The Ladies Farm

by Viqui Litman

  “Good bargains,” the driver urged, but the cab moved forward.

  “Another time,” Della promised. There were lots of Hasidic Jews on the street now, men in dark suits with beards and curls of hair coming out of their sideburns. And dark hats.

  They walked among crowds of other New Yorkers, working women in suits and running shoes, working girls in miniskirts and blond wigs, messengers on skates looking like neon streaks in their body suits of miracle fibers.

  The driver stopped the car in front of a doorway wedged between large windows that belonged to two flanking stores. She paid the driver and overtipped a little.

  There was no sign other than a metal plate bearing a street number and the words “Trade Only;” the glass door, through which she could see the empty entryway, was locked. When she rang the bell, a young man hurried in from a side hall and cracked the door. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Jacoby? I’m Della Brewer.”

  “Yes,” said the young man. “Yes, Mr. Jacoby is waiting for you.”

  She was ushered to an elevator, then down a carpeted hallway to a small showroom and seated in a high-backed chair before an ornately curved table. In a moment a man and a young woman entered. “Mrs. Brewer?” He looked at her outstretched hand and looked away. “I am David Jacoby.”

  He had no sidelocks and his head was covered only by a black skullcap, but he wore a beard, full and black. The girl with him wore a long-sleeved blouse and full skirt, and a beret over her dark hair. “Can I get you something, some tea or a glass of water?”

  “Tea, please,” Della replied.

  “Alana will stay with you,” he said, leaving them.

  “It’s hot out,” Della found herself saying.

  “Oh, yes. In the sun,” the girl said. “I hope you’re not offended by Uncle David. He just can’t … we don’t believe in men and women touching that way.”

  “You mean the handshake? He won’t shake hands with a woman?”

  Alana looked down, and Della regretted her incredulity. “We … the way we live, men and women do business and can trust each other. It’s not … please don’t think he has no regard for women in business. It’s just the contact that’s a problem for him.”

  “And that’s why you’re in the room?”

  Alana nodded. Della breathed out hard. “I’m not insulted, just … you know, even in Texas, men and women shake hands. I thought … the Jewish people I know are always hugging and kissing.”

  “Yes, we do,” Alana insisted. “But a woman alone, to come in and do business this way. Uncle David could never take her hand.”

  Della smiled as Mr. Jacoby returned with a tray. Of course, he thought I meant hot tea, she thought, looking at the cup and saucer adorned by a lemon slice and two sugar cubes. She’d forgotten that quaint Yankee custom of making you specify iced tea when you wanted it cold.

  So the three of them clustered around the table and sipped tea. Mr. Jacoby explained that he had known Richard, but that Richard had always worked with his brother.

  “Mr. Morrison was a fine man,” Mr. Jacoby said solemnly. Della smiled a little and set her cup back in the saucer. “So,” he said finally, “Mrs. Morrison wants to sell the diamonds?”

  Della nodded and from her shoulder bag retrieved the pouch. From the counter that ran along the wall, Alana took a cloth and what looked like a microscope. “We’ll have to identify each one,” Mr. Jacoby said. He smiled, pulling a folded sheet of yellow ruled paper form his coat pocket. “But as they match up, we’ll have the appraisal for each.”

  “Do you want me to come back?” Della said. “I could shop or—” She wanted him to know she trusted him.

  “I prefer that you stay here,” he said. He poured the stones onto the cloth and lined them up in rows. “We could bring you the newspaper, if you’d like. Or we can turn on the radio.”

  “It would be great to see a paper,” Della lied. She knew it would be the Times, with its tiny print and serious stories and, much as she wanted to impress Mr. Jacoby with her erudition, she didn’t think she could concentrate on anything except headlines. She reached again into her shoulder bag and retrieved a paperback. “Plus, I have a book.”

  It was a long morning, which Della would have preferred to spend at Saks or Bloomingdale’s. I am entirely dependent on Mr. Jacoby, she thought. On his honesty and on his trustworthiness. The diamonds are in his hands (which struck her as well-scrubbed but rather chubby) and under his fingers; he could replace them with cubic zirconiums and I would never know the difference. Not to mention the small matter of how the money will come to me.

  Mr. Jacoby worked noisily. He breathed heavily, he exclaimed loudly—beautiful! The way I remembered this one! exactly! Aaach!—he snorted, he muttered, he chuckled. Della didn’t know with whom he conversed; she tried answering the first few times but he ignored her.

  She moved to the corner of the room, seating herself in an upholstered chair and propping her feet on a matching ottoman. All the while, Alana sat next to her uncle, making notes, handing him loupes, and smiling reassuringly at Della.

  Della fought the urge to conjure more headlines. These are the people Barbara trusts. And Richard before her. Let them take care of you the way she promised.

  Della cleared her throat. “You know,” she said when Alana raised her head, “I could use a telephone. I need to check things at home.”

  “Of course,” Alana said. She motioned to the phone at the end of the counter, near the heavily draped windows. “Would you like us to leave you alone?”

  “Oh, no!” Della said. “I don’t want you to interrupt the work.”

  She punched in a long string of numbers. Rita answered.

  “Well, if it isn’t the happy wanderer. Where have you been?”

  “I told you, I had to visit Melissa.”

  “But we called Melissa and she said you left yesterday for New York City. What are you doing in New York City?”

  “Holding a fund-raiser. What’s going on there?”

  “Barbara fell.”

  “Fell?”

  “Passed out. Threw up and passed out, actually. It was a real mess. The good news is it was in the barn, and we could just hose down the concrete. The bad news is she cracked her collarbone. They said you could hear it snap—she was teaching jewelry—and she’s laid up. We canceled those Turow people and put her in the Babe.”

  “What’d the doctor say?”

  “That this was bound to happen, that she should use a cane or a walker, but we have to expect this, blah blah blah.”

  “Did they set her arm?”

  “Shoulder. She’s got kind of a sling to immobilize it, but she’s okay for now, except we don’t think she should be climbing stairs. When are you coming home?”

  “Day after tomorrow, I hope. Is Kat there?”

  “She’s with the county zoning guy. That’s another thing: There’s all these inspectors. The health department, Texas Employment, zoning. Then some gravel guy came out to try digging samples, and Kat about chased him off with a shotgun.”

  “A shotgun?”

  Rita giggled. “Boy, you should have seen it. She was madder than I don’t know what. Like someone lit a fire under her. She says all this is a gift from young Hugh. They cited us for the kitchen, though.”

  “They who?”

  “The health department. The dishwasher temperature isn’t hot enough. We have ten days to correct it or they’re shutting us down. Dave rigged something up, though. He and Tony got this thermostat—”

  “Tony? What was he doing there?”

  “Oh, I think he just borrowed a page from Dave’s book and decided he should camp on the porch a little. It’s a little harder for him, though, being as how his shop’s in Fort Worth and all. But he was out here and Dave sure needed his help, moving all those appliances.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “God, Della, you ask a lot! He went back to Fort Worth after he helped us get Barbara settled in.”

 
; Della exhaled slowly. “Did we hear from Hugh Junior?”

  “Twice. Wants to talk to you and no one else.”

  She took Hugh’s number from Rita and promised to call him.

  “Did Dave talk to his aunt?”

  “Well, old Gladys is pretty interested in the idea of a little cash coming their way,” Rita said. Her voice brightened. “I told Dave all she talks about is moving down to the valley and living in some trailer camp on the river so’s she can creep across and buy cheap prescription drugs in Mexico. I told her, that’s like Russian roulette, getting your—”

  “Did Dave set a meeting with them?”

  “You don’t have to interrupt,” Rita said. “Next week. That is, if you’re coming home.”

  “I will be home day after tomorrow,” Della said through gritted teeth. “And I’d like to meet with the Huttos that afternoon, if we can.”

  “We’ll try,” Rita said.

  Della sighed. “Is Barbara really okay?”

  “I think so. We got that pottery lady to come do the enamel jewelry, and Nancy’s working a little extra to help in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll be there day after tomorrow,” Della repeated.

  “Barbara’s boy came out,” Rita reported. “He’s nice. Handsome, too. That husband of hers must’ve been something.”

  “Oh, he was,” Della concurred. “He was really something.” She heard her voice quaver, and she felt the tears in her eyes, and she felt too tired to stop them. “Look, I’ll be there when I can, okay? Tell Kat and Barbara. Tell Barbara to take care of herself.”

  “Well, everything’s under control here. Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m marrying Dave.”

  “Oh, Rita! Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And soon, too.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Hope not,” Rita chuckled. Then her voice grew serious. “I don’t want to wait, Della. Barbara’s slipping so fast, now. If you’ll be home day after tomorrow, I want to be married the day after that.”

  “My god, Rita! How’re we going to pull that off?”

  “We can do it. I’ve already called the JP, and Dave’s got himself a new suit.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, I’m for it!” Della said, surprising herself with her own enthusiasm. “And I agree: There’s no reason to wait.”

  Alana and Mr. Jacoby both swiveled around to look at her, and she smiled and shook her head to indicate it was good, if unexplainable, news.

  “You take care,” Rita said. “We’ll leave the light on.”

  “I hope everything is good at your home,” Alana said.

  “Oh, it’s under control,” Della replied.

  She picked up the phone again and dialed Hugh Jr.

  “I’m waiting on your answer,” he told her.

  “I’m in New York, rounding up cash,” Della assured him. She felt Alana’s sidelong glance, but reminded herself she had to concentrate on saving the Ladies Farm.

  “Are you agreeing to my terms?”

  “I can’t say, yet, Hugh. I won’t know for a few days. Why don’t you give us a week?”

  “I’ll give you five days.”

  Della thought. She’d have the cash. She’d close the Huttos within two days. Marry Rita off the day after. Get Barbara’s signature on the deal for her half. And maybe, Della prayed, hear something good from Melissa. “Five days,” she said, assuming from his silence that he had heard nothing from his sister.

  Again, she hung up the phone and walked back to her chair next to Alana. Her tea was lukewarm, which suited her better.

  “Have a cookie,” Mr. Jacoby offered.

  Della helped herself, then walked over to the window and pushed aside the curtain to see the street below. She leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes. If she saw Richard now, she thought, she’d have to explain why things were such a mess. He sent us Barbara to take care of her and now she’s broken her collarbone!

  Well, it’s his mess, Della thought, opening her eyes and looking down. They were only a few stories up from the street, and she watched the figures hurrying along the sidewalk. They all carried things: purses, briefcases, sacks, backpacks. The sun was still behind the tall buildings, and most of the street lay in shade. It must be terrible, she thought. Maybe four, six hours of sunlight all day.

  She struggled to remember Richard during the time when he was buying these diamonds. The look in his eye, the excitement of his secret … had it been a thrill to give Barbara these gifts, or a sense of dread?

  “Dad?” It was the young man who had answered the door. “Sam Marx. You want it?”

  “Mrs. Brewer,” said Mr. Jacoby. “This is my son, Elliott.”

  “Hello,” said Della, not offering a hand.

  Elliott nodded. “Hello.” Still holding the door, he turned to his father. “So should we put the call through?”

  Mr. Jacoby shook his head. “He’s just asking about lunch. Tell him I’ll be about an hour, but I’ll call him.”

  Elliott nodded and backed out of the room. Mr. Jacoby smiled at Della. “We’re almost finished. I appreciate your patience.”

  “I appreciate your help. Is there any more tea?”

  “Oh, I think we’re out,” Alana said. She looked at her uncle.

  “Oh, just tell me where and I’ll make it,” Della offered.

  Mr. Jacoby nodded. “I’ll go with you,” Alana said. “We just have to plug in the kettle.”

  This is when they make the switch, Della thought. When I come back, he informs me that none of the diamonds is real, that the total value of all that glass is a buck twenty-five.

  Della and Alana were the only people in the kitchen, which was equipped with all the standard appliances plus a large, round table. “So is everyone at Jacoby Brothers a Jacoby?” Della asked.

  “Pretty much,” Alana replied. She took fresh cups and saucers from the cabinet and pulled a lemon from a basket on the counter. “My grandfather and his brother started it, and they took in two sons-in-law as well as my father and Uncle David. So some of my cousins—the Spicers and the Rudnicks—aren’t Jacobys, but we’re all related.” She looked thoughtful. “You must think it’s medieval, working with family like this.”

  “No,” Della protested. The girl’s earnest demeanor masked a quick eye. “No, in a way, that’s what I’ve done. Sort of made a family—my friends and I—to run our bed and breakfast. The Ladies Farm.”

  “The Ladies Farm!” Alana repeated. “Where is that?”

  Suddenly, Della found herself brimming over with descriptions of the Nolan River and the rolling hills around it. She talked about the shops on the square in Sydonia and the classes in the barn.

  “It sounds more like a spa,” Alana said. “And there are no men?”

  “Well, sometimes,” Della said. “But it’s mostly women, mostly my age.”

  Alana loaded the tea things onto the tray, and Della held the door for her as they left. The girl’s dark hair shimmered beneath the beret. “But if a whole group of women booked the Ladies Farm, then there wouldn’t be any men,” Alana said.

  “Well, no,” Della said, not sure where this was leading. She guessed at Alana’s age, you had to consciously exclude men if you wanted an all-female environment. Della wondered if she should warn the girl that that would happen eventually anyway.

  “My friends and I … actually it’s a study group … we’ve been talking about a retreat. But there would have to be a lot of arrangements about food and so forth.” Della opened the door to the showroom and Alana followed her in, setting the tray on the counter. “Perhaps, though, if we simply agreed to a vegetarian menu, it might work.”

  Della fished a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Alana. “Call me in a few days. We can probably accommodate you. My friend Barbara is a whiz at menu planning. We’ll figure something out.”

  Mr. Jacoby looked up for a moment, then returned to his work. “We’re al
most finished, he promised Della, picking up one of the diamonds with some sort of tweezers and setting it down on a scale.

  She had returned to her chair and ottoman, but even though she held her book in her hand, she didn’t read. She just held the book in front of her face, lifted and lowered her teacup, and stared at the page. Don’t think about this too much, she advised herself.

  The tea was gone by the time Mr. Jacoby pushed himself back from the table and stood up. “Aaach!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands and stretching his arms over his head. “A man can freeze in a sitting position if he’s not careful.”

  “You will excuse me for a few moments? Then we will sit down and talk business.”

  Della nodded. The large expanse of white shirt revealed when his jacket fell away from his belly left her speechless. This man had sensed Richard’s integrity and, she suspected, his passion. But she could not imagine such mass in motion over passion of his own.

  Well, someone loves him, Della thought. Different people look for different things.

  When Mr. Jacoby returned, he bore with him ledgers and files. After the teacups had been refilled, Della faced him across the ornate table, and he began by outlining Richard’s arrangement. “Our price is locked in, of course, but you are welcome to refuse. It is based on our last three invoices from Tel Aviv, Amsterdam, and Johannesburg. Averaging the last three from each, we are obligated to offer you the highest of them, which this week is Amsterdam.”

  He laid a sheaf of papers before her. “These are the invoices. They have been certified by our accountant, but you are welcome to show them to an independent accountant to verify their accuracy.”

  “Oh, no!” Della said without hesitation. “Barbara—Mrs. Morrison—was very clear, to accept your word.”

  “She is very generous,” Mr. Jacoby told her. “So was her husband. Did you know him?”

  Della nodded, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Alana, who had remained silent, smiled from her seat next to her uncle, who continued by placing a long ledger sheet before her. “The inventory matches exactly. You see,” he pointed with his pencil to the various columns, “the weight, the clarity. No change. So, the value comes from last week’s market, you see here, per carat, each stone valued separately.”