Love Letters from Ladybug Farm (11 page)

Cici pulled up the carpet to expose the same heart pine floors that were in the living room. Lindsay painted the room pale yellow and Cici built shelves that she painted gloss white. They brought in a pretty Oriental rug and a comfy wing chair that Lindsay and Bridget upholstered in ivory silk with white brocade birds embossed into the pattern. Bridget hung a green birdcage in the corner, and sheers over the windows. An electrician brought in extra outlets and the Internet cable.

They found a nice big desk in unfinished pine at a yard sale, and whitewashed and sealed it to match the rest of the decor. They hung photographs in an attractive wall grouping of the three of them on shared vacations, and on the opposite wall, for a punch of color, Lindsay had framed one of her paintings, of a giant red poppy. Then they proudly brought in and set up their home computer.

Cici had spent most of her life in offices—her real estate office, her home office, other people’s offices—and she wasn’t that wild about having an office at Ladybug Farm. But even she had to admit the room was welcoming and attractive, as well as practical. And the best part was that, since it was sure to be the least used room in the house, the door could remain closed most of the time.

But of course, that was before Lori set up the website, which required constant monitoring, and Bridget’s blog, which Bridget preferred to work on from her laptop, which required a wireless router. Soon all of their bookkeeping was transferred to the computer, as well as their correspondence. An extension telephone line had been brought in, because they couldn’t hear the kitchen phone ring from the office. And now there was the fax.

The machine began to buzz and roll out paper, and Cici clicked Reply on the e-mail she had barely finished reading.
just received the fax; returning it to you ASAP
, she typed.
Hopefully the eighth time will be the charm!

Lindsay stood at the door behind her. “What do you think about this?”

Cici pushed Send and said gloomily “Her husband is a
lawyer.
I’m telling you, we should have thought this through. Why am I doing this, anyway?”

“Eight thousand dollars,” Lindsay reminded her. “Look at this.”

Cici turned. Lindsay stood at the doorway with several lengths of pale printed calico draped over her arm—one pink, one blue on white, one yellow. Spread atop them she had arranged a square of Battenberg lace.

“What is that?” Cici asked.

“Remember all that fabric we found packed away in the attic?”

“Oh, right,” Cici recalled. “You and Bridget were going to make curtains for the guest rooms.”

“Right. But there wasn’t enough of one color. There is, however,” she pronounced triumphantly, “enough to make tablecloths. And look, with a white Battenberg topper to tie it all together ... what do you think?”

Cici said uncertainly, “It’s pretty. But how many tablecloths do we need, anyway?”

“I’m thinking ten.”

Cici’s eyebrows shot up. “Ten!”

“Four at each table, with one large one to accommodate the wedding party, which would of course be decorated differently.”

“Oh. The wedding.” Cici leaned back in her chair. “Of course.” And then her gaze sharpened. “Wait. This started out as heavy hors d’oeuvres only. Then it was a buffet.”

“With escort cards,” Lindsay reminded her.

“So, now it’s official? We’re doing a sit-down dinner?”

Lindsay shrugged. “People have to have some place to sit, even if they’re only eating hors d’oeuvres. Anyway, it’s up to Bridget what kind of dinner they have. I’ve got enough trouble keeping up with what I’m responsible for. So.” She held up her arm with the fabric draping over it, her expression hopeful. “What do you think? Simple, organic,
very
farmhouse. I’m picturing mismatched china bowls filled with Floribunda roses as the centerpiece at each table, Battenberg lace napkins with beaded napkin rings, and carrying out the whole country inn-tearoom theme, mismatched china and antique silver place settings.”

Cici hesitated. “Don’t you think that’s a little ... informal?”

Lindsay’s face fell—first into disappointment, then into resignation. “Well, of course I do.” She sank into the ivory silk chair and balled up the fabric. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t
try
to sell her on dusky rose satin table covers with white gardenia votives floating in crystal bowls at each place setting, or ivory satin and champagne glasses filled with sweetheart roses—I mean, that’s simple, isn’t it? That’s understated. But the girl is obsessed with a theme wedding. ‘Country chic,’ she says. ‘Farm natural,’ she says.”

“Ceramic cows and burlap?” suggested Cici.

Lindsay returned a brief scowl. “Very helpful.”

“So, where are you going to put these ten tables seating four people each—which by the way is only forty people, you know. We’re in it for fifty.”

Lindsay waved that away. “So, ten people sit at the head table with the bride and groom. And I measured—if we use the entire porch, we can get ten tables with four chairs around each one. So.” Now her expression became hopeful again. “A tiny favor?”

Cici let her head fall back against the back of the desk chair. “Just as long as I don’t have to put my initials on anything.”

“Could you build two or three mock-ups—they don’t have to be sturdy enough to hold food, just something that won’t tip over when you touch it—so that I can stage the porch for the weekend?”

The phone rang. Bridget shouted from downstairs, “Got it!”

And in a moment, her voice muffled and her warmth sounding forced, they heard her say, “Oh, hi, Traci.”

Cici sighed, as her gaze wandered to the view from the window. “Remember when all we had to do before lunch was weed the carrot patch and pick strawberries?”

Lindsay’s gaze followed hers briefly wistfully, but did not linger. “It will be worth it,” she said firmly. Then, with a beseeching smile, “So, what do you say? A little scrap lumber, an hour or two?”

Cici looked at the fabric, at the contract that lay waiting in the fax machine tray, and at the view of the pear tree, dappled with spring green and ruffled white blossoms, outside the window. She stood, tucked in the trailing hem of her shirt, and declared, “If it will get me out of this office and away from the wonders of modern technology, I’ll build you a blessed gazebo. I’m going into town for a jigsaw blade and some quarter-inch plywood. Just have the measurements for me when I get back. I guess I might as well order the materials for the dance floor while I’m there. And,” she added, “I’m keeping the receipt for the bride.”

“Plus ten percent labor!” Lindsay called after her, and Cici gave her a grinning thumbs-up as she left.

Bridget sat at the kitchen table, intently studying the yellowing pages of Emily Blackwell’s cookbook. “There’s got to be something in here that’s as elegant as shrimp Newburg but without the shrimp. And more folksy. And more local.”

Ida Mae gave her a withering look as she carried a potted geranium to the sink for water. “I don’t know what you’re looking in that book for if you want wedding food for city folks. You need that French woman.”

Bridget looked up, puzzled.

“You know, that movie star.”

“Julia Child?”

“If that’s the one that’s all the time slopping wine all over everything.”

Bridget sighed. “I don’t know, Ida Mae, you might be right. French cooking with a Shenandoah Valley local Mediterranean country flair might be exactly what they’re looking for.”

The potted geranium dripped a trail of water across the floor as Ida Mae carried it, two handed, from the sink to return it to the plant stand in front of the window. Bridget quickly sprang up to help. “Here let me take that.”

But as Bridget reached for the plant Ida Mae angrily snatched it away. “So, now I’m too feeble to carry a potted geranium, is that it?” she demanded.

“I didn’t say you were feeble, I said ...”

“I know what you said, Miss Priss. There ain’t nothing wrong with my hearing, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” Ida Mae set the pot down on the stand with a thud that splashed more water and dirt onto the floor. “There!” she declared in disgust as she surveyed the mess. “Look what you made me do!”

Bridget and Ida Mae had had their differences almost from the moment they met, as was only to be expected when two strong women ruled over the same kitchen. In time they had come to respect each other and even to work together as an efficient team. It had been a long time since Bridget had lost her temper with Ida Mae. And it had been almost as long since Ida Mae had made such a deliberate attempt to provoke her.

“What
I
made you do? That’s what I was trying to stop you from doing!” Bridget quickly clamped down on further exclamations and turned away so that Ida Mae wouldn’t see the flare of color in her cheeks. She jerked open the cabinet under the sink, looking for towels.

Ida Mae returned from the pantry with a mop in her hand just as Bridget straightened up from the cabinet with a towel. “Ida Mae,” she said gently, “I know something’s bothering you, but I can’t help if you won’t talk about it. None of us can. Don’t you want to—?”

But before she could even finish the sentence, Ida Mae shoved the mop into Bridget’s hands.

“And I’ve got too much to do to clean up your messes,” she told Bridget. “So, you can just do it yourself.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, anger and contempt radiating from her with every step.

Bridget stood there for a moment, mouth agape. And just when she thought of something to shout after Ida Mae, the telephone rang.

It was, of course, Catherine.

A typical day in late spring at Ladybug Farm began with a leisurely breakfast on the porch, watching the mist rise over the meadow and the iridescent hummingbirds run war maneuvers around the bright red feeders that were hung under the eaves. They drank coffee in their pajamas, munched muffins and fresh fruit, and planned their days. Cici usually had some project going around the house—matching a piece of hand-milled molding from the 1920s, patching the crumbling mortar in the stone floor of a patio, building a closet or a set of shelves. By eight o’clock, Ida Mae was usually busy polishing furniture and mopping floors, and Bridget was feeding the chickens, checking on the sheep, or working in the vegetable garden. On the days that Lindsay had students in for art classes, she was in her converted dairy barn studio by nine, preparing canvases and mixing paints. Otherwise she never lacked for occupation with the flower gardens, the trellises, the ponds and patios. As the summer progressed, the orchard, vineyard, and nut-bearing trees all needed attention, and when harvest began an entirely new flurry of activity consumed the household. There were very few moments of downtime at Ladybug Farm.

So far this day had included for Cici twelve phone calls, eight e-mails, four faxes, and a trip to the hardware store. She had finished framing out the dance floor and was waiting for the rest of the materials to be delivered so that she could start placing the floorboards. It was after noon, and she was feeding the chickens because no one else had had time to do it, and she still had the table rounds to make.

Every surface in the kitchen was filled with sample dishes, pots were steaming on the burners, and Bridget was madly whisking, slicing, and basting. Ida Mae was sulking about something and taking out her pique on the windows, which she was polishing to a dangerous sheen. Lindsay hadn’t left the sewing machine all day, and Noah, it seemed, hadn’t been heard from all week. Cici didn’t blame him for staying out of the way. What worried her was that in only a matter of days, this kind of chaos had become the new normal.

When the telephone tucked into her back pocket rang yet again, she was tempted not to answer it. When she heard her daughter’s voice, she almost sank with relief.

“Lori, please, please,
please
say you’re coming home this weekend.” Cici propped the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear and lifted the gallon bucket of water with one hand while she unlatched the gate to the chicken yard with the other. Chickens squawked and scattered as she entered, and she did an effective little dance to shoo them away from the gate with one foot while trying not to step in chicken waste with the other. “Remember that great idea you had to turn this place into a wedding venue? And how hard you worked to make sure the people at
Virginian at Home
knew about ‘catering and special events’?”