Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  “Are we ready?” Ed beamed from ear to ear.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I muttered under my breath.

  Ed opened the front door and then stepped aside to let Baker and me proceed in front of him. I put one foot into the foyer and drew straight back, like I had just dipped my toe into the waters off the coast of Iceland. God as my witness, if smells could kill, I would have keeled over and died right there on the spot. It smelled like a mélange of musty upholstered furniture, garlic, and propane gas, on top of a profusion of BO. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would never let my house smell like that. Pee-you, I thought, haven’t they ever heard of potpourri? I stepped inside anyway.

  A beautiful, intricately carved staircase spilled into the foyer from the second story. But due to the horrendous stink, it was hard to take notice of its real beauty. Daddy would have never made it past the foyer. He would have turned around and left as soon as the first whiff of air breezed through his nostrils. Daddy liked to brag he had “the keenest olfact’ry senses known to man.” If there was one thing Daddy had no tolerance for, it was houseitosis.

  I was trying my hardest to catch Baker’s eye. On purpose, he was not looking anywhere near my direction. Totally grossed out, I decided to take the tour breathing through my mouth only.

  “The parlor seems like a logical place to start,” Ed began, and walked over to the front window.

  “Was this house ever a residence?” I asked, exerting every bit of effort I could muster to not turn around and run.

  “Yuup, you’re absolutely correct. It was built in the late seventeen hundreds by a gentleman by the name of Harold O’Shaunessey. He built it for his young bride.”

  “Is this where the guests hang out?” I glanced slowly around the room.

  “Indeed it is.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder where the guests were. Ed Baldwin told us we couldn’t stay at the Vermont Haus Inn because it was full. Full of what—ghosts?

  The parlor was decorated with mismatched, worn-out furniture and lots of cluttery knickknacks. Probably every issue of National Geographic for the last twenty years lined the built-in bookshelves along with hundreds of paperback romance novels and wineglasses. There was a beautiful fireplace in the center of the room but the wide-board pine floors were badly worn. There were no rugs on the floors at all. The place was ragged and tattered. How do people live like this? I thought. I couldn’t imagine actually opening my doors to the public with this shabby décor.

  After the parlor, Ed showed us the dining rooms—four small, intimate rooms with only four tables in each. All the tables had candles, carnations, and red linen tablecloths. I liked the screened-in porch the most, which was used for dining as well.

  If I had to rate the inn at that point, I would have given it an eight on architecture, a two on décor, and a big fat zero on aroma. For Baker’s sake, I tried to picture my furniture and curtains, my paint colors, my wallpaper, and my uncluttery knickknacks in the Vermont Haus Inn. Even though I could almost see it, I still had my doubts if we’d ever be able to de-stink the place.

  Next stop on the tour was the upstairs—to see the guest rooms. Nine of them to be exact. But we saw them so quickly I didn’t have time to notice much. I did notice, however, that just like the downstairs, the upstairs would need a total overhaul. I’ll say it right now, I certainly wouldn’t have paid more than thirty dollars a night to sleep in one of those rooms. To me the Vermont Haus Inn resembled an old college dorm rather than a quaint country inn.

  But there was a nice sitting room upstairs with a large fireplace and a few of the bedrooms had fireplaces. At least there was something to work with, if Baker ever talked me into moving.

  The kitchen was next, a daunting sight when you aren’t used to the commercial kind. It was like walking into a chrome store. Big sinks and ovens, three refrigerators, a huge Hobart commercial dishwasher, and several large steel pots and pans hanging from a rack near the huge eight-burner gas stove. A gigantic pot rested on top of one of the eyes, near bubbling over. Ed said it was the chef’s famous stock—whatever that meant.

  I was particularly, mostly, interested in finding the “superb owners’ quarters” Ed boasted about in his North American Inns magazine ad and I couldn’t rest until we moved in that direction.

  At last we moseyed out to a dining area right outside the kitchen. Ed walked over to a door that had been nailed shut. “Actually this door leads into the apartment.” He pushed a dining table out of the way to get over to it. “But the owners prefer to keep it nailed shut to ensure their privacy. I’ve been telling the potential buyers that it could be reopened to have easier access from the inn. It’s just a matter of preference.”

  “Can we see it now?” I asked.

  Baker shot me a look. “Only if it’s convenient. Leelee’s just excited,” he said.

  “You’re in luck, Leelee,” Ed said, in a rather annoying way. “It’s our next stop. Follow me outside, you guys.”

  To get to the apartment, we had to exit via the screened porch into a lovely garden full of pink climbing roses, hollyhocks, lilies of various varieties, fresh herbs, and other perennials I didn’t recognize.

  Fresh air at last.

  On the way to the owners’ quarters, Ed explained it had originally been an old barn. It was common in New England, back in the 1700s and 1800s, to butt the barn to the house. That way people wouldn’t have to be exposed to the elements when they brought in their firewood or milked their cow.

  The door to the apartment was left unlocked and Ed stepped back to let us walk in before him. Once again, the odor was the first thing that hit me, and sure enough I had to go back to breathing through my mouth. This smell was mustier than the smell in the inn, though, more like the inside of a cabin at summer camp. The BO was stronger, much to my dismay, but the garlic was not quite as pungent.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

  We entered the superb owners’ quarters into a small sitting room with walls painted a dark burnt orange, and that color led up the stairs. Just off the sitting room two doors were open wide and from where I was standing I could make out the size of each bedroom. I tried holding back my shock but couldn’t. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I tried to breathe but a sudden gasp sucked the air out of my lungs. When I poked my head into the first room, which had curtains for doors and hooks for clothes rods, the only furniture I saw was a pair of twin beds with one small end table in between.

  “Excuse me, Ed. Is this the master?” I swallowed in an effort to hide the panic in my voice.

  “Indeed. Actually they’re both masters. The owners are brother and sister and they each have their own.”

  “And these are they?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Nice, huh?”

  No, they’re hideous. And I need a microscope to find them.

  The walls of the bedrooms were papered with a 1960s floral covering to match the chocolate brown windows and doors. I hate chocolate brown. I could flat forget about ever fitting Great-grandmother’s bed in either of these two cubbyholes.

  Ed zipped us through the bottom floor so fast and seemed to be engaging Baker in conversation so much that I got the feeling both of them were daring each other not to look at me.

  When we got to the top floor, I was a tiny bit relieved. It was quaint, actually, with a nice size combination den and kitchen. A Franklin stove sat in the middle of the room, and that, I imagined, was a nice thing to have in the winter. The ceiling was vaulted and the enormous posts and beams of the original barn were exposed. The kitchen cabinets were painted black, though, which along with the burnt orange walls, and the drawn curtains, made me feel like I was at a Halloween party.

  This room was overcrowded, too, with beds and other odd furniture. A lime green Naugahyde chair sat right next to a magenta flowered chair, which sat on top of a yellow shag rug. Ed went on and on about how lovely the place was and what mint condition it was in. Maybe this is just one
of the differences in Northern people and Southern people, I couldn’t help but think.

  When Ed went downstairs to use the restroom and Baker could no longer avoid me, he whispered in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I cocked my head to the side and forced a phony smile.

  “Come on, honey. Try and look beyond all this. Remember what our house looked like before we started the renovation? We can have this place looking like a million bucks.”

  “Did you see those bedrooms? My college dorm room was bigger than that. And curtains for closet doors? Baker, you know I hate chocolate brown! It’s gonna all have to be painted before I even consider it.”

  “Painting is easy.” Baker reached out and tried to grab my hand.

  I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

  “Can’t you see our furniture in here?” he said. “The cabinets and the rest of the woodwork painted white? Take those curtains down and let the sunshine in. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  With extreme caution, I eyed the room again and decided I had had enough. I started for the steps and Baker followed right behind me. As we made our way back down the stairs, with no handrail and green indoor-outdoor carpet under our feet, I couldn’t help but think about my house back home. The one I had spent nearly a year remodeling, the one that had my very favorite wallpaper in the dining room with tropical plants and birds all over it. Over three thousand square feet of living space and Baker and Ed wanted me to trade it in for what appeared to be less than eight hundred!

  Ed headed out the front door, sensing, I’m sure, that he might lose the sale if we tarried too long in the superb owners’ quarters. I headed straight out behind him and right over to his car. He and Baker continued to chat while observing the outside of a little cottage with turquoise shutters in the middle of the garden.

  On the way back up the mountain I stared out the backseat window of Ed’s car, with my foot on top of Naughty Nurses, forcing myself to keep an open mind. But that malodorous old house was not my idea of a home. The thought of waking up there every morning was downright depressing. Baker and I were due back there for dinner in a few hours to watch the restaurant in motion. Maybe I could accidentally lose the car keys when we get back to our motel, I thought. Then, we’d never make it back! I knew that was pointless, though. Baker would simply call Ed to pick us up and then I’d have to endure even more of his Yankee malarkey on into the evening.

  When we made it to our car, Baker thanked Ed for his hospitality and told him we’d be in touch. Thank goodness Baker didn’t invite him to join us for dinner.

  We made it back only five minutes late for our eight o’clock dinner reservation at the Vermont Haus Inn. We were seated on the screened-in porch. I had hoped we would be able to sit out there. It overlooked the perennial garden, but more important, it meant I’d have fresh air to breathe. I realize now I should have paid more attention to the fact that a space heater was cranking away in the corner of the porch taking the bite off the evening air. The summer evening air.

  The hostess who showed us to our table was cute, but I honestly felt like she was a lot friendlier to Baker than she was to me. As she handed him his menu, I could have sworn she gave him a sultry look—right in front of me. Baker never acted like he noticed so I never brought it up. My copy of the menu had no prices on it. The last time I’d seen one of those was at Antoine’s in New Orleans with Daddy.

  Ed had told us the Vermont Haus Inn was the premiere restaurant in the Sugartree region. Rolf Schloygin was a renowned chef in Vermont. His clientele was loyal, mostly in the fifty-plus range, probably due to the higher prices and old-timey food. I say old-timey food because as I glanced over the menu, which was classic French, I noticed some appetizers that were completely foreign to me. Eggplant caponata? Vitello tunato? And something called head cheese? I was familiar with some of the other items like herring in sour cream, frog legs provençale, and escargots maison, but it didn’t mean I would ever order one of those.

  “I’m not all that familiar with these appetizers,” I said to Baker, careful not to berate the menu. (What I wanted to say was, these appetizers aren’t that appetizing to me, but instead I zipped my lip.) “What do you think I should order, honey?”

  “Why don’t you order the soup, or the prosciutto with melon? Can you believe this menu? Is it wonderful or what?” Baker gloated over it like he would his golf score. Baker thought everything about Vermont was wonderful by now.

  Within ten minutes the waiter made it over to our table. “Bonjour,” he said, and then a big smile. No conversation. He just very politely looked at me and said, “Madame?”

  “Hi, how are you?” I smiled back at him.

  He just kept on smiling.

  Baker nudged me under the table with his knee. “I think he’s ready for you to order.”

  “Oh, pardon me. Okay, I think I’m going to try the soup du jour, please. What kind is it this evening?” I looked up from my menu.

  “Soup es vichyssoise.”

  “That will be lovely, and for my entrée I’ll try the duckling with cherry sauce.”

  “And I’ll have the escargots and the beef Wellington, medium rare,” Baker said. “And please bring us a bottle of your, let’s see now, ahhh . . . how about a bottle of your Châteauneuf-du-Pape cab.” Baker knows wine.

  “Merci,” the waiter said, and dashed off. The poor thing was running around like a chicken with his head chopped off. For some reason, he was the only one taking all the orders. I felt sorry for him, really.

  Halfway through our appetizers, Helga Schloygin—Rolf’s sister—stopped by our table for a brief introduction. She took me by surprise. Big-boned and very, very tall, Helga stood probably six feet, and she looked to be in her early sixties. Helga had gray hair that she brushed straight back off her face and wore twisted up in a tight bun. She had a hard-looking face, which bore not one trace of makeup. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck and her clothing was oddly preppy. She wore a pair of navy blue pants, a white button-down oxford cloth blouse, and navy blue flats.

  “Hello,” she said. “I am Helga Schloygin. Proprietor of Vermont Haus Inn.”

  Baker stood up. “Hi, Helga, I’m Baker and this is my wife, Leelee.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s nice to meet you, Helga.”

  She grinned and gave us both a firm handshake. “Vhere are you from?”

  “Memphis, Tennessee,” Baker told her.

  “I see. How long have you been vorking in ze restaurant business?”

  “I was in management during college,” Baker said. “But I’m in the insurance business now.”

  She turned to me. “Vhat is your job?”

  “Baker and I have two young daughters. My time is spent with them.”

  “I see.” Even with her heavy German accent I detected she was a smoker. Her voice was gravelly and had a slight wheeze to it.

  “These vater glasses are filled too high,” she barked to the busboy at the next table. “Excuse me, ve are vedy busy. I am needed in the kitchen.”

  “Oh sure,” Baker, who was still standing, said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  She nodded and was off.

  “Helga has a strong personality, don’t you think?” I said to Baker after he sat back down.

  “She’s German. All Germans have strong personalities.”

  “Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like I have a lot of German friends.”

  Baker rolled his eyes and changed the subject.

  At the end of the dinner, which I have to say was delicious, Rolf Schloygin himself came out to greet us. When he walked up to our table, we knew right away he must be the chef by his white jacket and billowy hat. A bushy white beard and red cheeks made him look like Santa but I’ll bet the red in his cheeks was probably from high blood pressure. After all, he was huge. I would say he weighed in at just under three hundred pounds but oddly enough he couldn’t have been more than fi
ve-foot-six. Something must have gotten crossed in their family gene pool, I thought, considering his sister was a half foot taller. The man must have been pushing seventy; no wonder he was ready to retire.

  “Hello, you must be ze Satterfields.” Rolf extended his hand to both of us.

  “Yes, we are,” Baker said, and kept his seat. “This is my wife, Leelee.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, and then turned to me. “You have lovely hair, my dear.”

  I gave him a bashful smile. “That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you. And I think your food is equally as lovely.”

  “Vell, thank you vedy much.” His accent was intriguing and I found myself actually warming up to him. “How do you like Vermont so far?”

  “I’m in love with it. I can’t think of anything I don’t like about it,” Baker said, and raised up his arms.

  Rolf chuckled. “I’m sure you could find somezing.” Bless his heart, he absolutely reeked of perspiration. But at that point I was used to the smell. I always thought Daddy was being sarcastic when he said Europeans must use a different kind of deodorant than us.

  “Baker is enchanted to say the least. Are you through cooking for the evening?” I asked him.

  “No, not quite. I am only dropping by to velcome you to Vermont Haus Inn. I should get back, rreally. Thank you vedy much for coming.”

  “You’re most welcome.” Baker stood up to shake Rolf’s hand again. “Love the place.”

  “I hope you come back soon.” Rolf took off his hat to bid us farewell and I was surprised to see his nearly bald head, with only a scattering of long white hairs slicked straight back. Rolf Schloygin could have rivaled Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street for Santa any day of the week.

  “His personality’s not so strong,” I informed Baker when Rolf walked away.