Just fourteen days after Baker first announced his aspirations of becoming an innkeeper, a Northwest Airlines flight 727 touched down in Albany, New York. Aboard was one starry-eyed Southerner who was ready and willing to defect to the other side without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Another Southerner on board with him was anything but willing, and as the wheels of the jet screeched to a stop, I had to force myself into a cheery mood.
We knew Albany to be the state’s capital. That’s it. Nothing else. Neither of us had even traveled to a single state in all of New England—unless New York City is considered part of New England.
“It’s about a two-hour drive from Albany,” Mr. Baldwin had informed us over long-distance. “I’ll meet you around one P.M. at the Sugartree Mountain base lodge. That gives us just enough time to grab lunch and do a little sightseeing before our three o’clock tour of the Vermont Haus Inn.” Ed Baldwin had come through with his promise of making all the arrangements. All Baker and I had to do was pay for everything.
When we set out toward Vermont in our rental car, Baker agreed to let me be navigator. Navigating is one of the few things he admits that I do better than him. It was a perfect day—eighty degrees, blue sunny skies, a gorgeous drive—and I had a happy Baker all to myself. No TVs, no scores, no golf clubs. Not even a fishing pole.
I could see the mountains in the distance as we approached Vermont. I was a little puzzled. “Those are the mountains?” I asked Baker. “They seem smaller than the Smokies—are they?” I had been picturing the massiveness of the Rockies.
“Maybe, I don’t know. But who cares?”
“I’m not trying to be negative, honey, I just think of mountains as being vast with snowcaps . . . that’s all. I mean, I’ve heard people ski out west in some places well into the summer and I’ve also heard that the skiing in the Northeast is icy.”
Baker whipped his head around and snapped at me. “Who told you that?”
“Alice. Actually Richard told her.”
“Richard doesn’t know what in the hell he’s talking about. He’s never skied in Vermont. The skiing here is just as good as anywhere. You’ll see.”
The moment we crossed the Vermont border, about an hour from the airport, I started to perk up. The billboards had disappeared. In New York, a billboard looms at you every quarter mile like a buzzard inspecting roadkill. The contrast made Vermont look like a much prettier state. Black-and-white cows, the Ben & Jerry’s kind, were grazing on either side of the road. A dairy farm sat on top of a hill with an old-fashioned silo, and the wildflowers scattered out for miles in the pastures. I had to admit it was a charming place after all, and I decided right then and there to make the best of the trip.
Just before the Bennington city limits, on the left, I saw my first Vermont inn. It was a stately mansion sitting on a large, manicured lawn, with black-and-white-striped awnings covering several of the windows. The sign out front read FOUR COLUMNS INN. It’s a shame we aren’t looking to buy that place, I thought.
Bennington was adorable. Bungalow-style homes, window boxes brimming over with healthy, vibrant flowers, and a town square with the usual businesses. A tall monument poked into the sky from the center of town. I read on my map that it was erected in remembrance of the Battle of Bennington, fought during the Revolutionary War.
On the way between Bennington and Fairhope I got a thrill that made the whole trip worth it. If I had been looking down at my map, navigating for one more split second, I believe I would have missed it. There, on the right-hand side of the road, was the most extraordinary road sign I had ever seen.
“OH MY GOSH!” I shrieked.
Baker swerved our rented Blazer over to the right like he was trying to avoid hitting something in the road. Gravel on the shoulder kicked up underneath the tires and spit off to the sides.
“DID YOU SEE THAT? GO BACK!”
“What? See what? Damnit, Leelee, are you trying to get us both killed? You scared the shit out of me. What is it?”
“That sign back there. Didn’t you see it? It said moose crossing. Turn around, Baker, please. I want to get my picture made in front of that sign. Virginia and them are gonna die! Turn around.”
“Okay. I’ll turn around. But I don’t want to be late for our appointment.” I knew he didn’t want to turn around at all, but he was trying to be extra nice.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was gonna get to see a moose? I’ve never seen a moose in person. I can’t wait.”
I jumped out of the car and Baker hopped out to take my picture. “Smile,” he said. I stood right next to the sign and put my arms around it. It was the most unbelievable road sign I’d ever seen and I knew my friends would feel the same way.
“You never told me they have mooses here,” I said to Baker as we were getting back in the car.
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know that, either. And it’s ‘moose,’ Leelee.”
“I knew that.” Know-it-all. I hate it when he corrects me.
Baker just shook his head and for the rest of the trip up the mountain to Sugartree, I never took my eyes off the side of the road, hoping against all hope that I might spy a real, truly live moose.
We turned into the Sugartree Ski Resort on time, at exactly 1:00 P.M. . . . BST (Baker Satterfield Time). After parking the car we followed the signs to the base lodge where we were to meet Mr. Yankee himself. When we walked in the front door I looked around at the rustic décor set amid large woodsy murals painted on the walls. It had a quaint feel like I was stepping into a Swiss postcard. Baker stopped at the information desk to ask a young girl the way to the dining area. She told us to go down the hall and that we would run right into it.
Our toes were barely in the room when Ed Baldwin came barreling right up to us. “Baker and Leelee?” he inquired. “Ed Baldwin. I’m glad you made it. How was your trip?”
“Great,” Baker answered, smiling widely and pumping Ed’s hand.
“Are you guys hungry?” he asked.
“Starving,” Baker and I both answered at the same time.
“Good, why don’t you two grab a table and I’ll go through the line and get you something to drink for starters.”
“I’d love a Coke,” I said.
“Make that two,” Baker added.
“Should I make yours a diet?” Ed looked straight at me.
“The real thing’s fine,” I answered, with a fake smile. Do I look like I need to be on a diet to you, a-hole?
“I’ll be back in a flash.”
When Ed walked away, I shot Baker a look that could kill. He closed his eyes, waved his hand back and forth, and shook his head, like, please, Leelee, not now.
So I just swallowed it, crossed my arms in front of me, and decided to soak in the surroundings instead.
A large moose head (I was getting closer) hung over a massive stone fireplace, which had benches in a semicircle around it. No doubt this was the gathering spot for winter skiers to warm their frosty noses and toes.
When Ed returned with our Cokes, he swung his leg over the bench and sat down opposite Baker and me.
“So,” he said, placing the Cokes down in front of us. “You guys had no trouble with my directions, I hope.”
“None whatsoever. We came straight here. Leelee’s a great navigator,” Baker said, and smiled over at me. When I took my first sip, I could tell right away it was Pepsi. I hate Pepsi. But I never said a word.
Ed Baldwin was quite the inquisitor. He questioned us on our occupations, asked if we had any children, inquired about our heritage and how much money we had in the bank. He wanted to know all about Baker’s daddy’s insurance company and why he would want to leave his position. The one thing he didn’t quiz us on was the extent of our restaurant background. Baker never picked up on this, but I did. Slick, very slick.
“It’s a perfect day for a chairlift ride,” Ed said, when we had finished our lunch. “What do you say we ride to the top and get a better look at the Sugartree valley? You can get a terrific view of the region from the top of the lift.”
“Sounds great,” Baker said.
Baldwin ushered us out of the lodge. Baker took hold of my hand and the three of us strolled over to the lift. It had been years since Baker had actually held my hand in public. Who does he think he’s trying to impress?
While Baker and Ed chitchatted about the skiing industry, I focused on Ed Baldwin—the pushy man. He was tall and lean, I’d say around forty-five years old, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. Whenever he opened his mouth to talk, I had to stop myself from staring at his teeth—well, actually his veneers. Bless his heart, he must have used a bad dentist because they were a little on the thick side.
His hairline was receding and what was left of his dark hair was streaked with gray. His dress was conservative—khaki pants, a white golf shirt, and a pair of Timberland hiking boots. The only thing New Englandy about him at all was his accent and the Patagonia fleece vest he wore (in the summer) over his shirt.
On the ride to the top of the mountain, Ed informed us that Vermont had the lowest crime rate of any state in the country. Baker jabbed his elbow into my arm as soon as he heard that. I was sitting in between the two guys, and the fourth chair was empty. I wished I had been on the outside because they were the ones doing all the talking. Besides, I was dead set on finding a moose.
Ed went on to talk about the wonderful public school system in the area, the reasonable property values, the abundant wildlife, and, of course, the fresh mountain air. “Skiing is part of the public school curriculum,” he said. “Our kids get out at noon on Tuesdays, and the school buses transport them here to Sugartree to ski for the rest of the day. They have a blast. As a matter of fact, my children have become competitive racers.”
“That’s neat,” I said, thinking that might be something I’d like the girls to take up.
“They went to a high school over on Stratton Mountain, about thirty minutes away, called the Stratton Mountain Ski School.”
“Do they get any studying in?” Baker chuckled a little when he asked.
“Oh, sure, but they ski every single day.”
“Do they accept girls?” Baker wanted to know.
“Of course, are you kidding? It’s coed. Several of the Stratton Mountain Ski School graduates have gone on to become members of the U.S. ski team.”
“I’ve heard the skiing in the Northeast is icy,” I heard myself saying. Baker jabbed my arm again.
“Well, that’s debatable. Folks out west don’t like to admit that Vermont has some pretty nice conditions here. In my opinion—and I don’t speak for everyone, mind you—skiing in Vermont is as good as any mountain out west.” He sounded convincing. But then again wasn’t that his MO?
“Have you ever seen a moose?” I bent down to look at the thicket of evergreens below us.
“Yuup, when you live here, you see them quite often. They’re all over the place.”
“Are they on this mountain?” I perked right up.
“Well, sure.”
“What about on the side of the road?”
“Sometimes, or they could be in a field—just keep your eyes peeled. You’ll see one.” (I didn’t find out until much later that really spotting a moose is about as likely as spotting a freckle on your own fanny.)
“What about tornadoes and earthquakes?” I asked. There’s bound to be something wrong with Vermont.
“Nuup, we don’t have to worry about earthquakes and tornadoes around here. The mountains protect us from tornadoes and, to my knowledge, there are no fault lines anywhere close.”
“Then what is the downside to living here?” I asked. Somebody needs to ask this question. “There must be something—a stinky paper mill perhaps, or contaminated rivers?” I knew Baker was about to kill me, but wasn’t it my job to play devil’s advocate?
“Oh no, my dear lady, not here. Vermont is protected. There’s a domineering group of environmentalists who practically control the legislation in this state.” Conveniently for him, the chairlift came full circle and into its base just as he finished his sentence. “Well, it’s about that time. Why don’t you guys hop in my car so we can all ride over together.”
Once we got to his Subaru station wagon, Ed invited Baker to join him up front. I slid into the backseat. He’s no Southern gentleman, I told myself.
It was a short ride to Willingham just down the mountain. When Ed took a sharp turn, a DVD came sliding out from underneath Baker’s seat and landed next to my foot. Three naked girls were on the cover wearing nothing but old-fashioned nurse caps. I thought about kicking Naughty Nurses back under the seat but decided to leave it out in plain view instead.
As we drove into town, we crossed a river with white water. Baker turned around and glanced back at me with a wink. Ed told him it was the Deer-field River and of course it had trout in it.
Straight up a hill, about a block from the river, Ed turned on his left blinker. “It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for.” He glanced over at Baker and then craned his neck back at me. Ed pulled in, crept down the driveway, and parked his car on the side of a white picket fence. Baker flung his door open and jumped out. I tiptoed out of my side. At last, the Vermont Haus Inn and I were face-to-face.
I recognized it immediately from the pictures. It looked as if it could have been a big farmhouse at one time. The not-so-fresh whitewash on the outside was still passable but the green paint on the shutters was peeling in a few places. A wonderful old slate roof of coral, blue, and light green made a basket-weave pattern that, when mixed with the afternoon sunlight, gave a warm, inviting feel to the place. Two dormer windows peeked from the right side of the roof and a large front porch, perfect for rocking chairs, stretched all the way across the front of the house. To the left of the porch was a front door, which opened into a small enclosed area.
The flowers in front of the porch were stunning. Not at all like Southern gardens; there were many flowers I didn’t recognize. No azaleas or hydrangeas, gardenias or rhododendron. It resembled a European garden. I couldn’t help noticing that there were no shrubs, like boxwoods or hollies, up close to the house. (I found out later it’s because they’d never survive the winter due to the snow and ice that crashes down upon them from the roof. That should have been my first clue.)
We walked through an arbor with blue morning glories tangled up in the overhead lattice to reach the front door. I looked over at Baker and he was smiling, full of anticipation, unafraid and adventurous. Goose bumps started to crawl all over me and they weren’t the good kind. More like the kind you get from panic.
“Are we ready?” Ed beamed from ear to ear.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I muttered under my breath.
Ed opened the front door and then stepped aside to let Baker and me proceed in front of him. I put one foot into the foyer and drew straight back, like I had just dipped my toe into the waters off the coast of Iceland. God as my witness, if smells could kill, I would have keeled over and died right there on the spot. It smelled like a mélange of musty upholstered furniture, garlic, and propane gas, on top of a profusion of BO. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would never let my house smell like that. Pee-you, I thought, haven’t they ever heard of potpourri? I stepped inside anyway.
A beautiful, intricately carved staircase spilled into the foyer from the second story. But due to the horrendous stink, it was hard to take notice of its real beauty. Daddy would have never made it past the foyer. He would have turned around and left as soon as the first whiff of air breezed through his nostrils. Daddy liked to brag he had “the keenest olfact’ry senses known to man.” If there was one thing Daddy had no tolerance for, it was houseitosis.
I was trying my hardest to catch Baker’s eye. On purpose, he was not looking anywhere near my direction. Totally grossed out, I decided to take the tour breathing through my mouth only.
“The parlor seems like a logical place to start,” Ed began, and walked over to the front window.
“Was this house ever a residence?” I asked, exerting every bit of effort I could muster to not turn around and run.
“Yuup, you’re absolutely correct. It was built in the late seventeen hundreds by a gentleman by the name of Harold O’Shaunessey. He built it for his young bride.”
“Is this where the guests hang out?” I glanced slowly around the room.
“Indeed it is.”
I couldn’t help but wonder where the guests were. Ed Baldwin told us we couldn’t stay at the Vermont Haus Inn because it was full. Full of what—ghosts?
The parlor was decorated with mismatched, worn-out furniture and lots of cluttery knickknacks. Probably every issue of National Geographic for the last twenty years lined the built-in bookshelves along with hundreds of paperback romance novels and wineglasses. There was a beautiful fireplace in the center of the room but the wide-board pine floors were badly worn. There were no rugs on the floors at all. The place was ragged and tattered. How do people live like this? I thought. I couldn’t imagine actually opening my doors to the public with this shabby décor.
After the parlor, Ed showed us the dining rooms—four small, intimate rooms with only four tables in each. All the tables had candles, carnations, and red linen tablecloths. I liked the screened-in porch the most, which was used for dining as well.
If I had to rate the inn at that point, I would have given it an eight on architecture, a two on décor, and a big fat zero on aroma. For Baker’s sake, I tried to picture my furniture and curtains, my paint colors, my wallpaper, and my uncluttery knickknacks in the Vermont Haus Inn. Even though I could almost see it, I still had my doubts if we’d ever be able to de-stink the place.
Next stop on the tour was the upstairs—to see the guest rooms. Nine of them to be exact. But we saw them so quickly I didn’t have time to notice much. I did notice, however, that just like the downstairs, the upstairs would need a total overhaul. I’ll say it right now, I certainly wouldn’t have paid more than thirty dollars a night to sleep in one of those rooms. To me the Vermont Haus Inn resembled an old college dorm rather than a quaint country inn.
But there was a nice sitting room upstairs with a large fireplace and a few of the bedrooms had fireplaces. At least there was something to work with, if Baker ever talked me into moving.
The kitchen was next, a daunting sight when you aren’t used to the commercial kind. It was like walking into a chrome store. Big sinks and ovens, three refrigerators, a huge Hobart commercial dishwasher, and several large steel pots and pans hanging from a rack near the huge eight-burner gas stove. A gigantic pot rested on top of one of the eyes, near bubbling over. Ed said it was the chef’s famous stock—whatever that meant.
I was particularly, mostly, interested in finding the “superb owners’ quarters” Ed boasted about in his North American Inns magazine ad and I couldn’t rest until we moved in that direction.
At last we moseyed out to a dining area right outside the kitchen. Ed walked over to a door that had been nailed shut. “Actually this door leads into the apartment.” He pushed a dining table out of the way to get over to it. “But the owners prefer to keep it nailed shut to ensure their privacy. I’ve been telling the potential buyers that it could be reopened to have easier access from the inn. It’s just a matter of preference.”
“Can we see it now?” I asked.
Baker shot me a look. “Only if it’s convenient. Leelee’s just excited,” he said.
“You’re in luck, Leelee,” Ed said, in a rather annoying way. “It’s our next stop. Follow me outside, you guys.”
To get to the apartment, we had to exit via the screened porch into a lovely garden full of pink climbing roses, hollyhocks, lilies of various varieties, fresh herbs, and other perennials I didn’t recognize.
Fresh air at last.
On the way to the owners’ quarters, Ed explained it had originally been an old barn. It was common in New England, back in the 1700s and 1800s, to butt the barn to the house. That way people wouldn’t have to be exposed to the elements when they brought in their firewood or milked their cow.
The door to the apartment was left unlocked and Ed stepped back to let us walk in before him. Once again, the odor was the first thing that hit me, and sure enough I had to go back to breathing through my mouth. This smell was mustier than the smell in the inn, though, more like the inside of a cabin at summer camp. The BO was stronger, much to my dismay, but the garlic was not quite as pungent.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.
We entered the superb owners’ quarters into a small sitting room with walls painted a dark burnt orange, and that color led up the stairs. Just off the sitting room two doors were open wide and from where I was standing I could make out the size of each bedroom. I tried holding back my shock but couldn’t. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I tried to breathe but a sudden gasp sucked the air out of my lungs. When I poked my head into the first room, which had curtains for doors and hooks for clothes rods, the only furniture I saw was a pair of twin beds with one small end table in between.
“Excuse me, Ed. Is this the master?” I swallowed in an effort to hide the panic in my voice.
“Indeed. Actually they’re both masters. The owners are brother and sister and they each have their own.”
“And these are they?”
“Yes, ma’am. Nice, huh?”
No, they’re hideous. And I need a microscope to find them.
The walls of the bedrooms were papered with a 1960s floral covering to match the chocolate brown windows and doors. I hate chocolate brown. I could flat forget about ever fitting Great-grandmother’s bed in either of these two cubbyholes.
Ed zipped us through the bottom floor so fast and seemed to be engaging Baker in conversation so much that I got the feeling both of them were daring each other not to look at me.
When we got to the top floor, I was a tiny bit relieved. It was quaint, actually, with a nice size combination den and kitchen. A Franklin stove sat in the middle of the room, and that, I imagined, was a nice thing to have in the winter. The ceiling was vaulted and the enormous posts and beams of the original barn were exposed. The kitchen cabinets were painted black, though, which along with the burnt orange walls, and the drawn curtains, made me feel like I was at a Halloween party.
This room was overcrowded, too, with beds and other odd furniture. A lime green Naugahyde chair sat right next to a magenta flowered chair, which sat on top of a yellow shag rug. Ed went on and on about how lovely the place was and what mint condition it was in. Maybe this is just one of the differences in Northern people and Southern people, I couldn’t help but think.
When Ed went downstairs to use the restroom and Baker could no longer avoid me, he whispered in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking.”
I cocked my head to the side and forced a phony smile.
“Come on, honey. Try and look beyond all this. Remember what our house looked like before we started the renovation? We can have this place looking like a million bucks.”
“Did you see those bedrooms? My college dorm room was bigger than that. And curtains for closet doors? Baker, you know I hate chocolate brown! It’s gonna all have to be painted before I even consider it.”
“Painting is easy.” Baker reached out and tried to grab my hand.
I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain.
“Can’t you see our furniture in here?” he said. “The cabinets and the rest of the woodwork painted white? Take those curtains down and let the sunshine in. You’ll love it, I promise.”
With extreme caution, I eyed the room again and decided I had had enough. I started for the steps and Baker followed right behind me. As we made our way back down the stairs, with no handrail and green indoor-outdoor carpet under our feet, I couldn’t help but think about my house back home. The one I had spent nearly a year remodeling, the one that had my very favorite wallpaper in the dining room with tropical plants and birds all over it. Over three thousand square feet of living space and Baker and Ed wanted me to trade it in for what appeared to be less than eight hundred!
Ed headed out the front door, sensing, I’m sure, that he might lose the sale if we tarried too long in the superb owners’ quarters. I headed straight out behind him and right over to his car. He and Baker continued to chat while observing the outside of a little cottage with turquoise shutters in the middle of the garden.
On the way back up the mountain I stared out the backseat window of Ed’s car, with my foot on top of Naughty Nurses, forcing myself to keep an open mind. But that malodorous old house was not my idea of a home. The thought of waking up there every morning was downright depressing. Baker and I were due back there for dinner in a few hours to watch the restaurant in motion. Maybe I could accidentally lose the car keys when we get back to our motel, I thought. Then, we’d never make it back! I knew that was pointless, though. Baker would simply call Ed to pick us up and then I’d have to endure even more of his Yankee malarkey on into the evening.
When we made it to our car, Baker thanked Ed for his hospitality and told him we’d be in touch. Thank goodness Baker didn’t invite him to join us for dinner.
We made it back only five minutes late for our eight o’clock dinner reservation at the Vermont Haus Inn. We were seated on the screened-in porch. I had hoped we would be able to sit out there. It overlooked the perennial garden, but more important, it meant I’d have fresh air to breathe. I realize now I should have paid more attention to the fact that a space heater was cranking away in the corner of the porch taking the bite off the evening air. The summer evening air.
The hostess who showed us to our table was cute, but I honestly felt like she was a lot friendlier to Baker than she was to me. As she handed him his menu, I could have sworn she gave him a sultry look—right in front of me. Baker never acted like he noticed so I never brought it up. My copy of the menu had no prices on it. The last time I’d seen one of those was at Antoine’s in New Orleans with Daddy.
Ed had told us the Vermont Haus Inn was the premiere restaurant in the Sugartree region. Rolf Schloygin was a renowned chef in Vermont. His clientele was loyal, mostly in the fifty-plus range, probably due to the higher prices and old-timey food. I say old-timey food because as I glanced over the menu, which was classic French, I noticed some appetizers that were completely foreign to me. Eggplant caponata? Vitello tunato? And something called head cheese? I was familiar with some of the other items like herring in sour cream, frog legs provençale, and escargots maison, but it didn’t mean I would ever order one of those.
“I’m not all that familiar with these appetizers,” I said to Baker, careful not to berate the menu. (What I wanted to say was, these appetizers aren’t that appetizing to me, but instead I zipped my lip.) “What do you think I should order, honey?”
“Why don’t you order the soup, or the prosciutto with melon? Can you believe this menu? Is it wonderful or what?” Baker gloated over it like he would his golf score. Baker thought everything about Vermont was wonderful by now.
Within ten minutes the waiter made it over to our table. “Bonjour,” he said, and then a big smile. No conversation. He just very politely looked at me and said, “Madame?”
“Hi, how are you?” I smiled back at him.
He just kept on smiling.
Baker nudged me under the table with his knee. “I think he’s ready for you to order.”
“Oh, pardon me. Okay, I think I’m going to try the soup du jour, please. What kind is it this evening?” I looked up from my menu.
“Soup es vichyssoise.”
“That will be lovely, and for my entrée I’ll try the duckling with cherry sauce.”
“And I’ll have the escargots and the beef Wellington, medium rare,” Baker said. “And please bring us a bottle of your, let’s see now, ahhh . . . how about a bottle of your Châteauneuf-du-Pape cab.” Baker knows wine.
“Merci,” the waiter said, and dashed off. The poor thing was running around like a chicken with his head chopped off. For some reason, he was the only one taking all the orders. I felt sorry for him, really.
Halfway through our appetizers, Helga Schloygin—Rolf’s sister—stopped by our table for a brief introduction. She took me by surprise. Big-boned and very, very tall, Helga stood probably six feet, and she looked to be in her early sixties. Helga had gray hair that she brushed straight back off her face and wore twisted up in a tight bun. She had a hard-looking face, which bore not one trace of makeup. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck and her clothing was oddly preppy. She wore a pair of navy blue pants, a white button-down oxford cloth blouse, and navy blue flats.
“Hello,” she said. “I am Helga Schloygin. Proprietor of Vermont Haus Inn.”
Baker stood up. “Hi, Helga, I’m Baker and this is my wife, Leelee.”
I smiled at her. “It’s nice to meet you, Helga.”
She grinned and gave us both a firm handshake. “Vhere are you from?”
“Memphis, Tennessee,” Baker told her.
“I see. How long have you been vorking in ze restaurant business?”
“I was in management during college,” Baker said. “But I’m in the insurance business now.”
She turned to me. “Vhat is your job?”
“Baker and I have two young daughters. My time is spent with them.”
“I see.” Even with her heavy German accent I detected she was a smoker. Her voice was gravelly and had a slight wheeze to it.
“These vater glasses are filled too high,” she barked to the busboy at the next table. “Excuse me, ve are vedy busy. I am needed in the kitchen.”
“Oh sure,” Baker, who was still standing, said. “Thanks for stopping by.”
She nodded and was off.
“Helga has a strong personality, don’t you think?” I said to Baker after he sat back down.
“She’s German. All Germans have strong personalities.”
“Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not like I have a lot of German friends.”
Baker rolled his eyes and changed the subject.
At the end of the dinner, which I have to say was delicious, Rolf Schloygin himself came out to greet us. When he walked up to our table, we knew right away he must be the chef by his white jacket and billowy hat. A bushy white beard and red cheeks made him look like Santa but I’ll bet the red in his cheeks was probably from high blood pressure. After all, he was huge. I would say he weighed in at just under three hundred pounds but oddly enough he couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six. Something must have gotten crossed in their family gene pool, I thought, considering his sister was a half foot taller. The man must have been pushing seventy; no wonder he was ready to retire.
“Hello, you must be ze Satterfields.” Rolf extended his hand to both of us.
“Yes, we are,” Baker said, and kept his seat. “This is my wife, Leelee.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, and then turned to me. “You have lovely hair, my dear.”
I gave him a bashful smile. “That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you. And I think your food is equally as lovely.”
“Vell, thank you vedy much.” His accent was intriguing and I found myself actually warming up to him. “How do you like Vermont so far?”
“I’m in love with it. I can’t think of anything I don’t like about it,” Baker said, and raised up his arms.
Rolf chuckled. “I’m sure you could find somezing.” Bless his heart, he absolutely reeked of perspiration. But at that point I was used to the smell. I always thought Daddy was being sarcastic when he said Europeans must use a different kind of deodorant than us.
“Baker is enchanted to say the least. Are you through cooking for the evening?” I asked him.
“No, not quite. I am only dropping by to velcome you to Vermont Haus Inn. I should get back, rreally. Thank you vedy much for coming.”
“You’re most welcome.” Baker stood up to shake Rolf’s hand again. “Love the place.”
“I hope you come back soon.” Rolf took off his hat to bid us farewell and I was surprised to see his nearly bald head, with only a scattering of long white hairs slicked straight back. Rolf Schloygin could have rivaled Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street for Santa any day of the week.
“His personality’s not so strong,” I informed Baker when Rolf walked away.
“Sure it is. He’s just a better salesman.”
On the plane ride back to Memphis, Baker went back over all the reasons why Vermont was the perfect place to live and raise our family. He reasoned that life is short and you only go around once. Why not take a leap of faith and do something different. So, in his ever-present persuasive manner, Baker actually managed to convince me that moving to Vermont was the best thing we could do for ourselves, and especially for Sarah and Isabella.
North American Inns magazine—the publication that would change my life forever. If it hadn’t been for that magazine, or Ed Baldwin who placed an ad in that July issue, or if it hadn’t been for the owners of the Vermont Haus Inn who wanted to sell it, where would I be today?
Mama, who had been raised in Greenville, Mississippi, used to tell me when I was a teenager, “It’s a woman’s duty to follow her husband.” Of course, the only place Mama ever had to follow Daddy was from the Mississippi Delta to Memphis, Tennessee. Big whoop-de-doo. If Mama were still alive, would she have really told me to follow Baker all the way up to the North?
It’s a definite that Daddy wouldn’t have. I can just hear him now: “Why in the Sam Hill would you want to leave God’s country and move all the way to the frozen wastelands of the North? I’ve given you life on a silva platta right here in Memphis, Tennessee.”
Poor Daddy, I’m sure the ground around him just rumbled and quaked when that moving van pulled up in front of our house. He had been gone only a year and here I was digging up my roots and spending his money on a dream that wasn’t even mine.