Vintage Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  Lindsay looked up and flashed him a quick, shallow smile. “Thanks, Dominic,” she echoed.

  “See you ladies later.”

  Lindsay watched him until he was out of sight, and then she turned back to Cici, a determined look on her face. “We cannot,” she said simply, “let Bridget do this.”

  “I don’t know that we have a choice.” Cici’s expression was a mixture of desperation and dismay. “The party is in two days. She’s already started cooking. She’s invited everyone we know. Paul and Derrick are bringing a priest. How are we going to stop her?”

  Lindsay’s lips tightened in sudden resolve, and she thrust the broom to Cici. “Okay, when Bridget gets back, make sure she stays busy sewing the tablecloths. Whatever you do, don’t let her come back out here.”

  Cici’s eyes widened. “Me? How am I going to keep her—”

  “And as soon as Noah gets home, send him to me. Meanwhile, start taking this crap down and moving the tables out. I’ve got a plan!”

  “What plan? What—”

  But Lindsay was already dashing out of the barn.

  Dominic was crossing the barnyard toward the vineyard when Lindsay reached him, breathing hard, and caught his arm. “Are you any good with your hands?” she demanded.

  He turned to her, his expression both surprised and amused. “I’ve been told,” he admitted modestly, “I’m quite good.”

  “Then grab a hammer and follow me.” She raced away again, but turned after a few feet, running backwards, and called, “But first, stop by the barn and get the sawhorses.”

  He opened his mouth for a question, wisely closed it again, and followed her.

  ~*~

  In Ida Mae’s Kitchen

  ~*~

  Noah sat at the kitchen counter, barefoot and shirtless, hunched over a bowl of bananas and milk, absently reading A History of Blackwell Farms by the light of the open refrigerator door. It was four thirty in the morning. Lindsay had kept him working until after ten the night before. Not that he minded; it was just painting and stuff, and besides, he’d do whatever she needed to help out. That was just the way it was. Still, he’d fallen asleep before his head hit the pillow and then had come wide awake a half hour ago with too much running through his head to go back to sleep. So he had come downstairs in search of something to eat. All he could find was some bananas on the counter and some leftover cauliflower from the night before in the fridge. He wasn’t wild about cauliflower, so he made the best of it.

  The overhead lights suddenly sprang on, and he whirled, mouth full of bananas, flinging up a forearm to shield his squinting eyes.

  Ida Mae stood beside the stove in a flowered quilted robe and a multi-pocketed hunting vest, an iron skillet held over her shoulder like a baseball bat. He swallowed hard, trying not to choke, and exclaimed, “Hey!” Ida Mae lowered the skillet to the stove with a clatter, glaring at him.

  “What you doing sitting in my kitchen like a naked savage in the middle of the night, boy?” she demanded. She marched to the refrigerator and slammed the door shut, then turned with her hands on her hips, demanding an answer.

  Noah turned back to his bowl of bananas. “I was hungry,” he muttered. “Couldn’t find the cereal.”

  Ida Mae strode to the pantry and returned in a moment with a box of cornflakes, which she plopped on the counter before him, and a navy windbreaker, which she thrust at him. “Nobody sits at my table with no clothes on,” she told him. “Have some respect.”

  Meekly, he pulled on the windbreaker and zipped it up.

  She gave a short nod of semi-satisfaction and returned to the refrigerator, removing a bowl of brown eggs and a pound of butter. “Seems to me you’d be taking every chance you can get to sleep in, with all you got going on.”

  He gave a small, uncomfortable shrug and poured cornflakes into his bowl. “I’ve got stuff on my mind.”

  “I know the kind of stuff boys your age’ve got on their minds, and it ain’t worth mentioning.” Ida Mae scooped flour from a glass canister into a big bowl, sparing him a slow sideways glance. “That mama of yours knows about them envelopes you’ve been getting from the universities.”

  He paused with the cornflakes box in midair, then set the box on the counter. “That’s okay,” he said, smashing the cornflakes into the bananas and milk in his bowl. “I was gonna tell her anyhow.”

  “Well, you better make it soon. She’s about to drive everybody in this house crazy, wondering and worrying about you and what it is you’re going to do. I’ve never seen such a fuss in my life about nothing.”

  He was about to shove a big spoonful of cornflakes and bananas in his mouth, but instead, he lowered the spoon to the bowl and simply looked at it. Ida Mae returned to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk.

  He said, without looking up, “You ever had somebody love you more than you deserved?”

  Ida Mae frowned as she poured a measure of milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove. “If you’re talking about that little gal you’ve been sparkin’, you’re too young to know a thing in this world about love, both of you.”

  He turned the spoon over and over in the bowl. “Nah. I’m not talking about Amy. We’re breaking up after graduation anyway. She’s going to missionary school.”

  Ida Mae turned the milk on simmer and measured yeast into a small bowl.

  Noah took the spoon and started drawing an absent design in the mush of bananas and cornflakes with it. “What if a person loves you more than you deserve and dreams a dream for you bigger than you want? What’re you supposed to do then?”

  Ida Mae’s steps were slow and deliberate as she replaced the milk in the refrigerator, returned to the stove, sprinkled sugar over the milk that was warming there. For all intents and purposes, she might not have heard Noah at all.

  Noah pushed up from the table. “Maybe I’ll go work in the studio for a while,” he said.

  He reached the door before she spoke. “Every born soul has got just one job to do,” she said, cracking eggs into a bowl, “and that’s to figure out who you are in this world. Then be that. Nobody can do it for you. It’s up to you.”

  Noah stood there for another moment, thinking about it, and then he smiled, just a little. “Yeah,” he said quietly. And then, with more conviction, “Yeah.”

  He opened the door.

  “And don’t you even think about going out in that yard in the dark without your shoes,” Ida Mae said sharply.

  He closed the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He went in search of shoes.

  ~*~

  The Mountain Laurel Bed and Breakfast was not exactly what Paul and Derrick had expected, and they were connoisseurs of B&Bs. The building was big and brown and rambling, with more of a lodge feel than the quaint antebellum charm they had for some reason expected. On the front of the building alone there were four doors, each painted a different color—red, green, lavender, and yellow—which was probably an attempt to make the best out of someone’s bad design decision. There was a koi pond in front, with a small stone bridge and a cheerfully splashing waterfall, and the long, low-roofed front porch was hung with lush baskets of ferns at every pillar. There was a blowsy wildflower garden bisected by a stone path and dotted with colorful folk art bird feeders and a big oak tree with a kissing bench encircling it. There was not, however, a stick of mountain laurel in sight.

  They followed the gravel drive around to the side of the building, where a neat parking lot was framed by railroad ties and surrounded by beds of bright daffodils and deep purple hyacinths. Red glass hummingbird feeders were suspended from shepherd’s crooks at uneven intervals throughout the garden, clashing with the color palette. Theirs was the only car in the lot.

  “I still think we should’ve stayed with the girls,” Derrick complained as they got out of the car. “I know we hurt their feelings by moving in here.”

  “And I still say we should’ve stayed over and driven down in the morning with Father Mike. Bridget is
counting on us to bring the priest, and we should’ve actually brought the priest.”

  “I don’t know how we could’ve done that when everything we own is at this moment being packed into giant storage pods and carted off to who knows where.” Derrick looked around curiously. “Shouldn’t there be more cars? Are we the only ones here?”

  “Well, it’s early in the season.” Paul opened the back of the car and removed the first of two oversized rolling suitcases.

  Derrick took out the garment bags and draped them atop the suitcase. “The view is nice,” he observed.

  “Peaceful,” agreed Paul, gazing around. “The hyacinths are to die for.”

  Derrick ducked suddenly as something buzzed past his ear, his expression astonished. “What the—”

  Paul swatted the air as another one of the creatures zoomed so close to his face he could feel the stirring of its wings. “Was that a mosquito?”

  “If that was a mosquito,” Derrick said, “we’re getting back in the car and going to stay to with the girls.”

  Paul frowned a little as his gaze returned to the building. “A little signage wouldn’t hurt. I wonder where the entrance is?”

  The air buzzed again and Derrick threw up his arm in self-defense. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, following the path of the iridescent winged rocket toward one of the red glass globes in the garden. “I think those are hummingbirds!”

  They dragged the giant suitcases up the steps, dodging hummingbirds as they went, and around the porch to the first door they saw, a bright blue one. It was locked. The suitcases thundered behind them as they followed the porch around to a second door, fuchsia pink . Also locked.

  “Aha,” declared Derrick as they reached the third, deep red door. “A sign.”

  It was actually less of a sign than a note pinned to the door. Paul took it down and read it out loud.

  Dear Paul and Derrick,

  Welcome to the Mountain Laurel B&B! So sorry I couldn’t be here to greet you, but I had a family emergency. Please come in and make yourselves at home. Your room is the first one down the long hall to the right.

  Amelia Wriggly

  P.S. Help yourselves to anything in the fridge

  Paul looked at Derrick. Derrick lifted his eyebrows. “Welcome to the country?” he suggested, by way of explanation.

  Paul tried the door. It opened. Very cautiously, they went inside.

  ~*~

  The shrimp were marinating. The miniature pizzas were drizzled with olive oil and topped with sun-dried tomatoes, herbs, and Ladybug Farm goat cheese, waiting only to be popped into the oven when the guests arrived. Fresh melons and berries had been tossed with a champagne dressing and feta cheese, and the traditional cheddar biscuits were sliced and spread with pepper jam and wafer-thin slices of ham. Crisp stalks of blanched asparagus wrapped in thin slices of smoked turkey were arranged on platters lined with dandelion greens and sprinkled with chopped roasted walnuts. Ida Mae’s sheet cake was beautifully frosted and decorated with fondant grape leaves. Bridget had already posted pictures of it to the Ladybug Farm website.

  Everything was ready for the guests, who were scheduled to arrive for the blessing of the vines in approximately twenty hours. And Bridget was in a panic.

  One thing or another had kept her away from the barn for the past day and a half. First, something had gone wrong in the winery—a cask exploded or something—and Dominic declared the entire area off limits to everyone until it was repaired. This hadn’t concerned Bridget very much, since he seemed to have the emergency under control and she was, frankly, busy sewing tablecloths and marinating shrimp. But when she arrived bright and early the next morning, ready to start painting chairs, Lindsay and Cici assured her it was all taken care of and sent her on a wild goose chase for plastic ivy. Meanwhile, the sound of buzz saws and nail guns was unceasing. Noah clattered up and down the stairs so many times with cardboard boxes in his arms that Bridget was persuaded to poke her head out of the kitchen and inquire in alarm, “Noah, are you moving out?”

  “No, ma’am,” he replied over his shoulder, hurrying off. “Just redecorating!”

  Bridget was no fool. She knew her friends were planning a surprise for her. She just hoped it would be finished in time for the blessing of the vines.

  There were only twenty hours left before the first guests started to arrive and she needed to set up the bar, stage the tables, arrange the buffet. And all her tablecloths were missing.

  “I’m not kidding, Ida Mae. I’ve got to have time to run that burlap through the washer and dryer for shrinkage,” she said, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “I know I left everything in the laundry room, so if you accidently ran it through with another load, it’s okay. I just need to know where you put it. Everything will have to be ironed, and it’s not like I have a whole lot of time.”

  Ida Mae said, scrubbing down the counter top, “I don’t mess with your stuff; you don’t mess with mine.”

  “But twenty-two yards of burlap and muslin tablecloths do not just disappear!” Bridget cried. “Do you know how long it took me to sew those lace runners? Ida Mae, think, for heaven’s sake!”

  Ida Mae glared at her. “I’m not your mama.”

  Bridget drew her breath for a virulent reply, and Cici pushed open the door from the dining room. “Everything okay in here?”

  Bridget whirled on her, Ida Mae scowled at her, and before either could speak, Cici said, “By the way, Bridge, we found the tablecloths and went ahead and put them on the tables. Do you want to see?”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Bridget placed a hand over her heart and heaved a huge sigh of relief. “But they really needed to be washed first.”

  Cici beckoned her to follow. “I think they’ll be okay. After all, this is just practice, right?”

  “Well, we want to make a good impression.” Bridget hurried through the house after her. “And listen, Cici, do you think it would be too much to ask Noah—or even Lindsay—to paint a sign for tomorrow—it wouldn’t have to be very big—that said ‘The Tasting Table,’ just to give people the impression it was a real restaurant? I know it’s pretty last minute, but …”

  “I’m sure they’d be fine with it,” Cici said, skipping down the front steps. “After all, how long could it take?”

  “I know you guys have been working overtime getting things ready,” Bridget confessed, “while I was busy sewing the tablecloths and preparing the food. I want you to know that I …”

  She started to turn toward the barn, but Cici gently grasped her arm and turned her in the other direction, around the house and toward the east. Bridget cast her a puzzled, questioning look, but Cici just smiled. “We figured,” she said, “that if you’re going to do this thing, you need to do it right.”

  Bridget looked back toward the barn, confused and reluctant. “Cici, we have an awful lot to do before tomorrow …”

  Cici tugged her forward. “Maybe not.”

  They rounded the house, past the gardens, and approached the stone dairy, which was now Lindsay’s art studio. Lindsay, Dominic, and Noah stood in front of it, all of them with odd, subdued expressions on their faces, as though someone had told them a secret and dared them to keep it. But the strangest thing, the thing that immediately caught Bridget’s eye as she drew up in front of the building, was that someone seemed to have tacked a sheet above the doorway, for no apparent reason whatsoever.

  Bridget said uncertainly, “Hi, guys.” She glanced at Dominic. “Is everything okay at the winery? Can we go back into the barn to start decorating now? What’s going on?”

  Dominic just smiled.

  Noah reached up and tugged on a string. The sheet fell away and the three of them stepped back, grinning. Above the door of Lindsay’s art studio was a scrolled wooden pub sign with “The Tasting Table” painted in elaborate gold script between two wine glasses that were tilted toward each other. Bridget stared at it.

  “I did the sign work,” Noah said, making no e
ffort to hide his pride. “What do you think?”

  “I—I think it’s beautiful, Noah,” Bridget said, her eyes widening with delight. “But shouldn’t it be …?” She gestured back toward the barn.

  Cici gave her a little push forward. “Check it out,” she said.

  Dominic swung open the door to the studio and made a broad sweeping gesture to usher Bridget inside. Lindsay stood aside, her steepled fingers pressed to her lips, her eyes dancing with anticipation as she watched her friend enter. “Welcome,” she said, “to The Tasting Table.”

  Bridget took an uncertain step inside and then caught her breath, looking around in astonishment. “Oh my goodness,” she said softly. “What have you done?”

  The long room was flooded with light from the skylights overhead and the rows of high windows that lined the creamy walls, and the stone floors had been waxed until they sparkled. To the right of the entrance a cubby had been created with a tall console that held a computer station and an adding machine. On the wall behind it there was a display of black-and-white photographs of Blackwell Farms from the early days that Lindsay had reproduced from tintypes she found in the attic. On the opposite side of the entrance, one of the former dairy stalls had been opened up into a small gift shop, with spotlights highlighting Bridget’s gift baskets, jams, and homemade potpourris, and art lights illuminating some of Noah’s and Lindsay’s framed paintings. On either side of the room, private tables, each appropriately dressed in burlap and lace with a centerpiece spray of lilac, were nestled into the nooks that had once been stalls, and a different piece of framed art was spotlighted in each one.

  But the most striking feature was the long trestle table that was arranged beneath the skylights, running almost the length of the room. It was flanked on either side by a row of black lacquered chairs and set with stylish square white plates and black napkins. A runner of plain burlap ran down the center of the table, topped with candles in glass jars and lilac blossoms in colored glass bottles. All of it led the eye toward the ten-by-ten foot mural that covered the back wall.