A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (38 page)

“Ditto,” said Lindsay softly, and touched Cici’s cold cheek with her gloved hand. She looked at Bridget. “Honey, don’t you see? This is not about the house. It’s about who we’ve become because of the house. And I can’t go back to the person I was before, even if I wanted to.”

“We’re a family,” Cici repeated firmly, “and in a family none of us does without the necessities of life—like health insurance—when the others can help her out.” Bridget looked surprised, and then embarrassed, and Cici went on quickly, “Look, I know we said we weren’t going to talk about this until the first of the year, but . . .” She drew a quick, short breath and looked from one to the other of them. “I for one have seen my life flash before my eyes twice in the past month and I think I’m entitled to break the rule. Especially when I made it up.”

She unzipped her coat, reached into an inside pocket, and drew out an envelope. “I was going to wrap this up for Christmas,” she said, “and put it on the tree. But I think I’d rather have you look at it now. It’s for both of you.”

She handed the envelope to Bridget first. Bridget took off her glove, used it to blot her tears, and opened the envelope. Lindsay moved close, holding the flashlight and peering over her shoulder as Bridget pulled out the piece of paper inside. “Oh my God,” she said softly.

It was a check, made out to the Ladybug Farm Household Account, for an amount slightly more than equal to what remained on their loan.

Bridget looked up at her. “But how did you . . . ?”

Cici gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “I asked Richard for a loan. I figured he owed me, anyway.”

Lindsay said, staring at her. “But you said you would never do that.”

“This was more important than what I said, or what I thought,” Cici answered simply.

“I can’t believe he just gave this to you,” Bridget said, big-eyed, “after that fight you had over Lori.”

Cici averted her eyes with a brief, slightly uncomfortable-looking shrug. “Well, he didn’t exactly just give it to me.”

Lindsay touched her arm. “You told him he could have Lori for Christmas.”

“Oh, Cici.” Bridget’s voice was deep with the understanding of her friend’s pain.

Cici gave a quick shake of her head. “Lori didn’t want to come home, and I’ve known all along I couldn’t make her. I just released Richard from his promise, that’s all. He got to feel superior, and I got the money. I know it doesn’t solve all our problems,” she added, her tone growing a little anxious as she looked from one to the other of them, “but I figured it would buy us some time, give us a chance to make things better . . . if the two of you would consider staying, that is.”

For the longest time, neither of them spoke. The wind rattled the barn door and the sheepdog looked up from his nap irritably. An icy draft whipped down the back of Cici’s neck. And then, with slow, deliberate movements, Bridget tucked the check back into its envelope and returned it, silently, to Cici. Cici felt the ice settle in the pit of her stomach.

Then Bridget said softly, “And I thought I was the crazy one.” She unzipped her coat pocket and brought out a flat gold box. “I did wrap mine,” she said.

Cici lifted the lid, and Lindsay’s flashlight beam fell upon the contents. They both stared, dumbfounded, at the cashier’s check made out to the Ladybug Farm Household Account that was nestled against the cotton batting. “But . . . I don’t understand.” Cici raised her eyes slowly to Bridget. “Where did you get this?”

Bridget smiled, and that was when Cici noticed she was absently rubbing her ring finger on the hand from which she had removed her glove . . . and that her emerald ring was no longer there. “I decided there’s no point in having memories of the past if they keep you from building a future. Jim would have been the first person to say so. I didn’t know how I was going to convince you two to stay,” she said earnestly. “But all you asked us to do, Cici, was decide what
we
wanted, by ourselves. Well, this is what I want, right here with you two in this great big old falling-down house. I don’t have to go any further to find my dream.”

Suddenly Lindsay laughed, and hugged Bridget fiercely, then Cici. She sat back on her heels, her expression rueful, and announced, “I cashed in my 401(k). Well, what was I saving it for, anyway? Another day in the nursing home when I’m ninety-two? I was going to surprise you on New Year’s Day, like we agreed, but . . . Merry Christmas!”

Then they were all laughing, hugging each other, clinging together, and resting in the moment. When they recovered their strength, they faced the storm again, and, leaning on each other, crossed the last few yards toward home.

Across the Eastern Seaboard, people awoke on Christmas morning to cold dark homes, automobiles buried in snowdrifts, loved ones camping out in airports and bus stations, and a frantic crew of television doomsayers anxious to bombard their viewers with every miserable detail. On Ladybug Farm, the two-foot blanket of snow that enfolded every dip and valley, that shimmered from the mountaintops and hung like heavy icing off the roofs of the outbuildings, was a portrait of serenity.

Inside the house, the wood furnace and the gas heaters poured out warmth, while the crackling flames in the fireplace filled the house with a cozy Christmas glow. Cici used their joint venture contract to start the first fire of the morning, declaring, “From now on, we run this place like a home, not a business proposition.”

They enjoyed the Christmas breakfast they had intended to share with their early-arriving guests: a festive breakfast casserole with sausage and cheese, sticky buns, even the grapefruit halves with coconut and maraschino cherry Santa faces that Bridget had prepared for the grandchildren. For while city dwellers in totally electric homes struggled to make coffee on barbecue grills that morning, the gas ovens of Ladybug Farm were working just fine.

They had small gifts for each other, although the biggest gifts had been given the night before. They opened them while watching Rebel the sheepdog through the window as he bounded and sank across the snowdrifts, stopping every other minute to scratch and shake his head, furiously trying to wriggle out of the new red leather collar Bridget had bought him for Christmas. “He really hates that thing,” Lindsay observed, to which Bridget replied complacently, “He’ll get used to it. After all, we got used to him.”

Lindsay’s gift to Bridget was, in fact, a hand-painted portrait of the border collie, which made her cry, not so much for the subject matter but for the signature at the bottom. For Cici, Bridget had a set of antique woodworking tools, which left her speechless, and for Bridget Cici had spent her spare hours of the autumn putting together a birdhouse from the twigs and bark of the beloved poplar tree. For Lindsay, a nineteeth-century edition of Audubon’s
Sketches of America
, which Cici had found at the bottom of a stack of old textbooks on a back shelf of Family Hardware. And, as Ida Mae came in to clear away the coffee cups and the wrapping paper, Bridget reached under the tree and brought out a bulky package.

“We didn’t quite know what to get you,” she explained, offering up the package. “I hope you like it.”

Ida Mae grunted, “What’s this?” and wiped her hands on her apron. She took the present hesitantly, and unwrapped it as though she suspected it of being booby-trapped.

“We know how much you enjoy the gramophone,” Lindsay explained as Ida Mae pulled out the stack of old records, some of them still in their yellowing jackets. “And Jonesie finally found these in the back of the store.”

“We thought you could have the gramophone in your room, if you like,” added Cici.

“Well, now, ain’t that nice?” None of them could be sure, but they thought, as the old woman thumbed through the records, they saw the hint of a smile.

But it was gone as she declared gruffly, “Didn’t have a bit of trouble figuring out what to get you bunch of lushes.” She made her way back to the big tree, bent rather stiffly, and pulled from behind it a clumsily wrapped bottle. They laughed in delight as they peeled back the paper.

“Blackwood Farms Shiraz, ’67!” exclaimed Lindsay.

While Cici said, “Ida Mae, how thoughtful! You didn’t have to do that.”

And Bridget added, “I thought this was for your fruitcakes!”

“It’s my last bottle,” she told them, and looked as though she already regretted the gift. “Don’t drink it all at once.”

“We’ll treasure it,” they assured her, and she shuffled back to the kitchen, muttering about all the work she had to do.

But perhaps the best gift of the morning was Bridget’s phone call from her daughter Kate, who was safe and sound in her apartment in Chicago, enjoying Christmas with her girls and, it turned out, their dad. “I was going to tell you when I saw you,” she said, sounding a little shy. “But, well . . . Dave and I are going to try to make the marriage work. No.” Her voice was firmer. “We are going to make it work. It’s best for the girls . . . and for me. For us.”

“Well.” Bridget hardly knew what to say. “That’s—why, that’s wonderful news, Katie.”

“I think I’m a little more grown-up, now,” she said. “I know what’s important.”

Bridget smiled. “I’m so glad, Katie.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “And wouldn’t we both have felt foolish now if I had moved in with you last year like you wanted me to?”

“Actually,” Kate admitted, and Bridget knew how hard it was for her to do, “turning me down was probably the biggest favor you could have done me.”

“Kids,” Bridget concluded gleefully to the other two as she reported the story. “Sometimes if you just leave them alone they’ll do the right thing in spite of themselves.”

But there was the hint of a shadow in Cici’s eyes as she congratulated Bridget. Although they had received dozens of phone calls from friends who still had phone service, apologizing for the road conditions and the necessity of missing the party and wishing them a Merry Christmas anyway, Cici’s own daughter’s good wishes were not among them.

Despite the frozen whitescape as far as the eye could see and the continual influx of regrets, Ida Mae continued to put tarts and casseroles in the oven and sauces on the burners, infusing the house with the heady aroma of cranberries, bourbon, cloves, onion, sausage, and sage. “Really, Ida Mae,” Bridget insisted, “there’s no need for all this. The party is canceled. You should take the day off.”

To which Ida Mae replied simply, “It’s Christmas, ain’t it? You gotta eat.” And she just kept cooking.

“You know,” Cici decided, and there was only a hint of wistfulness in her voice as she looked around at the gaily decorated house, “I’m sorry not to see all our friends, but the good thing about this Christmas party—even if it didn’t actually happen—is that we finally got our house put together. Just look at this place! It’s gorgeous. What we’ve been trying to do for almost a year we were able to finish in less than a month, thanks to this party. I say, good for us!”

Lindsay said, “That calls for a toast. Shall we open the wine now?”

Bridget pointed out dryly, “Even if it is the Party That Never Was, we’ve still got a lot of cleaning up to do. Work first, drink later.”

And then, shortly before noon, as they were putting away the last of the dishes they had stacked on the buffet table and were starting to pack away the wineglasses, they heard a peculiar chugging sound in the distance. Rebel started to bark. The sound grew closer, and they went to the window to see Farley’s beat-up blue tractor making its way down their driveway, the twin plow blades attached to its front pushing mountains of snow to either side of it. When the tractor curved around to their back door and stopped, the women rushed to pull Farley inside.

“Farley, what in the world are you doing out on a day like this?”

“How did you even get here?”

“Isn’t the highway closed?”

He stamped his feet free of snow on the mat, took off his camo hat, and spat politely into his soda bottle before replying, “You’re having a party, ain’t you? Thought you’d need your driveway cleared.” And he added, “No charge, being it’s Christmas.”

Ida Mae just gave them a smug look and went to take another casserole out of the oven.

And sure enough, before the hour was out there were other sounds along the road: ATVs roaring and SUVs churning and tractors belching black exhaust and a wagon filled with hay and cheering passengers drawn by two sturdy plow horses. They came wrapped in blankets and capes and red and green knitted scarves, bearing homemade cookies and cakes and gaily wrapped gifts and boisterous good wishes. “Lord, honey,” declared Maggie broadly, sweeping off her coat and her snow boots, “it’s gonna take more than a little blizzard to keep country folk away from a party!”

The ladies rushed to put on their shoes and reset the buffet and pour drinks and pass the serving trays, and in what seemed like less than an instant the gentle serenity of a snow-blanketed Christmas morning was transformed by laughter and chatter, by clinking silverware and sparkling candlelight, into a full-blown celebration. They came, and they kept coming, bringing with them gusts of icy air and roars of welcome, scattered snowflakes that melted on the heart pine floors, and small gifts: a framed black-and-white photo of their house from the 1920s, with the casual explanation, “Don’t know how I ended up with it, but thought you might like to have it.” A newspaper clipping about Judge Blackwell, a dance card with the name “Emily Blackwell” featured on it—“Honey, the stories my grandma told me about the parties they used to have in this house . . .” And other things, simple things—scented candles and bundles of fire starter, homemade preserves and woven pot holders—signs of respect, signs of welcome, gifts of love.

The leather tool belt they gave Farley made his eyes mist over, and Bridget’s, too. Sam brought his pregnant wife to admire the job he had done with their heating and cooling system, and Sonya the banker came with her husband and three big-eyed children, whom she kept warning not to touch anything as she wandered through the house munching cheese straws and admiring every nook and cranny. Plates were filled with ham and turkey and sweet potatoes and cheese biscuits and zucchini tarts and sausage dressing. Ida Mae discovered a Christmas album among her vintage records, and—without stereo speakers, without electricity—the strains of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” and “What Child Is This” were added to the happy cacophony.