Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  “You can’t move these glasses out of ze cab-i-nets! How on earth vill the vaiters be able to get to them quickly?” she asked, from the red-checked dining room.

  “Oh,” she continued, with a real loud inflection on the O after she saw the way I had rearranged the fireplace mantel with my own things. “This vill neva vork—ze menus must stay right here behind ze hippo. Oh God . . . vhere’s my hippo, vhat happen to my hippo?” She spied the beast sticking out of the box I had retired him in, snatched him up, and gingerly placed him back on the mantel. “There now,” Helga said, petting her ceramic friend on the back. She dug out the rest of his siblings from the box and placed the entire collection back on the mantel.

  Unfortunately for me, the front parlor was her next stop. “No. This vill not do, either,” Helga said, peeved, when she spotted the bookshelves decorated with my Herend china. “We use ze shelves on ze right for condiments and ze shelves on ze left for tablecloths and napkins.” And with that she proceeded to undo two hours’ worth of careful thought and precise decorating.

  I felt like a scolded child and couldn’t say a word. She reminded me of an angry schoolmarm inflicting her personal misery upon a student simply because she was the authority figure. Those teachers always scared me to death and I was never at liberty to stand up to them. Now, standing next to Helga, I was transported back to grade school.

  “Ve are opening this restaurant in nine days, you certainly have your vork cut out for you,” she said. “You bought Vermont Haus Inn completely furnished. You should have sold all this extra furniture vhile you had ze chance in Memphis.” She waved her hand across my cream-colored living room sofa and her ashes sprinkled onto the cushion. The woman never even paused to wipe them up. “You’ll certainly need ze money for ze dry seasons,” she continued, and kept on walking.

  Dry seasons! I wondered. What in the world did she mean by that?

  Helga had a stack of books in her arms when she arrived and had set them down on one of the tables. “Come vith me,” she commanded. “Ve have vork to do.”

  Like a youngster minding the teacher, I followed her into the red-checked dining room, where she sat down at the table and lit another cig.

  “Sit down here,” she said, and patted the chair next to hers. (I couldn’t help wondering if a tube of lipstick had ever glossed her lips or a mascara wand had ever swept through her eyelashes.) She had on the same preppy outfit she wore the first time I met her—white oxford cloth shirt and blue slacks. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it seemed to have a smoothing effect on her crow’s-feet.

  She lifted her glasses from the chain around her neck and placed them on the tip of her nose. “Let’s see now, Baker vill be in charge of kitchen operations and you vill handle all ze bookvork. You must keep the vorkload equal vith your husband.”

  “I’m actually not much on bookwork,” I told her. (I despise it.)

  After peering at me over the top of her glasses for what seemed like a full minute, Helga remarked, “Not much on bookvork? Then how are you planning on running zis business?”

  “Well, I . . . it’s just that . . . bookwork’s never been my responsibility—in Memphis, I mean.”

  She kept her stern gaze.

  “But I suppose I could learn to do it here.”

  “Your husband vill not have time to operate this business all by himself. You must carry your own veight!” Her voice climbed.

  “Oh, I plan on it, Helga. It’s just that I have two daughters who need my full attention. In fact I should go—”

  “You are a vorking mother now!” she declared loudly, and banged the table with her fist. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Where was Baker when I needed him?

  For the next two hours, my new hard-nosed boss instructed me on the accounting principles of the restaurant business while Sarah and Isabella played with Daddy. By the time Helga left, my job description had been laid out before me: preparing payroll, paying the bills, figuring the taxes and workers’ compensation, hostessing, taking care of inn guests, and I was a bartender in training. What about mother, Helga?

  When I climbed in bed that night, I couldn’t hold in my feelings. I told Baker that Helga was mean and frightful. Instead of holding me in his arms and reassuring me that it would all be okay, he fluffed his pillow and turned off the light.

  Baker and I were in the apartment unpacking early the next morning when I heard a door swing open in the inn. A woman had let herself in via the garden door that led in from the screened-in porch, which was now piled up with six cords of wood. No one knocked on the door, I would learn. It was like any business—no need to knock. The fact that it was also someone’s personal residence had never stopped anyone before. After all, it was an inn.

  I stopped what I was doing to greet her. “Hi there,” I called out from the apartment.

  At first she seemed a little startled—she wasn’t used to seeing the door open between the apartment and the inn.

  “You must be the Satterfields!” She moseyed over our way. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Baker or to me because her left eye wandered way off to the side. “I’m Roberta Abbott. Welcome to the Vermont Haus Inn and congratulations on becoming the new owners.” She tugged on her underwear with her right hand and held a red down jacket in her left.

  “Hi, I’m Leelee, Roberta. Have you met Baker yet?” I gestured toward him.

  “Nuup, not yet, but I’ve heard about you.” She gave him a big smile.

  Baker shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  A flame of bright orange set fire to her hair (all but an inch of gray that came off her scalp) and it was twisted in an unkempt bun on the top of her head. Black hairpins popped out every which-a-way. Her eternal smile disclosed her cheery disposition and I decided I liked her right away. Roberta was short and heavyset. (Mama always said that was the polite way to describe a person who is considerably overweight.) Her untucked flowery blouse had a hard time staying down and her huge bosoms made it hard for the blouse to stay buttoned. A plaid skirt hung just below Roberta’s knees and brushed the tops of her clunky snow boots.

  “Congratulations are in order for both of us. I have an anniversary coming up on the fifteenth day of this month. It marks twenty years of loyal employment right here at the Vermont Haus Inn.”

  “Congrats to you, too,” I said.

  “Why, thank you.” Roberta beamed and took a bow. “I know every inch of this place. There’s more of my elbow grease in it than anyone else’s. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have about anything that has to do with housekeeping—that’s my specialty.”

  Thank you, Lord Jesus.

  “I also help out in the kitchen at night, so I can show you the ropes there, too.”

  “I’ll be the one needing help in the kitchen,” Baker said. “Thanks, Roberta.”

  “You’rrre welcome.”

  Sarah and Issie heard Roberta’s voice and peeked out of their bedroom.

  “Hi there,” Roberta said when she saw them. She leaned down to their level and put her hands on her knees. “What are your names?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Hi, Sarah, is that your sister?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s your name, little sister?”

  “Issie.”

  “Let me guess, are you six?”

  Issie giggled. “No.”

  “Eight?”

  “No.” She giggled even harder.

  “I’m five and Issie’s almost three,” Sarah told her.

  “Well, you could have fooled me. You girls can help me anytime in the kitchen, would yous like that?”

  Both Issie and Sarah nodded with a smile.

  “Well, good. I better get a move on. Helga wants things cracking by eight sharp!”

  “We’ll be in soon,” Baker told her.

  “I’m really happy to know you, Roberta,” I said. “I have a feeling I’ll be leaning on you a lot.” Leaning on her was one th
ing. Helping her in the bathrooms was another. I did not move to Vermont to scrub other people’s toilets.

  Rolf, Helga, Roberta, Baker, and I were in the kitchen talking when a tall brunette snow bunny bopped in the door. She was still bundled up from the cold and wore a pair of crocheted mittens with a ski hat to match, a darling white ski jacket, and a pair of lacy snow boots. The boots were to die for. They resembled Indian moccasins but they hit just under her knees and were lined with white fur. The thick laces crisscrossed up her shins and there was a pretty design stitched in the coffee-colored suede exterior of the boot. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “Hi, everyone, merry Christmas.” She took off her hat and mittens and unleashed her long brown ponytail.

  Helga obviously liked her because she actually smiled when the woman came in. “Hello, Kerri, how vas your vacation?”

  “Oh, I didn’t end up going nowhere, I stayed right here in town.” After hugging Rolf and Roberta, she gave Baker a side hug and extended her hand to me, like we were the only ones who weren’t close. “Hi, I’m Kerri, we sort of met when you and Baker were here last summer.”

  Now I remembered who she was. The hostess who smiled incessantly at Baker.

  “Oh yes, sure I remember. It’s nice to see you again,” I lied.

  “Welcome to Vermont. I remembered Baker saying you and your daughters would be arriving sometime this week. How do you like it so far?”

  “We just got in a couple of nights ago, and as you can probably tell we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “No joke. I saw all the boxes when I came in. Where are your girls?”

  “Upstairs in our apartment watching The Little Mermaid,” I said.

  “For the fiftieth time,” Baker added sarcastically. An awkward moment followed.

  “I wanted to stop in and say hi, and also to say there are a bunch of us meeting at Donovan’s tomorrow night. There’s a great band playing. Do you like music, Leelee?”

  I looked at Baker to step in and say: Leelee’s been listening to music since she was yea high. And he only said, “Donovan’s is a local hangout.”

  I said, “I love music. I haven’t figured out the babysitter thing yet, but I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  “Be happy to babysit anytime, all you have to do is ask,” Roberta said. “I love children. Moe’s got three but we never had any of our own. They’re like mine though.”

  “Thank you, Roberta,” I said. “I may take you up on that.”

  “Oh, and Monday is ski day. It’s great fun.” Kerri looked over at Baker for affirmation.

  “Oh, yeah, Mondays are great.”

  “Well, I’ve got lots to do, I’ll see you guys tomorrow night, maybe?” said the bunny.

  “Yeah, we’ll try,” Baker replied.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” she said to Helga and Rolf, and shot all of us a smile that revealed fluorescent white teeth. She flipped us a ta-ta wave and skipped out of the kitchen.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” Rolf hollered after her from behind the line. (The line, I learned, is the place in front of the stove and behind the counter where the chef places the plates for the waiters to retrieve their orders.)

  “Baker, would you mind checking on the girls?” I said. We had much to discuss.

  “Sure.” Baker told the kitchen staff he’d be back shortly and sprinted out of the kitchen.

  I counted backward from one hundred and then hunted him down.

  “Kerri seems like she already knows you,” I said, when I found him in our bedroom. “What’s the deal?”

  “I was at Donovan’s one night and she and her friends were there. The guys who helped with the painting took me out to get a beer—after working hard all day. Is that okay?”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, sarcastically. I act that way sometimes when I’m threatened, and my head felt flushed with fear.

  “Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

  “No big deal, I was just curious how Kerri already knows you so well.”

  “She works here, for God’s sake. Was I supposed to be rude to her when I saw her?” He stood up from the bed and angrily yanked the curtain on our closet shut.

  “No, I just felt funny back there. Plus, Helga obviously likes her and it’s obvious she does not like me.”

  “Why would you say that?” Baker turned back around to face me. “That’s not true, there’s no way she couldn’t like you. What’s not to like?”

  “I’m just telling you she doesn’t like me. She changed everything I did in the inn back to her way of decorating. Our styles are completely different. I have to feel like it’s my house if you ever want me to feel comfortable here.” I sat down on the side of the bed.

  “Helga will back off. Just give her a little time. Remember how you said Germans have strong personalities? That’s just how she is.”

  “Everybody in Vermont has a strong personality.”

  Baker sat down next to me. “It’s just different from the South. You’ll get used to it, I promise.” He put his arm around me from the side and kissed my cheek.

  I wanted so badly to get a four-way conference call to Memphis going right then and there. But honestly, I didn’t know what to tell the girls. I figured I’d better wait. They’d tell me to catch the next plane home.

  One more full-time employee was included in the acquisition. Pierre Lebel, now my French maître d’, had spent the break in France visiting relatives. He had returned from his travels a few days before, and spent most of the time since then sleeping off his jet lag.

  Pierre lived in the little cottage with turquoise shutters that sat in the middle of the European garden. He lived alone and, as I would later come to find out, played solitaire and worked jigsaw puzzles for pleasure. He had a full head of jet-black hair, which he combed straight back, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. Pierre’s hair was kept short and neat, and his slender frame made him appear younger than his sixty-two years. In the months to come, I always knew when he was mixing his Lady Clairol, because he’d turn out his light and pretend no one was home. Like Roberta, Pierre had been working at the Vermont Haus Inn for nearly twenty years.

  When I met him again, early that same evening, Pierre greeted me with enthusiasm. His accent sure was thick. “Bonjour, madame.” He smiled and gave me a European kiss.

  “Hi, Pierre. It’s nice to meet you again.”

  “Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Avez-vous passé un bon voyage?”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said with a smile, “I don’t speak French. Oh wait, let me try this, no poly vous Francais,” I said, shaking my head.

  Pierre repeated slowly, “Eh, eh, ple-zeer to see you, ta voyage, est vedy good, oui?”

  I understood this time and proceeded to break into an oration about my day. “Oh yes, thank you for asking, we had a great trip. I’d like to apologize for the mess, Pierre. See, we had a large house full of furniture and I’m really not sure where I’m gonna put it all. Helga is scared to death it won’t be cleared up before we open for the season but I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

  Pierre was smiling and nodding his head up and down as if he were in agreement with me.

  “Helga tells me you’ve been working here nineteen years. Did you move here directly from France or have you lived somewhere else in America?”

  Pierre still kept on smiling and nodding.

  “Great! Do you still have family in France?”

  More nodding.

  “What part?” It was this last round of nodding that clued me in to the fact that he had not understood one word I had said. Just for the heck of it I asked one more question. This time I spoke a little louder and slower, something I inadvertently find myself doing when I speak with Chinese people at a Chinese restaurant. “WERE . . . YOU . . . BORN . . . IN . . . MEXICO, PIERRE?”

  When his head kept nodding this time, I knew I was in trouble.

  “Well, it’s been great talking to you. I better get back to my gir
ls.” I backed out of the room waving. “Adiós.”

  Before he met me, Pierre Lebel had never exchanged two words with a Southerner, bless his heart. I would discover that even though Pierre had lived in the States for twenty years, he still spoke French 90 percent of the time. Rolf and Helga were fluent, so they all conversed in French. In the dining room while he was taking orders, Pierre knew the English names of the food items by heart, so translating the menu was no problem.

  Daddy always told me I’d regret it one day—taking the easy way out and signing up for Spanish instead of French.

  Chapter Seven

  After three solid days of unpacking, I couldn’t stand being cooped up inside another second. I longed to get outside and check out my new surroundings. Willingham, my new city, was calling my name. Actually, “town” is the correct word. I would later learn that Northerners believe anywhere with less than one million people is only a town. City hall was town hall and the mayor was referred to as the town clerk.

  I had a bona fide reason to meet our town clerk. A woman by the name of Betty Sweeney had called from his office early one morning to inform me that our liquor license was in. She went on to say I might as well register my dog and get sworn in while I was there, too, seeing as how I was a new citizen and all. Betty warned me they left by three o’clock most days, so if I wanted to be sure to get the license, I had better come before then.

  When I arrived at the town clerk’s office, around noon, a man was sitting behind the counter. I walked in, all smiles and eager to meet our town diplomat. He slowly rose to greet me. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey there. I’m Leelee Satterfield. My husband and I just bought the Vermont Haus Inn.” I pointed in our direction up the street. “I’m here to pick up our liquor license.”

  Apparently, it’s a big deal to obtain a liquor license. The state looks into your background and the town aldermen (we say councilmen) have to vote in unanimous agreement before they will issue one.