Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  Noticing the warmth spread in my cheeks, Liam leans back and chuckles—a confident grin spreading across his weathered face. He takes a relaxed pull from his bottle and laughs. “Lightweight,” he says teasingly.

  We spend the next hour engrossed in conversation. Everything from why Deke is gruff (Liam says that’s the way most road managers act), to my job, and onto Alice, Virginia, and Mary Jule. He tells me he thinks they are hilarious and wonders why they don’t have their own TV show. I tell him all about Kissie and how she’s keeping my daughters, and how I hope and pray Riley’s not driving her crazy.

  I lose count after the sixth fan who interrupts us, recognizing Liam and then asking him for his autograph. The first time I don’t really understand what’s going on—Liam is so conditioned to the occurrence that he barely has to pause our conversation to sign the cocktail napkin. I can’t help but bask in the thrill of being the one on his arm, as the admirers glance over at me while Liam is signing his name. It’s one of those pinch-me-quick moments, when you’re not sure if it’s a dream or not. But after a while it becomes a nuisance; our conversations are too readily upended and the thrill I got from being gawked over now seems like an invasion of privacy. Especially when the women smile and bat their fake eyelashes. I suppose that little fashion accessory is back but Mama always said it makes a woman look common and cheap.

  Every once in a while, when Liam touches my knee or puts his arm around my shoulders, I’m reminded that it is not a dream at all and I’m living my own fairy-tale moment. He may not be Daddy’s definition of a Southern gentleman, but Liam is a very nice person with a great deal of respect for me. Kissie is dead wrong this time.

  “Are you getting hungry?” he asks, when a highly enhanced blonde wanders away.

  “Sort of.” I’m not about to act like it, but actually I’m starving.

  “I don’t normally eat until after the show, but I’d be happy to order you something.” Seeing my confused face, he continues. “It preserves my voice,” he says, clearing his throat. Even though I’m not familiar with what in the world he means, I shake my head in agreement and smile.

  “I have to head on upstairs in a sec, but my goodness, Leelee Satterfield, it’s hard to get up and leave you right now,” he says with such simplicity and directness it stuns me.

  “Gosh, you are so complimentary. Thank you,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears.

  “You’re just a doll, baby. I’m stoked you decided to come up.” He kisses my forehead before glancing at his watch. “Deke’s probably getting antsy about now. He’ll start calling if we’re not backstage on time. We better head.”

  As we’re strolling through the hotel, my mind is ablaze with possibility. The way people are smiling at us gives me the impression that they think I’m his girlfriend. Or even better, his wife. This is the most regal moment of my life; I can’t imagine anyone could blame me for considering what might become of it.

  Deke greets us at the ballroom and shows us back to a small green room set up outside Liam’s dressing room. Once inside, I notice the elaborate spread of food and drink, exactly as it was backstage at the Orpheum. The decadent jumbo shrimp chilling on top of an ice sculpture fashioned after a treble clef, an assortment of exotic fruits fanned out on a silver tray with a curry dip in the middle. Brie, calumet, and other fine cheeses nestled inside red, green, and purple grapes. Once again a bar is stocked with Coke, Sprite, Perrier, Heineken, and wine. My eyes zero in on the green bottle with the blue foil top and the familiar antique white label, barely visible amid the ice in the wine cooler. It’s the Rombauer Chardonnay again—and as much as I’m determined not to think of him, all I can see are Peter’s perfect lips. I can practically hear him calling my name from the kitchen.

  “Leelee, are you with me?” When I feel Liam touch me on the shoulder, I’m startled back to our conversation.

  “Oh sorry. I spaced out there for a second.” I lightly shake my head as I bring myself back to the present.

  “Would you like a glass of wine, baby?” he asks.

  “Not right now, thank you, though. Is all this food for you?”

  “Yeah. It’s a terrible waste, huh? Surely, the hotel must give it to their employees after I leave.”

  “Don’t your band members help you eat it?”

  “Believe it or not, they’ve got their own dressing room food. That’s the business, though. My manager insists I keep it on my rider.”

  “What’s your rider?” I take the liberty of popping a shrimp into my mouth. At this point, I’m ravenous.

  “It’s part of my contract. It tells the promoter what I need for each show. Aside from all my technical specs like how many inputs and outputs I need for my mics, amps, monitors, and such, it also spells out what kind of food I’d like to have backstage. I’ve thought about taking some of it off but my manger is convinced that there will come a night when I really want it. So I just leave it in.”

  Deke knocks on the door to let Liam know he’s got fifteen minutes before show time and that he better get changed. Five minutes later, when the bathroom door opens and I catch sight of my date standing in front of me wearing a dark suit and pale blue dress shirt, he nearly takes my breath away. He’s knotting his tie as he walks toward me.

  “I have to dress up a bit more for these corporate gigs. Don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb,” he says. “Hey, Deke, show Leelee to her seat out front, will you?” He leans in and kisses my cheek. I know I’m blushing, but can’t do anything to prevent it.

  On the way into the ballroom, I see everyone is in cocktail outfits. Now I’m the one sticking out like a sore thumb. I politely excuse myself from Deke with a lame excuse about needing to check my phone messages, and go running back to my room to change. I had a feeling I’d need a cocktail dress so naturally I packed my favorite. It’s a vintage pale pink, strapless organza, tea-length made in the 1950s. The best part about it is, it was Mama’s—part of her trousseau when she was betrothed to Daddy.

  By the time I get back the show has already started. The people at my table glance over at me, the strange single woman sneaking in without a name tag. A few minutes later, in between songs, the man sitting next to me asks whom I’m with.

  “I’m with Liam,” I say, and point toward the stage.

  His eyes bulge. “Are you his wife?”

  “No, girlfriend,” I hear myself saying, shocked not only that I said it, but by how quickly the words tumbled out of my mouth.

  “Really?” I watch him place his hands on his wife’s shoulders and whisper to her from behind. She looks back at me and leans all the way over her husband. “You’re with Liam? What it must be like to stare into that face!” Within minutes, the word has spread around the table and all of them want to be my new best friend. Normally I’d be pleased with the attention and newfound camaraderie; but it’s clear they’re only interested because I’m with Liam. And I’m not really “with” him. This must be what it feels like to be royalty. Rock ’n’ roll royalty, anyway.

  Liam was exactly right about people talking during his show. I notice many folks standing at the back of the room, their chatter causing an underlying background noise that continues throughout the whole show. It affects the music, but I suppose if you hadn’t listened to every album like I had, you might not notice the difference. When he hits the final chord, the couples at my table jump up to clap for him, all the while looking over at me. For all they know we could be deeply in love. Love. What would that feel like, to be really, actually, in love with Liam White? Little do they realize, I am nothing more than a working mom Cinderella enjoying a weekend away from my reality. It’s not as carefree, this fantasy, when you know it’s really not true. We all continue clapping and a few whistles come from the back tables—where the cocktails have started to fuel rowdy behavior. I wonder if Cinderella was able to enjoy her time at the ball, knowing that there was a ticking clock hanging over her head. I look at Liam who is now making final waves to the crowd,
and he catches my attention and issues a heart-stopping wink in my direction. He certainly makes a convincing Prince Charming.

  * * *

  When the lights come up, I see Deke beelining it over to my table. He motions for me to follow him quickly. As I’m walking away I hear one of the ladies say to another, “What I wouldn’t give to be her right now.”

  The door to Liam’s dressing room is shut when we make it backstage and his bandmates are milling about, eating their own food. I linger outside chatting with his drummer, Danny, exchanging pleasantries, commenting on the noisy audience and raving about the hotel’s views. When he asks me how I like Liam’s suite, I immediately bristle and feel the blood rush out of my head. Shame rushes through me. I don’t feel like Cinderella anymore.

  “I haven’t seen his suite,” I say as politely as possible. “I have a lovely room, though, that overlooks the park.”

  He smiles slowly, but nods his head like he doesn’t believe me—as if my propriety is just for show. For the first time since I’ve arrived, it feels ugly.

  At last, Liam’s door opens and I notice he’s changed back to the casual clothes he wore earlier. In a brief flurry, he asks how I liked the show but can barely stay for my answer; much less comment on my change of dress or even hug my neck. I walk next to him down the hallway as he explains that he has a quick meet-and-greet that he must attend. Deke whisks him away down another corridor and I find myself all alone. I turn around and walk toward the green room, resigned to making small talk with his bandmates, who all think I’m sharing his bed.

  A solid forty-five minutes later, Liam returns carrying a white teddy bear dressed in a pair of see-through black thong panties. All the guys in the green room whoop and holler at the sight of sexy lingerie.

  “What’s that?” I ask shyly when Liam strolls over to me.

  “A fan gift,” he says, and shrugs his shoulders.

  “Wow,” I say, and raise my eyebrows a touch.

  “What’s new?” Jerry, his guitar player, says while he’s stuffing one of Liam’s jumbo shrimp in his mouth. “I keep telling White I want to see his collection.”

  I must have had an inquisitive look on my face because Jerry says, “What can I say? His fans want to shop for him.”

  “Let’s head,” Liam says to me as he throws the bear to Jerry and wraps his arm around my waist. “I’m ready for a drink. And I could eat somebody I’m so hungry.” The guys whoop and holler even louder.

  As he holds open the door, Liam peers down at me. “You changed.”

  I am still stuck on his last words but quickly adjust, feigning a coy smile. “Everyone in the audience was dressed up,” I say. “So I ran back to my room for a quick change.”

  “You look gorgeous.”

  “Well, thank you.” I look down at my dress.

  “Good enough to eat,” Jerry says.

  When I whip my head around and give him a dirty look, he backs away and holds up his hands, palms out. “Just joking.”

  A few of the guys snicker, and I turn to Liam expecting support but instead find him in the midst of a grin.

  In an instant Liam White has fallen off his pedestal.

  * * *

  A limo is waiting to whisk us off to a restaurant a few blocks away. After the uncomfortable situation in the dressing room, I am grateful for the short trip and the many excuses to look out the window and gawk over the streetscapes. My rose-colored glasses may be off when it comes to Liam, but it’s no reason not to enjoy the remainder of the evening—and to his credit, he’s apologized three times for his crass bandmates. I guess that’s the problem with fairy tales—there’s no room for humanity.

  When we step inside the door, just past eleven, the maître d’ asks if we have a reservation and Liam says, “Yes, White.”

  The man looks down at a book resting on a podium. “I’m sorry, Mr. White. Could it be under a different name?”

  “Longfellow?” he says, and looks over at me. “Deke’s last name.”

  Again, the man looks through his book. “No, sir. Another name?”

  “Satterfield?”

  The same thing happens again.

  “I guess we don’t have one.” There’s a chill in Liam’s voice as he digs his phone out of his jacket and punches in a number. “Deke,” he says, angrily, “there’s no reservation here at Marea. Okay.” He hands the phone to the gentleman.

  Next thing I know we’re being shown to a table and the maître d’ pulls out my chair. Liam sits down next to me. “We’ll take a bottle of the Dom,” he says, as he’s scooting his chair up to the table. The gentleman smiles and disappears into the back.

  I’ve only tasted Dom Perignon one other time when Virginia, Mary Jule, and I each pitched in forty dollars to celebrate Alice’s graduation from graduate school at Emory. Of course, that was a while back and we purchased it directly from a liquor store. Here at this restaurant in New York, I’m sure the cost is quadruple that.

  “So, tell me,” he says, after the sommelier has poured us each a glass of champagne. “How is a girl like Leelee Satterfield single?”

  After a deep breath, I tell him all about Baker. I start with how we met in high school and how it was me who first had a huge crush on him. I tell him how we came to be married. We talk a little about the divorce and how Helga, the ruthless shyster, had masterminded a scheme to swindle him away from me.

  He reaches over and takes my hand, raising it to his lips, and kisses it tenderly. I love how attentive he is to me, listening to my every word. Once he even says he’d like to slap Baker around a bit and that one comment instantly endears him to me. It’s nice to think someone cares about my life and how I’m doing, rock star status aside.

  “Any boyfriends since you split up?” he asks.

  “No. Well, I take that back, sort of.”

  “A sort-of boyfriend?”

  “There was this guy in Vermont. The chef at my restaurant.”

  “Helga’s brother?” I had told him all about how we came to purchase the inn from Helga and Rolf in the first place.

  “No, this was after Rolf left. I advertised for a new chef and he applied. He came in and added a new menu—he was amazing, actually. He looked after my girls and me and if it weren’t for him, I don’t know what would have happened to us. Peter, that’s his name, and I made that place into a remarkable little getaway.”

  “But he was your sort-of boyfriend.” His eyes travel away from me and look around the room.

  “He never was my boyfriend. But we cared about each other more than we wanted to admit. Until I was leaving—then he finally admitted it. But that was after he acted terribly rude to me when he learned I was moving back home.” I whisk my hand in front of my face. “It’s complicated.”

  Abruptly, without waiting for the wine steward, he pours us each another glass of champagne. Then he raises his glass and holds it next to mine. “What do you say we toast to me and you?”

  Me and you? I’m sitting across from the man whose album covers I’ve drooled over since I was twelve; someone who’s surprisingly easy to talk to and even kind. I’ve spent collectively less than twenty-four hours with him, it seems vastly premature to be discussing “me and you.” “Okay,” I say, “I’ll drink to that,” totally ignoring my rational internal dialogue. It didn’t seem right to spoil the moment, I suppose.

  “Tell me about you,” I say, the champagne finally loosening my tongue.

  “What about me?”

  “I don’t know, just anything about you. Do you have children?”

  He nods his head in affirmation. “I have a son, twenty-seven.”

  My eyes open wide.

  He smiles as he sips the champagne from the glass and swirls it around in his mouth. “I was a bad boy.”

  I tried calculating how young he was when his son was born. Alice had already found out that Liam is forty-four. “So you were…”

  “Seventeen,” he says. “And no, we never married.”

 
“Have you ever been married?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Gosh, that’s hard to believe.” That may have come out wrong. I change the subject back to his boy. “Is your son a musician, too?”

  “No. He’s a whole lot smarter than his old man. He actually works for a living,” Liam says with obvious pride in his voice.

  “You work for a living,” I say, and pat his arm.

  He laughs. “Not like him. He’s a craftsman. Like in the old days. A damn good one, too. You should see the work he does. Gorgeous cabinetry, millwork, moldings.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Northern California. In Napa Valley. Ever been there?”

  “You know, I haven’t. Someday, though.”

  “You should come with me some time.”

  Edward’s scary mug suddenly pops into my mind—unfortunately causing me to cringe about the big fat one I told him about having the flu. “I’d love to,” I say, now accustomed to these hypothetical open invitations of Liam’s.

  When we finally get around to ordering it’s very late. Probably close to midnight. I look around and notice there are only a few stragglers left in the restaurant. The waiter politely explains that the kitchen will be closing shortly and that he needs to take our order. We haven’t even looked at the menus and Liam tells him to please come back in five minutes. When the poor thing returns and we still haven’t looked at the menu, Liam scans it quickly and orders the halibut. I decide on the sea scallops.

  Throughout the dinner, my cell phone keeps beeping and after the fifth time Liam says, “Someone is desperate to get ahold of you. You might want to see about it.”

  “It’s just my crazy girlfriends. No worries,” I say. When I glance down at the phone I have five text messages.

  We talk all through our meal. He tells me about the record he’s due to record in the next few months. We talk more about his son and the fact that he doesn’t see him much. He confesses that he’s a grandfather and laments that he would like to see more of his grandson. I tell him about Roberta, Jeb, and Pierre and that being only four hours away from them makes me miss them all the more. I get so lost in talking about Vermont, recalling the zany predicaments I’d been in—from shoveling my car out of five feet of snow to overbooking the inn—that I don’t even realize who I’m discussing. He stops me when I mention Peter.