Love Letters from Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  “Exactly!” Cici pounced. “There was a man involved then, too, if you recall—a certain professor twice her age? I’m almost certain she’s developed a thing for some boy over there and that’s what this whole sudden passion for Italy is about. As far as the internship—it’s an internship she hasn’t even gotten yet, and even if she does get it... Come on, Richard! A twenty-one-year-old girl in an Italian castle for three months? What kind of education do you really think she’s going to get? So just stop making it easy for her, okay?”

  There was a beat, just a beat, of silence. Then Richard said, in a voice heavy with disgust, “Will you just stop trying to control everyone for once, Ci? Can you do that, do you think? Let your daughter be a kid, let the university decide its curriculum, and let me get back to work. Can you just do that, Ci? Huh? Okay? Thank you.”

  And before Cici could draw her next breath, she was listening to a dial tone.

  She slammed the telephone down into its cradle on the wall, and it made a satisfying clack in the empty stone kitchen. But not quite satisfying enough. She lifted the receiver again, and slammed it down again. And again. And again.

  She did not quite get the receiver out of the cradle for the fifth slam when the telephone rang again.

  It was Catherine, and given the last telephone conversation she had had, Cici was almost glad to talk to her.

  “So, that’s how my day went,” Cici said glumly, stretching out her legs and slumping low in the rocking chair. “Another crappy day in paradise.”

  “Whatever you do,” said Lindsay, “don’t let her go to Italy. Italian men think that seducing a woman is just an elaborate way to pay her a compliment. And they love to pay compliments—to pretty much every woman they see.”

  “Peanut soup! What’s more Virginian than peanut soup!” Bridget sat in her own rocking chair with one foot tucked beneath her, an open cookbook and legal pad on her lap, a glass of white wine balanced precariously on the arm of the chair as she scribbled notes on the pad. She did not notice the odd looks Cici and Lindsay gave her. She didn’t, in fact, even glance up from the cookbook.

  Cici said to Lindsay, “It sounds as though you speak from experience.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Everyone knows about Italian men. Although...” And she smiled, secretly, as she lifted her glass to her lips. “An argument definitely could be made that a girl hasn’t really lived until she’s been loved by an Italian man.”

  “Terrific,” Cici said. “Fine. I don’t even want to know. And Lori can go to Italy after she graduates. I just don’t think I can stand another interruption in her education. At this rate, she’s going to be thirty before she gets her bachelor’s degree.”

  “Thirty,” replied Lindsay thoughtfully, “is a long time to wait for an Italian man.”

  Cici regarded her sourly for a moment, then spoke to Bridget. “How are you going to serve peanut soup at a buffet?”

  “Chilled,” she replied without looking up, “sprinkled with crushed peanuts, served with a single hand-rolled cheese straw, in martini glasses. Very signature, local, farmhouse chic.”

  Cici nodded approvingly. “It sounds to me as though you’re going to be able to write your own cookbook before this thing is over. Which is a good thing, by the way. You’re going to need something to do when the North-Deres fire us.”

  That made Bridget look up. Both Lindsay and Bridget stared at Cici. “They’re going to fire us?” Lindsay asked.

  Cici nodded, rocking. “I’ve got it figured out. This is what people like them do. They torture the help until they get bored, and then they fire them. Why? Because they can. It’s all a big game to them.”

  Bridget frowned. “Well, I hope not. I think I’ve finally come up with a shrimpless, seasonal, local, quasi-Mediterranean-Virginian menu that just might work.”

  “And we’ve already cashed the check,” Lindsay added, looking worried.

  Cici just smiled. “Not a problem,” she replied. “In the middle of all that faxing back and forth to get the perfect contract, I was able to add one little word in front of ‘deposit’: nonrefundable.”

  Lindsay grinned. “Good job.”

  After a moment, Bridget admitted reluctantly, “This is a little harder than I thought it would be. But you know, it takes a lot of hard work to make dreams come true.”

  “And a lot of energy to get married,” Lindsay added.

  “I never understood that,” Cici said.

  “Marriage?”

  “Well, that, too. But mostly the whole wedding thing. The thousands upon thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours—the dress, the church, the flowers, the candles, the reception hall, the cake, the band, the banquet, the party favors, the place cards, the little chocolates with the bride and groom’s initials monogrammed on them ... and for what? So two people who are already sleeping together can do it legally.” Cici shook her head. “It boggles the mind.”

  “Well, not just sleep together,” Lindsay pointed out. “But have babies and a mortgage.”

  “And a divorce,” Cici said.

  “I think it’s sweet.” Bridget’s tone was not so much serene as determined. “Hopeful.”

  Lindsay said flatly, “Ha.”

  Cici raised her glass to that.

  Bridget closed the cookbook, rocked back, and rescued her glass just before it slid off the arm of the chair. “I had another note from my secret admirer,” she said.

  The other two looked at her with interest. “What does he say?” Lindsay wanted to know.

  And Cici teased, “Does he tell you how cute you are?”

  Bridget made a wry face. “Mostly he just wants recipes.”

  “Typical man.”

  “No,” corrected Lindsay. “A typical man would want you to cook them for him.”

  Bridget rocked thoughtfully. “Do you ever think about getting married again?”

  Cici laughed. “Who, me? Are you kidding?”

  “I used to,” Lindsay said. “But the older I get, the more ...” She searched for the right word. “Pointless it seems.” She glanced at Bridget. “How about you?”

  Bridget smiled. “I adored Jim, and we had a wonderful marriage. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. But doing it again? I honestly can’t imagine.”

  “The truth is,” observed Cici, “if men ever figured out how superfluous they are, I think the human race would be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Well,” Lindsay said, “superfluous might be a little strong. I mean, they’re really good at opening jars.”

  “And killing bugs,” added Bridget.

  “And working a jackhammer,” Cici said, thoughtfully, and the three of them chuckled.

  “God, how did we get so cynical?” Cici sighed. “When did the wedding become the best part of a marriage?”

  “If this wedding is the best part of Traci’s marriage,” said Bridget somberly “I already feel sorry for the groom.”

  “I think,” Lindsay said thoughtfully after a time, “being married is all about being in balance. I know men are from Mars, and all that, and if you sit down and make a list of what they’re good for, the list is pretty short...”

  “Painfully short,” said Cici.

  “Excruciatingly short, for some,” Bridget clarified, trying to look serious, and they all burst into giggles. Lindsay threw part of a cookie at her and Bridget ducked.

  “I was trying to make a point,” Lindsay declared archly, when they had sobered somewhat.

  “I actually agree with you,” Cici said, and the other two looked at her in surprise. “The truth is, even if he’s perfectly useless there’s something about having a man around that makes you feel safe. As though, whatever happens, someone’s got your back. That’s his job. And when someone’s got your back, you’re a lot more likely to put yourself out there, to reach higher, to accomplish more. That’s why people get married. Because they’re more together than they could be apart.”

  “I always feel as though you girls have got
my back,” Bridget said softly.

  Lindsay nodded. “Me, too.”

  And Cici said, smiling, “Yeah.”

  For a time there was no sound but the muffled creak of rockers, and the occasional trill of a cricket. Inside the house, evening settled its gentle yellow glow. Outside, the day was reluctant to depart.

  Cici said, “Lori won’t be home this weekend. So it looks like you’re stuck with Lindsay and me as your sous chefs.”

  “Well, that’s better than nothing I suppose,” Bridget replied, and she glanced around uneasily before adding, “Now all we have to do is find a way to get Ida Mae out of the kitchen. Frankly, these days she’s more of a hindrance than a help.”

  “I know what you mean,” Lindsay agreed, sotto voce. “I have to go behind her and clean what she’s already cleaned.”

  “I was up at four thirty this morning doing laundry.” Cici leaned forward to make herself heard, speaking very softly. “After she ruined two pairs of jeans and a sweater with bleach last week, I have to stay ahead of her.”

  They were quiet for a time. Then Bridget said, “We’re just spoiled, you know. Before Ida Mae came we took care of the house and the cooking by ourselves. We don’t have any reason to complain now.”

  “I know,” Cici agreed. “The problem is that I’ve gotten used to her in the background, making meals, doing the dishes, running the vacuum, doing the laundry. We all have. And all the time I used to spend doing those things I’m now spending building trellises for the vineyard, or painting the house, or—”

  “Teaching art classes,” Lindsay volunteered.

  “Or making wine jams,” Bridget added.

  They were thoughtful for a moment. “We really have grown to depend on her,” Bridget said, her voice sad. “It’s hard to think of her ... you know. Going downhill.”

  “There’s got to be some way we can persuade her to take it easy.”

  Both Cici and Bridget shook their heads at Lindsay’s suggestion.

  “It’s not like we haven’t tried that before.”

  “She practically snapped my head off for trying to help her water a plant this afternoon,” Bridget recalled.

  “There’s really only one thing we can do,” Cici said.

  “Keep doing her job,” Lindsay agreed.

  “And keep her from finding out,” added Bridget.

  They rocked in silence for a while. The color faded from the sky, leaving a bleached blue gray canvas against which mountain silhouettes were painted, and in one corner, the accent of a single star. The night air smelled of green things and spring earth.

  Lindsay said, “We’ll have to get the grass mowed by Thursday to give all the bugs a chance to go away before the crowd gets here Saturday.”

  Bridget said, “Noah only works till three on Thursdays. He could do it in a couple of hours.”

  Cici gazed into her glass. “So, I was at the hardware store today, talking to Jonesie. I was teasing him, you know, about keeping Noah such long hours working.” She looked up at the other two. “He said Noah didn’t work at all last weekend.”

  At first there was no reaction. Then Lindsay frowned. “But Noah was gone from dawn to dusk Saturday. He said he was helping Jonesie with a shipment.” She glanced uncomfortably toward the house, where a faint square of light filtered from Noah’s window. “I wonder why he would tell us he’s working when he’s not.”

  “He’s seemed a little moody lately, have you noticed?” Bridget sounded worried.

  Cici gave a heavy sigh and a shake of her head. “Has he? God, I’ve been so caught up in this wedding thing I haven’t noticed.”

  “Me either,” Lindsay admitted. “How do people do it? Have jobs, run a household, and be good parents?”

  “I guess there’s a reason that nature arranges for you to have children when you’re young,” Bridget said.

  “He’s such a good kid most of the time.” Cici frowned. “I hate to think we’re the kind of people who only notice when something goes wrong.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Lindsay said, “but it’s all I can do to notice when things go right.”

  “There’s good news,” Bridget said after a time, although she didn’t sound very excited about it. “Four more orders for gift baskets—two medium and two small.” She stood. “Any volunteers to help put them together? I’ll need some help if I’m going to get them to the post office in time for tomorrow’s mail.”

  “I’m in,” Lindsay said, getting to her feet.

  Cici pushed up wearily. “Remind me again why we wanted to do this?”

  But no one had an answer.

  October 4, 2006

  Happy birthday! I’ve been wishing all day that I could tell you that. I baked a chocolate cake, because I remembered it was your favorite. But there was no one to eat it with. Still, just knowing you’re in the world makes me glad I was born, too. So happy, happy birthday.

  7

  Love Stories

  On Wednesday afternoons from two to four o’clock, Lindsay taught an art class in the long, stone-floored, whitewashed building that had once been a dairy barn. She put up flyers in the bank, at the post office and library, and at Family Hardware, where they carried the selection of paints and canvases she recommended. Her first class consisted of three people who had never held a paintbrush before. Lindsay launched into the basics of complementary and tertiary colors, perspective, composition, primary, secondary, and reflective light sources, and the following week not a single student returned.

  She was disconsolate until Cici pointed out that all of her students were well over the age of fifty, and that adults simply did not have the time or the patience to learn theory. They wanted results. It turned out she was right. Bridget volunteered Lindsay to do a watercolor demonstration at the next garden club meeting, and she signed up six new students on the spot. They did not want to be artists. They just wanted to paint something.

  And so, with her expectations lowered, Lindsay found the classes to be one of the most enjoyable things she had ever done. Attendance varied from week to week, mostly housewives and retirees. They did landscapes and florals and still lifes, with an occasional cute bunny, deer, or raccoon to keep things interesting. For the more complicated compositions, Lindsay sketched the figures on the canvases before the students arrived, and she often mixed their colors for them. It didn’t matter. Most people came to art class for the socialization, anyway, for the sense of accomplishment and the pleasure of having something to show for their time. They finished a painting in one or two classes, and everyone went home happy.

  Today each of her four students was finishing up a nine-by-twelve oil painting of an old-fashioned red water pump on a garden path with a barn roof in the distance. Lindsay had taken her inspiration from a photograph she’d seen in Country magazine, and had carefully sketched the pump and the barn roof onto each primed canvas the night before. She had suspected—correctly—that the class would not have the attention span for anything more complex today.

  The class consisted of three women and one man. The women, who all rode to class together, used art class as their once-a-week catch-up time. This week they wanted to talk about the magazine article, and about their memories of the old days of Blackwell Farms, and about what fun it was to have their corner of the world featured in a real magazine. Susan had sent a copy of the article to her daughter in Minneapolis, with a note—This is where I take art classes! Miriam remembered when the very building in which they were painting used to have cows in it.

  “There was a little store right up front, there,” she said, “where you could buy fresh milk every morning if you got here between six and eight. It was still warm from the cow sometimes! Of course,” she remembered, “then the government got all involved with that pasteurizing nonsense and nobody could buy raw milk anymore. You mark my word, that’s why all the schoolchildren have allergies these days-no fresh milk.”

  Lindsay concentrated on her lesson. “Now, everyone, take yo
ur fan brush, dip it in your painting medium and a little bit of titanium white, and scumble it into your blue sky for clouds. Just like this.” She demonstrated on her own canvas. “Be careful not to get your brush too wet, or your clouds will be raining.”

  She smiled as she turned to examine everyone’s work. “Maybe a little less paint, Pauline,” she suggested, moving around the table where the four easels were set up. “Very nice, Susan. Frank...” She paused behind the chair of her only male student, a white-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard who came to class each week in the gray uniform of a garage worker. She had learned that he had owned and operated Highway Car Care for forty-five years before retiring. He had the most delicate touch with a brush she had ever seen in an untrained artist. “That’s just wonderful. May I?”

  Frank seemed a little shy—as well he might be, stuck in the middle of a group of chattering women—so Lindsay liked to take every opportunity to highlight his work and make him feel welcome. Besides, as anyone could clearly see, he had a natural gift for painting.

  Lindsay took his painting and displayed it on her easel at the front of the room. “Look how he has the shadows running parallel across the path,” she said, pointing with the handle of her paintbrush. “And the clouds seem to melt into the sky, just as they should. He picked up a little alizarin here to give weight to the bottom of the clouds. Very nice. Oh, and look.” She smiled as she pointed out the final detail. “There’s even a little bird here, flying into the barn loft. I like that. Let me show you how to do that.”

  She showed the ladies how to double-load a fine-tipped brush and let them practice on a piece of canvas board for a minute. “You see, it’s really nothing but a lopsided W,” she said. “There you go. Not too much weight on the brush.”

  She left the ladies to practice making W-shaped birds, and returned Frank’s canvas to him. “You might want to add a bit more shadow underneath the barn eaves,” she suggested, “to give it depth.”

  He picked up his brush and dipped it in dark paint. “It’s not just a bird,” he said.