing a few more applicants but that I did consider her to be a top candidate.

  The only other person besides Miss Gung Ho worth a second look is an older gentleman with a résumé a mile long. He even worked at the Four Flames, a high-end eatery in Midtown that closed several years ago, suffering the same fate as many of the older restaurants in town. He had a fatherly way about him and I found myself warming up to him right away. Not only did he have a nice attitude and pleasing personality, his hygiene was impeccable. I’m almost tempted to call him back right now and offer him the job but I promised Mary Jule that I’d interview one of Al’s old college buddies.

  All she knows about him is they went to school together at Georgia and that his name is Rod McLain. As a favor to Al, she says, I have to at least talk to the guy. But if he’s not here in the next five minutes, I’m leaving. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago and I’m absolutely ravenous. I haven’t been able to put a morsel of food in my body all day. Actually I take that back. I ate the last two Tropical LifeSavers that were hiding in the bottom of my purse about three hours ago. Thank goodness for Kissie. She picked up the girls from school and I’m sure has dinner ready and waiting. Just thinking about what she has on the stove makes me all the more eager to get this day over with right now.

  I pick up the phone and call Mary Jule. “He’s not here,” I say, as soon as she answers. My voice is weary and soft—and a little bugged. I’m sure she senses it.

  I can tell she’s peeved, too, by the way she’s sighing on the other end of the phone. “Let me call Al,” she says, as if she’s ready to kill him. “He took a half day off and took Rod to play golf at the club. I can’t imagine where they are.”

  “Golf? I thought you said he’s a chef. Honestly. I don’t know about another chef who plays golf. It reminds me too much of Baker.”

  “Now Leelee, you can’t expect your chef not to have any other outside activities. I can see hiring someone who’s not a football star but any man worth his salt is bound to have other interests.”

  “I know. But he was supposed to be here by six and it’s six thirty. I’m sorry to sound abrupt but I’m starving. I haven’t been able to eat a meal all day because of all these interviews. They’ve each lasted over an hour and they’ve pretty much been back to back. The last person just left here thirty minutes ago.”

  “You know what. I don’t blame you. If this guy is not taking the chef position seriously enough to be on time for his interview, forget it. Just go home. Don’t you have enough résumés anyway?”

  “Probably so. I interviewed a girl this morning that might work and an older man this afternoon that I’m almost ready to call and offer the job to right now.”

  “Go on home, Fiery. I’ll tell Al that you couldn’t wait any longer. Why don’t you come over tonight? Have a nice glass of wine. It’ll relax you.”

  “I’m already working on the wine, don’t you worry. I’m just so tired. I haven’t been sleeping well. And this whole thing is driving me crazy. I’m starting to wonder why I did it.”

  “Why you did what?”

  “Open up another restaurant. I’m not sure I’m meant to be a restaurateur. This ordeal about hiring a chef is the kind of thing that always happens in the restaurant business. Murphy’s Law I’m telling you. It had to have been invented in a restaurant.”

  “Actually I think its origin had something to do with aviation.”

  “Smarty pants. You and Kissie.”

  “You just need to get some sleep tonight. I know you’re worried about it, but you’ll hire a chef, the place will be a huge success and all will be well.”

  “Whatever. I’m just having a hard time keeping my eyes open right now. And what about this weather? What’s the deal?”

  “I don’t know. I heard the weatherman say the normal high is eighty and today it only reached sixty-one. The low is supposed to get down in the forties. I told Al he’s building me a fire tonight.”

  “And here it is mid-October. I wonder if it will get warm again? Oh well, thanks for understanding. I’m going to head out before it gets too cold in here. I haven’t even turned on the heat yet. I’m trying to keep the power bills down. Talk to you tomorrow,” I say, and hang up the phone.

  I turn on night lamps and shut off the overhead lighting, resigned to having been stood up by this Rod character, who must really be enjoying the golf course at the club—from the view in the men’s bar. When I open the screen door and feel the chill in the air, it reminds me of a happier time. Football season at Ole Miss. Several of us sorority sisters, all dressed up in fabulous fall outfits, would be waiting for our dates in the living room at the Chi O house. There was something about seeing a boy in the foyer wearing a sport coat, khakis, and penny loafers that still makes me happy to this day. Life was easy then.

  I shut and latch it, and then lock the newly stained wooden front door with its brass sign that reads the Peach Blossom Inn and lists our soon-to-be hours of operation. I decide to call Kissie and tell her I’ll be home earlier than expected. Spotting my purse on the table, I start to dig for my cell. Not unlike the rest of the house, it resembles a mobile Dumpster these days. Mounds of crumpled-up receipts, coins, old lipsticks, and loose sticks of gum lining the bottom, are just a mere tasting of the superfluous clutter that lives inside. I sigh and remove my wallet, hairbrush, checkbook, and the small bottle of hand sanitizer.

  Ready to give up and just head home anyway, I am interrupted by a knock at the front door. Oh, so now he decides to show up. Well, buddy, you’ve aready got several strikes against you. You better smell good is all I have to say. Marching over to the front door, ready to show him who’s boss, I’m suddenly scared stiff. Mary Jule may have already told Al not to bother sending over his tardy golfer-chef friend. Here I am, all alone in this house, and it’s pitch dark outside. As much as I love my hometown, it’s not the safest city in Tennessee. Just last week there was a bank robbery in Germantown—in broad daylight! Instead of answering it I creep back to my purse and frantically dig around again for my cell, which I finally find hiding in a side pocket. I dial Mary Jule and when she answers I’m whispering so low it’ll be a wonder if she can hear me. “Did you get Al?”

  “What?” she says, loud enough for the burglar outside to hear her. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Shhhhhhhh.” My voice is panicky. “Did you get Al?”

  “Yes, why?” Now she’s alarmed. But at least she’s whispering.

  “There’s someone outside.” Another hard knock comes from the front door, followed by the ringing of the turn-style doorbell and my fear intensifies. “I’m scared to death. Hold on. I better get a weapon.” With nothing else in sight, I grab a Swiffer mop and creep over to the front door. Without a peephole I’m not about to open it. “Hello?” I finally say in the deepest voice I can muster. It comes out sounding more like a circus clown than a burly he-man. I hear someone chuckle.

  “I thought Memphis was supposed to be warm this time of year,” a voice says.

  What in the world?

  “At least that’s what you always told me.” I hear a shifting of feet—then he clears his throat and coughs.

  Both the cell phone and the Swiffer fall out of my hands and crash to the floor.

  “This ad says I can apply in person.” I hear paper rustling. “Let’s see here. ‘Must have nice attitude.’ Check. ‘Pleasing personality’ … most of the time, but I’ll still give it a check. ‘GOOD HYGIENE’? Most definitely. Can’t say I blame you there,” he says with another chuck
le.

  My eyes slowly close as I breathe in the voice.

  “‘Experience in classic and nouvelle cuisine.’ Looks like I’ve got that one covered, too … unless the position has already been filled.”

  I whip open the front door and look through the screen at the most gentle face I’ve ever come across. It takes me a moment to unlatch the outer door, my fingers catching on the metal, weary from nerves and lack of food. I open it wide and, losing my balance, stumble slightly forward. He’s there to catch me, and when his arms wrap around my back I melt into him. The woodsy aroma of his fleece jacket immediately sends me back to February, when he last held me in his arms. The only time he held me in his arms. Stroking my hair tenderly, he kisses the crown of my head. To be enveloped in Peter Owen’s mighty arms after months and months of longing feels like an apparition. I rear my head back to get a good look at him. “Is it really you?”

  He strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers and nods his head. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and for the first time in a long while they’re from pure joy. I take in a deep breath before slowly exhaling and suddenly the anxiety of the last year and a half escapes. Naturally, a million questions take its place. “How did you know?” I whisper.

  He digs in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a newspaper clipping with my chef’s ad circled in black.

  “Who sent that to you?” I say, my eyes growing larger.

  He digs in his other pocket and reveals a pale pink envelope, which has been folded in half. When he hands it over I see Mary Jule’s handwriting on the front and when I turn it over her personalized embossing is on the back. “Wait a minute. Where did she get your address? I don’t even have it.”