by Donna Ball
If the truth be told, they never would have made it this far without the help of the girls, and that was why seeing them all gathered in the kitchen now with very determined looks on their faces filled both Paul and Derrick with an uneasy dismay. They didn’t like to admit it, even to themselves, but they each had known this moment was coming for some time now.
Paul rubbed his hands together in false enthusiasm as he came into the kitchen, declaring, “Ladies, you’ve never looked more lovely! Lindsay, new shoes? Bridget, darling, love your hair! That shade is definitely you.”
Lindsay glanced down in confusion at her worn, if freshly laundered, plaid sneakers, and Bridget gave him a skeptical look. “It should be,” she said, touching her short platinum bob briefly. “It’s the same color I’ve used for thirty years.”
All three women had passed their first blush of youth decades ago, but all three still had legs that could wear shorts without embarrassment, and glitter polish on their toenails when the occasion called for it. The edge might have fallen off their fashion sense since they had abandoned the suburbs for the country, but they weren’t exactly attending society parties every weekend, either. Even with their hair tied back against the warm midsummer day and their tee shirts less fresh than they might have been six hours ago, Paul’s compliments were not entirely insincere.
Paul brushed a kiss across Cici’s cheek. “Cici, you look—”
“I look like I spent the morning pulling weeds and the afternoon setting Japanese beetle traps in the orchard,” she interrupted impatiently. “We need to talk.”
“Will you look at these eggs?” Derrick put in cheerfully, trying to postpone the inevitable. He carefully transferred the eggs from their padded basket to a big yellow bowl on the countertop, fussing over them as he might a flower arrangement. “They’re as pretty as Easter eggs. Brown and green and turquoise … what do you call the green ones again, Bridget?”
Bridget forgot her stern demeanor and agreed happily, “They are pretty, aren’t they? And the yolks are as bright as butter!” She started helping unpack the basket. “Now remember, fresh eggs don’t have to be refrigerated, so these will do just fine until morning on the counter. In fact, if I were you …”
Cici spoke over her. “Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
Paul looked at Derrick. Derrick looked helplessly back. Like guilty children, they went to the table by the window where they took their family meals, held out a chair for each of the ladies, and then took their own seats. Cici took a breath.
“Boys, you know we love you,” she began, “but we have to have a talk.”
Derrick smothered a groan. “No good thing has ever happened to me after those words.”
Paul gave Cici his most endearing smile. “Oh-oh. Have we over-imposed ourselves upon your good natures?”
“Oh, no, of course not!” Bridget exclaimed, but Lindsay silenced her with a sharp and meaningful look.
“The thing is,” Lindsay said carefully, folding her hands atop the table, “we know it’s hard getting settled into a new community, and that you never would have made the move if it hadn’t been for us, and we love having you here, we really do. But—”
“But we can’t keep running over here two and three times a day,” Cici interrupted impatiently. “We’re spending more time taking care of your place than we are our own. We have our hands full working to get the winery off the ground—”
“And I’m trying to open my own restaurant,” Bridget put in.
“And I’m supposed to be planning my wedding,” added Lindsay, “on top of everything else. It’s not that we mind helping out—”
“Yes we do,” Cici corrected her flatly, tossing her an exasperated look.
“It’s just,” continued Lindsay deliberately, “that we’re worried that it’s gone beyond helping, and is bordering on enabling.”
Derrick looked at Paul with a touch of horrified embarrassment. “This is an intervention,” he said.
Cici sat back and folded her arms. “Exactly.”
A beat passed while they absorbed this. Then Paul glanced at Derrick uncertainly and said, “I don’t suppose this would be a good time to mention the loose floorboard in the powder room.”
Cici lifted her eyes to the heavens and blew out a breath that ruffled her bangs.
Bridget reached across the table and squeezed Derrick’s hand, her gentle round face filled with compassion. “The Bed and Breakfast is yours now. You have to let it be yours. Take over, be in charge, make some decisions.”
“We’ve made plenty of decisions,” Paul objected. “We decided to completely redecorate the public rooms.”
“And expand the art gallery,” added Derrick.
“And enclose the side porch to enlarge the dining room.”
“And you did a fine job with all of that,” Bridget assured them. “Everyone loves the new glassed-in dining room.”
“But who was over here every day helping you paint and strip wallpaper and move furniture?” Lindsay pointed out.
“And who was it who called the contractors and supervised the workers while you two were busy ordering Battenberg tablecloths and shopping for mismatched Havilland?” Cici put in.
Paul and Derrick exchanged a look that was both abashed and distressed. “They’re right,” Paul told his partner. “We’ve been fiends.”
Derrick turned to Cici. “We used you outrageously. Can you ever forgive us?”
Cici shifted her gaze toward Lindsay in a mini-eye roll, but her lips quirked with repressed amusement. “You’re not fiends,” she admitted, “and you’re forgiven. But …”
“But,” Lindsay interrupted firmly, “it’s time you started doing things for yourself. How can you make this place your own if you don’t, well, own it?”
“And when are you going to open for business again?” Bridget added. “You’re missing the height of the tourist season.”
“We are open for business,” Paul objected. “This is the most popular place in the county for Sunday brunch.”
“It’s the only place in the county for Sunday brunch,” Bridget said. “And what I meant was, when are you going to start renting the rooms? That’s what a bed and breakfast does, you know.”
“A bed and breakfast also offers breakfast every morning,” Paul said, “and I really only know how to make three things.”
“Two,” Derrick corrected, and Paul frowned a little. “Of course, I only know how to make two as well.”
“One,” Paul corrected.
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Derrick said, “We’re not nearly ready to open to the public yet.”
Paul added, “We haven’t even started redecorating the guest rooms, and the entire second floor has to be remodeled …”
“Who knows what we’ll even find when we get up there?” put in Derrick with a shudder. “We opened the door once and saw a spider the size of a puppy. Slammed the door closed and taped it shut.”
“Not to mention the spa,” Paul said, “which we haven’t even started yet. Frankly, it’s going to be rather more expensive than we’d planned, so it may take awhile.”
“It would be a great deal more affordable without the Roman baths,” Derrick pointed out smugly. “And I told you, one massage room is plenty if we intend to put in the steam room as well.”
At Bridget’s raised eyebrows, Paul explained, “Not Roman baths, just a simple hot tub. And I might have said something about a small waterfall.”
Derrick looked self-satisfied, but said nothing.
Cici, Lindsay, and Bridget were also silent for a moment, but the look that passed between them spoke volumes. Finally Lindsay said, “You know, boys, considering the way your house-building project turned out, it might be a little too soon to take on a major construction project like a spa.”
Derrick winced and Paul deliberately looked away. It was, in fact, too soon for them to even talk about that fiasco.
Lindsay said, “The guest rooms don�
�t need redecorating. They’re gorgeous. Everything is gorgeous.”
“They’re fine, I suppose,” admitted Paul reluctantly, “if not entirely to our taste.”
Bridget said gently, “Sometimes you can wait so long for everything to be perfect that nothing ever gets done.”
Cici said, “Guys, I really don’t know what the problem is. The place was in perfect operating condition when you bought it and it was full almost every weekend. It’s the only really nice overnight accommodation within an hour’s drive and it could be a gold mine for you. You just need to open.”
Lindsay squeezed Derrick’s hand. “All we want is for you to be happy. But how can you know if you’re going to be happy here unless you actually try?”
Paul said worriedly, “I just don’t think we’re ready.”
“Then get ready,” exclaimed Cici, exasperated.
“We have plenty of towels,” Derrick pointed out helpfully.
“We don’t have a staff,” Paul protested.
“All you need is a housekeeper,” Lindsay said.
“And a cook,” Bridget added quickly.
“Most people,” Cici pointed out, “go into the bed-and-breakfast business because they want to do it themselves.”
Paul looked at Derrick. “That’s exactly why we wanted to do it,” he agreed. “Only …”
“Only,” Derrick said, “I think we rather imagined ourselves more in the roles of genial hosts.”
“Patrons,” agreed Paul. “Maître d’hôtel. Reminiscent of the grand houses of Europe.”
The three women exchanged a look, the corners of their lips tightening in a mixture of resignation and repressed mirth. Bridget stood and kissed Derrick atop his head. “We love you. I’ll put the cakes in the refrigerator. And,” she added sternly, “hire a cook.”
Cici dug a tool out of her pocket and handed it to Paul. “This,” she told him, “is a wrench. It’s used to fix leaky faucets. Come on, I’ll show you how.”
Paul meekly followed Cici from the kitchen and Lindsay turned to Derrick. Her tone was a little apologetic. “Are we still invited for brunch tomorrow?”
Derrick looked at her hopefully. “Do you know how to make a pork loin?”
~*~
On Ladybug Farm
~*~
“You know what the difference between men and women is?” declared Cici, flinging herself into the front porch rocking chair.
She was so distracted that she let the screen door bounce closed behind her, and Bridget, who followed with a tray of lemonade and cookies, caught it with her toe. “Well, for one thing, men usually hold the door.”
“Oh, Bridge, I’m sorry.” Cici leapt up again and held the door. There was a faint cloud of anxiety in her eyes as she added, “Do you think we were too hard on them?”
“Too hard on whom?” Lindsay came down the stairs, smelling of a delicate floral body wash and wearing a loose print maxi-dress with no bra, her hair pulled back and damp around the edges from her shower. The day was done, the chores were completed, they were at home with each other, and comfort was the order of the day. She grabbed a cookie from Bridget’s tray before she took her own rocking chair, swinging her legs up onto the porch rail.
“The boys,” Cici said. She moved some magazines off the white wicker table between the chairs to make room for the tray.
“I wasn’t,” Lindsay replied easily, biting into the cookie, “but you were, definitely. These are great, Bridget. Lemon drop, right?”
“I doubled the recipe,” Bridget said, pouring the lemonade. “I’ll take the boys a batch tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” said Cici. She handed a glass of lemonade to Lindsay, and took one for herself, along with two cookies. “I never knew of a problem a lemon drop cookie couldn’t fix.”
Lindsay tasted the lemonade. “Nice,” she said. “Different.”
Cici sipped and agreed, “It’s a good day for lemonade.”
Bridget poured herself a glass. “It is a nice change, isn’t it? I used a fresh basil simple syrup.”
The other two women tasted again and murmured their appreciation.
Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that the three of them had shared a cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Baltimore and Paul and Derrick had been their neighbors. It had in fact been four years since they had stumbled upon the old brick mansion in the Shenandoah Valley and decided to try their hands at bringing it back to life. What they had imagined to be a quiet retirement clipping roses and drinking tea from patterned China cups in front of the fire had in fact turned out to consist of a dawn-to-dusk labor of love, replacing rotting timbers, pulling weeds, hauling fence posts, fighting potato bugs and planting a vineyard cutting by cutting. Now they shared not only a home, but a life, and Paul and Derrick—perhaps the most unlikely candidates imaginable for the rigors of rural living—were once again their neighbors.
A slow and lazy dusk settled over Ladybug Farm and the three women, as they had done every evening since they had moved into the old house, settled into their rocking chairs to watch the sun set and solve the problems of the world. Usually their refreshment of choice was wine, but after a hot day working in the vineyard they had decided the lemonade would be a refreshing break from the ordinary. A light breeze stirred the air beneath the shade of the wraparound porch, rustling the fronds of the ferns that hung in evenly spaced baskets around the porch and sending them to turning lazily. As the light took on the purplish shadows of evening across the wide expanse of meadow that stretched before them, the sheep huddled into their nighttime knots and the shoulders of the mountains that stood guard over them became muted with the deep greens and shadowy blues of another ending day. Through the open windows they could hear the sounds of Ida Mae, who had been taking care of the hundred-year-old house almost as long as it had been standing, rustling around in the kitchen, closing down the old day and preparing for a new one.
“So,” said Bridget, settling into her chair with a cookie and a glass. “What’s the difference between men and women?”
“This I’ve got to hear,” murmured Lindsay.
Cici ignored her. “Men expect everything to be easy,” she answered. “They’re programmed that way from birth. All their lives they have some woman taking care of them, doing things for them …”
“That’s because, most of the time, it’s easier to do it ourselves,” Bridget pointed out.
“Learned helplessness,” said Lindsay, who had taught third grade for twenty-five years. “It’s sweeping our society, like ADHD. Only you don’t get it from Red Dye Number Seven or early childhood immunizations. You get it from well-meaning mothers.”
Cici gave a decisive nod of agreement. “I’m not saying it’s not our faults,” she said. “I’m just saying men, as a gender, have an entirely different attitude about adversity than we do.”
Bridget sniffed with laughter. “Anybody who’s ever taken care of a man with a head cold can testify to that. A woman could go through twelve hours of labor while having both wisdom teeth extracted without making half as much fuss.”
Lindsay and Cici raised their glasses in a toast to that.
“Women, on the other hand,” Cici went on, “expect life to be difficult. We don’t even bother to complain until things start approaching impossible.”
“And we get it done anyway,” said Bridget.
“Look what we took on with this house,” Lindsay said.
“Broken plumbing, trees crashing through the sunroom …”
“Sheep storming the front porch, a sink hole in the backyard …”
“Rattlesnakes, fires, blizzards …”
“Not to mention the ordinary painting and refinishing and patching and rebuilding,” Bridget said.
“The chicken coop, the goat house …”
“The winery,” Lindsay added, and they all nodded, impressed with their accomplishments.
“And did we complain?” Cici demanded.
They thought about that for a moment, un
til Bridget finally admitted, “Well, maybe a little.”
“All right, a little,” Cici conceded. “But we never gave up.”
“Talked about it a few times,” Lindsay reminded them, and Cici frowned, annoyed.
“The point is,” she began.
“The point is,” Bridget spoke over her, “we got it done. Women always get it done.”
“Right,” said Cici.
Lindsay raised her glass. “To women who get it done.”
The three clinked their goblets and sat back, sipping lemonade and munching cookies.
“Good lemonade,” Cici said.
“Just tart enough,” added Lindsay.
“Hits the spot,” agreed Bridget.
They rocked for a moment, looking at their glasses.
“It’s nice for a change,” Lindsay said.
“Just the right amount of sugar,” Cici said.
Bridget put aside her glass. “I’ll get the wine,” she said.
“I’ll get the glasses.” Cici followed her inside.
“The corkscrew’s on the counter,” Lindsay called after them.
Evening at Ladybug Farm had begun.
~*~
There was a stone patio in the back of the house between the herb garden and the wildflower garden that was furnished with laurel wood furniture made by a local craftsman. The laurel branches were soaked until malleable, twisted and woven together to shape chair backs and seats, and then mounted on sturdy tree-trunk legs. The chairs and love seats were decorated with comfortable cushions in a bright emerald flower garden print, and the occasional tables, also formed of laurel wood, were shellacked to a bright luster. Tall feathery stalks of dill and spiky rosemary bushes formed the living wall of the herb garden and perfumed the late afternoon air with their fragrance. Purple coneflower and bright pink dianthus competed with black-eyed Susans for the attention of the fat bumblebees that drifted from stem to stem. Above it all a colony of hummingbirds buzzed and darted from one red glass feeder to another, stopping along the way to sample the bright pink fuchsia that tumbled from the hanging baskets at the corners of the house or the trumpet vine that climbed along the back garden fence. There was nothing orderly or well managed about this garden at all; it was a riot of clashing colors and tangled vines, a veritable highway of busy activity for the birds and bees who called it their home, and it was without a doubt the most harmonious and relaxing corner of the entire property.
