tell me to catch the next plane home.
One more full-time employee was included in the acquisition. Pierre Lebel, now my French maître d’, had spent the break in France visiting relatives. He had returned from his travels a few days before, and spent most of the time since then sleeping off his jet lag.
Pierre lived in the little cottage with turquoise shutters that sat in the middle of the European garden. He lived alone and, as I would later come to find out, played solitaire and worked jigsaw puzzles for pleasure. He had a full head of jet-black hair, which he combed straight back, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. Pierre’s hair was kept short and neat, and his slender frame made him appear younger than his sixty-two years. In the months to come, I always knew when he was mixing his Lady Clairol, because he’d turn out his light and pretend no one was home. Like Roberta, Pierre had been working at the Vermont Haus Inn for nearly twenty years.
When I met him again, early that same evening, Pierre greeted me with enthusiasm. His accent sure was thick. “ Bonjour, madame .” He smiled and gave me a European kiss.
“Hi, Pierre. It’s nice to meet you again.”
“ Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Avez-vous passé un bon voyage? ”
“I beg your pardon,” I said with a smile, “I don’t speak French. Oh wait, let me try this, no poly vous Francais,” I said, shaking my head.
Pierre repeated slowly, “Eh, eh, ple-zeer to see you, ta voyage, est vedy good, oui ?”
I understood this time and proceeded to break into an oration about my day. “Oh yes, thank you for asking, we had a great trip. I’d like to apologize for the mess, Pierre. See, we had a large house full of furniture and I’m really not sure where I’m gonna put it all. Helga is scared to death it won’t be cleared up before we open for the season but I promise you have nothing to worry about.”
Pierre was smiling and nodding his head up and down as if he were in agreement with me.
“Helga tells me you’ve been working here nineteen years. Did you move here directly from France or have you lived somewhere else in America?”
Pierre still kept on smiling and nodding.
“Great! Do you still have family in France?”
More nodding.
“What part?” It was this last round of nodding that clued me in to the fact that he had not understood one word I had said. Just for the heck of it I asked one more question. This time I spoke a little louder and slower, something I inadvertently find myself doing when I speak with Chinese people at a Chinese restaurant. “WERE . . . YOU . . . BORN . . . IN . . . MEXICO, PIERRE? ”
When his head kept nodding this time, I knew I was in trouble.
“Well, it’s been great talking to you. I better get back to my girls.” I backed out of the room waving. “ Adiós .”
Before he met me, Pierre Lebel had never exchanged two words with a Southerner, bless his heart. I would discover that even though Pierre had lived in the States for twenty years, he still spoke French 90 percent of the time. Rolf and Helga were fluent, so they all conversed in French. In the dining room while he was taking orders, Pierre knew the English names of the food items by heart, so translating the menu was no problem.
Daddy always told me I’d regret it one day—taking the easy way out and signing up for Spanish instead of French.
Chapter Seven
After three solid days of unpacking, I couldn’t stand being cooped up inside another second. I longed to get outside and check out my new surroundings. Willingham, my new city, was calling my name. Actually, “town” is the correct word. I would later learn that Northerners believe anywhere with less than one million people is only a town. City hall was town hall and the mayor was referred to as the town clerk.
I had a bona fide reason to meet our town clerk. A woman by the name of Betty Sweeney had called from his office early one
One more full-time employee was included in the acquisition. Pierre Lebel, now my French maître d’, had spent the break in France visiting relatives. He had returned from his travels a few days before, and spent most of the time since then sleeping off his jet lag.
Pierre lived in the little cottage with turquoise shutters that sat in the middle of the European garden. He lived alone and, as I would later come to find out, played solitaire and worked jigsaw puzzles for pleasure. He had a full head of jet-black hair, which he combed straight back, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. Pierre’s hair was kept short and neat, and his slender frame made him appear younger than his sixty-two years. In the months to come, I always knew when he was mixing his Lady Clairol, because he’d turn out his light and pretend no one was home. Like Roberta, Pierre had been working at the Vermont Haus Inn for nearly twenty years.
When I met him again, early that same evening, Pierre greeted me with enthusiasm. His accent sure was thick. “ Bonjour, madame .” He smiled and gave me a European kiss.
“Hi, Pierre. It’s nice to meet you again.”
“ Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Avez-vous passé un bon voyage? ”
“I beg your pardon,” I said with a smile, “I don’t speak French. Oh wait, let me try this, no poly vous Francais,” I said, shaking my head.
Pierre repeated slowly, “Eh, eh, ple-zeer to see you, ta voyage, est vedy good, oui ?”
I understood this time and proceeded to break into an oration about my day. “Oh yes, thank you for asking, we had a great trip. I’d like to apologize for the mess, Pierre. See, we had a large house full of furniture and I’m really not sure where I’m gonna put it all. Helga is scared to death it won’t be cleared up before we open for the season but I promise you have nothing to worry about.”
Pierre was smiling and nodding his head up and down as if he were in agreement with me.
“Helga tells me you’ve been working here nineteen years. Did you move here directly from France or have you lived somewhere else in America?”
Pierre still kept on smiling and nodding.
“Great! Do you still have family in France?”
More nodding.
“What part?” It was this last round of nodding that clued me in to the fact that he had not understood one word I had said. Just for the heck of it I asked one more question. This time I spoke a little louder and slower, something I inadvertently find myself doing when I speak with Chinese people at a Chinese restaurant. “WERE . . . YOU . . . BORN . . . IN . . . MEXICO, PIERRE? ”
When his head kept nodding this time, I knew I was in trouble.
“Well, it’s been great talking to you. I better get back to my girls.” I backed out of the room waving. “ Adiós .”
Before he met me, Pierre Lebel had never exchanged two words with a Southerner, bless his heart. I would discover that even though Pierre had lived in the States for twenty years, he still spoke French 90 percent of the time. Rolf and Helga were fluent, so they all conversed in French. In the dining room while he was taking orders, Pierre knew the English names of the food items by heart, so translating the menu was no problem.
Daddy always told me I’d regret it one day—taking the easy way out and signing up for Spanish instead of French.
Chapter Seven
After three solid days of unpacking, I couldn’t stand being cooped up inside another second. I longed to get outside and check out my new surroundings. Willingham, my new city, was calling my name. Actually, “town” is the correct word. I would later learn that Northerners believe anywhere with less than one million people is only a town. City hall was town hall and the mayor was referred to as the town clerk.
I had a bona fide reason to meet our town clerk. A woman by the name of Betty Sweeney had called from his office early one
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