Vintage Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  Lindsay came downstairs in thermal sleep tights and a mismatched Disney character sleep shirt, the belt of her fleece robe dragging the steps behind her. Her auburn braid was frayed, her eyes puffy. She rubbed a hand over her face a couple of times to establish circulation, then stood in silence beside Cici for a moment before speaking.

  “You haven’t been here all night, have you?”

  “Nuh-uh.” Cici lifted her coffee cup and took a gulp. “Just since dawn.”

  “Jeez. We were up until two. Where are the kids?”

  “Left at dawn. They were driving to Richmond to tell Mark’s parents.”

  “Good God. I need coffee. Is that Farley on the roof?”

  Bridget, wearing the sateen quilted rose-patterned robe her son had given her and the leopard-print scuffs her grandchildren had given her for Christmas, came in from the kitchen, bearing two mugs of coffee. She handed one to Lindsay. “Ida Mae called him,” she said. She glanced worriedly up at the hole in the ceiling. “I hope he’s being careful up there. It’s awfully slippery.”

  Cici sighed. “Better him than me.”

  Farley was their next-door neighbor—next door being three miles down the highway—and all around handyman. From replacing broken windows to disposing of vermin, if it needed doing, Farley was the one to do it. The fact that he often overestimated his own competence was a small conciliation to make, considering that he never charged them more than ten dollars for anything.

  “Bite your tongue.” Lindsay elbowed Cici sharply in the ribs. “We’d be up a deep creek without Farley and you know it.”

  Cici said irritably, “Ow!” She glared at Lindsay. “What’s with you anyway? I’m black and blue from you kicking my ankle and poking me in the arm last night every time I opened my mouth.”

  “Well, what was I supposed to do, let you spoil the happiest night of Lori’s life? It’s not as though anything you could have said would have changed her mind.”

  “At least we talked her out of a beach wedding on Maui,” offered Bridget. “She’ll come down this very staircase, just like you pictured when we moved in.”

  “Well, there is that.” Cici turned to gaze at the wide, gracefully curving staircase with its polished mahogany treads and gleaming banister, and marginally cheered. She, Lindsay, and Bridget had refinished every one of the twenty-two stairs by hand the first year they moved in, sometimes using tools as small as a toothbrush. And all the time she’d been picturing this moment. Then she sighed. “I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”

  “And you won on the June bride thing,” Lindsay reminded her.

  “It’s way too hot here in June.”

  “September is much better.”

  “The chrysanthemums will be in bloom, and we can have the reception in the rose garden,” Bridget said with a nod of satisfaction. “The climbing roses will just be making their second showing, and the black-eyed Susans and asters will be at their peak. It will be just gorgeous.”

  Lindsay grinned at her. “We do give fabulous weddings.”

  “And September is the absolute best month for planning a menu,” Bridget went on happily. “Everything is fresh and easy to get. We’ll have a giant prime rib and purple potatoes right from the garden and—oh! Mark’s parents aren’t Jewish or vegetarian or anything, are they?”

  Cici frowned into her coffee. “No. They’re Republican.”

  “Because it isn’t easy to do a vegetarian wedding, even in September, and I don’t think Ida Mae has the first idea how to keep a kosher kitchen.”

  Cici said, “Lori’s too young to get married.”

  Bridget said, “She’s twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-four. And she’s known Mark less than a year.”

  “Cici,” Lindsay pointed out patiently, “you were a lot older than Lori when you got married, and you’d known Richard for years. You see how well that worked out.”

  Cici and Richard had been divorced most of Lori’s life. She scowled and took another sip of coffee.

  “I married my high school sweetheart,” Lindsay added, “and couldn’t even live with him for three years.”

  “Jim and I had only known each other eight months,” Bridget said, “and we were married for thirty years. He was the love of my life.” She smiled. “And I was the love of his.”

  Cici sighed broadly. “I know all that. What I can’t understand is why couldn’t they just move in together like everyone else?”

  Lindsay and Bridget exchanged a look. “You’re kidding, right?” Lindsay spoke up. “You cannot be the only one in this room who doesn’t know Lori moved in with Mark last semester.”

  Cici’s frown only deepened. “You know what I mean. Why can’t they just keep it that way?”

  “They explained that. Job offer, long-distance relationship …”

  And Lindsay added, “Come on, he’s perfect for her! At least that’s what you said last year, when you thought she was going to run off to Italy to see that boy she was always e-mailing back and forth.”

  “Mark,” Cici pointed out deliberately, “has a job in San Francisco. Three thousand miles away.”

  “But it’s not Italy.”

  “And you don’t just walk away from a job offer from Google,” Bridget said. “Do you have any idea how many people apply for every job opening there? Six hundred! Per job! ”

  Cici looked at her skeptically. “Who told you that?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I Googled it.”

  “Anyway, the point is,” Lindsay went on quickly, “he’ll be making more money his first year than I did in practically my whole working life, so why should they wait to get married, if that’s what they want to do?”

  Cici sighed. “It’s nothing against Mark; you know that. It’s just that … this wasn’t the plan. Lori was going to go to Cornell, get her degree in enology, come back here and open a winery. That was the plan. Not San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco is in the heart of wine country,” Bridget pointed out gently. “And the University of California has a program that’s every bit as good as Cornell’s.”

  “Anyway,” added Lindsay, “it could be worse. Mark’s job doesn’t start until after the wedding, so at least they’ll be here all summer. Can you imagine trying to plan your daughter’s wedding long distance?”

  “Which is exactly why she’s not getting married in Maui.”

  Lindsay slipped her arm through Cici’s in a brief hug. “I know how you feel. After all, she’s our baby, too. I taught her third grade and gave her her first pair of high heels.”

  “And I taught her how to whistle and how to make brownies,” Bridget added. “So if you think you’re the only one who’s going to be crying at that wedding, you’re very much mistaken.”

  Cici smiled, wanly but gratefully. “Do you know how old I feel right now?”

  Lindsay gave her arm a bracing squeeze. “It couldn’t possibly be as old as you look.” And when Cici stared at her, she defended, “Hey, you know as well as I do women our age can’t get by on three hours of sleep. Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

  Perfectly on cue, there was a knock on the door. Bridget went to open it, and Farley stood on the porch, wearing his perennial camo cap and a stained tan waterproof jacket, his ginger beard streaked with tobacco juice. “Ladies,” he said, touching his cap.

  “Farley, thank you so much for coming over,” Cici said, coming forward. Bridget went to get her purse. “How bad is it?”

  “Well.” He chewed on it for a minute, then spat tobacco juice into the soda can he carried in his hand. “You got yourself a leak, all right. I got a tarp nailed on her. Should hold you for a while. But looks to me like you got some rotten beams up there.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “That’s a little more than I like to involve myself in, truth be told. But I can get you a roofer out here, first thing in the morning.”

  With every word he spoke, Cici felt her heart sink. “Beams,” she repeated. “That doesn’t sound good.”
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  “No, ma’am,” he agreed. “It ain’t. But could be worse.”

  The three of them stared at him expectantly.

  “Could be the foundation,” he volunteered.

  Bridget mustered a weak smile. “Right,” she said. “Thanks, Farley.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Won’t you stay for breakfast? Ida Mae is making biscuits and ham, and I’ve got baked French toast in the oven.”

  “I thank you kindly, ma’am.” He touched his cap again and dug his billfold out of his back pocket, carefully tucking the bill inside before adding, “But I got me a pot full of greens and jowls simmering on the stove, and you know what they say about having your greens on New Year’s.”

  “Good luck, right?” said Lindsay.

  “And money,” he replied seriously. “Every leaf a hundred dollar bill.”

  Bridget’s eyes went wide. “Wow. I’m going to speak to Ida Mae about lunch.”

  Cici said, “Thanks, Farley. If you’ve got a roofer, tell him to call us.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Once again, he touched his hat and spat into the can. “Y’all have a happy New Year, you hear?”

  “You too, Farley. Happy New Year.”

  They closed the door behind Farley and looked at each other for a moment.

  “Well,” said Bridget, uncertainly.

  “Could be worse,” agreed Lindsay.

  And Cici said glumly, “Not the plan.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Bridget said after another moment. “We’re having French toast for breakfast, and I smell sausage.”

  “Which is only the bright side if you hadn’t planned to start a diet today,” Lindsay pointed out.

  That made Cici smile, and she finished off her coffee. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat. And …” She paused to give Lindsay’s braid a playful tug as she passed. “Thanks for kicking my ankle last night.”

  Lindsay smiled. “What are friends for?” She slipped her arm around Cici’s waist and they walked together to the kitchen.

  ~*

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Grand Adventure

  Ida Mae didn’t like to serve company in the kitchen, and she complained about it every chance she got. She was complaining about it to Paul as the three women entered, and he was responding, as he always did, “But, dear heart, you know we’re not company; we’re family.”

  And Derrick added, “Nonetheless, when you get tired of cooking here and decide to come live with us, we’ll let you serve every meal in the dining room. Tea, too.”

  Ida Mae made a grumpy sound and scooped up sizzling sausage patties with a spatula, draining them on a wooden board lined with butcher paper before transferring them to a platter.

  “Fine friends you are,” Lindsay said. “First, you invite yourselves to our party, and then, you try to steal Ida Mae away the minute our backs are turned.”

  “Good morning, gorgeous ones,” replied Paul cheerfully. He placed a clear glass bowl filled with pinecones, cinnamon sticks, dried oranges, and lemons on a spray of evergreen in the center of the rubbed hickory table and stepped back to critique his work. “And you know perfectly well we’d never try to steal Ida Mae behind your back. We’ve been trying to do it in full view of God and everybody since we met her.”

  “You’re all of you a bunch of fools,” returned Ida Mae, pulling a casserole dish from the oven. Derrick quickly grabbed a couple of potholders and took the dish from her. She scowled at him. “And there’s too many damn cooks in this kitchen.”

  “Cranberries,” said Derrick as he set the dish on the table, and Paul snapped his fingers in agreement, then hurried to the refrigerator to secure a handful.

  “And don’t you go wasting my good cranberries on your fancifulness, either!” warned Ida Mae, although it was with an inevitable sense of approval, even indulgence, that she watched Paul sprinkle a handful of the ruby jewels across the centerpiece.

  Though the formal dining room, with its leaded glass windows and crystal chandelier, was a grand and beautiful room, it was easy to see why everyone preferred eating in the kitchen. Before Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay moved in, the house had been owned by the most prominent family in the county, and the kitchen had been designed to accommodate someone who did a lot of entertaining. It was easy to imagine an entire crew of chefs moving back and forth between the two ovens and the oversized refrigerator on busy party nights, arranging trays of hors d’oeuvres on the miles of countertop and simmering sauces on each of the six burners on the range. The big room had a polished brick floor and delft tile backsplash, a huge soapstone farmer’s sink, and a well-used butcher-block workstation in the center. But perhaps its most attractive feature was a raised fireplace with an arched stone surround that was centered on the far wall. A cozy hickory table with cane-bottomed chairs was drawn up before it, and in the winter, that was where the ladies preferred to have all their meals.

  A fire snapped and crackled in the fireplace, and herbs from Bridget’s kitchen garden hung in bunches from a drying rack overhead, giving off a curious mixture of warm fragrances that was part sun-drenched summer and part holiday feast. Paul had set the table with red Fiesta ware and lime-green napkins, crystal stemware, and the good silver. Each napkin was tied with a string of red jingle bells, and every place setting accented by one of the sprayed gold or silver pinecones left over from last night’s celebration. Paul claimed that the best thing about staying overnight at Ladybug Farm was browsing the butler’s pantry for table settings the next morning.

  Derrick poured pink grapefruit juice into the glasses, and Bridget took a crystal bowl of fruit salad from the refrigerator. Ida Mae plucked golden brown biscuits from a baking sheet that was black with age and dropped them into a basket lined with a linen napkin. Lindsay set a heavy dish of white farmer’s butter on the table, along with a cut-glass relish dish filled with a selection of Bridget’s jams—cherry wine, rosemary-blackberry, and herbed apple. Cici poured coffee. “Now this,” she admitted as Ida Mae set a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs seasoned with red and yellow peppers and another bowl of pale grits on the table, “was worth getting up for.”

  “Did someone have a teensy bit too much of the bubbly last night?” Derrick teased her.

  “Don’t mind her,” Lindsay said, bringing a platter of ham to the table. “She’s just depressed because Lori’s getting married.”

  “Depressed? What is there to be depressed about? I love weddings!”

  “The best time I ever had was planning my Katie’s wedding,” Bridget said.

  “And it was gorgeous,” Lindsay said. “All those yellow roses.”

  “Katie didn’t get married right out of college,” Cici reminded her.

  “That wasn’t the plan,” Lindsay confided to Derrick.

  “Ah,” said Derrick, pretending to understand.

  Ida Mae set a platter of whole wheat pancakes drizzled with honey close to Derrick’s place setting and wiped her hands on her apron, looking at him sternly. “Them sausages is chicken,” she told him. “You can have two, but keep your hands off the ham. And there ain’t no yolk in the eggs. No butter or salt in the grits, either. Everybody else add your own.”

  Derrick rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Ida Mae, you make a heart healthy diet almost worth having a heart attack for.” Derrick’s heart condition was something they rarely talked about, but everyone knew it had been a precipitating factor in his and Paul’s decision to give up the stress of Washington, DC, and build a home in the country.

  Ida Mae cast a sour look at Bridget. “It’s all Miss Priss’s doing. I believe in eating food the way God made it, and that means not trying to turn a chicken into a pig or milk into water. And if you can choke down them grits without butter or salt, you just let me know how you do it.”

  Cici suppressed a grin and Paul quickly pulled out a chair for Ida Mae. “All right, everyone, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  Ida Mae sniffed and started to turn away. “Like I got nothing better
to do than sit around jawing the morning away with the bunch of you.” Then she hesitated, eyeing the feast that was spread out before them, and conceded, “Well, maybe I will have just a bite of ham biscuit.”

  She sat, and there was a happy confusion of scraping chairs and snapping napkins and exclamations of appreciation as dishes were passed and plates were filled. “So how did you guys ever get an architect to come all the way out here on New Year’s Day?” Bridget inquired, gamely spooning grits without butter or salt onto her plate.

  “He’s a friend,” Derrick replied, discreetly passing the bowl of grits to Paul without taking any. “He understands about feng shui.”

  Paul passed the grits on to Cici. “Also, we paid extra.”

  Cici passed the grits to Lindsay without even glancing at them, then helped herself to the French toast. “What feng shui?”

  “You know.” Lindsay hid the bowl of grits between the fruit salad and the chicken sausage, reaching for the ham platter. “Whatever you start on New Year’s Day always ends well. It’s good luck.”

  “Like Farley and his greens,” suggested Bridget.

  “That ain’t it.” Ida Mae slathered her ham biscuit with butter. “Everybody knows that whatever you’re doing on New Year’s Day is what you’re gonna spend the rest of the year doing.”

  Paul looked uncertainly at Derrick. “I really don’t want to spend a whole year on this house.”

  “Don’t worry,” Derrick assured him. “A good builder can build a 3500-square-foot home in a hundred twenty days.”

  “Add two months to that,” advised Cici.

  Paul did some quick calculating. “Still, that’s only six months. That’s not bad. We can move in by June.” His eyes brightened with excitement. “We can give Lori an engagement party by the pool!”

  “Pool?” Lindsay said.