Southern as a Second Language: A Novel (Dixie Series, 3) - Softcover

Patton, Lisa

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1250020670 ISBN 13: 9781250020673

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2014

Synopsis

Leelee Satterfield is back in a riotously funny and charmingly romantic adventure from Lisa Patton, author of the widely acclaimed Dixie series

Not only do Southerners talk slowly, sometimes the whole language is hard to understand. No one realizes that more than Memphis belle Leelee Satterfield. Now that she's back home, and starting a new relationship with Peter, the Yankee chef from her New England inn, you'd think she'd sit back and enjoy her newly crafted life back home in Dixie. But that just wouldn't be as much fun.

Opening up a new restaurant with Peter isn't as easy as she had anticipated, and when Leelee's ex-husband returns unexpectedly, everything else goes haywire. Throw her three crazy best friends into the mix; as well as Riley, her meddlesome next-door neighbor; and Kissie, Leelee's beloved second mother, and you have the perfect recipe for a sassy, Southern delicacy. An endearing and chuckle-inducing tale, Southern as a Second Language keeps you guessing up to the very last page how it all works out in the end. Whether among maple trees in Vermont or magnolia-filled Memphis, Leelee's charm, heart, and laughter will delight readers in any climate.

About this title

About the Author:

Lisa Patton spent more than twenty years in the music industry before discovering her passion for writing fiction and is now the bestselling author of Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter and Yankee Doodle Dixie. Born and raised in Memphis, Lisa spent time as a Vermont innkeeper until three subzero winters sent her speeding back down South. The proud mother of two sons, Lisa lives in Franklin, Tennessee, with her husband and a little Havanese pooch named Rosie.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

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 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 gotta 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 pewfect candidate for the sous chef 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.
Not only is Riley a Pampered Chef salesman (“consultant” is his word) but he “reps” Tupperware, Cutco, and of course, Amway, too. Kissie says that line of work is meant for women only and that he’s flat-out embarrassing himself, but as he puts it, “It’s a gweat way to meet the ladies.” I can’t help but feel sorry for him there, too, because he’s in his late thirties, still a bachelor, and sports a military hairdo to boot. His cropped brown hair ripples in the back when he bends his head down, but he keeps a two-inch flattop growth on the top. When you go into his home, he’ll show you around the house but you can’t sit on the furniture. It’s covered in plastic. So are the rugs. In fact, there’s a see-through runner that extends all over the house. The one time I had to go over there to borrow an egg and made mention of the vast amount of Tupperware products in his kitchen, he swept his hand over the coated furniture in the den and said, “Well, how do you think I got all this? Nevah, my dear lady, unda’estimate the powa’ of plastic.”
So instead of putting off the inevitable and saying that I’d ask Peter about the sous chef position and get back with him, I took Kissie’s body language into account, mustered all my courage, and said, “That’s so nice of you to ask about that, Riley, but Peter already has a sous chef.” It was technically a lie, I realize that, but I like to think of it as a harmless little fib meant to spare his feelings.
The news seemed to take him by surprise. “Oh. Well, hmmm. I didn’t wealize you had alweady hired someone.” The creases in Riley’s forehead deepened as he considered his options.
I didn’t say a word. “The less said the better,” as Mama used to say, a quote she often borrowed from Jane Austen. Emma, I think it was.
“Never mind, then,” he said, disappointment in his voice. “Well, good luck with your new hire.”
“Thanks, Riley. Talk to you soon.” I backed behind the door and waved as I slowly pushed it to.
With relief oozing from my pores, I bolted the lock and turned around in a rush, bumping noses with Kissie. “What’d you go and tell him that for?” she asked in her indignant tone of voice, the one she’s become famous for—at least in my mind. Her right hand alternated between pointing her finger in the air and resting on her large hip. “He gone find out the truth as soon as you put an ad in the newspaper, hm hm hm, hm hm hm. Lawd knows that man reads every word in it. Even the circulars.” Kissie chants little hms when she’s disgusted at something or someone. She also does a variation of it when she’s happy. This was not one of those.
I sighed loudly. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I reached around and knotted my long, curly (ofttimes frizzy) red hair into a bun, something I do whenever I’m nervous. Or whenever Kissie is about to lecture me. I really and truly thought what I said was just the kindest thing. “But this way I won’t hurt his feelings.”
“That may be, but in the long run, your fib gone get you in trouble. And even if you get out of that tall tale, what you gone say about outfitting your new restaurant with all Pampered Chef products?” Now both hands were back on her hips. “He ain’t gone stop there neither. He’ll want you to use Cutco, Tupperware, and Amway, too. Wait and see if ol’ Kissie ain’t right. He’s over there thinking he’s hit the jackpot. You better nip this in the bud while you still can.” After enduring eight months of maddening encounters with my meddlesome next-door neighbor, my other mother was flat done.
From the very first day I rented the house, Riley had had “his nose in our business,” as Kissie put it. She’d do almost anything to avoid him, including drawing the curtains in the middle of the day to give the impression no one was home. Incidentally, Kissie had been giving me “the look” with her hands on her hips since the day I learned to walk. And she was continuing the tradition with my two little girls. Clearly a person’s age had nothing to do with it. I was just short of thirty-six, but to Kissie, age was irrelevant.
Twenty minutes later when two consecutive doorbell chimes interrupted our morning a second time, Roberta, my little two-year-old mutt my girls and I found at the pound, hurled himself into a barking frenzy. After sticking him in the kitchen so he wouldn’t run off down the street once I opened the door, two more chimes had followed in the space it took me to make it to the foyer. This not only got Roberta going again, but Kissie—who was taking what she called “a breather” to watch Saturday-morning cartoons with my Sarah and Isabella—sprang out of her seat (she’s nearly eighty-four) and beat me to the entrance hall. She knew exactly who was on the other side. “May I help you, Riley?” I heard her say while flinging the door open. Her voice could possibly pass for polite but there was not a bit of a happy-to-see-you lilt in it at all.
“Good morning, Kissie. May I talk to Leelee again?” Riley, on the other hand, was exuberant.
“All right. Leelee,” she hollered behind her, with no enthusiasm, “Riley’s back.”
I strolled up and shyly peered over her shoulder. Panic about my fib had started to take root.
This time Riley wore one of his black sweatshirts with TUPPERWARE ROCKS embroidered in large red letters clear across the front. Until meeting Riley, I had no earthly idea that Tupperware clothing even existed. “Hi again.” He waved at the two of us. “I just had a bwilliant idea.” Riley’s enthusiasm was made obvious by the way he rocked back and forth on his heels. “I was just looking awound my kitchen when the thought popped in my head that the Peach Blossom Inn will have all kinds of food-stowage needs. I could stock your kitchen with any kind of Tuppa’ware pwoduct you could possibly imagine. And Kissie, you could host the pawty!” He reached into his back pocket and handed her a rolled-up Tupperware catalog. “You won’t believe the kinds of wewards you can earn. Why I’ve nearly outfitted my entire house.”
Awkwardness hung heavy in the air. Hosting a Tupperware party would be the last thing eighty-three-and-a-half-year-old Kissie King would ever add to her bucket list. Just as I was pondering another little white lie to relieve us all of this misery, Riley piped up again. “And wait till you learn about the sharp world of Cutc—” The daggers in Kissie’s eyes could have cut that poor thing’s face in half. As for me, I just stood there expressionless, not knowing what to say. Riley backed down the steps and onto the walkway. “Uh, why don’t you take your time and think about it; I’ll get back with you later.”
Kissie put her hand on the back of the door and shoved. “Sure, Riley,” I said before it swung shut.
Even though I didn’t want to, I met Kissie’s glare straight on. I’d seen it a thousand times. Tight, pursed lips with eyebrows arched like upside-down crescent moons and coal black eyes staring right into mine. “Don’t say a word,” I told her. “I knew you were right the minute I heard the second doorbell chime.” As she turned and ambled back to the den to join the girls, a peeved “hm hm hm” was the only sound she made.
Kissie is one of the loveliest people who ever lived. It’s just that Riley crawls all over her. She puts it like this: “Sometimes that man sits on my last raw nerve.” As irritated as he makes her, though, she doesn’t stay that way long. In fact, she spends much more of her time laughing than glaring. If she finds something funny—anything at all—she’ll tee-hee herself into a full-blown laughing attack quicker than anyone I know. Tears will stream from her eyes and pretty soon her entire face looks like she just stepped out of the shower. The sound of her laughter is the most contagious thing you’ve ever heard and it’s virtually impossible not to join right in with her. When she’s finished—with the laughing attack, that is—she’ll end by saying, “oh me,” or, “oooh-wee,” however the mood strikes her.
Without question, she’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, and that’s been since the day I was born. My grandparents shared her with Mama and Daddy the minute I popped into the world. She was considered one of the best cateresses in Memphis when Granddaddy stumbled upon her at a cocktail party. He popped one of Kissie’s cheese dreams in his mouth and knew he had to hire her. She cooked for them for ten years before I was born and all of a sudden she was both a chef and a nanny. Times were different then. Many families had a black lady working in the home. Some had a cook, a maid, and an ironing lady. Not many, but a few. Mama and Daddy had a maid who doubled as an ironing lady and a superb cook. And I had a black mama.
Sometimes I’m surprised she stayed with us. Mama had a tendency to be jealous of my affection for Kissie. As far as I’m concerned, the reason for that is as simple as two plus two. Kissie was the one taking care of me. Running my bath, cleaning my behind, and making sure my tummy was full; kissing my elbows and knees when I fell off my bike and bundling me up in the winter. Kissie worked in our home at least five days a week. Children bond to their caregivers whether they are blood or not, and that’s exactly what happened with me. I fell in love with Kissie King like she was my own mother.
There was never a birthday party where Kissie didn’t do most of the work or a dance recital when Kissie didn’t help me get ready. Of course, Mama helped. I would be remiss if I didn’t give her part of the credit. I know she tried. But something else in her life seemed to always claim the front seat.
*   *   *
My white eyelet dress with Juliet sleeves and an empire waist came from Goldsmith’s, Memphis’s hometown department store. The cutest thing I’d ever seen and just perfect for my first Junior Cotillion dance. Mama took me shopping and I couldn’t wait to get back home to try it on for Kissie. Since I attended an all-girls school and Junior Cotillion was an all-girls organization, I had to invite my own date. All year my eyes had been set on Danny Weaver, a boy from the boys’ school down the street. Sandy blond hair, a spray of freckles across his nose, big blue eyes—I had set my sights high. From the moment I spotted him at my first boy–girl party one year earlier, I pictured us a couple.
Calling him on the phone, God as my witness, took five years off my life. It was a Friday afternoon; I’ll never forget it. I’d never called a boy before and as an eighth-grader with no brothers, I was scared to death to dial the number. His mother answered the phone and with Mary Jule, one of my three best friends, sitting right next to me, I said, “May I please speak to Danny?” That was just before the days of caller ID and I could have hung up right then and there if I wanted to but Mary Jule held my hand and urged me to “just get it over with.” Once he said hello, Danny sat there on the other end of the line, barely saying anything until I finally blurted out the question. After an excruciating pause, he finally said yes but hurried off the phone. It’s a wonder I survived.
The night of the formal, Kissie helped to straighten my hair and made sure my dress was pressed. Of course, Mama took all the pictures once Danny picked me up at the door, and that was an even more uncomfortable moment, since it was seven o’clock by the time he got there and, well, that’s two hours past five. Without fail, no matter what day of the week it was, cocktail hour in our house commenced with the five o’clock whistle.
The evening could scarcely be described as romantic. Once we got to the dance, the girls clustered around the tables while the boys huddled around one another at the far end of the room, no doubt talking about basketball, football, or who knows what else. It could have been my curly-turned-straight red hair, for all I knew; it was and still is the bane of my existence. The parental chaperones urged us to dance but Danny and the rest of the boys just sat there like toads, never uttering a word. Four hours later Danny and I slithered into the backseat of his father’s Lincoln Continental for the long ride home. Thank God fo...

About this edition

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2014
• ISBN 10: 1250020670
• ISBN 13: 9781250020673
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 304