Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (2 page)

“Honey.” There was a hush to his voice. “Come on out to the porch when you’re done. I’m making peach daiquiris.”

“Peach daiquiris. Yum. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, really, I just thought you’d be in the mood for a daiquiri, as hot as it’s been lately.”

“Can I have one, too?” Sarah, our not-quite-five-year-old, said, perking up.

Baker stood in the doorway and blew her a kiss. “Not tonight. It’s already past your bedtime. But I’ll make a special one just for you tomorrow night.”

“But I want one
today
, Daddy.” She sat straight up with a pout. Sarah takes after her father—thick and wavy dark hair and indigo eyes.

“Tomorrow. Look, your sister is already asleep, and if you don’t go fast Mr. Sandman will be visiting Isabella before you.” Two-and-a-half-year-old Issie was on the side of the bed next to the wall, already conked out.

Sarah plopped back down, buried her face in her pillow, and put her arm around me.

“ ’Night, Sarah,” Baker said, in a teasing way. When she wouldn’t answer him he turned to me. “I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.”

“I’ll just be a few more minutes.”

Baker gave me that look. That incredibly intoxicating sexy look, his “I want you” look, and walked out of the room.

We settled on the back-porch swing, swaying back and forth to the croaking rhythm of a toad. Hundreds of lightning bugs danced all around us and the neighborhood dogs chatted with one another in the distance. The daiquiri was sweet, just the way I like it, not too much rum, and with little pieces of peach still large enough to chew.

“Honey,” Baker said, breaking the silence, as he twisted my curls with his fingers, one at a time, and leered at me with his gorgeous sapphire eyes. “You know what I want? I want our girls to grow up in a place where people still leave their doors unlocked and their car keys in the ignition.”

“Mmhmm.” I rested my head on his shoulder and pulled my legs up under me onto the swing. “We could move down to Collierville and have room for horses and maybe even a fishing pond for you. Sarah’s been begging for riding lessons. Lots of the girls in her class are taking.”

I could already see it—nineteenth-century white farmhouse, long driveway, pond on the right, barn on the left, horses running around and daffodils sprinkled everywhere.

“Yeah, but even better, we could own our own business and have four months out of the year off. I wouldn’t have to travel, and I could help you out a lot more with the girls.” Baker had his arm around me by now, running his hand through my long strawberry-blond hair.

“That sounds good, baby, but what insurance company closes four months out of the year?” I asked, still sipping on my daiquiri.

Baker’s tone plummeted to that voice he gets when he’s locked in the bathroom with the Sunday paper and doesn’t want to be disturbed. He moved his arm and looked at me dead-on. “I’m
sick
of the insurance business. In fact, I’m downright miserable in the insurance business. It’s boring. All I ever do is work, and I’m fed up with spending only two hours a day with my children. Sarah and Isabella are almost five and three, and I feel like I barely know them.”

I should mention he talks with his hands. Well, we both do, but at this point Baker’s arms were swinging all over the place. “I’m thinking big—something completely different and radical. I say we should get the hell out of here and move somewhere new and exciting like . . . like . . . Vermont!”

“Baker, please. You’ve been reading too many Orvis catalogs.” Baker has a storeroom off the garage to house his abundant supply of fly-fishing gear, plus every show Bill Dance has ever starred in on video.

“No, I have not been reading too many Orvis catalogs. Vermont is a wonderful state, and . . . you’re right, it does happen to have some of the best trout fishing in the country. But, there’s virtually no crime at all in Vermont. The way I see it . . . it’s the perfect place to live and raise a family.”

He might as well have been talking about Yugoslavia—it was just as foreign to me. “Vermont.
Vermont!
” I bolted straight up from my relaxed position. “You can’t be serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.” With that Baker leaped off the swing, almost upsetting my daiquiri, and ran into the house. Before the swing even had a chance to slow down, he was bolting back out the door with his briefcase in one hand and a fresh daiquiri in the other. He plopped back down on the swing, put his drink on the floor beside him, and placed the briefcase on his lap, unsnapping the locks. The briefcase popped open and lying right on top was the latest copy of
North American Inns
magazine. He grabbed it, licked his right thumb, and started flipping through the pages. In the back of the magazine one of the pages was dog-eared.
“Get ahold of this!” Baker said. He read aloud, with such intense emotion you’d have thought he was auditioning for the role of Hamlet.

Located in a village setting near two major ski resorts, Vermont’s premier restaurant/inn is for sale. Circa 1700s, the Vermont Haus Inn has nine guest rooms, most with private bath, seven fireplaces, gracious lawns, twenty acres and historic stone walls. This magnificent opportunity includes operating a full-service, high-gross world gourmet–acclaimed restaurant, along with a lifestyle that most people can only dream about.

He looked over at me with a sanguine face before continuing.

Mint, mint condition. Superb owners’ quarters. Owners retiring. Price reduced from $555,000.00 to $410,000.00. A must-see for anyone serious about owning a quaint Vermont country inn. Ed Baldwin Agency, 10 Hill Street, Fairhope, Vermont. 1-802-CALL-ED-B.

He dropped the magazine on his lap, sat back in the swing, and let out a euphoric sigh. “What do you think, honey?” Baker was beside himself with joy. “Look at all we could have in Vermont”—he thumped the page with the back of his hand—“just by selling our house here! Twenty acres, an inn,
and
a business for not much more than the price of this house.”

I was stunned. It was the only time in my life that I can honestly say I was truly speechless.

Baker used this lull in the conversation to advance to Exhibit B. He must have stopped by the bookstore on his lunch break, because three picture books on Vermont were the next items to emerge from his briefcase. He started flipping through the pages and showing me the pictures. “Look, Leelee, aren’t these beautiful? Have you ever seen trees come alive like this? Remember that time you told me you had always wanted to take a trip to New England to see the fall foliage? Think what it would be like to live there and see it
every year
.”

I’m frozen. No, I’m just not hearing him correctly.

“I’ve always wanted to own my own restaurant. You know that. I’ve
managed two or three of them. There’s nothing to it. And you said yourself that waiting tables was one of the most fun jobs you’ve ever had.”

“Baker,” I said, springing back to life, “I was in college when I waited tables. Yeah, it was fun. But that’s only because Jay Stockley worked there, too. He was president of SAE and I had a big, fat crush on him. Waitressing was not
work
. It was a way to flirt with Jay Stockley.”

Baker was so busy looking through the pages of that Vermont book, I wondered if he was even listening to me.

I put my hand alongside his cheek and turned his head around to face me. “I couldn’t even tell you if Vermont is the little state on the right or the little state on the left, way up there at the top of the map. All I can tell you about Vermont is they make good maple syrup there.”

“Leelee . . . please,” Baker said in his know-it-all voice, and looked down again at the pictures.

“What would your
daddy
say?” I had to dig deep, scramble for anything that might knock some sense into him. “He’s owned Satterfield State Farm for
how
many years?”

“Who cares? I never wanted to go into the insurance business in the first place.
Never
. My dad decided that for me the minute he saw something hanging in between the legs of his newborn baby.”

I considered what he said, and kind of saw his point.

“I’m
bored
, Leelee. It’s time to see the world!”

“Okay, but can’t we just
travel
the world? Do we have to move?”

“Have you any idea what it feels like to wake up every morning, take a shower, shave my face, eat a bowl of cereal, then drive across town to work, where I sit at the
same
desk, in the
same
office, and look at the
same
old-woman secretary who’s constantly telling me, ‘I have more seniority than anybody else in the entire office except Mr. Satterfield
Senior
.’ Then she looks over at me like she’s got something big on me. I don’t give a shit how long she or anyone else in that office has been there.”

“Well, it helps with our lifestyle.” I was always careful when it came to talking about Baker’s income. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t have family money. Daddy’s the reason we had what we had—a beautiful home that I’d spent over a year decorating, and a ski boat that was docked at Pickwick
Lake, giving us hours of pleasure in the summertime. Dare I mention that my husband was a sportsaholic with a golf and fishing habit that could have bought us a house to go with the boat on Pickwick Lake.

“But it’s driving me crazy in the process.” Baker was hanging his head now, with his hands on either side of his temples, his eyes closed. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s to see a grown man in agony. I put my arms around him and pulled him over toward me so his head was resting on my shoulder.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy. I’m happy when you’re happy. But moving all the way to . . . to . . . Yankeeville, I don’t know. I just don’t know about that.”

“Honey, look, will you just go with me to see the place? You might fall in love with Vermont. Tell me you’ll think about it, baby, please.” He was giving me that look again. And this time his hand was working its way up one leg of my shorts.

I reached over, pushed it away, and looked him in the eye, my nose about two inches from his nose. “I’ll think about it. But that’s all. And don’t bug me. I’ll let you know when I’m finished thinking about it.”

“I’ll get you those diamond earrings.”

“Are you bribing me, Baker Satterfield?”

“And so what if I am?”

“I cash in on bribes, that’s what. Now will you please go get me another daiquiri?”

“They’re good, aren’t they?”

“Delicious. But making my favorite daiquiri is not going to make me move to a place where the people talk like their noses are stopped up.” I stretched out my legs on top of his.

“Just consider it. That’s all I’m asking.”

“All right, all right. I’ll do that much. I’ll consider it.”

He cut his eyes over at me and smirked. What Baker knew—and what I knew—is that once he got me to consider something, he was usually home free.

His glass was empty by this time also. Stopping the motion of the swing with his feet, he rose. “I’ll be back.” He leaned over to kiss my lips. Just
before entering the house he turned around. “By the way, it’s the little state on the left. Vermont borders New York, not Maine.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. McNally.”

“You’re welcome, Miss O’Hara.”

“Would you go on and get my daiquiri, please?”

Falling asleep that night was rough. I lay in bed for hours, staring into the darkness, my husband sound asleep beside me. I wanted to please him. I loved and adored him. And I had for over half my life. But my goodness, this was a tall order. Leaving my home—Memphis, Tennessee—for a place where I had never even stepped foot? Not Birmingham, not Atlanta, not Oxford, Mississippi, even. Baker was talking about moving all the way up to a place where I didn’t know one soul. And, as I would later find out, was a heck of a lot farther away than I ever imagined.

Chapter Two

When I awoke the next morning, after very little sleep, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a Folgers moment. The scent of my favorite morning aromatherapy was wafting down the hall from the kitchen to my bedroom, arousing me away from any desire to linger under the covers. This was a landmark moment, too: the first time Baker had ever used the coffeepot. When I heard the sound of his slippers shuffling against the hardwood of the hall and two little giggle-boxes following along with him, I lifted my eyelids just enough to peek through my lashes and out the bedroom door. I could make out the image of Baker, stooped over—carrying something—and Isabella and Sarah on either side of him. They walked slowly down the hall and right up to my side of the bed.

Baker whispered, “Okay, girls, on the count of three . . . one, two, three.”

“Surprise, Mommy!” they all chimed, in unison.

I popped open my eyes to see my little girls jumping up and down and clapping their hands with excitement. “Breakfast in bed! What a surprise. Thank you, girls.”

“Say thank you to Daddy, too,” Sarah said. “He made the food part. I folded the napkin and put on the fork and spoon.”

“I did, too!” added little Isabella, distressed that her sister had not included her in the deal.

“Thank you, Daddy. What’s the occasion?” I teased him with a wink.

“Can’t a man make breakfast for his wife without her becoming suspicious of his intentions? Hey, a good innkeeper needs to know how to make a knockout breakfast.” Baker began pointing to each item on the tray. “Here you have your gourmet coffee, cream and sugar. And your fresh-squeezed orange juice. Over here—pancakes with
real
Vermont maple syrup . . . and finally, fresh blueberries and cream.”

“Innkeepers really do knock themselves out, huh?” I sat up and propped the pillows behind me. Sarah crawled up on our antique four-poster canopy bed—my great-grandmother’s bed—and flipped on the TV with the remote.