Yankee Doodle Dixie (37 page)

I suppose the woman with long brown hair who I spoke with around lunchtime might be a possible candidate. I’m guessing she’s in her twenties by her I’m-out-to-prove-myself-to-the-world attitude. Fresh out of Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Miami, she even wore her checkered chef pants and white chef coat with her name embroidered on the pocket to the interview. Gung ho and confident, she had a PowerPoint slideshow of her “art”—her culinary creations, left me with a folder of references, and had already taken the liberty of designing a menu, with wine pairings, for the Peach Blossom Inn. Her ambition was nearly as overpowering as Dan Dunwoody’s perspiration. Honestly, I’m not sure that I like her well enough to hire her, but there is nothing to dislike about her, either. When she left I told her that I’d be interviewing a few more applicants but that I did consider her to be a top candidate.

The only other person besides Miss Gung Ho worth a second look is an older gentleman with a résumé a mile long. He even worked at the Four Flames, a high-end eatery in Midtown that closed several years ago, suffering the same fate as many of the older restaurants in town. He had a fatherly way about him and I found myself warming up to him right away. Not only did he have a nice attitude and pleasing personality, his hygiene was impeccable. I’m almost tempted to call him back right now and offer him the job but I promised Mary Jule that I’d interview one of Al’s old college buddies.

All she knows about him is they went to school together at Georgia and that his name is Rod McLain. As a favor to Al, she says, I have to at least talk to the guy. But if he’s not here in the next five minutes, I’m leaving. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago and I’m absolutely ravenous. I haven’t been able to put a morsel of food in my body all day. Actually I take that back. I ate the last two Tropical LifeSavers that were hiding in the bottom of my purse about three hours ago. Thank goodness for Kissie. She picked up the girls from school and I’m sure has dinner ready and waiting. Just thinking about what she has on the stove makes me all the more eager to get this day over with right now.

I pick up the phone and call Mary Jule. “He’s not here,” I say, as soon as she answers. My voice is weary and soft—and a little bugged. I’m sure she senses it.

I can tell she’s peeved, too, by the way she’s sighing on the other end of the phone. “Let me call Al,” she says, as if she’s ready to kill him. “He took a half day off and took Rod to play golf at the club. I can’t imagine where they are.”

“Golf? I thought you said he’s a chef. Honestly. I don’t know about another chef who plays golf. It reminds me too much of Baker.”

“Now Leelee, you can’t expect your chef not to have any other outside activities. I can see hiring someone who’s not a football star but any man worth his salt is bound to have other interests.”

“I know. But he was supposed to be here by six and it’s six thirty. I’m sorry to sound abrupt but I’m starving. I haven’t been able to eat a meal all day because of all these interviews. They’ve each lasted over an hour and they’ve pretty much been back to back. The last person just left here thirty minutes ago.”

“You know what. I don’t blame you. If this guy is not taking the chef position seriously enough to be on time for his interview, forget it. Just go home. Don’t you have enough résumés anyway?”

“Probably so. I interviewed a girl this morning that might work and an older man this afternoon that I’m almost ready to call and offer the job to right now.”

“Go on home, Fiery. I’ll tell Al that you couldn’t wait any longer. Why don’t you come over tonight? Have a nice glass of wine. It’ll relax you.”

“I’m already working on the wine, don’t you worry. I’m just so tired. I haven’t been sleeping well. And this whole thing is driving me crazy. I’m starting to wonder why I did it.”

“Why you did what?”

“Open up another restaurant. I’m not sure I’m meant to be a restaurateur. This ordeal about hiring a chef is the kind of thing that always happens in the restaurant business. Murphy’s Law I’m telling you. It had to have been invented in a restaurant.”

“Actually I think its origin had something to do with aviation.”

“Smarty pants. You and Kissie.”

“You just need to get some sleep tonight. I know you’re worried about it, but you’ll hire a chef, the place will be a huge success and all will be well.”

“Whatever. I’m just having a hard time keeping my eyes open right now. And what about this weather? What’s the deal?”

“I don’t know. I heard the weatherman say the normal high is eighty and today it only reached sixty-one. The low is supposed to get down in the forties. I told Al he’s building me a fire tonight.”

“And here it is mid-October. I wonder if it will get warm again? Oh well, thanks for understanding. I’m going to head out before it gets too cold in here. I haven’t even turned on the heat yet. I’m trying to keep the power bills down. Talk to you tomorrow,” I say, and hang up the phone.

I turn on night lamps and shut off the overhead lighting, resigned to having been stood up by this Rod character, who must really be enjoying the golf course at the club—from the view
in the men’s bar
. When I open the screen door and feel the chill in the air, it reminds me of a happier time. Football season at Ole Miss. Several of us sorority sisters, all dressed up in fabulous fall outfits, would be waiting for our dates in the living room at the Chi O house. There was something about seeing a boy in the foyer wearing a sport coat, khakis, and penny loafers that still makes me happy to this day. Life was easy then.

I shut and latch it, and then lock the newly stained wooden front door with its brass sign that reads the Peach Blossom Inn and lists our soon-to-be hours of operation. I decide to call Kissie and tell her I’ll be home earlier than expected. Spotting my purse on the table, I start to dig for my cell. Not unlike the rest of the house, it resembles a mobile Dumpster these days. Mounds of crumpled-up receipts, coins, old lipsticks, and loose sticks of gum lining the bottom, are just a mere tasting of the superfluous clutter that lives inside. I sigh and remove my wallet, hairbrush, checkbook, and the small bottle of hand sanitizer.

Ready to give up and just head home anyway, I am interrupted by a knock at the front door. Oh, so now he decides to show up. Well, buddy, you’ve aready got several strikes against you. You better smell good is all I have to say. Marching over to the front door, ready to show him who’s boss, I’m suddenly scared stiff. Mary Jule may have already told Al not to bother sending over his tardy golfer-chef friend. Here I am, all alone in this house, and it’s pitch dark outside. As much as I love my hometown, it’s not the safest city in Tennessee. Just last week there was a bank robbery in Germantown—in broad daylight! Instead of answering it I creep back to my purse and frantically dig around again for my cell, which I finally find hiding in a side pocket. I dial Mary Jule and when she answers I’m whispering so low it’ll be a wonder if she can hear me. “Did you get Al?”

“What?” she says, loud enough for the burglar outside to hear her. “I can’t hear you.”

“Shhhhhhhh.” My voice is panicky. “Did you get Al?”

“Yes,
why
?” Now she’s alarmed. But at least she’s whispering.

“There’s someone outside.” Another hard knock comes from the front door, followed by the ringing of the turn-style doorbell and my fear intensifies. “I’m scared to death. Hold on. I better get a weapon.” With nothing else in sight, I grab a Swiffer mop and creep over to the front door. Without a peephole I’m not about to open it. “Hello?” I finally say in the deepest voice I can muster. It comes out sounding more like a circus clown than a burly he-man. I hear someone chuckle.

“I thought Memphis was supposed to be warm this time of year,” a voice says.

What in the world?

“At least that’s what you always told me.” I hear a shifting of feet—then he clears his throat and coughs.

Both the cell phone and the Swiffer fall out of my hands and crash to the floor.

“This ad says I can apply in person.” I hear paper rustling. “Let’s see here.
‘Must have nice attitude.’
Check.
‘Pleasing personality’
 … most of the time, but I’ll still give it a check.
‘GOOD HYGIENE’?
Most definitely. Can’t say I blame you there,” he says with another chuckle.

My eyes slowly close as I breathe in the voice.

“‘
Experience in classic and nouvelle cuisine
.’ Looks like I’ve got that one covered, too … unless the position has already been filled.”

I whip open the front door and look through the screen at the most gentle face I’ve ever come across. It takes me a moment to unlatch the outer door, my fingers catching on the metal, weary from nerves and lack of food. I open it wide and, losing my balance, stumble slightly forward. He’s there to catch me, and when his arms wrap around my back I melt into him. The woodsy aroma of his fleece jacket immediately sends me back to February, when he last held me in his arms. The only time he held me in his arms. Stroking my hair tenderly, he kisses the crown of my head. To be enveloped in Peter Owen’s mighty arms after months and months of longing feels like an apparition. I rear my head back to get a good look at him. “Is it really you?”

He strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers and nods his head. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and for the first time in a long while they’re from pure joy. I take in a deep breath before slowly exhaling and suddenly the anxiety of the last year and a half escapes. Naturally, a million questions take its place. “How did you know?” I whisper.

He digs in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a newspaper clipping with my chef’s ad circled in black.

“Who sent that to you?” I say, my eyes growing larger.

He digs in his other pocket and reveals a pale pink envelope, which has been folded in half. When he hands it over I see Mary Jule’s handwriting on the front and when I turn it over her personalized embossing is on the back. “Wait a minute. Where did she get your address? I don’t even have it.”

“Something about the Kravitz Agency,” he says, with a furrowed brow.

“She told you about that?” I cover my embarrassed face with my hands.

He reaches up and pulls them away. “What? Am I not supposed to know about it?” he says, with that adorable smile of his.

“No, it’s fine. I just had no idea they had written to you. And I’m a little shocked, that’s all.” I lean back into the door frame. “So there’s no Rod?”

With a deep chuckle he says, “Nope, there is no Rod.”

Peter takes the envelope back, reaches inside and hands over the rest of its contents. “You should read their letter.” When he contorts his face into a whacky grin, I remember how much I love his silly facial expressions.

I remove a piece of Mary Jule’s pale pink Crane stationery from the envelope and read aloud.

Dear Peter, aka Sam Owen, h.t.b.k.a. (hopefully to be known as) Yankee Doodle Dixie,

If, on the outside chance you have not found your job at the Sugartree Inn in Vermont to be completely perfect, please consider applying for the one enclosed. While it may not be perfect, either, and might seem inordinately far away as far as job applications go, we can guarantee it will be fun, familiar, and forever Fiery.

If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to give us a call. Although you’re welcome to contact any of us, Mary Jule hopes you’ll contact her. The Gladys Kravitz Agency has uncovered your address and is in complete support of your candidacy for the position. We sincerely hope you’ll consider a move down to Dixie. Please don’t wait too long to apply. This position is highly coveted around Memphis and the proprietor is anxious to fill it.

Sincerely Yours,
Mary Jule, Alice, and Virginia
901-555-2266—MJ

After reading the note, I can’t help but shake my head. “Who is Sam Owen?” I ask, snuggling in closer to him. Until now I had forgotten all about the chill in the air.

“Actually, I do know the answer to that one,” he says, and wraps his arms around my waist. “But first, can I come in?”

Stepping over the Swiffer mop and my cell phone, which is strewn all over the place, in the lamplight of the main dining room, I walk him toward my makeshift conference table and we sink into two chairs on the same side. He scoots my chair closer to him and drapes both my legs over his, resting his hands on my knees and sending startling warmth up and down my legs. He glances at the Rombauer bottle sitting on the tabletop, with condensation dripping down the smooth body. I reach for my glass of wine and offer it to him. His smile grows, and he takes a sip from the glass.

“This ought to be good,” I say, fingering the embossing on the stationery. “There’s no telling what they did. Tell me.”

“A couple of weeks ago I got a mysterious phone call. The girl on the phone said she was looking for Sam Owen, her old college boyfriend. Right away I could tell she was Southern, even though she tried to disguise her voice …

*   *   *

“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?”