A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (19 page)

“Name me one thing,” Lindsay insisted, “one single thing that men did right.”

“Okay,” Cici said, “I’m game. They tamed the Wild West. Without men—big, ugly, lice-infested, gun-totin’, rotten-toothed, foulmouthed, bigoted, brawling men complete with all their greed, gold mining, railroad technology, and STDs, Hollywood would not be the multibillion-dollar industry it is today and the world would be deprived of such cultural masterpieces as
Dumb and Dumber
.”

“I was going to say something about disenfranchising an entire native population and destroying an ancient culture,” replied Lindsay, “but I think I rest my case.”

“And I think you need to cut back on the Benadryl,” Cici said. “This is serious.”

“I refuse to think like a man.”

“Then think like a smart woman.” Cici drew in a breath. “Look,” she said. “None of us can afford to put out this kind of cash. But we all could afford another forty or fifty dollars a month. I say we go into town Monday and talk to the bank about a loan.”

“Oh.” Bridget was visibly relieved. “That’s a great idea.”

“I’ll say,” agreed Lindsay. “But I don’t think it’s something a man would have thought of.”

“It will have to be three personal loans,” cautioned Cici. “According to the terms of our joint venture agreement, none of us can borrow against our equity in the house. But I think we could get a pretty good rate, especially if we went for a short-term loan.”

“Well,” sighed Lindsay, “I’m glad that’s settled.”

They sat and rocked and listened to the rain for a time longer, then Bridget said, “They do it for us.”

When Cici and Lindsay returned only questioning looks, she continued, “The pioneer men blazed trails west so they could farm more land and raise healthy children. They carried guns to keep women safe, and they cut down forests to build shelters so that their families could stay warm. And before they go into battle, they drink a toast to the women they left behind. They do it for us.”

Lindsay looked at her solemnly for a moment. “Well,” she decided, “I guess that’s okay then.”

“Besides,” Cici added, “they stopped the lawn mower.”

“But not before it destroyed the garden,” Bridget pointed out.

Lindsay pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to take a cool bath.”

“Don’t forget the baking soda.”

“I hate being a farmer,” Lindsay said.

Bridget smiled and sat back to watch the birds. “Actually, I think I’m starting to like it.”

Cici, sipping her wine, said nothing at all.

They wore their church suits to the bank on Monday morning. The loan officer wore jeans and a gray T-shirt with the bank logo on one pocket and Blue Valley Community Bank stenciled in green on the back. She was a frizzy-haired young woman of about thirty-five whose desk plate introduced her as Sonya Maxwell. She actually remembered them all from church—they were easy to recognize in their suits—and greeted them warmly. The ladies returned the greeting and the small talk and tried to remember whether she was a Baptist or a Methodist.

“So,” said Sonya. Settling back with her hands folded across her stomach and smiling benignly, she seemed ready for a long chat. “How’re ya’ll liking it out there in that big old house all by yourselves?”

They agreed that they loved it, couldn’t imagine a setting more beautiful, were getting used to country life, and then Cici added, “But it is quite a handful. Which is why—”

“What you need,” decided Sonya, looking them up and down, “are some men. You’re all just as cute as you can be. It shouldn’t be too hard to find you some fellas.”

Bridget smiled gratefully and said, “Thanks, but we already have some.”

Sonya immediately looked interested, and Lindsay corrected quickly, “What Bridget means is that we’re really not in the market for—”

“What Lindsay means,” Cici corrected firmly, “is that we’re much too busy with the house to have time for dating. Which brings me to the reason we’re here.”

“Well, when you do have time,” Sonya replied magnanimously, “you just let me know. I know everybody in town, and I’m not going to steer you to anybody who can’t take care of you, you can be sure of that. After all, they all have to get their mortgages through me, don’t they?” She winked. “And we girls have got to stick together. So tell me, what did you all do back in Baltimore?”

There followed a fifteen-minute coffee klatch type conversation about their former careers, children, retirements, and exes; Bridget’s widowhood; their decision to share a house; their accidental discovery of Blackwell Farm and their immediate passion for it. Sonya, in turn, shared her memories of the house from her childhood, cranky old Mr. Blackwell and rumors of its ghost. Cici gave up trying to work the reason for their visit into the conversation, and just sat back and enjoyed it.

“Have you found the folly?” she wanted to know.

The ladies looked from one to another. “The what?”

“Well, it’s probably all fallen down by now. But there used to be a little house out in a glade in the middle of the woods, just like a little fairy castle. I saw a picture of it one time. It used to be painted green with white gingerbread scrollwork but by the time I was a kid playing around there all the paint had peeled off and the windows and doors were missing. My mother told me that’s what they called them in England—silly little buildings with no practical purpose. Follies. I guess that’s where the Blackwells got the idea. They used to travel in Europe a lot, especially when the vineyard was in operation. Now.” She leaned forward and tapped a few keys on her computer. “How much do you need?”

For a moment all three of them simply returned a blank look, having become so relaxed in the conversation that they had almost forgotten why they’d come. Then Cici quickly assumed her business demeanor, and explained their situation and their need. Sonya listened while she typed, and when Cici had finished she said, studying the figures on her screen, “I can give you a much better rate on a home equity loan, or even a fixed rate mortgage. Are you sure . . .”

“We don’t want to borrow against the house,” Cici said firmly.

“We have an agreement,” added Lindsay.

“A legal thing,” said Bridget apologetically.

Sonya pursed her lips, typed a few more characters, and said, “Okay then, I can give you seven and a quarter variable on a personal loan, but you understand that that rate is only good for six months. You’ll have to renegotiate at the beginning of the year.”

They exchanged a look and a nod. “Sounds fair,” Cici said.

“Good enough,” agreed Lindsay.

“Sure,” said Bridget.

More tapping on the keyboard, and Sonya glanced up. “I see you’ve got an account here called ‘Household.’ Do you want the funds transferred directly into that?”

They nodded. “That would be good.”

One more keystroke, and she sat back in her chair, smiling. “Okay then, you’re all set. It will probably take until Thursday morning, since we’re closed on Wednesdays.”

Cici said, “But—you mean that’s it?”

Lindsay added, “Don’t you want an application form or something?”

“What for? I have everything I need to know.”

Bridget said, “But . . . shouldn’t we sign something?”

Sonya stood up and offered her hand. “Ya’ll invite me over when you get the house fixed up, okay? I’d love to see the inside of that old place.”

They each shook her hand enthusiastically, promised to do so, and left the bank with muted expressions of wonder.

“Now
that’s
the way to do business!” exclaimed Lindsay when they were in the car.

“I had three accounts with the same bank in Baltimore for twenty-seven years,” Bridget confided, “and I can assure you, they wouldn’t even give me my own ATM password without filling out six different forms in triplicate! Much less a loan.”

“All of that stuff about where we were from and what we used to do and how long we’d been married and how much we’d already put into fixing up the house,” Cici said, shaking her head in amazement as she started the engine, “that was the loan application!”

“Life in a small town,” Bridget said with a single, amazed shake of her head.

“Sign me up,” said Lindsay, and they all grinned in agreement.

 

 

It rained. It rained and it rained. The lawn mower stood idle in the shed and the grass grew higher and higher. Weeds invaded the flower gardens and even the roses hung their soggy heads. Puddles the size of small ponds formed in the backyard, and rivulets of mud ran from the newly excavated drain field.

Every morning Bridget pulled on rain gear and sloshed out to the meadow to check on the sheep, while the sheepdog—currently called Flower for the skunk in
Bambi
, whom he was growing to resemble more each day—barked and growled and darted at her legs, occasionally leaving teeth marks in her rain boots. Nonetheless, Bridget would return each morning to cook up a new recipe for chicken livers—which the dog promptly and predictably rejected. When she discovered that the sheep actually spent most of their day under a clean, dry shed at the edge of the property she relaxed a little, and started to call her morning trudge through the rain “walking the dog.”

Sam finished installing the ceiling fans, repairing the ceiling, and engineering his cooling system; he went home to await the delivery of the exhaust fans he had ordered from California. Farley finished installing the new circuit box and replacing the outlets throughout the house. Now that the rain had brought cooler temperatures, Cici tackled the sunroom, prying open the painted-shut windows, scraping and sanding the walls, cutting new molding, and beginning the painstaking process of restoring the tiles. Lindsay devoted herself to her bedroom project, and the only clue the other women had as to her final design choice were the various flecks of paint that accumulated on her clothing and under her fingernails.

On the afternoon that the rain finally faded to gurgles and drips from the gutters and the sky lightened to a silver blue, Lindsay carried out a final load of trash—which included stained plastic dropcloths, empty paint cans, and buckets coated with dried white plaster—dusted off her hands, and declared, “Tah-dah!”

Bridget looked up from sweeping muddy paw prints off the front porch. “You can’t mean you’ve finished!”

And Cici, her hair tucked under a baseball cap to protect it from paint flakes, pulled down her respirator mask as she came around the corner from the sunroom. “Is this the grand opening?”

Lindsay grinned as she led the way upstairs to her room. She paused outside the closed door for dramatic effect, and then opened it with a flourish.

She had applied a smooth coat of plaster directly over the wallpaper, glazed it with four different shades of soft, dusky green, and then polished the whole to a subtle satin sheen. Directly atop the plastered walls she had used a sculpting compound to form leaves, ferns, and delicate botanicals in bas relief, and painted them various tones of the same muted greens she had used on the walls. The effect was of a misty garden, with leaves and grasses growing directly out of the walls.

“Oh, Lindsay,” Bridget said softly. Her eyes were wide as she gazed around the room. “Will you do this in my room?”

Lindsay grinned, making no effort to hide her own pleasure in the result. “It turned out okay, if I do say so myself.”

Cici lightly touched one of the sculptures, and glanced at Lindsay. “Joint compound?”

She nodded. “You can do anything with it. Let it dry and seal it, and you can’t tell it from plaster.”

“You have got to e-mail a picture of this to Paul and Derrick,” Bridget said. “Wouldn’t they just die?”

“Love to,” replied Lindsay, “if we ever get Internet service.”

“Amazing,” said Cici, admiring a delicately etched fern. “Absolutely amazing. I guess this only goes to prove that not all art is on a canvas.”

Lindsay’s eyes softened thoughtfully as she absorbed this. “No,” she said, “I guess it’s not. Thanks, Cici.”

“The only problem is,” Bridget said, “now all the other bedrooms look shabby. I guess we’d better start plastering over wallpaper in the other rooms, huh?”

Lindsay laughed. “Thanks, but I believe I’ll pass on that if you don’t mind. If I never see another putty knife or a glazing sponge it’ll be too soon. Besides,” she added casually—almost too casually—“I think it’s about time I got started on the art studio, don’t you?”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Bridget said. “I was beginning to think you’d given up on that plan.”

“And after we went to all the trouble to move you to the country so you could have a dairy barn for a studio,” added Cici with a grin. “Do you need help?”

“I’ll let you know,” Lindsay said. “Right now I just thought I would clean it out so I could store my supplies in there. Later we’ll talk about putting up some shelves, but it won’t need much more than that.”

“I think you can heat it with electric baseboard heaters,” Cici said. “The walls are so thick they should serve as natural insulation, and . . . what’s that?”

They all heard it at once: the grinding sound of a lawn tractor roaring to life, and very close. They got to the window in time to see their own lawn mower puttering around the corner—with a complete stranger riding it.

By the time they raced down the front steps a straight, careful path had been cut in the tall grass from the back shed to the poplar tree. The dog was crouched outside his customary haunt under the porch, barking wildly and pawing the ground. Riding astride the mower was a young man with greasy brown hair that fell to his neck, an equally greasy and stained white T-shirt, and frayed jeans. He didn’t look up when they came out; he just kept going in a slow, straight line, working the clutch when the mower threatened to bog down in the wet grass.