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Yankee Doodle Dixie: A Novel (Dixie Series), by Lisa Patton
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A charmingly funny testament to second chances in life and love from the acclaimed author of Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter
Lisa Patton won the hearts of readers last year, her book Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter became a sleeper-success. Building on a smashing debut, Lisa's poised to go to the next level--because whether in Vermont snow or in Memphis heat, Dixie heroine Leelee Satterfield is never too far from misadventure, calamity...and ultimately, love.
Having watched her life turn into a nor'easter, 34-year-old Leelee Satterfield is back home in the South, ready to pick back up where she left off. But that's a task easier said then done…Leelee's a single mom, still dreaming of the Vermonter who stole her heart, and accompanied by her three best friends who pepper her with advice, nudging and peach daiquiris, Leelee opens another restaurant and learns she has to prove herself yet again. Filled with heart and humor, women's fiction fans will delight in this novel.
- Sales Rank: #906559 in Books
- Published on: 2011-09-13
- Released on: 2011-09-13
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.54" h x 1.15" w x 6.49" l, 1.15 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 304 pages
Review
''Southern to the core . . . funny to the bone. In Lisa Patton's new novel she proves that we can go home again, and in many cases we should.'' --Fannie Flagg, New York Times bestselling author of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café
''Yankee Doodle Dixie oozes Southern charm. From the delightfully witty dialogue and captivating characters, Ms. Patton's writing shines in this story about home, friendship, and second chances. Leelee Satterfield is a winning combination of smarts and steel magnolia fortitude, making her a heroine you can root for as she fights her way out of disaster to find true happiness. Reading this book is like sipping a peach daiquiri on your best friend's porch. So pull up a chair and stay a while.'' --Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
''Not a beat missed when we head below the Mason-Dixon Line and pick up with Southern belle Leelee Satterfield on her ofttimes riotous but always touching quest for home, friendship, and love. In this charming sequel to Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter, Lisa Patton's voice leaves us laughing, crying, and definitely wanting more!'' --Susan Gregg Gilmore, bestselling author of Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen
''Filled with Southern charm and eccentric characters, this eagerly awaited sequel is sure to please fans of the author's first novel as well as fans of women's fiction writers like Adriana Trigiani and Fannie Flagg.'' --Library Journal
''Fast and funny, with enough backstory to keep new readers from getting lost . . . A good bet for fans of Beth Hoffman's Saving CeeCee Honeycutt and Beth Pattillo's 'Sweetgum' series.'' --Booklist
About the Author
LISA PATTON is a Memphis, Tennessee native who spent three years as a Vermont innkeeper until three sub-zero winters drove her back down South. A former promotion director for both radio and TV in Memphis, Lisa also worked as a manager of the Historic Orpheum Theatre. She has over 20 years' experience working in the music and entertainment business, including several years with five-time Grammy Award winner, Michael McDonald. A graduate of the University of Alabama, Lisa guides walking tours of Historic Downtown Franklin, her hometown in Tennessee. Currently at work on her third novel, Lisa is the proud mother of two sons and a little Havanese puppy dog named Rosie. To learn more about her, you can visit Lisa's Web site.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
YANKEE DOODLE DIXIE (Chapter One)
It doesn’t take a wizard to figure out the last thing a girl should do is go running hundreds of miles away from home to Vermont just because a man asks her to do so. It also doesn’t take a pretty girl with pigtails and a pooch named Toto to tell you that there is absolutely, positively, no place like home.
Just thinking about wizards and terriers makes me wish I were Dorothy—sleepily opening my eyes to Auntie Em placing a cold rag on my forehead. In my case it would be Kissie sitting at my bedside with a jumbo cold compress. “Wake up, baby,” she’d say. “You’ve just had a bad bad dream.”
It was a dream all right, it just wasn’t mine.
Fourteen months and a mound of heartache later, my compass is pointing south again, and my speedometer is creeping toward eighty. Despite having three unlikely Vermont comrades helping me to find the road back, an old German wicked witch named Helga hindered that road, making it rockier than the Appalachian Trail not twenty miles from the front door of my Vermont inn. Not only did she swindle me out of both my business and my marriage, she despised my own terrier—a small, helpless Yorkie by the name of Princess Grace Kelly. Gracie couldn’t stand Helga, either; probably one of the reasons her little heart finally pooped out. Even though she’s forever buried up in the freezing cold North, I’ve got the cross from her grave sitting right here on the passenger’s seat next to me on our way back home.
I can see home in the distance. The parallelogram of Tennessee on the welcome sign slowly emerges the closer I get. The February sun is setting to the right of it and as I roll over the state line my heart rate seems to slow down. A calm washes over me like a warm shot of Grand Marnier, sliding down my throat and coating my insides. It’s been over a year since I’ve been home and I wouldn’t doubt it if I’ve given myself early high blood pressure.
We’ve been driving for three days—my two little girls and me—1,473 miles due south. Sarah and Isabella are in the backseat and I steal another peek at them in my rearview mirror. Their little heads are resting against the sides of their car seats, the monotony of the boundless pavement finally lulling them to sleep. For the first time all day it’s quiet.
Since leaving Vermont, in one heck of a nor’easter I might add, I’ve paid equal attention to the traffic and my heartstrings. It is a wonder we haven’t rear-ended anyone, and an even bigger one that my sultry grin isn’t yet a permanent fixture on my face. Between New York and Pennsylvania all I’ve thought about is the man who stole my heart—and who, only hours ago, sealed our months of longing with a not-so-chaste kiss in George Clark’s gas station parking lot. Peter Owen saved my restaurant and my pride when my husband left me for a blond bombshell with a face and bosoms only money could—and did—buy. Helga is the one responsible for their meeting, just one of the many “wicked witch” maneuvers she employed as part of her nasty scheme to repossess our inn.
The rest stops between Pennsylvania and Virginia were punctuation marks in my romantic recollecting. A stream of consciousness brewed in my mind: when Peter and I danced to Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic,” the first time I tasted his white chocolate mousse, and the moment in the kitchen after my inn’s grand opening when we both knew the sparks flying weren’t just from the faulty stove.
And now, in Tennessee, some seventy-two hours have passed but I’m reduced to schoolgirl antics, playing our sole kiss over and over in my mind. I’ve run that kiss through my head, every minute detail, a thousand times already. How he tasted, how his lips felt against mine, the way his tongue moved slowly around my mouth, and how my heart swirled and danced under his touch. I suppose I’ll have to live on that memory until the first time he comes to town. Memphis in May, perhaps? That’s the perfect time of year. He’ll arrive for the Beale Street Music Festival and stay for the whole month. After all, May means Mud Season back in Vermont. And Mud Season, or “The Thaw” as the Vermonters call it, means there won’t be any work for him there. Heck, the whole state practically shuts down during that time.
Springtime in Memphis, however, is glorious. We’ll go to the Memphis in May Barbecue Festival and the Sunset Symphony together. We’ll watch the ducks walk the red carpet at the Peabody Hotel and we’ll hang out with Virginia and John, Mary Jule and Al, Alice and Richard, and we’ll … the girls will die when I show up unannounced. I cannot wait to see the look on Virginia Murphey’s face when I pull up in her driveway in oh, about eight more hours. I figure it’ll probably be that late by the time my daughters and I go to a drive-through for dinner and take at least three more tee-tee breaks. She and John will be sound asleep but I’ll call her cell and she’ll answer anyway. It won’t be the first time I’ve dialed her at one in the morning.
Of course Alice, the bossiest of the three, will wonder why in the world I didn’t come to her house. Mary Jule might be disappointed, too, but she would never question any decision I make. It’s hard having to choose between three best friends. The only reason I’m driving to Virginia’s house is because, well, honestly, she knows me the best. You can’t room with someone all four years of college, and every summer in between, and not know everything there is to know about each other. Virginia knows that I wax my bikini line, and I know about the few little hairs that grow around her nipples and how she sometimes lets them grow too long and forgets to shave them. Modesty goes out the window when you’re living with someone you’ve known since the age of five.
Alice and Mary Jule know plenty of my secrets, too, but there’s just something about Virginia that soothes me. She’s got a calming effect on my soul. Perhaps that’s because she’s never one time judged me about anything, or maybe it’s just as plain and simple as the fact that we’ve never been interested in the same man. Our types are completely opposite. She likes more of a girl’s guy and I’ve always been attracted to the guy’s guy. John is perfectly happy to shop with her all day long. He’s also the type to wear a Lily tie or lime-green shorts. I prefer the rugged look. I’ll take a man who wears a Henley shirt over an argyle sweater, any day of the week.
Virgy—that’s what I call her—and I just flat-out love one another. To this day, we’ve never been in a single fight. Actually, that’s not quite true. The closest Virginia has come to scolding me in our twenty-nine-year friendship was when I let my husband talk me into moving to Vermont in the first place. And now, truth be told, she had every right.
I got the idea from Mama. She had always told me that being a good wife meant following your husband. She claimed she didn’t really want to move to Memphis, either, away from Greenwood, Mississippi, but she did it because it’s what Daddy wanted her to do. “It would have been one thing,” she used to say, “to move to Jackson. Several of my best friends from Ole Miss lived there.” Kissie told me that she had once overheard a phone conversation between Mama and one of her friends. Said my grandfather told Daddy that he’d teach him to be a great farmer if he’d just dig his heels into the Mississippi Delta and not move to Memphis. He told Daddy that all the cotton land stretched out as far as the eye could see could be his, if he’d just lay his roots down in Mississippi and leave Mama right where she belonged, in her own hometown. Like me, Mama was an only child.
But Daddy’s roots couldn’t be planted in the middle of a cotton field. Daddy told him, “Mr. Grov’a, I appreciate the off’a, but I don’t need your cotton fields. I’ve got a cotton family business waiting on me two hours naw’th of here and I won’t have to get dirt under my finga’nails. I’ll buy your cotton and won’t ever have to break a sweat.” Daddy wasn’t the farmer type. He’d rather work out of his old warehouse on Front Street, or Cotton Row as they call it, right in the middle of all the buying and selling.
I was raised in a stand-by-your-man household, and I also happened to fall head-over-heels in love with a football quarterback I first saw in the tenth grade. Even though my red-and-blue cheerleading skirt barely covered my backside, Baker Satterfield never looked my way, all because my chest was flat. That all changed, though, the summer before my senior year. When I ran out onto the football field that fall, pom-poms raised high above my head, my bosoms had blossomed into a natural size D, almost overnight. That man took notice of me then, and after swapping class rings, numerous road trips from Ole Miss to UT, horrendous long-distance telephone bills, and a proposal that would make even Scarlett O’Hara swoon, we finally tied the knot a couple of years after we both graduated from college. We had, at least at first, what I would call a wonderful marriage: two beautiful daughters, a gorgeous home in Memphis, lifelong friends, great sex, and a social life that involved peach daiquiris and other succulent activities. So when my true love told me of his lifelong desire to open an inn in Vermont—well, I had to follow my man.
Turns out my man followed something of his own and left our barely opened B&B, our girls, and our dog, not to mention our dream life, in my (then) manicured hands. Leaving my beloved Memph...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Four Stars
By CHARLES G. MYERS
Just what I needed at the time. Lots of laughs
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
worth it
By Patty Harrer
The first book was a slow start, but when it sizzled it did not stop. This book sizzled from the start. I cannot wait to read the next book, but I'm already sad that is is the last one.
13 of 13 people found the following review helpful.
Yankee Doodle Dixie is Another Winner by Patton
By Tina Says
Lisa Patton's debut novel Whistin' Dixie in a Nor'easter was a book I absolutely enjoyed when I read it. Leelee Satterfield has just moved to Vermont to help fulfill her husband Baker's lifelong dream of running an inn. While Leelee doesn't want to leave Memphis she does her best to find something positive in her new life, even when Baker takes up with an aging ski instructor leaving Leelee high and dry to run the inn by herself. The weather in Vermont is less than ideal as well and Leelee is first snowed in and then must experience mud season. Although there are many things in Vermont that are not going Leelee's way and her friends are encouraging her to move back home, her chef Peter is someone she might not mind being more than friends with.
Yankee Doodle Dixie picks up right where Patton's first book left off. Even though it has been months since I read Whistlin Dixie and I do remember a lot of it, Patton does a great job refreshing this story again and even readers who didn't read her first book could pick up this second installment.
While I still love Leelee, I also loved the cast of quirky characters that Patton created to surround Leelee with. Her new job at the radio station provides interesting co-workers, an aging rock star who gets Leelee's heart beating again, and a narcissistic boss. Her new neighbor in the house Leelee is renting is a Pampered Chef consultant. And a Tupperware consultant. And an Amway consultant. And he cannot pronounce his r's leading to rather entertaining conversations.
Leelee's exploits made me laugh, but I most of all wished for her to find some happiness with Peter who she left in Vermont. Although the two talk on the phone, there is 1,473 miles between them and long distance relationships aren't known to work. I loved Leelee's girlfriends who are introduced in Whistlin' Dixie. Now that Leelee is back in Memphis the three friends are in on the daily events in their friend's life and the girls are good for a few laughs.
Although Patton tied this one up neatly, I am holding out for a third installment. I enjoy the different predicaments Leelee finds herself in, and am sure with the opening of the new restaurant she is running there are numerous story possibilities. Perhaps Patton can find another great Dixie title (Way Down South in Dixie? or Look Away Dixie Land?) to continue Leelee's story. Once I started Yankee Doodle Dixie it was hard to put down, and I'll be recommending this one to many friends.
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