A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (35 page)

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Lindsay said, sounding a little hurt, “We’re not children, Cici. We knew what we were doing.”

And Bridget added, “I’m the one who got you both into this. If anyone’s to blame—”

“Oh, Bridge, no one’s to blame.” Cici ran a hand through her hair with her free hand, and now her expression was simply wretched. “The thing is, since I’ve had some time on my hands the last couple of days, I ran some figures, and it’s not a pretty sight. I made copies for you both.”

She drew another breath, winced, and touched her broken ribs, and added, “Anyway, we’ve got a few weeks before we have to make a decision. I think we should make each other a promise. Let’s use that time to think about what we, individually, really want, and not talk about it with each other. And, speaking for myself, whatever you decide won’t make me love you any less, and I mean that. You’ll always be my best friends, so don’t even let that come into the picture.”

“Oh, Cici, same for me.”

“You didn’t even have to say that.”

“Then can we promise?” Cici insisted. “No talking about it, just thinking about it, until January first?”

Lindsay looked at Bridget. Bridget looked at Lindsay. They both looked at Cici, and promised.

But the moment of tenderness was shattered almost before it had begun by the sound of Rebel racing across the yard and barking at the top of his lungs, followed almost immediately by a cavalcade of tires crunching on the gravel drive.

“What in the world?” They all turned to peer out the remaining bank of windows that faced the east side of the house. Two ladder trucks, equipment clattering, pulled up in front of the barn, followed by two pickup trucks with silver toolboxes in back, and a mud-spattered SUV. Doors opened and slammed, men in beards and hunting caps, flannel-lined jumpsuits, and leather work boots piled out of the vehicles and began to congregate in their yard, peering up at the barn roof, wandering around toward the sunroom. Cici recognized Jake Junior and Jake Senior, Jonesie, Sam and Deke, a deacon from the Baptist church, and two of the men who liked to hang around the lumber yard office, chewing tobacco and spitting into a coffee can. And, of course, Farley.

She whispered, “Oh, my goodness” and hurried out to greet them.

 

 

“Morning, Miss Cici,” said Jake Senior, and nodded politely to Lindsay and Bridget, who had followed Cici out with puzzled, rather alarmed looks on their faces.

He turned and shouted, “Junior, Nathan, why don’t ya’ll get started cuttin’ up them limbs for firewood?” They waved a confirmation, and took a chain saw out of the back of one of the pickups. Deke and Sam started unhooking a ladder from one of the trucks.

He turned back to them. “Sorry it took us so long to get out here, but we was waiting for the snow to ease up. Hear you got yourself a little bit of a mess.”

Cici looked from one to the other of the men, feeling almost as lost as Bridget and Lindsay. “Well . . . yes, I guess you could say that.”

“Brought a sheet of tin to patch up your barn roof, fix her up good as new. Hear you lost a few windows. Why don’t you show me what you got?”

Too stunned to argue, Cici led him through the house to the sunroom. Along the way they picked up Ida Mae, who said, “I’ll put on a pot of coffee. You tell your boys to stop by the kitchen when they want some.”

“Farley nailed up some boards to keep out the weather,” Cici explained as they reached the wrecked sunroom. “I really don’t know what more we can do until I’m able to get out and try to find some windows. Although where we’re going to match hundred-year-old windows, I don’t know.”

Ida Mae said, “Why don’t you use the ones that are in the attic?”

Cici stopped dead and turned to stare at her.

“Used to be,” Ida Mae explained, “there was windows in the ceiling here, too. I remember Mr. B used to grow oranges and lemons here. Then the last time the tree fell on it—”

Cici said, incredulous, “The
last
time?”

“They decided to put a real roof in,” Ida Mae went on as though she hadn’t been interrupted, “and put what windows was left up in the attic.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” Jake already had his tape measure out, pulling measurements from top to bottom and side to side. “Fifteen, twenty years ago, weren’t it?” He peered up at the ceiling, tested the sturdiness of a stud half exposed in the wall. “Don’t look like any structural damage was done, but ’pears there might be a little rot up there in the rafters. I’ll check it out. We got plenty of four-bys and three-quarter-inch ply out in the truck and a roll of roofing fabric. You want me to go up and look at them windows? If there’s enough, it won’t take us but a couple of hours to get ’em in, as much help as we got.”

“I—thank you, yes, that would be great but . . .” Cici hardly knew what to say. “This is awfully nice of you, but, well, the thing is, I really don’t think we can afford to have all these repairs done now, and the plywood will hold through the winter . . .”

He was already shaking his head, shuffling his feet, looking embarrassed. “Don’t you worry about it, Miss Cici. I’ll just put the materials on your bill, and you pay when you can. The labor, well, that’s just being neighborly.”

And then she really didn’t know what to say. And because she was afraid that if she tried she would start to cry, she just said, “Um, I’ll show you the way to the attic.”

 

 

“It was just like a movie,” Bridget said wonderingly.

“From the 1950s,” agreed Lindsay.

The work crew had stayed until dusk, and in that time had repaired the barn roof with weathertight seals, patched the sunroom roof with new decking and asphalt fabric, and replaced and caulked all of the broken windows. All that remained to be done was the cosmetic work.

“I never thought—” Cici stopped, and shook her head as though to clear it. “I never expected anything like this.”

The supper dishes were done, Ida Mae had gone to bed, and the three women sat on the sofa in front of the living room fireplace, their feet, dressed in wool socks and fleece-lined slippers, propped up on the coffee table in front of them. They shared a fringed throw for warmth, and, in deference to Cici’s pain medication, they sipped hot chocolate instead of wine.

“Ask and you shall receive,” said Bridget, raising her cup in a toast.

“More or less,” qualified Lindsay.

“Well, look how much money we saved on replacing the windows,” Bridget pointed out. “They were stored up in the attic all this time.”

“Yeah, but now we’re going to have to replace the entire roof on the sunroom,” Cici said, “and maybe the kitchen.” When the men had pulled up the broken part of the decking to replace it, they had discovered water damage beneath the shingles, with at least one rotten rafter. The patch they had put in place would hold until spring, but no longer. “And if we restore it with glass the way Ida Mae said it used to be, we’re looking at a major expense.”

“There’s no getting around it,” Lindsay said with a sigh. “This place is a money pit. We just lucked out this time.”

Cici looked from one to the other of them, her expression somber. “I think there’s a reason why most balance sheets don’t include a line for ‘luck.’ ” She swung her feet to the floor, careful not to jostle her ribs, and picked up a small sheaf of papers from the coffee table. “I’m sorry,” she said, and handed a paper to each of them. “But you guys needs to know. I was going to show you this this afternoon, but then we got distracted. The top figure is what we have left in the household account. The bottom one is how much we owe right now. Below that is what it costs to maintain this house for a year. And below that is a breakdown—realistic, this time—of what it’s going to cost to continue the restoration.”

All were silent for a time, studying the sheet. Finally Bridget cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, and nothing more.

Lindsay looked up, her expression grim. “We can’t afford this place,” she said simply.

Bridget had the stunned look of someone who had just walked into a plate glass window. “Cici, I know you’ve been really depressed lately . . .”

Lindsay said, “Depression didn’t make up these numbers, Bridge. I just . . . I don’t think I realized it was this bad.”

Cici said, “I sold real estate for thirty years. I’ve seen this happen over and over again. Clients make an emotional decision about a house with absolutely no idea about what it will really cost, and before you know it they’re drowning in debt. I of all people should have known better. I am just . . . so damn sorry.” There was such a ferocity to her tone that Lindsay immediately turned and hugged her, and Bridget reached across to squeeze her knee.

“For the last time, this is not your fault,” Bridget said firmly. “We’ll figure this out.”

Cici pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, but could not prevent a tear from trickling from the corner of her eye. Lindsay wiped it away with her little finger.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Really.”

Cici sniffed, and tried to compose her expression. Bridget handed her a tissue. “I hate being such a bummer,” she said. “Especially after everything turned out so well with the sunroom and all.”

“Cici, you should be proud of the relationship you’ve built with those people,” Lindsay said. “All this time, Bridget and I never knew. But you’ve really made quite a reputation for yourself.”

Cici almost managed a smile. “Well,” she said. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“We should do something nice for them,” Bridget said. “Bake them cakes or something.”

“Well, it is that time of year.”

“ ’Tis the season.”

“If you can believe it.”

They picked up their mugs again and were silent for a moment, letting the gloom and the tension of the past drain away, losing themselves in the taste of chocolate and the popping and crackling of the fire. Then Cici said, unexpectedly, “Can you remember what we were doing this time last year?”

Lindsay stifled a chuckle. “What we were doing this time every year. Making ourselves crazy getting ready for the Christmas party. Decorating, baking, shopping, building, nailing, stapling, measuring, cutting . . .”

“Not to mention,” added Bridget, “packing up thirty years’ worth of living into boxes to get ready for the move.”

“It doesn’t seem like a year,” Lindsay said thoughtfully. “A lot has changed. We’ve changed.”

Bridget looked at her. “Do you really think so?”

Lindsay gave her a tolerant smile. “Do you really think that a year ago, you could have raised a flock of sheep or put up a hundred and thirty-seven jars of preserves all in one summer?”

“And do you really think you could have been Mama to a deer?” Bridget returned with a grin.

Cici said, “I know I’ve changed. I used to think being rich meant having a new Lexus in the garage every year. Now it means having a shed full of firewood in the winter.”

They all smiled agreement at that.

Then Cici said softly, “I miss it, you know. The Christmas parties, the neighbors, the gossip. The way old Mr. Millicker used to get drunk and break down in tears halfway through “Auld Lang Syne” and the way Carol Evans would always take off her panty hose in the middle of the party and hide them at the bottom of the bathroom trash can. Why did she do that, anyway? Did she think we wouldn’t find them?”

“I miss Bridget’s canapes,” Lindsay said wistfully. “Remember that year you made fried green tomatoes with shrimp remoulade? And it was fun, you know, coming up with a different theme every year, planning all the food and the decorations to match . . .”

“Remember the year we did Pacific Rim?” Cici said. “Now
that
was a challenge.”

Lindsay shuddered. “Those hideous illuminated palm tree yard ornaments.”

“Oh my God.” Bridget sat up slowly, placing her cup carefully on the coffee table, and turned to face them. Her eyes were big with the promise of a dawning idea. “We have to do it,” she said. “That’s exactly what we have to do!”

Lindsay blinked. “What?”

And Cici said, “Pacific Rim? Are you kidding? I didn’t like it the first time.”

“No, no, no, no.” Bridget was practically bouncing up and down with excitement now. “A party! We have to have a Christmas party! It will be our thank-you to the neighbors for helping today, and all the people who’ve worked on the house—it’ll be like a, what do you call it? When your house is finished and you give a party for all the craftsmen who helped build it?”

“But our house isn’t finished,” Cici protested, confused.

“Our house will never be finished,” added Lindsay.

“And—listen to this! We’ll invite all our friends from the old neighborhood for a house party! Isn’t that what we bought a house with all these bedrooms for? Isn’t that what we promised we’d do when we moved here?”

“All these bedrooms don’t have beds,” Lindsay pointed out uncertainly.

“But we have a loft full of furniture! Can you think of a better time to get it down and dust it off ?”

“Bridget, it’s three weeks before Christmas.” Cici’s tone was reluctant, though she was clearly trying not to dampen Bridget’s enthusiasm. “Who’s going to drag all that furniture out of the loft and up the stairs? I have a broken arm. I can’t even make a bed, much less put one together. Besides, by this time most people already have plans . . .”

“Cici Burke, you know perfectly well that no one worth knowing has ever missed one of our parties!” Bridget retorted. “We’ll get Farley to help with the furniture. And so the timetable is a little short. It’s not like we have anything else to do!”

“Actually,” Lindsay said, and a slow, speculative light began to spark in her eyes as she looked around, “can’t you just see that staircase draped in live garland? And those windows?”

“With burgundy velvet ribbon,” Cici suggested.