Love Letters from Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  “No, for the salad. Ida Mae!” Bridget’s voice was alarmed as she snatched a bottle out of Ida Mae’s hand just before she sprinkled the contents over the peaches. “What are you doing? That’s red pepper!”

  Ida Mae grabbed the bottle from her and slammed it down on the counter, her color flaring. “You don’t like the way I cook, you can just do it yourself!”

  She jerked off her apron, flung it on the counter, and stomped out of the kitchen.

  The three women shared a cautious, questioning look.

  “Definitely crankier than usual,” Lindsay said after a moment, her voice subdued.

  Cici cast a quick glance over her shoulder before agreeing, “Definitely.”

  Bridget picked up the pepper bottle, read the label, and returned it to the cabinet, her expression carefully neutral. “Guess I’d better get busy on that piecrust,” she said.

  Every evening at twilight since they had moved into the house, they gathered on the front porch to say farewell to the day. A glass of wine, a sweater against the chill of a spring evening, a rocking chair for each of them ... and peace. For three seasons of the year, the routine never varied. In the summer, they watched the hummingbirds dart back and forth between the red feeders. In the fall, the cardinals and the blue jays scolded each other from the ancient boxwoods that flanked the porch. In the spring, barn swallows soared against the pale lavender sky.

  The mountains grew black, and the low-hanging sun etched distant evergreens in brilliant gold. They settled into the taste and texture of the coming night and let go of the challenges of the day. It was as though, in that quiet hour, they reconnected with the place that had won their hearts, with their reasons for coming here, and with each other.

  Bridget said, sighing a little, “What a difference a year makes, huh?”

  “I don’t know.” Cici sipped her wine, her voice lazy and content. “This time of day, it seems that nothing has changed for thousands of years. Or ever will.”

  “Which is why I love this time of day” Lindsay put in with a sigh. She lifted her glass to Cici. “To things that never change.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” agreed Bridget. She tried, not very successfully, to hide her grin of pleasure in her glass as she added, “One hundred two comments on the blog. I guess that means I’ll actually have to start posting to it more often than once a month now.”

  “Good heavens, what are they saying?”

  “Nice things. How much they loved the article, and how beautiful our place looks, and how they wish they could live like this...”

  Cici choked on a laugh.

  “And,” insisted Bridget a little defensively, “twelve requests for information on gift baskets!”

  “Say that’s great!” Lindsay lifted her glass to her.

  And Cici added, impressed, “You go, girl. At thirty-six dollars a pop, that’s not exactly chicken feed, you know. ”

  Bridget frowned a little, disconcerted. “Actually it is. Just about enough to keep the chickens in that organic feed they like through the summer.”

  “Ah, well. Easy come, easy go.”

  They were quiet for a while, listening to the distant muffled clucking of the chickens as they settled into their roosts in the coop behind the house, a single ferocious volley of barking from the border collie, Rebel, the soft baaing of the sheep in the meadow as they, too, settled down for the night. The sky was streaked with bruised red clouds and slashes of gold.

  As they watched, a long-legged deer picked his way across the lawn, nibbling at grasses and budding flowers, accompanied by the soft clanging of the miniature cowbell that hung around his neck. Bambi had followed Lindsay home from a walk as a fawn, been adopted as a pet by Noah—who, as a country boy, should have known better—and made Ladybug Farm his home. They had tried building pens and fences for him to keep him safe from eager hunters, but as he reached maturity he simply leapt over them. It was Noah who had come up with the idea of the cowbell, to alert hunters to the fact that the deer was not ordinary prey. Now they fenced their flowers and their crops, and the deer roamed free.

  Lindsay asked, “Are we really going to do this wedding thing?”

  “I think it could be fun,” Bridget said.

  “You think everything is fun.”

  Cici was more thoughtful. “It’s a lot of money. I don’t see how we can turn it down.”

  “I know.” Lindsay’s enthusiasm, if it existed at all, was muted. “I just don’t know how I feel about all those Washington society types roaming around all over the place.”

  Bridget stifled a laugh. “Some of those ‘Washington society types’ are our best friends! Not to mention my own son.”

  “You know what I mean.” Lindsay was unmoved. “And just because Kevin works in DC doesn’t make him one of them. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Good to know. You used to date one or two of those Washington society types, if I recall,” Bridget reminded her.

  “Which is why I can speak with authority on how smarmy they can be.”

  “Smarmy,” Bridget repeated thoughtfully. “There’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.”

  Cici lowered her voice a fraction so as not to be overheard from the rooms inside. “You know Noah’s scholarship is only for one year. And tuition at John Adams is not exactly cheap.”

  “Not to mention college,” Lindsay added unhappily. She sipped her wine. “Believe me, I haven’t overlooked that. Whoever thought I’d be worrying about college tuition at my age?”

  Bridget said, “We promised his mother we’d take care of him.”

  Lindsay said firmly, “I’d make sure Noah went to college with or without that promise. He has too much potential to waste.”

  Cici said, “And if you didn’t, Bridget and I would.”

  Bridget added simply, “He’s one of the family now.” And Lindsay smiled gratefully at both of them.

  Cici asked Lindsay, “Have you heard from her since Christmas?”

  There was no need to specify to whom she was referring. Noah’s mother, Mandy Cormier, had come into their lives only last year, but hardly a day passed that they did not think of her. She had given up her son when he was only a toddler, believing him to be safe in the care of his grandmother. But the grandmother died unexpectedly, and Noah had never known his mother was alive. By the time Mandy found her son again, he was well on his way to becoming a full-time member of the Ladybug Farm household, and Mandy herself was suffering from a terminal illness. She had granted Lindsay legal guardianship of Noah on the condition that she, Mandy, be allowed to tell Noah about her illness herself. Unfortunately, she had also insisted that Noah be allowed to choose when—or whether—he wanted to be in contact with her, and so far Noah’s choice had been silence.

  Lindsay shook her head. “I sent her some photographs of Noah, and his first semester report card from John Adams.” She hesitated. “I thought Noah might want to send her a card, after I gave him her mailing address. But I guess not.”

  “It’s easier for him this way, I think,” Bridget said softly. “He’s had so much to adjust to the last couple of years. He’ll deal with it when he’s ready.”

  The two women glanced at her briefly, but no one had to state the obvious. By the time Noah was ready, it could very likely be too late.

  The cowbell clanged softly. Squirrels chittered. Rebel, a black and white shadow in the deepening twilight, slithered across the lawn toward his bed in the barn.

  Lindsay said, “We can apply for another scholarship. He’ll probably get it.”

  “Probably” agreed Cici. “But a traditional scholarship only pays for tuition. There are still books and lab fees and uniforms and, well, what am I telling you for? He was lucky to win the money this year that covers everything.”

  “And there’s still college.”

  “Right,” said Cici.

  “So, I guess we have to give the smarmy Washington society types a chance.”

  “Right.”

  �
�They might not even want us to do their wedding,” Lindsay suggested.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bridget, rocking contentedly. “Why wouldn’t they? This place is perfect. We’re perfect. And I’m going to blow them away with my food.”

  Cici said, “Well, then, I guess we’ve got the job.”

  Lindsay sighed. “Are we ever going to be able to retire?”

  Cici rolled a glance her way. “Um, no.”

  Bridget said, very quietly, “We should talk about Ida Mae.”

  No one answered for a while. When Lindsay spoke, it was with her gaze fixed with solemn absorption on the deep purple pits of shadow that crept across the lawn. “She’s really old, Bridget.”

  Cici said, “Maybe she’s just going through a downswing. You know, like people do. It could be nothing.”

  “It could be something,” Bridget countered, reluctantly.

  “Old people have it tough,” Lindsay said. “Their knees start to go, their hearing, they get arthritis and atherosclerosis, and with all that bothering them, it’s no wonder they get confused now and then. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Maybe,” Bridget agreed, after a time. She did not sound convinced. “But what if it does mean something? She doesn’t have any relatives. We’re the ones responsible for her, have you thought about that? I mean, in case, you know, decisions have to be made.”

  “Why don’t we just wait awhile before we leap to conclusions,” Cici suggested.

  Lindsay frowned into her wine. “We sure are responsible for a lot, aren’t we?”

  “Comes with the girl suit,” Cici said. “Has there ever been a time in your life when you weren’t responsible for a lot?”

  From somewhere deep within the house, the telephone rang. But none of the women moved to get up.

  “Noah will take a message.”

  “Or the answering machine will pick up.”

  Upstairs, a window slid open. “It’s Lori,” Noah called down.

  “Tell her I’ll call her back,” Cici returned, tilting her head so her voice would carry.

  The window closed.

  Bridget said, leaning back in her chair, “Being a celebrity is exhausting.”

  Lindsay agreed, “Who knew?”

  Cici considered that for a moment. “Good thing we’re up to the task.”

  The three women allowed themselves a reflective moment, which slowly turned into a shared grin. They raised their glasses.

  “Here’s to us.”

  June 3, 2001

  My darling—

  There was a little blue bird in a bush outside my window today, and I thought of you. I had lunch in the park and watched some children trying to launch a toy boat in the pond, and I thought of you. I watched two young lovers holding hands on the street, and I thought about you.

  I think about you all the time, and I love you. That’s all I wanted to say. That I love you.

  4

  Dreams Coming True

  Catherine North-Dere and her daughter Traci arrived with Paul at quarter to one.

  Traci was a tall, model-thin girl with shoulder-length feathery blond hair and salon-tan legs that were displayed to perfection in khaki walking shorts and three-inch wedge sandals. An immaculately fitted rolled-cuff white shirt and a wool navy blazer casually tossed over her shoulders, along with a gold cuff bracelet, dangle earrings, and a messenger bag—Coach, naturally—completed her “afternoon in the country” look.

  Yet it wasn’t until she removed her designer sunglasses that Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay actually ventured a guess as to which was the daughter, and which was the mother.

  Catherine’s blond hair was a shade darker and a bit thicker than her daughter’s. It was also more immaculately styled, curving perfectly toward the face at the shoulders to reveal realistic-looking honey-colored low lights. She wore custom-fitted boyfriend jeans, cuffed to display slim ankles and leopard-print heels, with a sand colored, form-fitting T-shirt and a black silk jacket with ruffled lapels. The diamond on her finger was three carats, minimum; her watch Piaget.

  “Now that,” murmured Lindsay in unabashed appreciation, “is some kick-ass Botox.”

  Cici shrugged, her arms folded. “I could look like that if I wanted to.”

  Lindsay stifled a guffaw. “You and what army?”

  Cici elbowed her hard in the ribs, glaring.

  “I’ll bet she spends more on her hairstylist every month than I spent on my first car,” Bridget observed, a little awed.

  “This is what I’m saying,” Cici replied. “All it takes is money.”

  “And a personal trainer,” added Lindsay.

  “And the ability to live on about three hundred calories a day” observed Bridget, and Cici scowled at her.

  “But,” added Bridget, “those shoes are to die for.”

  On that all three of them agreed.

  The three women had been up since the rooster—the one Cici threatened to place in the stew pot at least once a day—let forth his first screeching crow, and they hadn’t stopped moving since daybreak: sweeping the porch, polishing the windows, vacuuming, dusting, knocking cobwebs from under the stairs and out of the corners. Lindsay skimmed debris from the reflecting pool and swept the outdoor patios. Cici rubbed down the mahogany banister with lemon oil and built a cheery fire in the living room, which could hold a chill even this late in the season. Bridget made sure that Rebel, once he had finished arranging the sheep that made such a picturesque tableau in the distant meadow to his satisfaction, was securely locked in the barn.

  They set the wicker table on the wraparound porch with an Irish linen tablecloth embroidered with pale pink roses, and used Bridget’s Haviland china and Cici’s sterling, and the antique napkins with hand-tatted edges that Lindsay had brought back from Germany. The centerpiece was a crystal vase of ruffled pink apple blossoms.

  “So, we have a few less apples this fall,” Bridget had said with a shrug as she arranged the stems. “The tree needed pruning anyway.”

  Ida Mae had grumbled about making such a fuss over a couple of no-account city folks they didn’t even know, anyhow, and Lindsay countered tartly, “My mother always said that strangers are the only people worth making a fuss over, since you’re not going to change anyone else’s opinion of you. Besides, you’re the one who always irons the dish towels when company is coming.”

  Now, as the elder Ms. North-Dere also removed her sunglasses and swept a slow, assessing gaze over everything within her view, the ladies found themselves wishing they had not only ironed the dish towels, but gotten manicures and maybe pedicures as well. Cici tried to look nonchalant as she ran a hand through her own honey-blond hair, Lindsay absently patted the pockets of her jeans for a lipstick, and Bridget looked down in dismay at her canvas print overalls and scuffed white sneakers.

  “We should have dressed up,” Bridget whispered.

  Cici frowned uncomfortably. “It’s not high tea with the queen you know. We’re doing them a favor.”

  Paul lifted his hand to them as he got out of the driver’s seat, and they waved back. He came around the car and offered an arm to each of the blondes. Paul, with his perfectly styled chestnut hair and blue eyes, always looked as though he had just stepped out of a high-priced magazine ad yet never looked out of place. He possessed the kind of effortless charm that few could resist, and these two were no exception. They wrapped their hands around his arms, laughing as he spoke to them, and he escorted them up the wide front steps onto the porch.

  “Darlings,” he said with a flourish, “may I present to you the legendary Cici Burke, Lindsay Wright, and Bridget Tyndale.”

  The ladies smiled and bobbed their heads in turn.

  “Ladies, my pleasure to introduce Catherine North-Dere, mother of the bride, and her delightful daughter Traci.”

  “Cici, Bridget, dearest Lindsay...” Catherine swept forward and caught them each into an embrace as tepid as pool water, all boney shoulders and musky perfume.
“I feel I know you already! You are so good to have us out, really. Paul has told us so much about you.”

  Her voice was smoky and warm and her smile seemed genuine, and the ladies relaxed a little. Cici said, “It’s our pleasure, really. We love to show off our house.”

  “Well, I can certainly see why.” With a breath of pure pleasure, she surveyed the view—the tranquil sheep in the emerald meadow, blue-shadowed mountains beyond, frothy apple trees in bloom, daffodil-lined paths, pink weigela and deep blush azaleas swaying in the breeze. “This is just magnificent. Isn’t it, darling?”

  “Heaven,” replied Traci absently, snapping photographs with her cell phone. “Where’s the chapel?”

  Catherine’s hand closed about her daughter’s arm, tightly. Her smile was frozen. “No chapel, sweetie. This is a private home, remember?”

  Traci stopped taking pictures. “Oh. Right.”

  Catherine smiled apologetically. “This has been such a nightmare. We must have seen two dozen places in the past week, and the stress ... well, you just can’t imagine.”

  Bridget said quickly, “You’ve had a long drive. You’ll want to freshen up. Let me show you inside.”

  Paul held his smile until the two blondes had followed Bridget inside, and then he came forward to kiss Cici, then Lindsay. “If this works out,” he said, “you are going to owe me so big.”

  “Or maybe,” Cici replied dryly, casting an uneasy eye toward the house, “you’ll owe us.”

  Catherine was effusive about the staircase, the chandelier, the stained glass over the landing, the bay window in the living room. Traci whipped out her cell phone for pictures of the garden, the stone patio with the view of the mountains, the bubbling fountain, and the statue of the girl with the flower basket. She wanted to know what color the roses were and when they bloomed. Other than that, she didn’t speak.

  Bridget served minted asparagus soup with a smoked bacon and rosemary-infused olive oil garnish, and glowed beneath Catherine’s praise. “Darling, you can’t mean you have no formal training! This is indescribable. I’m telling you the truth, if you were to open a restaurant in Washington, you couldn’t keep the crowds away. Paul, am I right?”