Yankee Doodle Dixie

by Lisa Patton

  “Tell me more about this Peter dude, your sort-of boyfriend. It sounds like you still like him.”

  I’m not really all that keen on giving any more details but when he presses me unrelentingly, I go ahead. “Well, there’s not that much more to tell. He was a really great chef and he helped me out of a really tough spot. We became good friends over the months that we worked together and then I got an offer on the inn.”

  “Did he want you to stay?”

  “It was too late. I’d made my decision to come back home. It was a decision I made for me, and not anyone else. It would have been hard to change my mind at that point.”

  “You made the right decision.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. You made a decision based on your needs and not someone else’s. I like that. And I like you.”

  “I like you, too,” I say, less shyly this time.

  Then he leans in to kiss me. Right there at the table. It’s just a peck, but it’s still a kiss. When he smiles the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes crease, revealing the difference in our ages. It startles me, quite honestly. Eleven years is a big difference, even if he is a rock star.

  He picks back up his fork and dabbles at his fish. “So you and Peter have unrequited love? That can be a powerful thing.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was jealous.

  “Can we please not talk about Peter? He lives in Vermont and I live in Tennessee. There is 1,473 miles between us and I’m never moving back there and apparently he’s not moving to Tennessee.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t have a job in Tennessee. And he’s from New Jersey. And, well, I don’t think he would like Memphis. I don’t know, it’s a moot point.” The sharp tone to my voice must let him know that I’m done talking about Peter because he finally lets it drop.

  We are the last two people in the restaurant at one o’clock in the morning. Our poor waiter is lurking around our table, no doubt ready to go home. The thought crosses my mind that they are keeping the place open only because it’s Liam. Thankfully Liam notices, too, and signals for the check—which is calculated and paid with swift efficiency. Never seeming to have broken eye contact, Liam asks, “You ready?”

  “Yes,” I say, smiling back at him—caught up in the absurdity of the moment, the extravagance, the bottles of champagne and wine, I know I’m practically swooning. I break eye contact and take a deep breath.

  “Why’d you do that?” he asks.

  “Do what?”

  “You went from a smile to a funny look all of a sudden.”

  How do you tell a celebrity that you’re on a date with that you have just caught yourself acting starstruck? I can’t tell him that. “I’m fine. Don’t mind me. This whole thing is just, surreal. Crazy. It’s just so … this isn’t my life,” I say with an audible sigh. There it is. The one thing we’ve both been pretending all night to ignore: he’s famous and I’m just another dreamy-eyed woman.

  * * *

  When we return to the hotel, Liam’s holding my hand as we stroll casually through the lobby—my fairy tale suddenly melts into a puddle of reality right in front of the elevator bank. As we’re headed back to our respective rooms, the thought goes through my mind: What’s going to happen if he invites me up?

  Well, I’m going to tell him that I’ll see him tomorrow when we tour the Statue of Liberty. If he wants to have breakfast first, then fine. Surely he knows my intentions for this relationship, and that I want to take things very slowly. But then again, does he? After all, the girls and I hung out backstage at his show in Memphis for over an hour. I flew up to New York on a whim, just because he invited me. I’ve shared a lot of personal information with him, shared a kiss and practically agreed to visit his son in Napa. I can’t say I haven’t sent some mixed messages. But I’m steely-eyed and determined to say right back: No way. What kind of girl do you think I am, Liam White? Do I look like a groupie to you?

  As we’re stepping onto the elevator he says, “Would you like to come back to my room for another drink?”

  “Certainly,” I say.

  Moments later he’s opening the door to his suite and it’s nearly one thirty in the morning. Kissie King would be laying her holy hands all over me if she had any idea. I take that back. The entire mother board of her church would be laying their holy hands all over me.

  With his arm around me, we walk into a living room with floor-to-ceiling picture windows on two sides, overlooking both the park and the Hudson River. And I thought my room was gorgeous. There’s a contemporary feel to his room that mine doesn’t have, with clean lines on the beige sofas, the smooth straight tables and the accent pieces. An Asian flavor infuses his room, too, with subtle touches in the art, the orchids, and the Mandarin accessories. The blinds over the windows are raised and the view is magnificent.

  “Take a look around,” he says, before disappearing into his bedroom.

  I drift over to the windows to get a better look at the skyline from the fifty-fourth floor. Okay, Leelee, what are you doing? I start lecturing myself. You’re in a guy’s suite that you hardly know. Never mind the fact that you’ve had plenty to drink.

  I hear him behind me and turn around. He’s pouring more drinks at a wet bar decorated with Bisazza tiles. “Do you like port?” he asks, as he’s strolling toward me, two glasses in his hands.

  “I love port, but I’ve had way—”

  “I thought you might like it as sweet as it is,” he says, handing me a crystal cordial glass.

  Awkwardly, we both stare out at the skyline, watching the taillights of the cabs and cars blink red against the black night. It’s mesmerizing. Looking for an excuse for any kind of small talk, I say, “I wonder if this city ever stops moving.”

  “Not since I’ve been playing here,” he says, hooking his arm through mine and taking a sip of wine. I can see our reflections in the window, as we stand there with our bodies touching, side by side.

  My heart is pounding and I’m just certain he can hear it. It’s roaring inside my ears. He says something else, but I can hardly hear him. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask.

  “I said, you are beautiful.”

  It’s very very difficult to resist a man calling you beautiful. It’s another difficulty altogether to resist a man whose album cover has been beckoning you for over half your life. I hear the clinking of his crystal cordial glass as he sets it down on the glass table. He takes mine out of my hand and puts it down on the table, too. Reaching out to me, he grabs my waist, pulling me toward him. I can smell the sweetness of the port on his breath as he moves closer to my face, lightly kissing my right cheek and then my left. The whiskers on his chin brush against my lips when he moves across my face and it feels curiously sensual. I’ve never kissed a man with facial hair before and the sensation surprises me. Suddenly, I want him to tickle me with his beard all over my face.

  When Liam’s tongue touches mine, I can taste the port. That, alone, is titillating and at once we dive into a long, passionate kiss. Standing in front of the windows I reach my arms around him and he pulls me even closer. I can see the skyline in the window and it’s like I’m embracing New York, also.

  “I can’t help myself. I’m taken with you,” he whispers in my ear. I feel his hands leave my back and move slowly toward my chest. I gently hold them at my waist before they ever make it to the front of my dress. When I reach up to run my fingers through his hair, he starts tracing his hands upward. I can’t suppress the heat flooding through me, but without missing a beat, my elbows force his hands back down again. After a few more kisses, he takes my hand and guides me through the living room, around the coffee table, past the sofas, and around the wet bar. I’m a step away from his bedroom door when reality hits me with an image of Kissie King, with all the ladies from the mother board dressed in white, fanning me with palm leafs as I lay faint on the ground.

  “No,” I say in a rare, bold Leelee Satterfield moment. “
I cannot go into your bedroom.”

  “Why not?” he says, enveloping me in his arms again and caressing the right side of my neck with his lips.

  “Because we hardly know each other,” I say, as I pull away from his embrace. “You might be used to having women fall all over you but I’m just not that girl. I’m not like that.”

  “Oh come on. You’re a grown woman.” The rolling of his eyes and the expression on his face is mocking.

  “What difference does that make?” I push away from him. “I’ve never been that way, and I don’t plan on starting now. Alice thought I was crazy to come here with you. So did Kissie for that matter, but I didn’t listen to them. I was naïve enough to think you wouldn’t expect something physical from this trip. But they were right. I shouldn’t have come,” I say, with surprising calmness. Inside though, I’m cursing myself for being so gullible. I start to gather up my things.

  “No, don’t say that,” he says, dropping his eyes. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. Listen, I’m cool with whatever you want here. Honestly. I just think you’re a special lady. And I don’t get to spend actual time with many these days.” If his sudden change of expression is any indication, I get the feeling he’s being sincere. “Please. Don’t leave upset.”

  “Tell you what,” I say, “let’s start over in the morning. It’s really late and I need some sleep.”

  “If it’s okay, I’ll walk you to your room?” he asks, and winks … knowing it will make me grin.

  Once at my door, he’s a perfect gentleman, asking for my key. I’m a little embarrassed when he sees my room. My stuff is sprawled out all over the place. My yellow sheath is in a heap on the floor where I left it after running back for my quick change before his show.

  “So are we going to the Statue of Liberty tomorrow?” I ask him.

  “You bet. Anything you want to do.”

  “That’s what I want to do.”

  “Okay.” His smile is sweet. “See you in the morning, Leelee. I’ll call you when I wake up. Or better yet—you call me. I wouldn’t want to disturb your beauty rest,” he says with a chuckle.

  I nod my head and walk him to my door. He kisses my cheek and is gone.

  After shutting my door, I check my cell phone. The first text message from Virginia reads, “Call me immediately.” Followed by, “Okay, don’t call me. I am smearing your reputation around town!!” Alice’s says, “What in the hell are you doing? Don’t come crying to me when you have an STD!” Mary Jule’s reads, “Have so much fun, Leelee. Can’t wait to hear all about it. I’M SO JEALOUS!!”

  I decide not to call them back since it’s so late, but I send all three of them the same text. “Bearded kisses are the bomb!”

  Chapter Eleven

  When I raise my head up from the pillow and turn toward the red illuminated numbers on the clock, it’s past ten. I bolt straight up in the bed and fumble around for my phone. The heavy curtains on the windows have blocked all signs of daylight from the room and the light on my phone tells me that I have no missed calls.

  Huh.

  Then I remember that Liam said to call him first so he wouldn’t disturb me. I could kick myself for sleeping this late. But, after all, it’s only nine my time. Quickly, I punch in the numbers to his cell phone but it goes straight to voice mail. I can’t remember his room number, even though I nearly pointed my moral compass in the opposite direction while staring at the view from his living room. When I call the front desk to be connected to him, the receptionist tells me there is no one by the name of Liam White registered at the hotel. I try arguing with her but the woman is adamant that they have no guests with the last name of White staying at the Mandarin Oriental. Admittedly, my mind charges off in all sorts of directions. Like any woman would do, I decide to think it over in the bathtub.

  Melting down into the large tub overlooking Central Park, soaking in the Fresh bath crystals the hotel has luxuriously provided, I ponder the situation. If my not sleeping with him has caused him to be upset with me and turn off his phone to prove it, then so be it. I’ll just make the most of this day. I’ll drool over the shoes at Saks and tour the Statue of Liberty all by myself if I have to.

  By the time I call Virginia and the others to fill them in on last night’s escapade, and call home to talk with Kissie and the girls, who have been frantic for hours because Roberta dug up under the fence and escaped, but are fine now because the neighbor behind me had him the whole time, it’s eleven thirty already. Part of me wanted to tell Kissie she was right about Liam, but since I’m giving him another chance, I didn’t see the point.

  When I call his cell phone again, and it still goes straight to voice mail, irrationality sets in. I half convince myself that he’s left the hotel and moved on to the next city and the next girl. My message, on the other hand, calmly asks him to please call me. “I’m so excited about our trip to Ellis Island and Lady Liberty,” I say, before happily telling him that I can’t wait to see him.

  Not wanting to venture too far from the hotel, I flip through the hotel’s information booklet and learn there’s a nice-size indoor pool on the thirty-sixth floor where I could munch on fruit, not to mention a spa that the hotel calls “an oasis of ultimate relaxation high above New York City.” Mary Jule taught me a long time ago never to go anywhere without a bathing suit. When the girls and I go on trips together, we may not wear half the clothes in our suitcases, but if there’s a pool or a spa nearby, it’s got our names on the door.

  * * *

  I glance all around the pool area for Liam or one of his band members. As crass as they may be, it would be a relief to see one of them—positive proof that Liam hasn’t taken his entourage and left me high and dry. There’s no one around at all except a couple in one corner and an older man swimming laps wearing a Speedo and a bathing cap. I figure I’ll hang out here a while and then head for the sauna.

  I meander over to a stack of towels, grabbing two in case I decide to swim. I’m still holding out hope that Liam and I can eat lunch together before taking the journey down to the Statue of Liberty, but my stomach is growling loud enough for the couple across the pool to hear. The waiting only gets worse as the clock ticks and I find myself checking my cell phone every few seconds. When it does ring, while clutched tightly in my hand, I’m in such a hurry to answer that I accidentally drop it and watch as it crashes onto the hard, brick floor. I leap off the chair and scramble around for the battery, which is four feet away from the rest of the phone. My hands won’t work fast enough and when I finally put it back together, the line is long dead.

  Within two minutes it’s ringing again and this time my heart leaps across the pool. When I check the caller ID it says, “Restricted.” Thank god. It’s finally him.

  “Hey!” I answer.

  “Leelee?”

  “Yes, hey!”

  “Hi, it’s Wiley!” he says, matching my enthusiasm.

  Well, crap. “Oh hi, Riley,” I say, without even a hint of lilt in my voice.

  “I haven’t seen you for a couple days and I noticed Kissie is staying with the girls, is evwything all wight?”

  “Yes, Riley, everything is just fine.” My adrenaline is still racing from my near phone fatality.

  “Are you out of town or something?”

  “Yes. I’m out of town.” My voice, I’m sure, has a bugged tone to it by now, but Riley Bradshaw is the absolute last person on my mind. “Why do you have a restricted number?”

  “Why not? I pay a little extwa for it but it’s worth it when you consider the time it saves you in the long wun. No one is asking for money, no political campaign calls”—I can just see him counting on his fingers—“the police academy leaves you alone. I’ll be happy to show you how to get yours westwicted.”

  “I don’t want mine westwicted, I mean restricted. Excuse me, Riley. I didn’t mean to say ‘westwicted.’ I’m just flustered right now and I’m expecting an important phone call.”

  “Who fwom?”


  “A friend. He’s … going to be calling me any second now so I should probably hang up.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Fine, yes, I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Sunday. I get home Sunday. But I have to go now, Riley. Take care.”

  “Sunday, huh?”

  “YES, Sunday.”

  “Well, have fun in Flowida.”

  “I’m not in Florida.”

  “Then have fun in Alabama.”

  “Riley, I will see you when I get home.”

  “So you are in Alabama? Have fun at Gulf Shores.”

  “Good-bye, Riley.”

  “Birmingham?”

  “Dang it, Riley. I’m hanging up now. Say good-bye, too, so I’m not hanging up in your face.” I spy one of the guys in Liam’s band, his bass player, spreading a towel on a lounge chair and I’m completely relieved.

  “I think it would be smart if you told me where you are. Just in case of an emergency.”

  “Okay. I’m in New York City.”

  “New York City? What are you doing there?”

  “Riley.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you when you weturn. Good-bye.”

  “Bye-bye.” I can’t stand being impatient with him but I see what Kissie means when she says that he gets on her last nerve.

  I order fruit and a water, poolside, and start another call, this time to Virginia. “Okay, what now?” I say, as soon as Virgy answers. “I still haven’t heard from him and it’s nearly one o’clock. I see one of his band members though, at the other side of the pool. That at least tells me he hasn’t left town.”