A Wedding on Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  Lindsay hesitated. “Well, not in so many words,” she admitted. “Things have been a little up in the air, you know, but we always had an understanding we’d live here, of course we did.” But even as she spoke a slight uncertainly came into her eyes and she looked from Cici to Bridget. “Didn’t we?”

  “We did,” Bridget agreed, looking mildly distressed for her friend’s sake. “But maybe he didn’t.”

  Cici gave a small shake of her head. “A gentleman likes to be asked, Lindsay.”

  Lindsay looked momentarily taken aback, and she glanced distractedly over the papers that were spread across the table between them. “Well,” she said in a moment, gathering confidence, “this is what this meeting is for. First we come up with a plan, then we get his approval. Right?”

  Cici and Bridget nodded agreement, but Ida Mae made an unintelligible sound as she slammed the bowl to the soapstone countertop with a clank. “Where’s that dad-blasted mixer?” she muttered, and stomped off into the pantry.

  Lindsay gave her departure only the mildest of curious glances, then turned back to the papers. “So,” she said, picking up her pen. What are we going to do with the dog?”

  There was a thud, a crash, and an ear-piercing yowl from the pantry, followed by Ida Mae’s declaration, “I’m gonna skin me a cat!”

  Bridget leapt to her feet just as a blur of black and white fur exploded from the pantry. “Ida Mae, are you all right?”

  Ida Mae appeared a second later, her iron curls quivering with righteous vengeance, a wooden spoon raised threateningly over her head. “That cat broke my best mixing bowl!”

  “Well, thank goodness he didn’t break your hip, is all I can say.” Cici pushed back her chair as Bridget lunged after the kitten. “Bridget, you’ve got to do something about that cat. He’s always pouncing on people and getting underfoot—somebody’s going to trip over him and get hurt! I’ll get a broom.”

  “Don’t hit him with a broom!” cried Bridget, alarmed. She crouched down on the floor, trying to block the kitten as it skidded around a corner of the work island. She missed. “He’s only a kitten! Here, kitty, here, Snowflake. ”

  Cici gave her a sour look. “I meant I’ll get a broom to clean up the mess. The mess he made.”

  Lindsay said, “Snowflake? Where did you get Snowflake?”

  “I’m trying it out.” Bridget scooped up the kitten, who responded with another angry squawk of protest, and cuddled it against her chest protectively. “You know, soft as a snowflake.”

  The first name Bridget had chosen for the new kitten was Ratatouille, which was cute until she realized the abbreviation was “Rat,” or worse, “Ratty.” Since then she had been through more kitten names than Lindsay had wedding dates, and none of them seemed to suit.

  “Menace is more like it,” Cici muttered, moving toward the broom closet.

  “Hellfire is better,” said Ida Mae, glowering as she tossed the spoon into the sink. “Whoever heard of animals in the house, anyway? Hair all over everything, shredding the furniture to ribbons … Miss Emily would have a fit.”

  “Well, good thing it’s not Miss Emily’s furniture,” Bridget retorted. The kitten, as slippery as an eel, squirmed and wriggled to get down, but she held on tight. “He’s too young to be left out at night. Besides, Rebel hates him.”

  “First good sense that dog has ever shown,” Cici said, grabbing the broom and dustpan.

  “Ladies, please,” Lindsay said, “could we get back to the problem at hand?”

  The clatter of broken pottery came from the pantry, and Ida Mae flung open a cabinet door, stretching for the flour canister. “Well, it ain’t night now, and you can just get that creature out of my kitchen while I’m trying to make something fit to eat. Filthy animals. I never heard the like.”

  “This is a five thousand-square-foot house,” Bridget went on, holding onto the kitten with both hands now. “Six bedrooms, six bathrooms, and at least three rooms we don’t even have a name for! I think there’s room for one little four-pound kitten.”

  “Not to mention a husband,” responded Lindsay. “Ida Mae, be careful! Let me help you with that.”

  The flour canister threatened to tip over as Ida Mae dragged it toward the edge of the shelf and Lindsay bounded to her feet to help. Just then Cici pushed through the swinging door from the pantry with a dustpan filled with the shards of the broken mixing bowl. The door caught Lindsay’s bare foot just as she walked into it and she squealed in pain, staggering back into Cici as she bent over to grab her injured limb. The broken pieces of the mixing bowl clattered to the floor and Cici cried, “Oh, Lindsay, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” Bridget reached out to steady Lindsay and the kitten launched itself from her arms and into the air, sailing across the countertop to land on Ida Mae’s shoulder just as she was tilting the heavy flour canister off the shelf.

  The flour canister exploded on the floor, spraying a volcano of flour into the air, covering countertops, faces, dishes, and clothing—not to mention the kitten—in a fine white ash. Ida Mae reached around and plucked the kitten off her shoulder. Bridget grabbed him before she could fling him across the room and snatched up a kitchen towel, trying to wipe the flour off his fur.

  “Now he looks like a Snowflake,” Cici observed, and then turned to Lindsay. “Lindsay, I didn’t know you were there! Is it bad? Oh, be careful!” She grabbed Lindsay’s arm just in time to prevent her from stepping back onto a shard of broken pottery.

  “Look at this mess! Just look at it!” declared Ida Mae. “I told you what would come of having animals in the house! I told you! There goes my angel food cake. And what am I supposed to do with all these egg whites now? They won’t whip up; they’ve got flour all in them.”

  “We’ll put them back together with the yolks and make a nice quiche,” replied Bridget distractedly. She gave up trying to clean the wriggling kitten and carried him to door. He sprang from her hands and across the yard as soon as she opened it. “Lindsay, are you okay? Should I get the first aid kit?”

  “Do you see? All we have to do is talk about a wedding and this is what happens!” Lindsay hobbled across the room and sank into her chair, bringing her injured foot to rest on her knee. “It’s the curse of Ladybug Farm.”

  “There is no curse,” Cici said, kneeling beside Lindsay. “Is it bleeding? Broken? Let me see.”

  Lindsay gingerly probed her bruised big toe, groaning out loud. “It’s already starting to swell. I’m supposed to try on shoes today!”

  “I’ll get an ice pack,” Bridget said quickly.

  There was a light knock on the back door and Dominic came in. “Good morning, ladies.” He paused, glanced around at the flour-covered kitchen, and remarked, “Doing some baking, I see.”

  Bridget, leaving a clean swath of skin across her face as she pushed back her hair, turned from the freezer with a quick smile. “Good morning, Dominic. I was going to make pancakes.” She cast a swift glance around the disaster area and added, “It might take a minute.”

  “Thanks, but coffee is fine for now.” He moved toward the coffee pot, dusted flour off a mug, and poured a cup.

  Lindsay buried her face in her hands. Cici patted her knee reassuringly.

  Dominic looked at Lindsay. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

  Lindsay mumbled something unintelligible into her hands, and Cici, with only a moment’s hesitation, spoke up. “Family meeting,” she said decisively, and stood. “You’re invited.”

  Lindsay dropped her hands from her face, staring at her. Ida Mae made a satisfied sound in her throat, and Bridget hurried over with the ice pack. Dominic looked surprised, but then, with barely a hesitation, brought his coffee over to the table. Lindsay mumbled, “I think I broke my toe.”

  Bridget handed Lindsay the ice pack and sat down.

  Dominic said with concern, “Do you want me to take you to the ER?”

  “She’s fine,” Cici said, and Lindsay glared at her. “Have a seat.”

  He did
, glancing at the papers. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s our wedding plan,” Bridget said.

  Cici sat down, folded her hands atop the table, and leaned forward earnestly. “Dominic,” she said, “I know Lindsay’s been meaning to bring this up, but I think she’s a little nervous so I say let’s just get it out in the open.”

  Lindsay objected, “Cici!” and Dominic kept his expression guarded.

  “This doesn’t sound good so far,” he said.

  “But it is,” Bridget assured him. “At least, we hope it will be.”

  Lindsay said, “Cici, really …”

  Cici ignored her. “Dominic, we just want to say that we’re really happy you’re marrying us—I mean, Lindsay, of course—and want you to know that our house is your house. When we first decided to buy this place there was a lot of paperwork, but it’s really not as complicated as it looks. We’re a family now, and you’re the best thing that ever happened to us—I mean, to Lindsay, of course—and we want you to be part of it. So we really hope that you’ll consider moving in here when you and Lindsay are married, and making Ladybug Farm your home.”

  Bridget nodded in satisfied agreement. Lindsay sank back in her chair, her expression a mixture of astonishment, humiliation, and relief. Dominic’s lips twitched with amusement as he looked from one to the other of them, and he said, “Why, I do believe that’s the sweetest proposal I’ve ever heard.”

  Ida Mae clattered the broom and dustpan as she swept up the broken pottery. Bridget tossed over her shoulder, “Ida Mae, leave that. I’ll get it in a minute.”

  Ida Mae clattered louder.

  “We should have talked about this in private,” Lindsay apologized.

  “And a lot sooner,” added Bridget.

  “But now that we’ve got a countdown going,” Cici said.

  “To the wedding,” Bridget clarified.

  “There really isn’t a lot of time to get these things settled,” Cici finished. “No pressure, of course. But we want to make sure you know you’re welcome here.”

  Dominic nodded, smiling. “Thank you.”

  He sipped his coffee. Lindsay looked at him questioningly. Bridget glanced at Cici, who seemed to have nothing more to offer. So Bridget said helpfully, “It’s a really big house. You won’t even know we’re here. And there’s plenty of room for your animals. We can fence off part of the pasture for the horses, and I’ve always wanted a house dog.”

  “That’s very kind,” Dominic said.

  Lindsay looked a little uncomfortable. “Of course, you have your own things, with a lot of memories, and we never talked about what you’d want to do with your house … maybe you want to stay there, I can understand that. Of course, that might work too,” she added, gaining confidence, “if we commuted back and forth. I mean, at this age, there’s no such thing as a conventional marriage, is there? We can make our own rules. Whatever works, right?”

  Cici added quickly, “We don’t want to impose ourselves on your life—lives, I mean, yours and Lindsay’s. We know it must seem like a lot of baggage to take on …”

  “I would never refer to you lovely ladies as baggage,” Dominic objected.

  “Which is why, generally, when we have big decisions to make, we have a family meeting, like this one. And you’re family now.” Lindsay reached for his hand.

  “Really,” Bridget assured him. “So …” She practically held her breath. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ida Mae declared impatiently, “will you tell them yes so they’ll stop pestering? And somebody needs to drag out that vacuum from the storage room and clean up this mess.”

  Dominic’s eyes twinkled. “Ladies,” he said, “I’d be honored to join your household, and I’m even more honored that you’d want me.” And just as their faces broke into smiles of relief, he added, “But there is one condition.”

  Lindsay looked at him cautiously. “What?”

  He put his coffee cup on the table, stood, and reached into his pocket. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he said, opening the lid, “that your finger looked a little bare.”

  Lindsay barely had time to draw in a breath before he dropped to one knee. “You asked me the last time,” he said. “I figured it was only fair that I should ask you back. Will you marry me?”

  The ice pack that Lindsay had been holding to her foot smacked on the floor. She pressed her fingers to her lips and her eyes shone. “Oh, my,” she said. “I mean, yes. Yes! Thank you!”

  Laughing, she held out her hand and he slipped the ring on her finger. Cici and Bridget leapt to their feet, crowding around to see.

  “Oh, Linds, it’s gorgeous!”

  “It’s perfect!”

  “Good job, Dominic!”

  The ring was a silver twined vine pattern with a single round garnet surrounded by diamond chips. When Lindsay held out her hand, it caught the sunlight from the window and cast a brief spray of fractured pink light across the wall.

  Dominic said, “I hope you like garnets. We didn’t talk about it, but the color always makes me think of you.”

  “It’s perfect,” Lindsay said, and pressed both hands—the one with the ring on it prominently displayed—to her heart. She smiled into his eyes. He smiled into hers.

  “Garnet!” exclaimed Bridget, clapping her hands together. “That’s the color our dresses should be!”

  “It’s practically raspberry,” agreed Cici. “Perfect with the cake.”

  “Lindsay! I have a pair of garnet drop earrings you have to wear! They can be your something borrowed.”

  Lindsay just kept smiling.

  “Now all we have to do is decide on a flower in that color tone. Paul will have some ideas.”

  Dominic said, taking Lindsay’s hand in his, “The wedding bands match. Do you want to see them?”

  “I know!” Bridget exclaimed. “We’ll use the ring pattern on the invitations! It looks like a grapevine, and that’s the theme, right? Lindsay, take off the ring. Let me see it.”

  Just as Lindsay glanced at her in confusion, Ida Mae swatted Bridget across the rear with the broom, and then Cici. Both women yelped indignantly, and she commanded, “Get on out of their business, both of you! Can’t you see the man wants to be alone with the woman he just proposed to? Now get! And bring me back that vacuum.”

  Bridget opened her mouth for an outraged objection, but Cici tilted her head meaningfully toward the couple and turned Bridget toward the door. Dominic pulled Lindsay onto her feet and into his arms. It was a truly beautiful moment until Lindsay, leaning in to kiss him, put weight on her injured foot and cried out, hopping on one foot while she tried to grab the other one to protect it. She knocked over a chair and almost fell, but Dominic caught her. Flailing for balance, she stepped back and onto a shard of broken glass that had escaped Ida Mae’s broom … with her good foot.

  Cici cringed and closed her eyes. “I can’t watch anymore.”

  “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

  Bridget and Cici hurried from the kitchen and closed the door behind them.

  ~*~

  Five hours later a relative calm and order had been restored, which was to say that matters at Ladybug Farm were as orderly as they were likely to be for the next four weeks. Lindsay’s feet, battered and bandaged but not permanently injured, were encased in soft open-toed slippers, which did not prevent her from trying on the wedding gown over her jeans and tee shirt while Bridget tried on the coordinating shoes and held her feet close to the hem of Lindsay’s gown so that they could see the effect. Paul tried not to wince too noticeably, but he couldn’t prevent a sigh as he watched.

  He was a tall, slender man with impeccably styled silver hair and a somewhat perpetually arch expression, exquisitely groomed and attired today in what he called his “rustic collection”: tailored khakis and a windowpane-check shirt with the collar stiffened and turned up just so, the cuffs folded one and one-half turns, and the whole accented by a whimsical yellow kerch
ief tied with a half-Windsor simply because it brightened his mood. Although he had known Cici the longest, and adored Bridget with equal fervor, there was something special about his relationship with Lindsay. When she had asked Paul to walk her down the aisle, along with his partner Derrick, he’d actually felt the sting of tears in his eyes, and he hadn’t wept over anything since the Gore-Bush election debacle. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her—for any of the girls, really—and he was determined that she was going to have the wedding of her dreams, even if it killed him. Or her.

  “And to think,” he murmured wistfully, watching Bridget balance on one foot as she tried to properly display each shoe against the hem of Lindsay’s gown, “somewhere in this country at this very moment a bride is modeling gowns on a raised podium in a carpeted studio while her bridesmaids are sipping champagne on tufted velvet. Bizet is wafting through the speakers and the air is scented with just a hint of attar of roses. Two impeccably groomed attendants in dove-colored suits are pulling gowns while a dresser is taking measurements. Cici, please,” he added, rushing forward quickly, “you know I love you, I do, but we simply cannot have cherry pie in the same room as white peau de soie!”

  He took her fork in mid-bite and snatched away the plate. She gave him a sour look. “It is a dining room,” she reminded him, and turned her attention back to the shoes Bridget was modeling—a different style on each foot—as he sailed through the door to the kitchen.

  One of the best things about having Paul for lunch, aside from the fact that he brought with him a style portfolio, complete with samples, that was so heavy it required wheels, was the fact that Ida Mae considered company—any company—a grand occasion. While on an ordinary Wednesday the ladies would content themselves with a sandwich and a piece of fruit eaten at the kitchen counter for lunch, company required the dining room, the white tablecloth, a bacon and spinach quiche with hot rolls, salad and a freshly baked cherry pie. This worked out well because, once the dishes were cleared away, the big dining room table was perfect for spreading out samples. It did, however, limit the potential for seconds on dessert.