The Ladies Farm

by Viqui Litman

  “Baking?” Barbara asked.

  “Baking therapy now,” Della replied. “Muffins. Starting with zucchini.” She yanked a knife from the magnetic bar over the counter. “The way I feel, I might just bake them all, starting with zucchini all the way back to apple!”

  As Della walked over to the refrigerator and pulled a sack of zucchini from a lower shelf, Barbara sighed and pocketed the velvet bag. “I’ll help if you want,” she offered.

  “Oh! Barbara, you don’t have to. I’m just working off steam! Why don’t you have some tea and keep me company?”

  Barbara plugged in the kettle, then pulled a stool up to the counter. “Thanks,” she said. “Want a cup?”

  “Maybe later,” Della replied.

  She watched Della hack up the zucchini and run it through the food processor. In her few weeks at the Ladies Farm, Barbara had taken on the project of reworking the recipes in the notebook, devising low-fat versions of favorites based on substitutions of yogurt, applesauce, and skim milk for butter, oil, and eggs. She saw the project as a fitting cap to her life, putting to good use at last the knowledge gleaned through a lifetime of failed diets.

  The water boiled and Barbara made herself tea. She watched Della as she worked, but neither one of them said much. Occasionally, Della would shake her head and press her lips together as if she were holding her ground in some fierce debate, but for the most part the silence was comfortable, broken only by the bustling arrival and cheery goodnights of their guests returning from their movie.

  By the time Della had mixed the ingredients, Barbara had finished her tea. Barbara had planned to spray the muffin tins, but she found herself still perched atop the stool as Della lined the tins up on the counter and uncapped the no-stick spray.

  “I’m thinking we need a little more flavor in that batter,” Barbara said finally. “Lemon. Maybe a little ginger.”

  Della turned toward her. “Want to try now?” Her eyes were round and green, except that they tilted upward slightly at the outside, giving every suggestion—even an invitation to alter the taste of muffin batter—a faintly seductive undertone. Della’s gaze always offered mischief, Barbara thought now. A willingness to test the limits for the laughs the challenge might produce.

  Della reached up into a hanging basket where they kept dried things and retrieved a ginger root. “Let’s grate this,” she suggested.

  “And a little lemon, too.” Barbara peered into the bowl to measure what was needed. Before she could climb down from the stool, Della had retrieved a lemon, sliced it in half and was squeezing it over a sieve.

  Della grated and stirred. She held a spoon with the batter to Barbara’s lips for an approving taste, and Barbara nodded as she picked up a slight tang that would intensify in the baking. Then Della poured the batter.

  “We have to make a note in the file,” Barbara said. “Two teaspoons of the ginger. Then if it works, I’ll redo it on the computer.”

  Once the muffins were in the oven, they made more tea.

  “Want to sit outside?” Della invited. “We can light the citronella.”

  They made their way over the damp lawn to the wooden chairs. Barbara set the candle down and Della lit it, then they seated themselves on either side of the tiny table. They listened to the steady burble of the river ahead of them, and Della leaned her head back to look at the sky, where the stars were undimmed by the quarter moon.

  “I love this,” she said.

  “Me too,” Barbara agreed. She snuggled deeper into the chair. “Richard and I used to go to a spa in California, and every night we sat in this hot tub—our very own private one, on the patio of our cottage—and it was on the side of a cliff overlooking the ocean. All you could see were stars and all you could hear was the surf.”

  Through the darkness, Barbara could see Della bite her lip. Finally Della replied, “I was at a place like that once: Costa Verde, south of Santa Cruz.”

  “That’s it!” Barbara said, warming with the memory. “Richie and I thought of it as our own special place. Even when I knew about … you know … the others … the women …” damn! Why was this so hard? “even then it seemed that everything was okay if we could just get back up to those hot tubs in those hills.” She stopped and found that she was trembling, but she had to go on.

  “Della,” Barbara said, “Della, I have to ask you to do something. Something important.” Barbara took another breath and reached into her pocket. “When you visit Melissa—”

  “Oh, Barbara,” Della interrupted, “you want me to go back to Costa Verde?”

  “Oh! No, no—no!” Barbara hurried to ease Della’s mind. “Nothing like that. Nothing at all like that. It’s just that …” She fingered the velvet bag. “I need you to conduct a financial transaction for me. It won’t be hard,” she instructed, “and it won’t take too long, though it’ll add a day or two to your trip.” She was reciting now, exactly as she had rehearsed it. “And I’ll pay for your airfare!”

  “What’s this about, Barbara?” Della’s voice was politely curious, maybe indulgent.

  Barbara withdrew her hand from her pocket and held out the velvet bag. “Here,” she whispered. “There’s a jeweler in New York who will buy these from you.”

  There was enough light from the candle to see Della’s outstretched hand, palm up beneath the proffered prize. “What is this?”

  “They’re from Richard,” Barbara said, and suddenly she had to tell it all.

  “What?”

  “They’re from Richard.”

  “They, what? What are they?”

  “They’re what he gave me … over the years … whenever he … whenever we … we would fight about it. I would hear or see something, there’d be a phone call or something in the car, something, and then I’d follow him, or find out, and we’d fight and he’d promise not to do it again, and he’d start bringing me flowers and perfume and then we’d go to California and he’d fish out a diamond.”

  “Diamonds? This bag is full of diamonds?” Della had pulled the velvet sack away, and Barbara guessed she was opening it in her lap. She could see Della’s outline, the line of her forearm and wrist, the hand disappearing into the bulk of the little velvet bag.

  “There are twenty-three of them,” Barbara said. “Not that there were twenty-three women,” she explained quickly, “just maybe twenty-three arguments.”

  “Richard gave you these?”

  Barbara nodded. “Yes.”

  “Gifts from Richard? Twenty-three diamonds? No wonder you stayed with him.”

  “No! Good God! You think I stayed because of diamonds?”

  “Oh, Barbara, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just … I don’t know what to say about this. I’ve heard of making up, but this—”

  “We didn’t make up.” Barbara couldn’t control the trembling. “We never made up, really, we just kept on and on.” She could feel her tears rolling, but she had control of her voice, so she continued. “He’d wait till he was sure … you know, that I still loved him and that I wanted to stay together. So the diamond was … it, you know, symbolized our love.”

  “Symbolized your love?” Della’s voice was made for this skepticism.

  “Everlasting,” Barbara told her. She made her own voice light, airy. “You know: Diamonds are forever.”

  Della gave a little snort, but said nothing. Barbara could hear little clicking sounds as Della wiggled her fingers in the diamonds.

  “Is this one, this really big one, is this a diamond too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s really big. I can’t wait to see this in the light.”

  Barbara sat without responding.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a diamond this big!”

  Barbara sighed. “Neither had I.”

  “You must … what did you say when he gave you these? Especially this one?” Della’s voice was filled with wonder and Barbara had to concede it was an improvement over the earlier sarcasm.

  “W
hat was there to say? I told you: They’re diamonds Richard gave me. So he could keep seeing other women. And I took them.”

  “Oh, Barbara!”

  Barbara guessed Della was beginning to feel sorry for her again. Poor Barbara, Richard’s fat wife. “It’s true.”

  “But you loved him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And who wouldn’t?”

  “Evidently no one,” Barbara said. “Evidently I was one of a small crowd.” She heard Della take in a sharp breath. It didn’t matter. Barbara just wanted to get done what needed doing. “Everyone loved Richard,” Barbara continued. “And now he’s gone. And I’ve got these diamonds. And they can help us. They can help us with the Ladies Farm if you’ll take them to this man who knew Richard.”

  Alone in her room, Della took a handkerchief from her dresser drawer and spread it atop her dresser, then poured the diamonds onto the square of fabric. She counted and recounted. Twenty-three. Twenty-three arguments between Barbara and Richard. Twenty-three attempts to make their marriage everlasting. Twenty-three times Richard had told his wife that their love was forever.

  She lifted the big diamond and held it up to the light. It was a marquise and she turned it different ways to see its edges. This was probably the first time, Della theorized. The real estate agent. When he thought he was only making this apology once.

  She shook her head, placing the diamond back on the dresser. Once he realized how many he’d need, he probably bought them wholesale, worked out some sort of volume discount, went for quantity instead of quality. Della breathed out hard, then carefully pulled up the edges of the handkerchief and guided the stones back into the little velvet bag.

  You promised, Della reminded herself as she pulled the drawstrings and tucked the thing into her shoulder bag hanging on the door hook. You promised Barbara you’d do this and now you have to. You have to follow the instructions she gave you and see the man she told you to see.

  She tiptoed down the hall to check on Kat, who still slept soundly. Della stared at the recliner. I’ll have to tell Kat about the diamonds, she thought, and felt far too weary to spend the night anywhere but her own bed. Somewhere down the road, Della promised silently.

  Della crept back to her own room, thinking for only a second before she climbed into bed how unimportant Kat’s reaction had become in the scheme of things.

  The next morning, the guests snapped up the lemon- and ginger-enhanced muffins and Barbara gave Della a thumbs-up. She looked livelier this morning, Della thought, but maybe it was just makeup. And all that jade, Della thought, watching the sunlight flicker off Barbara’s dangling earrings.

  The guests were following Barbara out to the barn. Della knew that Nancy had helped lay out all the jewelry supplies, and that everything stood ready for the morning’s enameling workshop. “All I have to do is sit and talk,” Barbara had reassured them before she trooped out with her charges.

  Kat had made her appearance without drama and now cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen with Della in harmonious silence. When they retreated to the office, Della told Kat what she thought they ought to do.

  “Buy out the Huttos, kill the Castleburg deal?” Kat repeated. “How much is that going to cost us?”

  “A lot. I thought we’d split three ways—you, Rita, and me—and I think we should send Dave.”

  “Dave?” Kat only looked half-awake, so her eye-widening seemed extreme.

  “Dave Eleston, Rita’s ex-husband.”

  “I know which Dave,” Kat said. “I just don’t know why.”

  “Because he’s Gladys Hutto’s great-nephew and they know him. He and Earl’s father played football together.”

  “Ah, yes,” Kat recollected. “The Sydonia Sabers.”

  “Well, it’s something,” Della said.

  “And are you planning to barter with buttons and zucchini bread?”

  “No. I have some cash. Do you?”

  “A little,” Kat confessed. “I’d hate to have to cash any CDs, though; you know how the penalties are. Maybe we could pay it out.”

  “Maybe. Plus Barbara’s going to help. But I’m not sure how much.”

  “There’s a delightful prospect.” Kat shielded her eyes with her hand as if she were blocking strong sun rather than conversing in a shaded room. “I love the idea of being indebted to Richard’s widow.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “No?” Kat shook her head. “Is there anymore ibuprofen in that desk?”

  “How much have you taken so far?”

  “Never mind. Just see if there is.”

  Della fished around in the center desk drawer, then tried the small one on the right. “Here,” she said, handing over the white bottle. She watched in silence as Kat downed two of the pain relievers without water.

  Kat glared at her. “This hangover’s on you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Can’t you even say you’re sorry?”

  “Kat, I’ve said it. Over and over. I’m sorry this hurt you, I’m sorry Barbara’s here, I’m sorry Barbara’s dying, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “Except about Richard. Are you sorry about Richard?”

  Della shook her head. Kat looked at her.

  “I’m not either.”

  Della shook her head again. “I didn’t expect you to be,” she told Kat. “But I am sorry that it hurt Barbara. I didn’t know … I guess I never thought about that part.”

  “There’s something else,” Kat said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I appreciate your coming to get me yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” Della smiled at her friend.

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen,” Della said, “we’ve got one other thing we can try.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to talk to Melissa. Maybe she can talk to Hugh Junior.”

  “What are you going to tell her?” All the hung-over raspiness had vanished from Kat’s voice. The question was low and clear and even.

  “Everything,” said Della.

  Chapter 15

  Melissa and her husband lived in the hills south of San Jose. Melissa’s husband left for work around seven-thirty; Melissa drove the boys to school at eight-fifteen. She returned, pulling the silver minivan up behind the trees that probably blocked a carport, at eight-forty. Della, sitting around a curve in a rental car, gave Melissa five minutes before she pulled her own car to the front of the house, climbed two flights of steps to the entrance, and rang the doorbell.

  This is a child who did well, Della thought, studying the heavy wooden door and turning toward the well-landscaped hill on which the house sat. Or at least married well. She heard movement on the other side of the door: indistinct sounds, then steps, then a silence of studying Della through the peephole, then the tumbling of locks. “Aunt Dell,” the girl said, stepping backward.

  She has to know, thought Della as she entered, that I’m not delivering good news.

  “I’ve come to ask for your help,” she told Melissa. They stood in a wood-paneled entryway. To her right, Della could see a living room with a hearth and an expanse of textured wall.

  Melissa led her in the opposite direction, to a large kitchen with an oversized circle of a table.

  “Have you talked to Hugh?” Della asked once they were seated, with cups of herbal tea and a platter of oatmeal raisin cookies before them.

  “He’s told me about the gravel mining,” Melissa said. She fiddled with the embroidered collar of her denim work shirt. “Is there more?”

  Della nodded and set down her cup. “I need to start with the worst news,” she said. “Barbara is dying. She has ovarian cancer.”

  “Oh, no!” Melissa leaned toward Della. “Poor Aunt Barbara. Is she very sick? When did she find out?”

  “She’s known for a while. But she didn’t want to tell us until she felt sure Dickie had agreed to move to Houston. Evidently, moving to the Ladies Farm was her way to convince him
she’d be taken care of and that he should go on with his life.”

  “She seemed fine at the funeral,” Melissa recollected. “Getting her hair cut and all. Isn’t there something they could do: chemo or something?”

  Della shook her head. “She’s explored her options. Dickie’s helped. But there’s really nothing for her,” Della said.

  Melissa shook her head slowly. “She was always so sweet to me,” she recalled. “When I wanted to go to school out of state, she was the only one who told me to go for it. ‘Just try,’ she said. ‘If you can get accepted, you’ll find a way to raise the money.’ And she was right.”

  Della grinned. “Well, you were sort of everyone’s daughter. The rest of us just had sons.”

  “Oh, I’ll never forget the screaming—I mean screaming—argument they had over her.”

  “They who?”

  “My folks. What right did Barbara have to be advising their child!”

  “Who said that?”

  “Oh, my father, of course.”

  “Your father?”

  “Oh yeah. You should have seen my mom trying to calm him down. ‘She’s interfering in our family!’ ” Melissa lowered her voice and pressed her chin toward her chest in imitation. “ ‘Just because they have more money than God,’ blah, blah, blah! And of course, I was in tears, I just wanted to apply to Stanford, see if I could get in, try for scholarship money. And Dad, who was always so … you know, go for it! There was Daddy saying don’t you dare!” Melissa held her hands in the air and smiled. “But I dared anyway and Daddy loved it and I guess I’m really sorry to hear about Aunt Barbara. What a shame. Is there … did you come because you need my help?”

  “Yes.” Della sipped a little more tea, uncertain now about how to proceed.

  “You need money?”

  “Oh, no,” Della said. “I mean, not that we don’t need money. But this is about costing us less … and maybe about your making less.”

  “Then this must be about the Ladies Farm.” Melissa waved a hand to stop Della’s explanation. “I knew Hugh was wrong about that gravel business.”