by Donna Ball
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Bridget assured her. “Kids these days are not as concerned about those things as we were.”
“Well,” said Lindsay, “it’s really not surprising. They’re exposed to so much more at an early age than any generation before them. The whole world is at their fingertips, and the transition from one culture to another doesn’t seem nearly as dramatic. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“I don’t know,” said Cici. “I think it’s important to be raised in a culture with strong traditions. It helps define who you are.”
“Studies have proven that children who are raised with a strong religious background grow up to have better overall mental and physical health as adults than those who aren’t,” Lindsay said. “It doesn’t matter whether they practice that same religion when they’re grown up or not. Just the childhood background is what makes the difference.”
The other two considered that for a moment, rocking. “Where did you learn that?” Cici asked curiously.
Lindsay shrugged. “Church, I guess.”
“Speaking of church …” They all turned their heads toward the sound of a vehicle turning into the driveway, the sound they had all been waiting for, without bothering to acknowledge it even to themselves, for the past hour. A black-and-white streak dashed across the lawn and halfway down the drive, barking furiously, then abruptly veered off toward the sheep meadow.
Lindsay looked at her watch. “Really,” she said, “I know he could do a lot worse than Amy, and I should be glad he’s spending so much time in a wholesome environment, but we have got to get those last college applications finished up tonight.”
Cici looked surprised. “You mean they’re still not done?”
Lindsay shook her head. “I’ve never seen him procrastinate like this before. Writing is not his strongest subject,” she confided, “and I know he’s struggling with the essay. I offered to help him, but …” Again, she shook her head. “I’m just not sure he understands how important this is.”
“Noah has turned into a very responsible young man,” Bridget said firmly as the car, with Noah at the wheel, pulled around the drive toward the garage at the back of the house. “And he has you to thank for that. He always does the right thing in the end.”
Lindsay tried to look reassured. “I’m just afraid by the time ‘in the end’ gets here, the application deadline will have passed.”
They heard the car door slam, and in another moment Noah came bounding up the steps. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said cheerfully. “Taking in the sunshine, I see. That’s good for people your age. Builds strong bones.”
“Hey!” objected Bridget with a frown. “How old do you think we are, anyway?”
Noah grinned and lightly tossed the car keys to Cici. “Thanks for the use of the car. I gassed it up on the way home.”
“Thank you, Noah,” said Cici. “It was thoughtful of you to save an old woman a trip to the pump. I might have broken a hip swiping my credit card.”
She held out her hand and he said, “Right.” He dug into his jeans pocket and returned her credit card to her. “Forty-two fifty on the pump,” he said.
Cici groaned. “I have got to get a car with better mileage.”
“Or a smaller gas tank,” suggested Noah. He settled one hip on the porch railing, swinging his foot. “Is everyone gone already?”
“Don’t worry, you missed them,” Cici said.
“You’re missing a lot of things lately,” Lindsay added pointedly.
He shrugged pleasantly. “I’m a busy guy.”
Lindsay opened her mouth to reply, but Bridget spoke over her. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah, it was great. They had chicken and dressing for lunch. Not as good as yours, of course,” he was quick to add, “but not bad. Then we all went over to the youth center and watched this movie about three kids on drugs who saw an angel and straightened up. Then we went to choir practice. I’m thinking about taking up the guitar. Amy says I have the hands for it.” He spread out his fingers and examined them in the light. “What do you think?”
“I think,” replied Lindsay, “those hands could be put to very good use finishing up your college essay.”
“Almost finished,” he assured her.
“I’m not kidding, Noah, this is important. We’re already taking a huge chance on not getting financial aid and you can’t keep putting this off.”
“‘To everything there is a season,’” he told her, “‘and a time for every purpose under heaven.’ Ecclesiastes 3:1.”
He sprang down from the rail and said, “I’m going to change clothes and feed the animals. I hope the company left some pie. I’m starved.”
“Don’t ruin your supper,” Lindsay called after him, turning in her chair. “And we’re not finished with this subject.”
At the door he paused and looked back. “Um, listen,” he said, “I’ve been thinking and … well, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
All three women turned. There was an odd look in his eyes that was impossible to miss, as though he wanted to say something and didn’t quite know how. Lindsay encouraged, “Sure. What is it?”
He seemed to gather up his courage. “Well, the thing is …” Then he hesitated and faltered. His gaze went from one to the other of them, then dropped to his shoes. He cleared his throat and looked back up again. When he spoke next there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was not what he had originally intended to say. “I’ve got a chance to pick up a few extra bucks cleaning up after church services, vacuuming and polishing the pews and whatnot. It’s only a couple of hours a week, but you know I’m saving for a car and every little bit helps. I was wondering if it would be okay if I took it on until they find somebody permanent.”
Lindsay waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, she glanced at Cici and Bridget, then looked back to Noah. “You already have one after-school job,” she pointed out, “and I was counting on you to help me with an art project I’ve been thinking about. But I’ll tell you what. When you get your college essay finished, we’ll talk about it.”
He looked relieved. “Okay, sure. Thanks.”
“Noah?” Lindsay stopped him as he started inside. “Was there anything else?”
His expression was perfectly innocent. “Nope, that’s it.” He tossed her a quick grin and a salute. “‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’” he declared. “‘For her price is far above rubies.’ Proverbs 31:10.”
They waited until Noah was gone to share another long, puzzled look. Then Cici ventured, “What was all that about?”
“I don’t think it was about virtuous women,” Bridget said, looking troubled.
“And I can pretty much bet it wasn’t about saving up for a car.” Lindsay’s tone was grim. “If that girl is pregnant, I will kill them both.”
“You won’t have to,” Cici said. “Her daddy will do it for you. Besides, I don’t think it’s about Amy.” When Lindsay looked at her hopefully, she explained simply, “He wasn’t nearly scared enough.”
Bridget nodded in agreement and Lindsay cautiously relaxed. “Still …” Bridget’s expression was thoughtful. “Have you noticed every time you bring up college he changes the subject?”
“Have I ever.” Lindsay frowned. “But this can’t be about college. We had that conversation last year when we first started getting the applications together. He was excited about it. It was all he could talk about for weeks, remember? The whole thing about getting a car was so that he could have it to get back and forth while he’s away at school.”
“What if it’s not about college,” suggested Bridget, “but about the kind of college? All this time he spends at church, his sudden interest in memorizing the Bible … What if he has a, well, a vocation?”
The other two women stared at her with absolutely blank expressions, not understanding at all, or perhaps choosing not to. Finally, Cici said, “Are you talking about—seminary?”
Bridget nodded. “It would explain a lot. You have your heart set on him going into the arts, but what if that’s not his calling?”
Lindsay started to laugh, thought better of it, stared at her friend in disbelief, and then sank, loose-boned, back into her chair. “Noah, a minister. Well, you should pardon the expression, but Jesus take me now, because I’ve heard everything.”
“It’s probably just a phase,” Cici said, but she looked uncertain.
“What if it’s not?” said Bridget.
Lindsay seemed to turn that over in her mind for a moment. “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she decided, pushing up from her chair. “I’ll ask him.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Cici said, and Bridget chorused at the same time. “Bad idea.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not your call to make, for one thing,” Cici told her frankly. “He’s eighteen. He’s worked hard to get this far and he has the right to make his own decision about where he’s going to college.”
Lindsay said, “Wait a minute. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Because it’s the speech you gave to Noah when we all first talked about college last year. I liked it.”
“He’ll talk to you about it,” Bridget assured her, “when he’s ready.”
Lindsay rubbed her arms against the chill of the dropping sun, looking torn. “Nothing ever turns out the way you expect, does it?”
“What would be the fun in that?” Cici said.
“Ida Mae made fresh bread this morning,” offered Bridget, trying to cheer her. “What do you say we warm up the leftover bourguignon and have supper in front of the fire with a great big glass of wine?”
“No, thanks,” said Lindsay with a sigh. “I’m on a diet.”
Cici lifted an eyebrow. “When did that start?”
Lindsay looked at her watch glumly. “About two hours ago.” She opened the door. “The good news is I can have any flavor gelatin I want.”
Cici and Bridget hung back as Lindsay went inside, sharing a smile. “She is so dating,” Bridget said.
And Cici agreed, “Oh, yeah.”
They followed their friend inside and closed the door on the fading day.
~*~
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wine and Roses
The three friends huddled together in the freezing drizzle, their umbrella tops bumping, while Paul and Derrick posed for the camera a few feet away, a spray-painted gold shovel between them. Their heavy ribbed sweaters were frosted with moisture and their faces chapped with cold, but their determined smiles never wavered as Lindsay counted down, “Three … two … one … Got it!” She checked the display on her digital camera and held it up to them as both men hurried over.
“I don’t know,” Derrick worried. “It’s kind of dark.”
“That’s because it’s s-s-seven thirty in the morning and raining,” Bridget said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
“The light’s not going to get any better, fellows,” Cici agreed. “And those guys on the backhoe are going to go home if it gets much wetter. Do you want to break ground or take pictures?”
“Okay,” Paul agreed. “Just one more of us turning over a shovelful of dirt.” They hurried back to their spot, and all three women smiled indulgently as he called back, “This is for posterity!”
The property was beautiful, even on a wet, gray winter day. Acres of rolling meadow—currently a well-mown shade of brown—were sectioned with crisp white paddock fencing along a curving hard-packed drive that led from the county road to the small knoll upon which they now stood. A perfect rectangle, approximately 40x30, had been staked out with yellow tape, flanked by two smaller rectangles, 10x20, at diagonal corners. To the east, a tall oak, naked now but no less formidable, stood sentry, and to the west, a blue mountain faded into the sky.
To the north, a yellow backhoe chugged impatiently, waiting to dig the foundation, while a crew stood around their pickup trucks and smoked cigarettes.
Lindsay snapped the perfect picture of the two of them crouched down to lift a shovelful of dirt while grinning into the camera. “Okay,” she called, waving them over. “You’re ready for Twitter. Let’s go home.”
“Don’t you want the grand tour?” Paul invited while Derrick busily polished the mud off the shovel with a towel.
The women looked from the square of tape to the impatient heavy machinery operator. “Well …”
“It’ll just take a minute,” Paul insisted, grabbing Cici’s arm. When the engine behind him revved up, he turned and shouted, “Who’s paying your salary?” To Cici he confided, “You’ve got to know how to talk to these roughnecks.” And she smothered a grin.
“How did you ever get a heavy-equipment operator to come out on a nasty day like this?” Bridget asked, stepping carefully over puddles and holding onto Lindsay’s arm as she negotiated the soggy ground in her spike-heeled boots.
“No choice,” Derrick answered. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Can you think of a more auspicious day for breaking ground?”
“One of the luckiest days of the year,” Paul added. “Only good things happen on St. Valentine’s Day.”
“Well, except for St. Valentine himself,” Lindsay pointed out. “Wasn’t he martyred?”
“And there’s that whole St. Valentine’s Day massacre,” Cici added.
Paul swept them both with a single dismissing look. “St. Valentine is the internationally recognized symbol of hope and love, guaranteed to bring good luck to any project dealing with home and family.”
“Where did you hear that?” Bridget asked.
Cici said, “Since when did you guys become so superstitious? First it was feng shui; now it’s Valentine’s Day luck …”
“It’s not superstition,” Derrick corrected her. “It’s caution. This is our dream home, and we don’t intend to take any chances.”
“So you paid the guys extra to work in the rain?” Cici suggested.
“We told them they’d get a full day’s wages for an hour’s work if they’d break ground this morning,” Paul admitted. “All they have to do is start the foundation and then they can go home.”
“Ah,” said Lindsay with a sage nod. Bridget glanced nervously over her shoulder as the backhoe engine chugged to life.
“Now here,” Paul said, ignoring the sounds of impatience behind them and pointing toward one of the diagonal squares, “is the front lanai, centered around the koi pond with a screened gazebo and wet bar.”
“And Moroccan fountain,” Derrick called over to him. “Don’t forget the fountain.”
“Right,” Paul said, and something about his expression suggested the fountain was still under discussion.
“Now …” He held down the tape for the ladies to step over and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Imagine you’re standing in a grand foyer, twenty foot ceilings, marble floors, floating staircase to your right …”
“And the chandelier,” Derrick reminded him. “Ten feet wide, chrome and crystal,” he told the ladies.
“Right,” Paul murmured again. He led them on. “And here, a cozy library, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves … The great room with tri-fold doors opening up onto this view …” A gesture took in the white-fenced pasture and distant mountain. “And here, the chef’s kitchen. Poured concrete countertops here, big horseshoe island here …”
“Brazilian cherry floors throughout,” added Derrick.
“Brazilian cherry,” agreed Paul, “except for this center section here, which will be a cut out of tumbled stone.”
“But not limestone,” said Derrick, and he turned to Bridget. “Can you imagine? The first time you spilled red wine or bolognaise sauce …” He shuddered.
Paul ignored him and took several giant steps forward, swinging open another set of imaginary doors. “Here …” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the backhoe’s approaching engine. “The pièce de résistance. The outdoor kitchen, huge fireplace here,
pergola covered with grape vines, and three steps down … the pool and hot tub grotto.”
By now he was almost shouting, and Bridget looked over her shoulder nervously. “I think they really want to get to work.”
“Just a minute,” Lindsay said, focusing the camera. “I want to get a shot of the pool.”
“And you haven’t even seen the upstairs yet,” said Derrick.
“Or the wine cellar,” added Paul.
“Very funny.”
“We’re going to put in an organic garden over there,” Derrick said, indicating a spot to their right, “and plant fruit trees all along the pasture fence.”
“That’s a lot of work,” shouted Cici.
The backhoe began to scrape off a section of one of the diagonal squares.
“And horses,” added Paul, gazing serenely over the pasture.
“Do you know how to ride?” asked Lindsay.
He looked at her as though surprised by the irrelevance of the question. “Well, no. But this is horse country. This is a horse pasture. Must have horses.”
“Horses are pretty high maintenance,” Cici pointed out. She covered her ears against the roaring and grinding of gears behind her.
Derrick spread his hands benevolently. “What else do we have to do?”
“And the best part is,” Paul said, “we’re only a month behind schedule.”
“You’re going to be further behind than that,” Bridget said, grabbing each of them firmly by the arm, “if you don’t get out of the way!”
They hurried across the muddy, uneven ground toward their cars, but just before they reached them, Paul exclaimed, “One more picture!”
In the end, Lindsay charmed one of the construction workers into snapping a photo of the five of them standing in front of the house site, hands raised to frame the backhoe in the background. That was the one that made it to Twitter.
~*~
Though Derrick and Paul might have been somewhat behind in their project, at Ladybug Farm, matters were moving along with surprising—almost suspicious—ease. January had been unusually mild, and Dominic, with the assistance of Farley’s tractor, had trenched the cuttings that would become their new vines in the spring and had hand-tilled the soil for aeration. They had met twice with the lawyer, Frank Adams, and once with the nice young man at the bank who was in charge of small business loans. He seemed very impressed with their business plan, with the fact that a well-known vintner and highly respected county extension agent like Dominic was onboard, and seemed appreciative of the extra pages Lori insisted they add to the business plan, which detailed the amount of projected revenue in terms of seasonal jobs and tourism the winery would bring to the county. They signed documents of incorporation and opened a business bank account with the minimum deposit allowable by law. They applied for licenses. And on warm days, Bridget could be found in the barn, stepping off measurements and making sketches for her new restaurant.
