The Ladies Farm

by Viqui Litman

  “We own the mineral rights,” Barbara said evenly. They turned to look at her. “When Hugh and Pauline bought the place, Hugh asked Richard to go over the papers with him before settlement, and Richard made Hugh have the deed changed to convey the mineral rights specifically.”

  Kat looked thoughtful. “That’s good to hear.”

  “Well, not that it matters,” Della said. “We’re not mining gravel at the Ladies Farm.”

  “I doubt there is any,” Rita said. “If there wasn’t any at Hutto’s, just across the river, there isn’t any here.”

  “There is,” Barbara said. “Hugh knew there was when they bought the place, it’s just that it’s such small acreage it wasn’t worth digging up.”

  “Then,” Kat said thoughtfully. “It wasn’t worth digging up then. What about now?”

  They all turned to Barbara, who shook her head. “I don’t know. All I know was what Richard said: That the only mineral worth worrying about on the place was gravel and there wasn’t much of it.”

  Della looked to Kat, whose eyes warned her to stay quiet and restrain her urge to lunge for Barbara’s throat. She said she wasn’t interested in even bidding for the place, Della reminded herself. But the rumble of the backhoe belied Barbara’s demur. Gravel, Della thought. It could all go for gravel.

  “Well, if we’re not going after gravel,” Rita interrupted the nightmare, “I’ve got to go sharpen my scissors for Melissa.”

  Della blinked, forced herself to stay both calm and in the present.

  “She’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning,” Rita reminded them. Then she rose and stretched, her knit top riding up to reveal the waistband of her lavender jeans.

  “I’m not gonna be here for dinner,” Rita called back over her shoulder as she squeezed past Della in the doorway. “Darlene’s going out and she asked me to come over and mind the kid again. I’ll be back tonight, though. I told her she better be home by midnight or I’m taking Tiffany home with me.”

  Kat shook her head at Della, but Della only laughed as she made her way over to the loveseat. “The appraiser say when he’d have his report to us?”

  “It doesn’t go to us, actually. It goes to the estate, meaning Hugh Junior and Melissa. But Hugh Junior told him to go ahead and bring us a copy.”

  “When?”

  “Next week some time. Won’t take long. Don’t forget, they just appraised the thing for the loan to remodel the barn.”

  “Yeah.” The loan was another item Della wanted to forget. It had been Kat’s idea, as a way of freeing two rooms in the house for guests and letting Pauline expand her crafts. It had also given them a place to install a spa and a mirrored room for aerobics.

  But even with the schedule of freelance instructors in place and the steady flow of participants down the newly paved walk, Della doubted they were breaking even on the loan. She supposed the big selling point had been expansion of their programs, but what programs would they expand without Pauline?

  Barbara shifted on her chair and the thing rolled a tiny bit before she steadied it by bracing a toe against the desk. “Shouldn’t we be starting dinner?” she asked. “We checked in two more today.”

  “You checked them in?” Kat asked.

  “Yes. They’re in Oveta Culp Hobby.”

  “Did you get them signed for programs?”

  “Well, they’re only staying two days, so—”

  “You didn’t sign them up for any programs?”

  “They’re only staying for two days, so I thought they’d like the short-term things, so they each took a day of beauty and then,” she glanced at Della, “that journal program.”

  “Students!” Della laughed. “At last.” They had restructured the “Journal Writing as a Spiritual Journey” program to a series of self-contained afternoons to fit both locals and those who were just passing through. The locals, however, seemed less impressed than when Pauline was actually helping them write entries every day and sharing them in class.

  “The need for self-expression is endless,” Kat cracked.

  “Well, it’s what people like,” Barbara defended herself. After Kat’s cross-examination, she reminded Della of a wounded puppy.

  “Circus of the Stars and the National Enquirer are what people like,” Kat snapped.

  “I’ve got to change before I start cooking,” Barbara said, looking only at Della. “I’ll be back down in just a few minutes. Meet you in the kitchen?”

  “Sure,” said Della, though she too had to change before she started dinner. “What’s with you?” she asked Kat as soon as Barbara was out of earshot.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Nothing?” Della stood and motioned with her hands. “What’s with you and Barbara?”

  “Believe me, there’s nothing with that woman and me.” Kat ruffled her own hair with a manicured hand.

  “Don’t you think you at least should be civil, considering she’s co-owner of the Ladies Farm? And could still make a bid on the whole place if she wants.”

  “Please do not ask me to be kind to Richard’s widow,” Kat said, pronouncing every word precisely and separately.

  “I’m not asking you to be kind,” Della said. “Merely civil.”

  “I’ll be civil,” Kat said sullenly. She frowned. “But I think it’s real interesting that she never said anything about the gravel.”

  “Well,” Della pointed out, trying to be fair, “no one ever asked about it before. I think the best thing’s just to try to get this whole thing settled quickly, so try not to piss her off. I’ll grant her this,” Della said, thinking about Silver Quest, “she’s smarter than she looks.”

  Kat’s expression showed she had already considered the possibility. “She wouldn’t really change her mind? Anyway, I think Melissa and Hugh Junior want us to have the place.”

  Her eyes looked enormous and Della, who had always been enchanted by the sharp angles of Kat’s cheekbones, for the first time noticed hollows beneath her eyes. “I just want this to be over,” Kat blurted. “I want the Ladies Farm to be ours and Barbara to be gone and enough teachers and trainers to run the place without Pauline.”

  Della had always assumed that the Ladies Farm was just a convenience to Kat. It gave her a base from which to conduct her consulting business, and it gave her a home without the domestic responsibilities of a home.

  “She treats us like we’re her wives,” Rita always grumbled, but she, like Della and Pauline, had come to appreciate Kat’s steadfast determination that they live within their means, that they follow their own business plan, and that the Ladies Farm be more than a subsidized hobby. So maybe Kat’s fierce attention to the bottom line indicated a different kind of devotion.

  Della worried the corner of her lower lip and resisted the urge to tell Kat that everything would be all right. “Well, the teachers and trainers seem to be under control. Except,” she added, “for ‘Journal Writing as a Spiritual Journey.’ But I’m working on that one.”

  “I know,” Kat said. She shook her head and rolled her shoulders. “I’m just tired.”

  Della stepped around to the back of Kat’s chair and massaged the back of her neck and shoulders. “We just have to concentrate on the guests,” Della said. “Get the meals on, schedule the trainers, keep the rooms clean. I know it’s hard about Barbara, but let it go, at least until things are settled with Hugh Junior and we know how to run the place without Pauline.”

  “I miss Richard,” Kat said.

  “I know,” Della replied.

  “I missed him the whole time Grant and I were dating, and after we were married, and then when we were divorced. And I barely saw him alone after I got married. But I never stopped missing him.”

  Della rubbed harder, kneading Kat’s shoulder with the heel of her hand. “I know,” she said.

  Melissa arrived early, while the guests were still lingering over coffee and muffins. “Did Hugh send anything for me?” Della asked her after the introductions, motioning
her to take a mug from the sideboard and help herself to breakfast.

  Melissa shook her head no. “Was he supposed to?”

  “Oh, I thought if he found something in your mom’s journals that would help me with the class of hers I’m teaching—‘Journal Writing as a Spiritual Journey’—he might send it along.”

  Melissa nodded. “He mentioned something about working through her journals.” She grinned. “But I think he was so overwhelmed by having my little Californians for the day that he couldn’t focus on it. Carrie made him stay home to give her a hand.”

  Melissa was pouring herself a cup of coffee when Rita breezed in, resplendent in a rhinestone-studded denim jumpsuit. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she warned Melissa. “You’re up first, soon as I finish this coffee.” She smiled and nodded at each of the guests. “Now, honey,” she told one named Clara, who was sitting at one end of the table, “see how nice and firm your skin looks after that facial? You do that once a week and people’ll think you’ve had a facelift.”

  Clara’s friend Marty piped up, “I think I might like one too, if you’ve got time.”

  “Well, I can work you in,” Rita promised. “I think you should have the mud pack. We’ll do a good herb steaming, get those pores open, and then the purifying mud and mineral mask. About eleven?”

  Marty nodded.

  Della smiled. It really might be okay, she thought. Rita will keep expanding the salon, get an assistant or two, peddle lots more Day-of-Beauty packages. The aerobics trainer and the crafts lady will keep the programs going. And we can do a big marketing campaign for Silver Quest, get it into every senior household in America. If I can just get through this first journal class.

  An hour and a half later, past introductions, a brief exploration of writing paper and pens, and a trembling recollection of her friend Pauline’s description of journal-keeping as mapmaking of the soul, Della sat at the head of the dining-room table while four heads bent over four formerly blank pages. It’s working! she exulted silently. They’re writing!

  She sipped her coffee, glad she had reserved the dining room for this group. With the sliding wood panels to the great room closed and the kitchen deserted until lunch, it was as private as the classroom in the barn, but with a prettier view.

  Clara, the one closest to her, paused for a moment and caught Della looking, but only smiled and returned to her work. Della checked her watch. Ten more minutes, she thought.

  Holding her breath, she pushed herself up from her chair and, coffee cup in hand, tiptoed into the kitchen and out to the salon.

  She expected Rita to be ankle-deep in hair, but she didn’t expect to hear the buzz of the razor. She expected to see Melissa, but she didn’t expect to see her sitting in the chair at the second station, hair intact and her face covered with a mud mask.

  Della had thought perhaps Barbara would be there, hovering over Pauline’s daughter, urging her not to part with too much of her crowning glory. But Della had never expected to see Barbara seated in station one, her expression tranquil as Rita finished shaving her hair line around the base of her head and up over her ears.

  Chapter 9

  “What are you doing?” Della asked when she caught her breath.

  “We switched,” Barbara chirped. “I decided if anyone’s hair should be hacked off, it should be mine. So … age before beauty!”

  Della blinked, but nothing changed. Rita, light twinkling off the rhinestones in her jumpsuit, was still finishing up with the razor. Melissa still sported the mud mask. Flops still lay under Rita’s counter. And Barbara, her mountainous bulk draped by the pastel cover, sported a crew cut. In red.

  “Your hair—” Della started, but stopped in the face of Rita’s glower.

  “No sense messing with it,” Barbara said as Rita dusted off her neck with a soft brush.

  “And are you still cutting yours?” Della asked Melissa.

  Melissa nodded, obviously afraid of cracking the mask with conversation.

  “I think we’re looking at some shaping, maybe some highlights,” Rita said, sweeping the drape off of Barbara and turning her to see the finished product.

  Barbara, steady and serene, raised a hand and touched the top of her hair, testing her palm against the short bristles. “Oh, if Richard could see me now,” she said.

  Rita was shepherding Melissa to the back, where she would peel the mask and wash Melissa’s hair.

  “Why did you do that?” Della whispered.

  Barbara smiled and continued to stare at her reflection. “It’s so much easier to keep,” she recited. “And,” she turned to face Della, “I thought Melissa should see what really short hair looks like before she starts cutting. Now I’m going to get a facial.”

  Della checked her watch and shook her head. “I’ve got to get back. C’mon, Flops,” she invited. “Want to come to class with me?” The dog raised her head a little, then, with a sigh, settled back down at Barbara’s feet.

  “Traitor!” Della muttered, heading out of the salon.

  In the dining room, Clara was filling her fifth page, but the others were chatting softly. “Would you like a minute more?” Della asked.

  Clara shook her head and smiled. “Oh, no! I can finish this before bed tonight.”

  They took a turn around the table, sharing their entries. The class ended with an assignment to put their journals next to their beds, to write down their last thoughts at night and their recollected dreams in the morning. Della joined the others in the kitchen to help put lunch together, then headed out back. She found Melissa near the doorway of the barn, looking through the glass at the pottery class.

  “You can go in,” Della said. “They’re probably finishing up anyway.”

  Melissa shook her head of newly trimmed hair. “I’m not sure I’m ready. Maybe another time.”

  Without discussion, they moved away from the barn and the ladies covering their clay with damp cloths. “I’m glad you didn’t cut your hair short,” Della said. Without discussing it, they headed to the river.

  “Oh,” Melissa laughed, “it was just a momentary longing. Something different. But this,” she gestured at the new bangs and sculpted crown, “is probably change enough. Though I don’t know how I’ll re-create this without Rita around.”

  They reached the water and followed a small path into the trees that hugged the bank. “Your hair has beautiful color,” Della remarked.

  “Like my mom’s.” Melissa had obviously heard, and long ago accepted, the compliment. “Well, at least Greg won’t be too shocked.”

  “Did he make his plane all right?” Della asked. Greg had left right after the funeral, leaving Melissa and the boys to stay with Hugh Jr. and Carrie.

  “Just fine,” Melissa said. “But he said the house is so empty without us, he can’t bear it.”

  Della had to fight the envy she felt for the joy in Melissa’s voice.

  The path along the Nolan wandered back to town, and they followed it easily. “Your mother spent a lot of city council meetings lobbying for this,” Della advised Melissa. “She was the first one to offer land for it.”

  “I know,” Melissa replied. “She wrote me about it.”

  It wasn’t much of a hike, more a stroll. At Pauline’s urging, the path had been paved with large stones so that Ladies Farm guests could walk into town to visit the quaint shops filled with antiques and local art. Della wasn’t sure about the quaintness—Sydonia clung to a fifties kind of dustiness—but the path did end at a flight of steps that took them to the front of DrugRite, seat of the finest soda fountain in central Texas.

  “Oh, let’s have ice cream sodas!” Melissa’s voice was full of mischief.

  “Sounds like lunch to me,” Della assented.

  Randi Buckler, who was about the same age as Melissa, motioned them over to a booth. From her post behind the counter, she called out, “Y’all want the special?” She shrugged when they shook their heads. Randi was the daughter of one of the courthouse clerks; thou
gh, as usual, Della could not remember if it was Wanda, Lu, or Kathy.

  “I don’t think Randi remembers me,” Melissa whispered to Della as Della nodded her helloes to the table of Randall & Whitley, attorneys.

  “We just want ice cream sodas,” Della called back up to Randi, who nodded. “Chocolate with vanilla ice cream.” She turned back to Melissa. “That okay?”

  “Perfect.” Melissa smiled. Her hair gleamed with the highlights Rita must have added this morning.

  “Your hair looks great,” Della repeated. “I just noticed the highlights.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Melissa looked pleased. “I know Aunt Barbara just cut hers to prevent me from cutting mine all off.”

  “Well, it worked.” Della shook her head at the memory of Barbara’s shorn locks. “You have to indulge us, Melissa. You’re all—you and your brother—all we have now of your parents.”

  “You and mom were close.” Melissa considered a moment. “I didn’t think of her as that close to Aunt Barbara, except with Uncle Richard.”

  A single word could be a betrayal, Della warned herself.

  “But you know what?” Melissa gave a little laugh. “Aunt Barbara’s a riot. You should have heard her yakking it up with Rita. Telling her all about Uncle Richard. You know that car she drives, that red Thunderbird?”

  In an instant, Della’s tender concern for Barbara’s secrets boiled over in anger. Randi selected that moment to plunk the ice cream sodas in front of them, which saved Della from making digs about the gold-trimmed monstrosity.

  “Randi,” she said in an even, if slightly squeaky, voice. “Do you know Melissa? She’s Pauline’s daughter.”

  “Real sorry about your mom,” Randi allowed. She and Melissa traded a bit of information … enough for Randi to establish her standing as a former cheerleader for the Sydonia Sabers and Melissa to explain, gently, that she had finished high school in Fort Worth. And that Randi, like many people in Sydonia, always enjoyed meeting the Ladies Farm guests who wandered into town. And that they would all miss Pauline’s ceramics booth at the peach festival.