Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter by Lisa Patton Page B

the final word on what’s tacky, but trust me, it was real tacky. If any of my friends had seen the décor at that point, I’m afraid they would have told me to light a match and start over.
    Baker told me that we were going to have to turn one of the guest rooms upstairs into a storage room due to all our extra furniture. And that was fine with me. There was no way I was getting rid of one thing that I had brought with me. (I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the boxes, either. Once I had them unpacked, I stacked each one up, one inside the other, in a corner of the attic. The moving company charged me big bucks for those boxes. Besides, I just might need them , I thought.)
    First order of business—get rid of the junk. Helga and Rolf were clutter keepers. Dozens of half-burned freestanding red (and only red) candles and hundreds of old paperback books were stacked up in the corners. The bookshelves were crammed full of garage sale knickknacks and cheap souvenirs, like the kind you find in airports with the name of the city imprinted on a shot glass or an ashtray. Helga must have thought she was doing me a favor by leaving her ceramic hippopotamus collection on the mantel, but that would have to go.
    Each time I opened a new box, I found real joy in deciding where to place my stuff. My beautiful collection of Herend china looked perfect on the parlor bookshelves. My own crystal and silver made the rooms comealive and I felt like the place looked more and more like home. I was having so much fun, I didn’t even notice the time flying by. It was getting close to lunchtime.
    I never saw anyone come into the house, so when the cellar door in the red-checked dining room swung open mysteriously, it scared the daylights out of me. When I screamed, it made the man scream. Both of us had to sit down at one of the dining tables to stop the adrenaline from rushing.
    “Oh my gosh, you scared me to death. I didn’t know anyone was down there,” I said, holding my hand to my heart.
    “Well, I was scared myself,” the man said, and nervously twirled the end of his huge handlebar mustache. “I spend quite a bit of time down cellar. The name’s Jeb Duggar. I’m the o fficial handyman here. I also wash dishes at night.”
    “For a minute there I thought you were a burglar.”
    “I’m no burglar, I’m your neighbor. I live right acrosst the street.” He pointed behind him and began whistling along with the Beatles in the background.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Jeb. I’m Leelee, Baker’s wife.” I extended my hand to shake his.
    He stopped whistling for only a moment to ask, “You’re not thinking of changing the name, are you?” Then went right back to his habit, which quite honestly was a little annoying.
    “Pardon me?”
    “The name of the inn. You’re not thinking of changing it, are yous?”
    “My husband doesn’t want to change anything for a year. Why do you ask?”
    “I would have to redo my advertising.”
    I couldn’t help the confused look that spread across my face. “What advertising?”
    “JCW’s advertising. I took out an ad in the Yellow Pages. Them folks charged me two hundred dollars, but Mom told me it was worth it as long as they said it was right acrosst the street from the Vermont Haus Inn.” He hit the table with his fist and nodded with confidence.
    I’m sure he could tell I was confused but he kept on jabbering. “How doyou like my new sign? I just finished painting it yesterday.” He puffed out his chest and combed his beard with his fingers; two of the many gestures I would learn were characteristically Jeb Duggar.
    “I can’t say I’ve seen it.”
    “If you look out the window in the front dining room, you can’t miss it.”
    “Oh! Well, I’ll go take a look.” I stood up from the table, and thought about the girls back home. They would have killed to be sharing in this moment.
    “I only work here on the side,” Jeb said, while escorting me over to the window.