by Donna Ball
They thought they would be bored after a couple of days at the B&B but were amazed at how many ways they found to fill the days. They were a little anxious at first about the slow progress on the house, but the contractor assured them that once the marble arrived from Italy, things would go much faster. And he promised them they would be in their new house by the end of summer, so in truth, they really weren’t much behind schedule at all.
And then Cici called.
~*~
They didn’t panic until they tried to reach Lincoln Crebbs for two days and received nothing but a “voice mail is full” message. It was Cici’s idea to have a certified building inspector come out and look at the place and, using all her charm, was able to persuade a local man to meet them there early Sunday morning. Cici agreed to come along for moral support.
Viewed from the car, the building site looked as it always did—a big rambling skeleton covered in blue house wrap, sitting in the middle of a giant mud hole. Parts of the roof were covered with strips of plywood and parts were not. They supposed that was why there were puddles of standing water on the concrete floor of what was to be their wine cellar.
This time they’d worn boots, and they got out of the car slowly, noting the official-looking man with the hardhat and the clipboard who was walking around the structure with a studious look on his face. “Guys,” said Cici in a puzzled voice as she exited the backseat. “Wasn’t this supposed to be a two-story house?”
“With a wine cellar,” Paul agreed. “Why?”
She gestured helplessly. “No floors.”
Derrick frowned. “Don’t they go in last?”
The look on Cici’s face—a mixture of alarm and pity—told them they were in real trouble. The three of them scrambled down the muddy hill to meet the inspector.
“The upshot of it is,” said Matthew Shaw, building inspector, when all the introductions were made, “you’ve got yourself some pretty shoddy construction here. It’s framed twenty-six inches on center—whoever heard of that?—and the roof decking is quarter-inch interior plywood; that’s all going to have to be ripped off. And see here, where they started roughing in your plumbing? Both lines are plain PVC, which means the first time you turn on the hot water, it’s all going to blow apart.”
Paul said in a sick voice, “We paid for copper.”
Cici squeezed his arm sympathetically. “I don’t see any supports for the floor joists,” she said, glancing around.
“That’s because there aren’t any,” said Matthew Shaw, looking grim. “All in all, I’d say you all were lucky to catch this when you did … except for one thing.” He walked over and scuffed his boot meaningfully through a three-inch pool of standing water that covered a good half of the concrete floor.
“Poor drainage?” suggested Derrick, weakly.
Cici said, “Where’s it coming from? We haven’t had that much rain, and even without a roof, that much water shouldn’t still be standing.”
Wordlessly, the inspector led the way to the northeast corner of the block foundation. They followed in helpless dread, their footsteps echoing wetly on the floor. There they stood, staring in disbelief at the steady stream of water that was gurgling down the already-cracked wall.
“Looks to me,” said the inspector simply, “like they built your house where your swimming pool was supposed to be.”
~*~
In Ida Mae’s Kitchen
~*~
“We’re ruined,” moaned Derrick from between his splayed fingers. “Absolutely ruined.”
Paul gave him an absent pat on the arm. “We’re not ruined.”
Derrick looked at him bleakly. “We’re homeless.”
Paul slumped back in his chair as Derrick’s dejection crept into his own eyes. “That we are,” he admitted heavily.
Cici set a cup of coffee before each of them, and Lori, who stayed home from church to have the weekly apartment-hunting telephone conference with Mark, followed with a basket of the morning’s leftover muffins. “Don’t worry,” she offered generously, giving each man a brief hug before she sat down. “I’ll be moving soon, and you guys can have my room.”
A pot roast was simmering in the Dutch oven, filling the kitchen with the fragrance of onions and carrots, and something sweet was baking in the oven. Ida Mae noisily chopped vegetables at the work island, occasionally muttering to herself. Sunday dinner at Ladybug Farm always smelled like heaven. And Paul and Derrick were too distraught to notice.
“We always have room for you,” Cici assured them, cradling her own coffee as she took her chair. But she added, worried, “You didn’t give him all the money up front, did you?”
“Not all of it,” Paul admitted. “But he did have to order the marble …”
“And the polished granite for the pool cabana,” Derrick reminded him.
“And the reclaimed oak beams for the great room, and the fixtures for the bathrooms were all special order …”
“And the light fixtures were custom made.”
“And the water feature in the foyer had to be prepaid.”
“And the kitchen appliances alone …”
Cici held up a hand, wincing. “Okay, I get it.”
Lori reached for a muffin. “What did the sheriff say?”
“He said the scoundrel had left the county,” replied Paul, angrily, “possibly the state. He also said there’s some question as to whether this is a civil or criminal matter. I said we’ll just see what our lawyers have to say about that.”
“Not that it matters,” Derrick said miserably. “We’ll never get our money back. Or our house.”
“Or our dream,” said Paul sadly. And they just looked at each other, heavy with regret.
“Dad-blast it all!” exclaimed Ida Mae, slamming the oven door shut. “Now will you just look what you’ve done?”
She plopped a spring form pan down on the counter and stripped off her oven mitts, gazing at it in disgust. “Everybody knows an angel food cake won’t rise with the devil in the kitchen, and that’s what you all’ve done—brought the devil hisself marching right in here, twitching his tail and breathing hellfire.”
Lori paused in the act of biting into the muffin, her eyes wide. Cici shrank back. Paul and Derrick looked at her, eyebrows raised to the ceiling. Ida Mae glared at them.
Lori squeaked, swallowing a bite of muffin, “What did we do?”
“You.” Ida Mae pointed a boney, accusing finger at her. “What are you doing out here in Virginia when that boy you’re supposed to marry is in California, trying to set up housekeeping for you? Seems to me you need to take a good long look at what it is that’s important to you, instead of spending every spare minute down at that winery that ain’t even yours in the first place, then hiding out in my kitchen mooning over what you don’t have.”
She turned her dark gaze and her accusing finger on Cici. “And you. Trying to make a hundred-year-old house into what it used to be and then filling up my ears with your whining and your sighing because it ain’t never going to be what it used to be. Don’t you know that’s why God made the twenty-first century?”
She turned her glare on Paul and Derrick. “As for you two, what did you expect? You never wanted to build a house, nohows, and the last thing either one of you wanted to do was to retire. All that pissing and moaning about how this had to be just here and that had to be just there—nothing but an excuse because you were too afraid to leave your big city life and get on with the rest of your life. Lies are the devil’s work, and every time I turn around, I see somebody else that wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit them in the face.” She placed her hands firmly on hips, her eyes afire. “Seems to me the only person in this house who knows what’s right is that boy, and he’s the one you’re all chastising. Well, I’m done with it. Get on out of here, all of you. And don’t you come back until you bring a smile to my kitchen. I mean it.”
Lori started to sputter something, but Cici, with a hand firmly on her back,
moved her out of the kitchen. Paul murmured sadly, “I was really starting to like the country.” And Derrick, urging him through the swinging door, whispered, “Don’t look back.”
Ida Mae called after them, “And another thing! Why ain’t you in church, anyway?”
No one dared reply.
Ida Mae, with a nod of satisfaction, opened the refrigerator and started to rebuild her angel food cake.
~*~
Paul and Derrick returned to the B&B in a glum mood. They barely even noticed the dive-bombing hummingbirds as they got out of their car, thunking the car doors closed and locking them with a bleep. Of course, Cici had wanted them to stay for Sunday dinner, but they preferred to be alone with their misery.
Paul said, as they trudged toward the steps, “Do you think Ida Mae could be right about us? Not really wanting to build the house in the first place?”
Derrick admitted uncomfortably, “We did make things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. And the truth is, I’m still not sure how I feel about retirement.”
Paul looked at him thoughtfully. “Me either.”
“Good thing, I suppose,” said Derrick with a sigh. “Because now we can’t afford to retire.”
Paul frowned a little. “I thought the house was what we wanted, but maybe …” he cheered marginally, “it was just what we thought we wanted.”
Derrick considered this. “That makes the loss a little easier to take,” he admitted. “But we’re still homeless.”
Paul’s shoulders slumped. “That’s true.”
They opened the door and were greeted by a note propped up on the bowlegged little entry table. Derrick picked it up.
Dear boys,
I’m so sorry—another emergency! My daughter broke her ankle and someone has to take care of those precious babies! Can you fend for yourselves tonight? The Hendersons checked out this morning and no more guests are expected until Wednesday. I’ll be back Monday afternoon to check on you.
Love,
Amelia
They glanced at each other, shrugged silently, and went into the kitchen for coffee. They took a tray out onto the back terrace and set it on the wooden table that was arranged between the two comfortable Adirondack chairs that overlooked the wildflower garden. They sat in silence for a while, watching the hummingbirds dart back and forth amidst the yellow daisies and purple coneflower, pink foxglove, and cobalt delphinium. One of the folk-art painted bird feeders had attracted a family of blue jays, and their antics were amusing as they fluttered and hovered and hopped between the feeder and the branch of a nearby poplar. They began to smile without even realizing it.
“I suppose,” Paul said, “we could stay here the rest of the summer.”
“We could,” agreed Derrick. “And then what?”
Paul glanced at him hesitantly. “Do you want to try to rebuild the house? On a smaller scale, of course,” he added quickly.
But Derrick was wincing before he even finished. “I don’t think my heart could take it, old man.”
“Mine either,” admitted Paul.
They sipped their coffee in silence for a time, watching the birds.
“There’s always Baltimore,” Derrick offered in a moment, though without much enthusiasm. “Or DC. We probably have enough money left for a condo.”
“I suppose.” Paul did not sound happy. “It’s just that I was really starting to like the country.”
Derrick sighed. “Me, too.”
A black-and-white chickadee tried to join the jays at the feeder and was promptly chased away. From nowhere, a big red cardinal swooped down and chased the jays away. Paul chuckled out loud and so did Derrick.
Then Derrick sat up straight, struck by a sudden thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, looking puzzled. “Isn’t this Sunday?”
“A Sunday that will live in infamy,” Paul agreed, his mirth fading.
Derrick looked at him. “Do you think Amelia forgot about the Sunday brunch?”
Paul drew in a breath for a reply and let it out wordlessly, since there really was nothing to say. The facts were irrefutable. It was Sunday. Amelia had fifteen reservations for brunch. Frowning a little, they both sat back, considering what to do.
And that was when they heard the first car pull up.
~*~
Sundays after dinner were peaceful, lazy times at Ladybug Farm. Dominic and Lindsay had gone riding, or perhaps hiking, or perhaps neither one. Noah was off with friends. Ida Mae was napping and Bridget was happily browsing through cooking magazines, making notes on recipes she intended to adapt for The Tasting Table. Cici sat on the front porch, her chair pulled up close to the rail and her feet propped up on it, with the History of Blackwell Farms open in her lap. She hadn’t turned a page in some time, but simply sat gazing at the black-and-white photo of the stately brick mansion in its heyday. Tall columns, glistening white. Elegant windows framed by lace curtains. The formal gardens curving out on either side. The artistic pattern of the tiled roof.
The screen door slammed and made Cici flinch, drawing her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Lori, in tattered shorts and a Coldplay T-shirt, dragging another rocker up close to the rail. She sat and swung her feet on the railing beside her mother’s. “I think Ida Mae hates me,” she said.
“She doesn’t hate you, sweetie,” Cici said, turning back to the book. “No more than she hates everyone else, anyway.”
“What does she care what I do with my time, anyway? I’m studying winemaking. Of course I’d take advantage of the opportunity to watch a young winery grow. Mark doesn’t care. Why should she?”
“She has very old-fashioned ideas, honey. You have to be patient.”
“She didn‘t sound very old-fashioned when she was telling you to get with the twenty-first century. What’s gotten into her, anyway?”
Cici said, half to herself, “Over a hundred years old. No additions, no alterations. It still looks today the way it did when it was built. There should be something sacred about that.”
Lori gave her mother a gentle, patient look. “Mom, I really don’t think Judge Blackwell would mind if you got a new roof.”
Cici smiled and closed the book. “I don’t think he would either, honey. I’m the one who would mind. And I think what Ida Mae was trying to say is that it’s stupid—and a little dangerous—to try to live someone else’s dream.”
Lori frowned a little and looked away. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“I think that might be what happened to Derrick and Paul,” Cici went on. “They just got so carried away with what they thought the perfect retirement house in the country should be like that they didn’t give enough thought to what it really was like to build a house from scratch. Things go wrong, even with honest builders. They just weren’t prepared.”
“What do you think they’re going to do now?”
“I don’t know.” Then she smiled a little ruefully. “But they usually land on their feet.”
“I suppose so.”
“So,” Cici invited, “did you get to talk to Mark while I was gone this morning? How’s the apartment-hunting going?”
“Oh, fine.” But her tone was a little absent. “He e-mailed me some pictures of one place right on the Bay. It’s nice.”
“But?” Cici sensed the hesitation in her daughter’s voice.
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “It’s just … I don’t know. Not me.”
“Well, when you’re married, you’ll find it helps to think less in terms of ‘me’ and more in terms of ‘us.’”
“I guess.” She cheered a little. “Anyway, he’s flying in next weekend for a few days.”
“That’ll be fun.”
Lori said, without looking at her mother, “He wants me to come back out with him when he leaves.”
“And? Will you?”
Again the uncomfortable shrug. “Maybe. Of course, there’s not much for me to do out there while he’s busy doing his thing. I don’t know. Anyway, we still have a lot of wed
ding stuff to do here.”
“We have all the wedding stuff to do,” Cici reminded her.
“Well, things have been a little busy around here, what with all the fuss about Noah leaving, and Dominic really needs my help in the lab …” At her mother’s look, she corrected herself with a frown. “Okay, maybe he doesn’t need my help, but I shouldn’t waste the opportunity to learn from him. That’s why I wanted to spend the summer here, you know.”
Cici said, “I know, honey, but summer will be gone before you know it and there are decisions that have to be made. Maybe,” she suggested hopefully, “while Mark is here next week, we can all sit down together and make some of them.”
“Sure.” Lori returned a brief, absent smile. “Sounds great.”
“In fact,” pursued Cici, “you don’t look particularly busy right now, so why don’t I go get the list and we can get a head start? But first …” She looked down at the book in her hand as she stood, and the expression on her face was deeply regretful, almost apologetic. “I have to talk to a man about a roof.”
~*~
Amelia Wriggly’s plump chin quivered and her eyes grew bright with tears when Paul and Derrick told her what they had done.
“You …” Her voice was high and thin. “Did that … for me?”
She was a short, round woman with Miss Clairol champagne-blond hair, always perfectly curled and heavily sprayed, and a penchant for sweatshirts with pictures of cats on them. Today, she wore one with three sleeping kittens in a basket and the slogan Puuur … fect, along with a flowered cotton skirt and pearl earrings. She was sweet, and a good cook, but a fashion plate she would never be. Her usually immaculately powdered and rouged face was showing the wear of the day, and she stared at them in awed disbelief.
