Yankee Doodle Dixie (36 page)

What would Frances Folk say? More importantly, I ask myself, what would Frances Folk do? Ignoring all sense of rationality, I sink to the ground underneath the large pecan tree in the front lawn. Resting on its protruding roots, I stare into the layers of overhanging leaves, letting my eyes adjust to the incoming sun. When I shut my eyelids, I can still see the silhouette of the stems and branches and I turn off my mind to everything but the images.

When was I happy last? I mean, really happy—not just giggling with the girls, or bending over laughing with Kissie. I thought for so long it was when I was with Baker; sitting on our porch after we put the girls to sleep. My happiness was what I saw in his eyes—but now I’ve learned that was just a reflection, not the truth. So when was
I
really content? It comes to me more quickly than I thought. It was the night I opened the mail in Vermont, to find John Bergmann’s review of the newly opened Peach Blossom Inn. It was a clipping from
Food and Wine
and he said: “Superb cuisine. Warm ambiance with real Southern charm. Call well in advance for a fireside table.” It was the first acknowledgment that I had done something well, on my own.

It’s all too clear. I’m so caught up in the possibilities that my mind is a hundred yards down the road by the time I open my car door. I’m picturing the grand-opening party. All of my friends will be there, Sarah and Issie will be dressed in beautiful hand-smocked dresses from the Women’s Exchange and they’ll greet our guests at the door. We’ll be toasting with expensive champagne and photographers from
The Commercial Appeal
and
The Germantown News
will be there to snap our picture, which will end up on the front page of the living section. Kissie will be wearing her most beautiful Sunday suit, the one she wore to my going-away luncheon, and she’ll accept accolades for her yeast rolls and other Southern delicacies she’s added to the menu.

I imagine tables out on the porch for diners. And the linen tablecloths, and the dripless candles and the flowers and the … Have I lost my ever-loving mind? But the more I think about it the more I know that I was not half bad at it. Despite all the hard times I endured in Vermont with Baker and Helga, I learned how to run a business. I handled the staff, the scheduling, the payroll, the bills and taxes and I turned out to be a grand martini mixer after all.

All I need to do is to find another Peter.

Chapter Fifteen

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.

I have to give therapy a lot of credit. Well, I guess I have to give Frances Folk a lot of credit. Most people come to their senses when they seek professional psychological help. Me? I went utterly insane. In the ten weeks since I lost my mind, I fell in love with an old house, changed my life’s direction (again), decided to open a Memphis location of the Peach Blossom Inn, and tackled everything from antebellum restoration to liquor permits. Still, I’ve yet to find a chef. The applications have flooded my mailbox and I’ve had a slew of people show up at my door. Why in the world I would include “apply in person” in my ad is beyond me. Every time I get in the middle of something important here comes somebody else looking for a job. And many of them, it seems, haven’t even bothered to take the ad seriously. I’ve had more bad attitudes and stinky people show up here than I can shake a stick at.

Thinking back to when I was searching for a chef in Vermont, and happened upon Peter, reminds me that there could be another jewel in my large pile of resumes. After narrowing it down to six, three women and three men, I contact all of them to meet me at the restaurant the day after tomorrow.

The very first thing I did, after signing the closing papers, was hang my sign in the yard, right beside the old pecan tree. As soon as I knew my offer had been accepted, I ordered a large ivory post to hang the Peach Blossom Inn sign—my way of advertising the restaurant’s opening. It was as much a sign of my personal comeback as anything else, my own way of telling the Tootie Shootwells of Memphis that I was more than just Baker Satterfield’s ex-wife. The second thing I did was hire a designer to convert the old kitchen into a commercial one. I knew the girls would help me decorate out front but hiring someone who knew about installing the correct appliances, and to code, was mandatory. In just ten weeks, the kitchen is now ready and the drab blue Victorian home with cracked blue trim is now a gleaming peach painted lady with ivory spindles, spandrels, and gingerbread eaves. The inside is picture perfect, too, with both of the front rooms serving as dining areas. Porch seating will have to wait till the spring, when it warms up again, but as for the winter, I’m excited to have the fireplaces in the two front rooms to give the place a warm and cozy glow.

Cashing in a good chunk of my savings was one of the riskiest things I’ve ever done—but Frances tells me that no reward comes without some amount of personal skydiving. So, I’ve ordered tables and chairs and all the necessary table adornments such as salt-and-pepper shakers, flower vases, and sugar holders. Alice found a restaurant in Mississippi that was going out of business and we drove down in a Ryder truck and purchased their entire inventory. All the cutlery, china, glassware, and even the pots and pans. They even had a brand-new Viking stove and a walk-in refrigerator. I figured out that all of it combined gave me a savings of 50 percent. Although I’m happy for my gain, I can’t help but feel bittersweet for the people who lost their business.

There have been lots of kettle corn moments these days—that’s what Mama used to say when things are both happy and sad at the same time, like salty popcorn covered in burnt sugar. I can’t help but pinch myself every time I really sit (not that there’s time to
actually
sit) and think about starting another Peach Blossom Inn. As excited as I am, it’s hard to be decorating a house, setting up a life, hanging our family pictures when it’s just the three of us. Plus Roberta. And Kissie, of course. My entire definition of family has changed since last year.

I close my laptop after confirming an interview with the last potential chef. It’s balanced on three boxes of linen napkins that I’ve stacked up to make a makeshift desk. I wipe my hands on my jeans and stare around at the half-filled spaces, freshly painted walls, and various mountains of tablecloths, utensils, and unpacked UPS boxes. Despite the melee of shipments, things have gone surprisingly well. I think it’s a sign this was simply meant to be. Kissie’s explanation is more spiritual. “When the Lawd wants somethin’ to happen, there ain’t no devil in hell that can stop it,” she says. I can tell she’s dying to take over the kitchen. I keep telling her she needs to be enjoying her golden years and no longer working but she tells me that if she ever really sits down she might as well die. Seeing as how that’s the last thing I want to happen, I tell her there’s plenty for her to do. Like supplying us with her yeast rolls, at least until a new chef learns how to make them.

Alice and Mary Jule have decided that they will be happy to be on my waitstaff,
one night
per week—and Virgy said she’d act as cohostess. When I first showed them the house, they were beside themselves and could not wait to begin the decorating. “I couldn’t have come up with a better idea if it hit me in the face,” Virgy said, when I told her. She also wanted to know why I wasn’t hiring the Yankee Doodle. I reminded her, yet again, that he has a good paying job in Vermont and that I haven’t heard from him in seven months. Besides, I told her, I’m moving on, something Frances Folk has been completely supportive of. She, like Peter, is not a fan of long-distance relationships.

Since I’m having to spend every day, all day, here at the Peach Blossom Inn, Kissie has had to move into my spare bedroom. She’s used to it though. When my grandmother got sick, Kissie moved into her home to care for her. When Daddy was sick, she did the same thing for him. Of course, Mama, in her final stage of cancer, had in-home health care nurses, but Kissie supplemented all the extra care. There’s always been a thing in my family to be able to die at home, away from a nursing home. Although I’m far from needing nursing home care, I’m in major need of Sarah and Issie care. If not for Kissie taking care of them during this transition time, I would never have been able to open this restaurant. Nor would I have wanted to.

*   *   *

I’m leaving the house early for my extra full day of interviews when I spot Riley in his driveway. His face is buried in the trunk of his car and Luke is perched right next to him. My car engine startles him and I watch as he leaps across the grass divider between our driveways, yelling my name as he’s running. “Leelee, Leelee, woll down your window.” My coffee splatters on the console as I try rolling it down and positioning my mug into the cup holder at the same time. Growing more panicked at the distressed look on his face, I’m just this side of yelling myself when he reaches my car. “What’s wrong, Riley?”

“Nothing’s wong.” Now he’s leaning in my window.

Oh for gosh sakes.
I slap my hand on the steering wheel and sigh heavier than I had intended. “Then why did you run across the yard screaming my name?”

“Because I have something vewy important to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“I feel howible about this but I’m going to have to cancel our Pampa’ed Chef Pawty.”

It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. Naturally, I’d forgotten all about it. For months, I cringed every time I saw him for fear he’d bring it back up. Either that, or he’d offer to help out on another home improvement project. Not only have I not had the holes in the bathroom wall fixed, I’m quite positive I can’t trust my friends to take Riley seriously while he’s performing his cooking demonstration. Poor Riley would be one soft
R
away from Virgy breaking into hysterical laughter. It’s hard to conceal my elation but I try.

“Oh Riley, don’t you worry about that one little bit.” Of course, I have to admit I’m a little shocked. It’s not like him to cancel anything. I’m almost afraid to ask why. “Well, I’ll see you later,” I say. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“The weason is I’ve decided to let go of my Pampa’ed Chef consultancy.”

“You have?” Now I’m more than a little shocked. I’m flabbergasted.

“Guess what line of work I’ve decided to go into now,” he says. Ah, the other shoe drops.

“You’ve decided to become a member of the paparazzi,” I say with a touch of sarcasm—starting a business has shortened my patience bandwidth.

“
No,
” he says, catching on to my joke. “Too much work. To tell you the truth I’ve decided there’s more money to be made in Amway. Not to mention more fun. As a matter of fact, I’m headed wight now to Gwand Wapids, Michigan, to the Amway Gwand Plaza Hotel for a confewence.”

Naturally, I had no idea that an Amway Grand Plaza Hotel even exists.

“You won’t believe the cool pwoducts we have for weight management, energy drinks, vitamins, and supplements. And we have pwoducts for skin care, hair care, body care, cleaning supplies, and an automotive line. They even sell wightbulbs and battewies. Twust me, you will be much happier in the long wun having an Amway wep in your life.”

Bless his heart. “Well, have fun, Riley. See you when you get back.”

“Say, would you mind checking on ole Lukey boy a time or two? I have a pet sitter coming to take him out and go on walks but it would be nice if he could come to your backyard at some point and play with Woberta.”

“That would be fine, Riley. I’ll be happy to bring Luke over. Or take Roberta to your backyard. Either one.”

“That would be gweat. See you when I get back.”

“Yeah, see you soon, Riley. Enjoy your trip.” I pat him on the hand and drive off down the drive. Through my rearview mirror I see Kissie peeking through the front dining room window. As I’m turning out of my driveway I look to my right and watch as the curtains close.

*   *   *

Just for kicks, I decide to open a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay. It’s a bit self-indulgent, and I can’t help but be a tad melancholy because of the connection to Peter—but the real truth is, it’s the only chilled wine I have on hand. The wine fridges arrived yesterday and were easily installed. Before I left, I’d opened a mixed case of wine and unloaded the bottles of red into their shelves in one fridge. In the other, I loaded up the whites—but the only kind that had arrived was the shipment of Rombauer. After a day of interviewing six chefs—whose talent will pretty much determine the failure or success of my restaurant—I’m in need of some serious therapy, and I don’t mean the kind that Frances provides. I still have one more interview to go, but my energy, enthusiasm, and even my faith in this venture is nearly as frazzled as my mess of hair, currently knotted in a loose bun at the nape of my neck.

The cork slides out with ease and just for fun I sniff its end, letting the crisp, biting scent hit my nostrils. Grabbing the glass and the bottle, I shuffle to the table and collapse into the worn wooden chair. After pouring an obnoxiously large serving, I take one delicious sip and check my watch—if the next guy doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to be loopy when he arrives.

As much as I’m the one conducting the interviews, a skill I’m far from mastering, I’ve been aware that my applicants were evaluating me as well. The Peach Blossom Inn looks full of potential but there are too many unpacked boxes, loose wires, and odds and ends lying about to really look like anything at all. So, to make things a little nicer and certainly more businesslike, I set up a table with a couple of chairs in the middle of the east dining room. But despite my best efforts the day started off poorly.

When I first arrived in Vermont, I spent months trying to deodorize the Vermont Haus Inn. It not only stunk from Helga’s stale cigarette smoke but the entire place smelled like a mélange of garlic and old, musty upholstered furniture, with a profusion of BO. Rolf was the reason for the latter odor and he left a trail of it wherever he went. The first guy I interviewed this morning stunk to high heaven himself, and honestly, he may as well not have bothered applying. After Rolf, I swore I’d never work with anyone again who had so little regard for his,
or her,
personal care. I even put that in my ad. “Must have good hygiene.” But Mr. Dan Dunwoody from East Tennessee must have completely ignored that part. I could smell him the second he stepped his big toe into the foyer. The stench of body odor permeated the entire room. I was so terribly distracted by the reek that I couldn’t concentrate on a word he said. How in the world he thought I’d ever consider him for my head chef is beyond me. Obviously “smelling like a goat,” as Daddy would have said, didn’t bother him in the least. People never cease to amaze me.