Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter

by Lisa Patton

  “I won’t be long,” I told the girls. “Wait for me in the apartment where it’s warm.”

  “Is Roberta here?” Isabella wanted to know.

  “I don’t see her car, but it’s okay, baby. I’ll be back in a second. Go on inside. Sarah, hold your sister’s hand, please.”

  I parked in my regular spot behind the barn and ran in to grab a saucer sled. The snow was really coming down now and the wind was blowing like a son of a gun. I hurried as fast as I could but it was quite a workout by the time I lifted my legs and high-stepped up to the top. What I really needed were snowshoes, but I had only found out about their existence a few weeks prior.

  I spotted it right away. Only the top peeked out of the snow. I cleared away the powder from around it and tugged. It wouldn’t budge. As hard as I tried I couldn’t pull it up. By now the ground around it was, of course, frozen solid. All I could do was break off the stick and take the cross, so I pushed and pushed on it with my boot until I heard it snap.

  Kneeling down over her for the last time, I bent down and kissed the snow. “I’m sorry, Gracie, but this is for the best. I couldn’t take a chance on Jeb cutting you in two. Please forgive me. You’ll always live in my heart no matter where you are.”

  I sat down on the saucer, put Gracie’s tombstone in my lap, and grabbed the handles on either side. I scooted myself to the edge and leaned forward. Down the hill I flew, right into the base of the barn. I threw the sled inside, put the cross in my car, and ran back to the apartment.

  “Sarah? Issie? Where are y’all?” I called from the base of the apartment steps. When they didn’t answer I started up the stairs. “Girls, it’s time to go. No hide-and-seek, please.”

  They were nowhere to be found. Back down the steps I dashed and into the big kitchen. Again, I called their names. “Sarah, Isabella, let’s go.” They weren’t in there, either. I was beginning to get a little nervous but when I got to the dining room, I saw a chair pulled up in front of the fireplace. Atop were both of my daughters. Sarah was reaching up on the mantel and Isabella had something in her hand.

  “What on earth are you two doing?”

  Sarah picked up something small and instantly recognizable off the mantel. Issie played with a similar one, only larger.

  “Look what we found. Helga’s hippos. She must have left them for us.”

  There, spread out on top of the mantel of my Peach Blossom Inn, resided Helga Schloygin’s cherished hippopotamus collection—in its entirety.

  It took a moment for the horror to sink in. “I’ll . . . be . . . damned!” I cried.

  “Mama. You said not to cuss,” Sarah scolded.

  “I sure did. But that rule does not apply to now. That double-crossing, no good, dirty rotten slimeball. Ed Baldwin, you duped me. And for the second time. I can’t believe it.” I paced around the room flailing my arms all over the place.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Sarah, everything’s going to be fine. No wonder the sign was gone.”

  My first thoughts were about Pierre, Roberta, and Jeb. Peter was taken care of, but what about them? Did they know? Or worse, were they in on it? No way. Should I stop this sale? I could, no problem. But then what?

  “Ughhhh, how could he do this to me?” I sat down at one of the tables to think for a moment, with my head in my hands and my heart blasting out of my chest. Helga was nowhere to be seen. I never once even considered that Helga and Rolf were the buyers. A death in the family . . . yeah, right. So, what was I supposed to do now? Stop the moving van somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania? Rent a storage unit in Memphis for my stuff and in the meantime move back in again with Helga’s horrible furnishings?

  Then it occurred to me. Why on God’s green earth would I want to allow Helga Schloygin to occupy one more moment of space in my on-the-mend mind and heart? Sure, I could stop the sale, but why would I want to ever be around her again? I’d more than likely have to spend another year living here, at least, while I searched for another buyer. As much as I wanted to take care of Roberta, Jeb, and Pierre I knew it was not my responsibility. If I could survive—surely they could.

  Roberta told me herself that she had learned to be a survivor from watching me. Jeb had plenty of work on his own, and any restaurant owner would be thrilled to hire Pierre. Peter already had a new job with a nice raise. As tempting as it was to change my mind and go running after him, something deeper tugged at my core.

  I knew my heart’s desire all along. Even though I was a different person now—how could I not be, I’d finally fled my cocoon and encountered life on its jagged edge—my heart never changed.

  “Okay, girls, let’s go,” I said, rising up from the table. “Hurry, hurry.”

  Sarah and Isabella jumped down off the chair, each still holding a hippo in her hand.

  “Oh no, we won’t be taking those home with us. Hand ’em over.”

  “But Helga left them for us. Can’t we just take one?” Sarah pleaded.

  “Not even one.”

  I took the would-be souvenirs from the girls and put them back on the mantel. “Scoot,” I said, and brushed them both on the fanny.

  Sarah and Issie stomped out the door but quit their pouting once outside. Snow was falling faster than I’d seen it all season and they lifted their arms and spun around in circles.

  If it hadn’t been for a dog howling in the distance, I would have never thought about it again. But as I glanced over my shoulder toward the sound, I noticed the barren pole where my Peach Blossom Inn sign once hung. It hadn’t fallen down like I originally thought. Someone had deliberately removed it. The question was: Where would she put it?

  I headed straight toward the back of the barn. Sure enough, amid the debris, it had been tossed into the middle of the brush pile. My car had very little room but I’d have sooner thrown out one of my suitcases than leave my sign with her. There was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she would burn my beautiful sign. So after cramming it in the car next to Gracie’s cross, I ran back inside the house and scribbled out a note: Thanks for the sign! I propped it up in front of the big fat head hippo and ran out the door.

  Just past the entrance to Sugartree the snow picked up even more and in what seemed like seconds turned into half-dollar-size flakes. No matter how long you live, I don’t think you ever grow tired of watching snow fall.

  “The snow is pretty,” Sarah said.

  “Yes it is, baby.”

  “Will it snow in Memphis?” she wanted to know.

  “Sometimes, but not like this. Are you watching, Issie?”

  “Mmhmm,” she said, through her paci.

  I was careful to take my time and we inched along at only twenty miles per hour. The city snowplows hadn’t made it back around this stretch yet.

  Just beyond the next curve I noticed something in the distance in front of the right side of the thicket. Large and black—I wasn’t sure what it was—but it was motionless. Perhaps a vehicle had lost control and slammed into the embankment ahead. After all, the street was overly treacherous. I couldn’t be sure, but in an effort to be extra cautious, I lightly tapped my brakes. And as my car slowed down to a roll, I recognized him.

  Majestic and virile, he was just as I had imagined. After waiting for him all this time, I wasn’t about to simply drive past, so I slowly pulled off onto the shoulder, making sure to keep twenty yards or so between us.

  “Look, girls. I don’t believe it. A moose!”

  “Where?” Issie squealed.

  “I can’t see him,” Sarah cried.

  Ever so slowly I inched up toward him, hoping with all my heart that he wouldn’t dash away. The closer we got the more his distinguishing features came into view. His antlers were gigantic and I couldn’t help but wonder how in the world he could keep his head held so high. His tail was much smaller than I would’ve thought. Seeing it up close, it was more like a cow’s tail. In awe, the girls and I gaped at him. He
was covered in snow but didn’t seem to mind.

  Now we were only thirty feet away and as I was eager to get as close to him as I could, I guess the engine startled him. He turned and looked at us dead-on. I noticed his face and his big, round nose.

  “What took you so long?” I whispered.

  I know we sat there staring at each other for a full sixty seconds before he gradually turned and started walking away. His gait changed and he trotted several feet ahead. As he picked up his pace, I edged onto the road. Before long and almost miraculously, we were gliding along, the moose and I, at the same rate of speed. Only a few feet ahead of us, it seemed as if the moose was escorting us away from Vermont.

  Just at the edge of town the road curved off to the left. As my little car veered off toward home, our bull moose disappeared back into the thicket.

  Epilogue

  A Lovely Warm Autumn Day

  M E M P H I S, T E N N E S S E E

  “I’m so proud of her. Who would have actually thought she’d have the courage to do it?” Virginia said.

  Mary Jule piped up from the backseat. “I couldn’t do it. No way.”

  “Personally, I think I could. But we’re not talking about me,” said Alice, who was sitting in the passenger seat of Virginia’s car. “Let’s get down to Agency business. Mary Jule,” she said, turning around to face her, “did you sneak into Leelee’s address book?”

  “Yes, I did. No address, only a phone number.”

  “No address? That’s odd, how are we gonna find it?”

  “We can call Roberta,” Virginia said. “Who knows her last name?”

  “I don’t remember. Do you, Alice?” Mary Jule asked.

  “Heck no.”

  “How about Jeb? What’s his last name?” Virginia asked.

  The other two shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me we’ve hit a dead end.”

  “I’ve got it!” Alice squealed. “Mary Jule, what’s his phone number?”

  “You’re not gonna call him, are you?”

  “Just give me the phone number and watch the master at work.”

  “I don’t know about this but, okay: 802-555-9998.”

  “Thank you very much, may I have total quiet, please?” Alice pulled out a Virginia Slim, cracked the window, and took a puff before punching in the numbers. “I did a star-sixty-seven, just in case.” Alice put a finger to her lips. “Shhh, it’s ringing. Still ringing. Hi-eee,” she said in her best Yankee voice, “is this Sam?”

  “You’ve got the wrong number.”

  Alice held the phone out from her ear so Virginia and Mary Jule, who were huddled toward the phone, could hear every word. “This isn’t Sam Owen?”

  “Nope. You’ve got the right last name, but my first name’s not Sam.”

  “Oh, well. That operator must have given me the wrong Owen. I’m looking for my old college boyfriend. He lives in Vermont on Acklen Road and I’m desperate to find him. Do you have a cousin named Sam Owen?”

  “No, I don’t have a cousin named Sam.”

  “Is your middle name Sam?”

  “No, Sam isn’t my middle name.”

  “Are you sure you’re not pulling my leg? Sam, this really is you, isn’t it?” Alice pinched her two fingers together and glided her hand through the air, pretending to be writing. Mary Jule quickly dug in her purse and handed her a pen.

  “It’s not Sam,” he said with a chuckle. “And I’m not your old boyfriend. What’s your name anyway?”

  “Shauna.”

  “Nice to meet you, Shauna.”

  “You too, Sam, I mean, whatever your name is.”

  “Peter.”

  “Okay, nice to meet you, Peter. Listen, would you please do me a favor?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “If you ever meet Sam Owen up there, will you tell him I’m trying to find him?”

  “You bet.”

  “Thanks. Hey, what’s your address? Maybe I’ll send Sam a letter in care of you.”

  “It’s 415 Forrest Drive, but I doubt I’ll ever meet him.”

  “In Willingham?”

  “No, Dover.”

  “And that zip?”

  “05356.”

  “Alrighty then. Thanks, Peter Owen. Good talking to you and have a greet day.” When she got to the day part she accidentally lost her accent. She recovered, though, when she said good-bye. “Byeeee.” She closed her cell phone and blew two smoke rings. “And that’s how it’s done.”

  “I gotta say. You never cease to amaze me,” Virginia told her.

  “All in a day’s work of a good detective at the Gladys Kravitz Agency. I can’t believe we actually caught him at home. What are the odds of that?”

  “Oooooh, I’m getting excited,” squealed Mary Jule.

  “Who’s got the letter?” Alice asked.

  “It’s in my purse,” said Virginia.

  Alice ruffled through Virginia’s pocketbook and opened the unsealed envelope. She took out the newspaper clipping, which had one of the want ads circled with a black Sharpie, and read aloud:

  CHEF NEEDED Peach Blossom Inn—small, gourmet restaurant in mint condition. Must have nice attitude, pleasing personality, GOOD HYGIENE, and expertise in classic and nouvelle cuisine. Historic Germantown, 462 Old Poplar Pike, Memphis, Tennessee 38108. Call 901-555-8912 or apply in person.

  “Leelee’s left us no choice but to take matters into our own hands, and we’re all in agreement, right?” After nods from the other two, Alice folded up the ad and stuck it back inside the envelope. She gave it a lick and under Peter Owen’s name she copied down his address.

  “Here’s a stamp,” Mary Jule said, leaning over the front seat. “I’ve only got a love stamp. Do y’all think that’s too obvious?”

  “So what if it is?” With a quick lick, Alice placed the stamp on the letter and handed the envelope to Virginia.

  They pulled into the post office and got in line for the drop box. Virginia rolled down the window and reached out to place the letter on the edge of the mail slot. “Okay. It’s worth a shot.”

  She gently let go of the envelope and let it slide down, deep into the mailbox.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT

  SOUTHERN AS A

  SECOND LANGUAGE

  Lisa Patton

  To learn more about Lisa’s other novels:

  Visit www.LisaPatton.com

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  SOUTHERN AS A SECOND LANGUAGE

  By Lisa Patton

  Chapter One

  Sometimes a little white lie is just the kindest thing. I mean, what in the world was I supposed to tell Riley, my agitating next-door neighbor, when he rang my doorbell one October morning and asked if he could work at my brand-new restaurant as Peter’s sous chef? My mind raced in a thousand directions and my initial thought was to say, “That is so nice, Riley. I tell you what, though, I’ll need to talk to Peter about this and get back with you.” At the very least, it would have taken the onus off me. But just as I was about to open my mouth, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Kissie standing in the doorway leading from the dining room to the kitchen with hands firmly planted on her hips, mouth drawn tightly, and her head was shaking from side to side. That was her not-so-subtle way of telling me that what I was about to do was a big fat no-no. She knew me all too well.

  I knew she was right, but it’s hard for me to be brutally honest with people, especially guys like Riley. I feel sorry for him, bless his heart. He’s … well, he’s pitiful really, and he can’t help it. He speaks with a soft r, so when you first meet him you think his name is Wiley. Wiley Bwadshaw. Kissie, on the other hand, doesn’t feel in the least bit sorry for him. She says he’s just plain annoying and that his speech impediment has nothing to do with it. She says there’s no reason to feel bad for him. “He got a plenty money, a full head a hair, nice stature, and two strong legs to find honest work. There ain’t no reason in the world to feel
sorry for that man.”

  As he stood on my front stoop wearing a white apron and a chef’s hat with RILEY embroidered in black, he tried selling himself. “Working as a Pampa’ed Chef Consultant qualifies me as a perfect candidate for this position.”

  “I thought you gave up Pampered Chef for Amway,” I told him, still not having invited him in. Kissie would rather spend an entire afternoon behind a shopping cart with a bad wheel than five minutes face-to-face with Riley.

  “Actually, I did, but I’ve weconsidered my decision and I’m back in business. Anyway, these days,” he went on, “PCCs have to do cooking shows as part of the job.” Riley adjusted the tie around his waist and it was then that I noticed the lettering on the front of his apron: THE PAMPERED CHEF® DISCOVER THE CHEF IN YOU. “I’ve alweady hosted close to seven cooking demonstwations featuring the Pampa’ed Chef’s best thirty-minute wecipes.”

  I stood silently in my doorway trying my best to be polite, bobbing my head with a kind note of approval. Quite honestly, at this point, my neck was beginning to hurt.

  He went on. “That alone is another benefit, as I could make a huge diffewence in the efficiency of your westauwant opewation.” An ear-to-ear smile spread across his face as he popped his index finger in my direction. “And here’s the best part, you could stock your kitchen exclusively with all Pampa’ed Chef pwoducts, declaring the Peach Blossom Inn the first all-PC westauwant in Tennessee. Hey, you could even put a PC logo on the fwont door, as well as on all your menus, boasting that you are the first!” He further added that that one detail alone was sure to increase our foot traffic by at least 75 percent—given the Pampered Chef reputation and all. “It’s a win–win!” Riley exclaimed as he snapped his fingers in the air and poked his head inside the entryway of my rental home, scanning his eyes from side to side. Riley’s thirst for information could never be considered his strong suit.