Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  “My reaction?”

  “You hated it from the minute we got here.”

  Instead of arguing, I just stood there—silent and indifferent.

  “Why haven’t you gone back home, anyway?”

  I didn’t want him knowing that I hadn’t had a single offer on the inn. That was my business now. I didn’t want him to know anything about me, actually. “I don’t know. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. What’s it to you, anyway?”

  He didn’t answer me. Instead he appeared quizzical. I could tell he was taken aback by my audacious approach.

  “And what about our daughters? What’s your plan for them, Baker?”

  He hung his head, but only for a moment. “They’re better off with you . . . in Memphis. I know that. They can spend their summers up here. I mean, shit, it’s paradise in the summer. You have to admit that.”

  “All six weeks of it?”

  “Whatever, Leelee.” It was always all about Baker. Whatever Baker wanted Baker got. Why hadn’t I seen it before? “The place looks nice. New name. New look. When’d you move the six-top table?”

  “Right after I fired Helga.”

  “You fired Helga?”

  “I certainly did.”

  “I heard she quit.”

  “Well, you heard wrong. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a business to run . . . with employees who are counting on me.” With my hand on the doorknob, I turned around to face him. “Have a merry Christmas, Baker,” I said in a cheery voice, and passed on through to the inn.

  Moments later, I was walking back in the kitchen and right up to Peter. I even went behind the line (a no-no with most chefs) and gave him a hug, dirty apron and all.

  He took a small step back and furrowed his brow. “What’s that for?”

  “For being my friend.”

  He seemed confused.

  “Aren’t you my friend?”

  “Of course I’m your friend.”

  “Good.” I went to grab the food for table four that he had just placed on the line, when he reached out and grasped my shoulder.

  “Wait.”

  My head whipped around with a startled look to find his face close to mine.

  Instead of words, his eyes dropped, but only for a moment.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Don’t do that to me,” I said, and lightly stomped my foot. “I hate it when people change their mind about telling me something.”

  He went back to his stove and tried ignoring me, but I refused to budge. “I’m waiting.”

  Finally, with faltering words, he said in a kind, tender way, “I’m happy you’re my friend.” He looked right at me.

  My face felt flushed. I couldn’t tell if it was from the warmth of the stove or from him. “And I’m happy you’re my friend.”

  He looked at me a second longer than normal. Not one for discomfort, no matter how brief, I grabbed the plates from the line. Smiling to myself, and happy for friend-boys, I sashayed back out to the dining room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If there’s a holiday that spells fun for me, it’s New Year’s Eve. Not because it’s a drunk-fest, but because of the ambiance and the luscious feeling it evokes. I love the fact that everyone is happy, and looking forward to a new start. Hope is alive and resolutions have a chance. Kisses are brand-new and full of promise.

  And for those who don’t receive one, emptiness forms a hole in the heart and leaves it hungry.

  It never crossed my mind, in thirty-three years, that I would ever have to spend this wonderful evening carrying a bar tray. But we had 106 reservations, we were completely sold out, and I was officially now a bartender with a bar tray.

  Since Peter knew it was one of my favorite holidays, he helped me plan a midnight countdown with balloons, hats, shakers, and scads of confetti. We hired a piano player, ordered tons of booze, employed extra waitstaff, and really went all out to make the Peach Blossom Inn the site of a memorable evening for all who dined with us.

  Our kitchen had to be the busiest place in all of southern Vermont that day. While Roberta cleaned the kitchen, Jim, the sous-chef, worked on the stock and chopped potatoes and veggies. Peter cut fillets, readied his soup, and prepared the pâté. I was helping out in the front of the house, arranging fresh flowers on the tables and replacing melted-down candles. Pierre was restocking the fridge.

  Around noon, Peter came up from the dry storage room in the cellar with some bad news. “Something is leaking, you guys,” he told all of us in the kitchen. Then he turned to me. “I think you better call a plumber. I have too much work up here in the kitchen to take time to stop. Hey, Jeb, help Leelee, would you? You can stop what you’re doing.”

  Jeb was already hard at work. Peter drafted him, as well as another guy, Tim, to help with the prep work—washing veggies, deveining the shrimp, and anything else that didn’t require a chef’s expertise.

  “This is why I’m the official handyman here. I’ve got my hand in everything,” he muttered, in a semi-begrudging way. He untied his apron and laid it over the deep chrome sink. Jeb’s laziness amazed me sometimes. I didn’t make an issue out of it and waited for him to take his sweet time.

  I led the way down cellar. Just off to the right, at the bottom of the stairs, a pool of water had collected. Jeb took one look at it and knew right away the source of the leak.

  “That’s a fine how-do-you-do. Now we really have a problem. It’s the Hobart. And it’s not for me to fix. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, no siree, Bob. You better call Mountain Plumbing. They’re your only hope.”

  Mountain Plumbing promised to make it sometime that day but couldn’t guarantee me a time. And as the day went by, I sort of forgot about it, to tell you the truth. I spent the afternoon running to the phone—more New Year’s Eve hopefuls. We had been booked solid for over a week, with a mile-long waiting list. I had John Bergmann to thank for that. When his review came out in Food & Wine the phone had hardly stopped ringing. “Superb cuisine. Warm ambiance with real Southern charm. Call well in advance for a fireside table.”

  I don’t think there was one dinner reservation left in southern Vermont and I know there were no available rooms. Kathy at the Chamber told me there was absolutely nothing else left in the entire region.

  Mandy arrived sometime around two and bundled up the girls for a romp in the snow. She had become indispensable to me by now. Although, as much as I appreciated her, I could never shake the feeling that I had abandoned my daughters.

  About 4:00 P.M. my last four houseguests arrived from New York City. They had rented the two-bedroom suite and were in town to parteee. I had explained to the guy on the phone that the Peach Blossom Inn was not the party palace they were looking for, but he rented the room anyway, hoping to find the action elsewhere. He asked me lots of questions about the size of the suite. Their wives, the guy explained, did not want to be cramped. After informing him there were no TVs in the rooms, telephones, or honor bars, I suggested again that maybe they should think about staying somewhere else. He assured me the suite sounded fine and they were going to try something different for a change. Maybe the peace and quiet would do them good. Besides, he said, there was nothing left in town and he was tired of calling around.

  “Hi, y’all,” I said, when they walked in the front door. “I’m Leelee, the innkeeper here. Welcome and happy New Year.”

  “Same to ya,” one of the guys said, with his arm around his girl, who was smacking her gum. “I’m Nick, this is Denise.” He pointed to his friends. “Timmy and Cheryl.”

  They reeked of smoke, and I could smell the liquor on their breaths a mile away. I hated to have to break the news to them, but the minute I fired Helga I instituted a no-smoking policy in the kitchen and the guest rooms.

  On the way up to their room, Denise, a short girl with a severe New York accent, remarked, “This is our first time at a B and B. We tried renting a place up at the ski resort but everything was booked
. Thank gawd you guys had an opening.”

  “Wait ’til you have dinner. You’re really gonna love that. Our chef is fantastic,” I told her.

  Once inside their suite, I pointed out the closet and the suitcase racks.

  “Hey, where’s the honor bar?” Denise asked. “Just kidding.”

  Timmy and Cheryl were busy scouting out the bedrooms and the bath with solemn looks on their faces. “We won’t be spending that much time in here, Timmy,” Nick said. “When we’re not on the slopes, we’ll be in the bar. Lighten up, man, it’ll be fine.” He said it under his breath but I still heard him.

  I could feel the tension growing. Tim and Cheryl were not happy. “I’m gonna go back downstairs, y’all, let me know if you need anything,” I said, dying to get out of there.

  Right as I had my hand on the doorknob, Denise glanced around the room. “How about an ashtray? I don’t see one in here.”

  Uh-oh. Here it is. “I told Nick on the phone we’re nonsmoking.” I cringed when I said it. Denise immediately looked over at Nick, who merely shrugged his shoulders. “If y’all really need a puff, you’ll find some ashtrays on the porches.” In the twenty-below temp.

  Dead silence.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  “It’s cowold in here,” the Cheryl girl slipped in before I could get out of their room.

  “I feel your pain,” I told her from the doorway. “I’m still not used to it. It’s just life in Vermont. Feel free to turn on your space heaters though.”

  Now, no one was smiling.

  “Oh, one more thing, do y’all prefer the first seating or the second seating?” I asked, trying to lighten up the mood.

  They all looked at me, confused.

  “For dinner? It comes with your room. All except the liquor.”

  “First seating. We’ll be up at Sugartree when the New Year arrives,” Nick said, and cracked his knuckles.

  “Okay, we’ll see y’all at six thirty.” I gave them a quick wave and escaped.

  When I got back downstairs, Gracie was barking her head off at the guy from Mountain Plumbing. The poor old thing had become possessive of everyone who worked at the inn and she was trying to protect Jeb from the stranger.

  “Gracie, shhhhh.” I scooped her up and tossed her into our apartment. “Hi, I’m Leelee.”

  He nodded his head and said, “Mountain Plumbing.” EDDIE was monogrammed on his shirt.

  “Has Jeb already shown you the problem?”

  “Yuup, and that’s what it is. A problem.”

  “I know that. Is it bad?”

  “The booster to your Hobart’s got a leak.”

  “Soooo, is it gonna take a while to fix?”

  “Nuup.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Only if you consider not fixing it good. The problem is I don’t have the part. We can’t get one until Monday due to the holiday weekend.”

  “Will it even make it through the weekend? I’ve got three more sold-out nights ahead of me.”

  “If I was you, I’d keep my fingers cross’t. If she blows, your Hobart blows, and then you’ll be washin’ all your dishes by hand.”

  “And if that happens, I might just have to quit,” Jeb said, twirling his handlebar.

  “Come on, Jeb, you wouldn’t do that to me. We’re gonna think positive and pray it holds out on us. Out of curiosity, about how much do you estimate this costing?” I asked Eddie.

  “It’s hard to say, miss, but somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred dollars, I’d guess.”

  There went the weekend’s profit.

  That one mishap set the tone for the entire evening. Every staff member was on edge afterward. Pierre’s coffee cup appeared on top of the fridge before the first customers even arrived. If we lost our Hobart, we might as well shut down. When we were busy, Jeb spent all night sliding the trays in and out of there nonstop. And now we were staring at the busiest weekend of the year.

  On top of everything, it was the coldest night of the year. The temperature outside plummeted way below the zero mark. My two-hundred-year-old inn with hardly any insulation was downright freezing. The heat was cranked up full blast in all the rooms, fires were going in all seven fireplaces, extra blankets were on all the beds, and I had space heaters in each room, yet it still felt like a meat locker to me. If I hadn’t been moving all the time and running in and out of the warm kitchen, I would have had to wear my fur coat inside.

  The first customers began arriving around 6:00 P.M. Knowing I’d never be able to get everyone seated and mix their drinks I decided to hire Sarah’s kindergarten teacher, Bev. Whenever the restaurant had more than sixty reservations, I always hired Bev to help out. Bartending was Bev’s other job—her moonlight.

  The first seating went pretty well; Peter and Jim were cranking out the dinners in the kitchen and the “front of the house” seemed to be on top of things. About 9:00 P.M. though, around the time when all the tables started to turn over, holy hell broke loose.

  Right as I was helping Jonathan change over a table from a party of ten poof, the lights went out! It wasn’t pitch-dark inside, thanks to the candles on the tables and the fires in the fireplaces. But every light downstairs suddenly went black. I fled from the table and burst into the kitchen, which, thank God, was still lit.

  “The lights are out in the restaurant,” I yelled from the doorway. Not one person looked my way. “Everybody! Anybody? Help!”

  Roberta finally looked up from the cake she was slicing and shrugged with an “I’m sorry but . . .” look on her face. Pierre was announcing table four’s order to Peter, who was all but ignoring him. Peter had every pan in the place full, and since each meal was made to order his total concentration was required. There was not one soul willing to stop and help me.

  “Jeb, the lights are out, I need your help!” I pleaded.

  “What’s going to happen to all these dishes if I leave the Hobart?” When Jeb gets busy, he loves to act like he’s the VIP in the kitchen.

  “But, what’ll I do?”

  “Go check the fuse box.”

  “Where is the fuse box?” I yelled back.

  “Down cellar!”

  “And then what?”

  He just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ohhhh,” I sighed in frustration, throwing up my arms, “just forget it.” I ran back out of the kitchen, and noticed Nick motioning me over to the foyer, where thirty people, at least, were waiting to be seated.

  “Look, I’m not sure what happened, but it’s pitch-dark upstairs. All the electricity is out and my wife’s freaking out, man. Can you do something about it?”

  “THE LIGHTS ARE OUT UPSTAIRS, TOO?” I heard myself shrieking, even though the guests were within earshot.

  “Yep. Do you got a flashlight?”

  “I’m sure we have several, but I have no idea where one is!” Inside, my head was spinning and I felt like I couldn’t get a deep breath. “Wait right here. I’ll get a candle.” I pushed through the growing crowd of people with nine o’clock reservations, grabbed a candle off the mantel, and hurried up the stairs with Nick.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about all this,” he said, as we dashed up the stairs.

  “It’s not your fault. This has never happened since I’ve lived here.” Just thinking about the impatient customers in the foyer made my heart beat louder and harder until I was nearly out of breath.

  Once I was upstairs, where the fire in the fireplace illuminated the sitting room, I caught sight of Cheryl sneaking out of their suite with a space heater in her arms.

  “Where are you going with that space heater?” I barked.

  “Uh, to the room across the hall.”

  “There is someone staying in that room, and they already have a space heater.”

  Something about the way she turned around and scurried back to her room with the space heater told me they were up to no good.

  I peeked inside the room she was headed to, and the space
heater that belonged there was gone. The sound of people scampering down the hall startled me, and when I turned around, Nick and company were breaking out of their room all bundled up.

  “We’ll see you later,” Nick said, while the others giggled, and all four raced each other down the stairs to get out the front door.

  The inside of their suite told the story. While all the other houseguests were downstairs at dinner, the frolicking foursome must have snuck into the other rooms and stole the space heaters. Six space heaters, two in each bedroom and two in the little sitting room, were plugged into the sockets. Even I know you can’t do that.

  I yanked the cords out of the sockets, grabbed the handles of two of the extra heaters, and stormed out of the suite. After placing each one back in the room where it belonged, I flew down the stairs, past the foyer full of antsy people. With no time to seat another single soul, I descended the cellar stairs in search of a black box, or a silver box, or any kind of box that looked like it might contain circuits. There were two big black circuit boxes at the bottom of the stairs and a flashlight hanging on the wall in between the two.

  I threw open the door of the first one and scanned the labels on the inside. Cellar, kitchen, side porch, front porch, owners’ quarters—not a one of them said a thing about the upstairs or the front dining room. I threw open the next box and my eyes made the same descent down the list. Furnace, dishwasher, walk-in, dryer, washing machine—again, nothing about upstairs or the dining rooms.