by Donna Ball
Lindsay took a scone and slathered it with butter. Steam rose from the crevices as the pale sweet butter turned to liquid, and Lindsay bit into it, smothering a moan of delight. “Oh, I hope you made more of these.”
But Lori, with her own scone poised before her lips, hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“She means,” interjected Ida Mae, setting a glass of milk in front of Lori with a thud, “that unless you figure out a way to get heat in that barn, them sheep is going to be dropping like icicles off a roof.”
Lori stared at her. “You mean—they could freeze?”
“Dead,” confirmed Ida Mae.
Lori turned a frantic look on Cici, who was buttering her second scone. “We can’t heat a barn!” she objected before Lori could speak. “And even if we could, it wouldn’t help. The temperature is not going to get above freezing until Tuesday at the earliest, and the sheep have got to get out and graze.”
“This might be why the real sheep shearer don’t come till April,” Ida Mae pointed out, a trifle smugly.
Lori put her scone down on the tabletop, looking as though she might cry. Lindsay, feeling guilty for the pleasure she was taking in her own scone, placed it on her saucer and reached across the table to touch Lori’s hand.
“We’ll think of something,” she told her.
And Bridget added, “Don’t worry, we’re not going to let a whole flock of sheep freeze.”
“Couldn’t we bring them in the house?” Lori pleaded, and almost before she finished speaking all three women responded.
“No!”
“But people in Europe used to bring their sheep in the house at night,” Lori insisted. “The sheep would sleep downstairs, near the fire, and the people would sleep upstairs.”
“People in Europe lived in barns!”
“In the Middle Ages!”
“It’s not happening, Lori,” Cici said firmly.
Bridget suggested, “Electric heaters?”
Cici shook her head. “Too dangerous. Besides, that doesn’t solve the problem of getting them outside to graze.”
Lori plucked morosely at her scone, leaving a pile of crumbs on the tabletop.
Ida Mae said, “Too bad you can’t get back that wool you sold.”
Cici looked at her sternly. “Thank you, Ida Mae. I think Lori feels bad enough.”
Suddenly Lori sprang up from the table. “Mom, can I borrow the car?”
And even as Cici was saying, “Sure, but—” Lori turned to Bridget with her hand held out and her voice excited.
“I need some money,” she said.
Bridget dug into her back pocket. “But, Lori, your mother’s right. Heaters won’t help.”
“It’s not for heaters,” she said, snatching up the twenty as she dashed for the door. “It’s for coats!”
A bitter cold wind rattled tree branches and chafed their faces as twilight fell that evening, and still they lingered outside the barn, looking in, jacket hoods pulled over their heads, fringed scarves flapping in the wind, mittened hands shoved deep into their pockets. The hydrangeas and rosebushes were wrapped in cotton sheets and the vegetable garden was covered with mulch. Firewood was stacked beside each fireplace. And all of their sheep were wearing coats.
To be accurate, some were wearing fleece-lined UVA sweat-shirts, others were wearing wool turtlenecks, some were wearing trimmed-down thermal long johns. Lori had raided every thrift store, Goodwill mission, and secondhand shop in the county, and she, Noah, and Bridget had spent the afternoon wrestling the sheep into the garments and then driving them into the barn.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” Lindsay said, for perhaps the third time.
“Actually, I didn’t think of it by myself,” Lori admitted. “I saw it on a Nickelodeon cartoon one time . . . back when I used to have TV.”
“Dumbest thing I ever did see,” Noah pronounced, hunching his shoulders against a blast of arctic wind. “Them sheep’s embarrassed, if you ask me.”
“Well, they may be embarrassed,” Bridget retorted, “but at least they’re alive. Good job, Lori.”
“I just hope it works,” Lori worried.
“I don’t know why it shouldn’t,” Cici said. “It may not be as good as their own wool, but it’s the next best thing. They’ll be able to generate enough heat bunched up together like this in the barn to keep warm at night, and during the day the coats will keep them from losing heat while they walk around to graze.” She grinned at her daughter. “You’re a pretty smart kid, if I do say so myself.”
“I still say it’s the dumbest thing I ever saw,” Noah grumbled.
“Come on,” Lindsay said, giving both young people a playful shove on the shoulder, “let’s go in and get warm. We’ve got company coming tomorrow!”
9
Company
The silver blue Prius glided to a stop in front of the worn brick facade of Ladybug Farm and its driver got out cautiously, keeping one foot on the floor mat and the door only half open, as though he were still debating whether to exit. He was a tall, pale, sharp-nosed man of about forty with a thick mane of perfectly coiffed chestnut hair and Italian shoes. He looked around cautiously.
The white-columned porch appeared to have suffered some from the mud of winter, and nothing but the sagging frozen stems of daffodils remained of the whiskey-barrel plantings on either side of the wide front steps. Somewhere in the distance—hopefully behind solidly locked doors—a dog barked furiously, and a deer with a rope around its neck was meandering toward the car.
“Well, well,” Paul murmured to his companion. “The sheep are wearing coats and the shrubs are wearing bedsheets. We must be in the right place.”
At that moment the front door opened and four women rushed down the steps, arms opened wide. Lindsay reached him first, flinging herself into his arms and burying her face in his camel wool coat. “Oh my God, you smell expensive!” she exclaimed
He assured her, tweaking her cheek, “My dear, I am expensive.”
Cici grabbed the other door as it was opening and tugged Derrick out. “Look at you! Look at you both! How dare you look so good when I’m turning into a hag?”
Derrick, with his prematurely silver hair, bright blue eyes, and salon-perfect tan, preened under her praise. “Clean living and good hair products,” he told her, grinning broadly as he kissed her cheek. “And who’s turning into a hag? You never looked better! Your skin is positively radiant. Is that what fresh air and sunshine does to you? I might be tempted to try it after all.”
“I’m so glad you came!” Bridget exclaimed, claiming her hug. “We haven’t seen anyone from the old neighborhood in forever!”
And Lori pushed her way forward eagerly. “At last, someone from the civilized world! You’ve got to tell me, what’s happening on American Idol?”
Paul gave her a look of disdain. “Like we would ever watch that trash.” But as he tucked her arm through his and leaned in close he murmured, “You won’t believe what Cowell is up to now. Tell you later.”
“Inside, inside,” Cici commanded, hugging her arms in the brisk air. “Before we all freeze to death. Noah will get your luggage. “
“Yes, and could we speak with you about that gorgeous spring weather you promised, with daffodils in bloom and cocktails on the porch . . . Well, will you look at this?” Paul interrupted himself to stop and gaze in admiration around the foyer. “Will you just look?”
The grand, sweeping staircase gleamed beneath the prisms of the huge chandelier overhead, mirroring the golden glow of the newly refinished floors. Every surface held a vase of fresh flowers—mounds of buttery daffodils, jewel-colored tulips, stately sprays of forsythia and pink weigela. A fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, scenting the room with the aroma of hickory, and sunlight poured through the tall windows, forming inviting pools of warmth on the floors and tabletops. Derrick exclaimed over the painted tin ceiling and the stained glass window, and Paul went immediately to the draperies,
the fabric for which he had helped Bridget track down over the Internet.
“Gorgeous!” he exclaimed, fingering the pleats. “Just gorgeous.” He went quickly to one of the Queen Anne chairs that formed part of a group in front of the fireplace. “Don’t tell me you found this in the attic! And what is this?” He had discovered the muraled alcoves.
Derrick said, “Well, I can certainly see why you were enchanted. This place is unbelievable. How old did you say it was?”
Several conversations were going on at once, as Cici told the story of uncovering the alcoves, and Bridget related the history of the house, and Lindsay interrupted with her discovery of the hidden firewood bin, and Lori piped in with her contributions to unearthing the hidden treasure of the house. The walls rang with the sound of voices and laughter, soprano and baritone, and inside the house it felt like home.
“I know you want the grand tour, so I’m going to duck out and see about lunch,” Bridget said. “I thought today would be a good day for Brunswick stew.” She knew it was Paul’s favorite.
“You are a queen!” Paul exclaimed. “Tell me you made beaten biscuits. Do I pay you now or later?”
Beaming, Bridget turned toward the kitchen and saw Noah lurking near the stairs. “Oh, Noah,” she said, pulling him forward. “Come meet our company. Paul, this is Noah. We’ve spoken about him.”
Paul extended his hand gravely. “A pleasure to meet you, young man.”
Noah regarded him suspiciously, but did not shake his hand. “What kind of car is that?” he demanded.
Paul retrieved his hand graciously. “It’s a hybrid.”
He looked skeptical. “It didn’t make no noise when you drove up.”
“That’s because it runs on battery power.”
Noah grunted. “Couldn’t afford a real car, huh?”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up.
Lindsay said quickly, “Noah, come meet Derrick. Derrick owns an art gallery in Baltimore.”
Noah regarded him with interest. “Oh yeah? Any money in that?”
Derrick replied, deadpan, “I do all right.”
Noah jerked his head toward Paul. “Maybe you could buy your friend a real car.”
By now Cici was beginning to catch on to Noah’s sense of humor. “Very cute,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, would you bring the luggage in from the car? And you can let Rebel out of the barn, too.”
“Okay.” But he looked at Derrick curiously. “You got any of her paintings hanging in your gallery?”
Derrick looked at Lindsay in astonishment. “Are you producing? For display? You never said a word!”
“No, not really,” she protested. “I’m a long way from having anything to show. Come on, let’s see the rest of the house. Noah, the luggage?”
Before lunch, Paul and Derrick endeared themselves to everyone by distributing gifts. For Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay, spa baskets from Nordstrom. For Ida Mae, perfume, and even though she grumbled that she didn’t “have no use for such nonsense” she could not quite hide her embarrassed pleasure over the gift, and she smelled suspiciously sweet at lunch. For Lori they brought a Prada bag—which Paul, as the author of the popular syndicated “In Style” column for the Washington Post, had received gratis (“ ‘Swag,’ as it’s known in the business, sweetie,” he explained)—and it made Lori squeal with delight. They presented Noah with an iPod Shuffle, preloaded with what the sales clerk assured them were the most popular tunes downloaded by teenage boys. And though Noah tried to be cool about it, it was clear the two of them had earned a place in his esteem very few others would ever approach.
Lindsay slipped her arm through Paul’s and said softly, “That was sweet of you guys.”
Paul patted her hand. “We know how hard it is for you to get nice things here at the ends of the earth.”
And Derrick, smiling as he watched Lori trying to show Noah how to work the player, added, “Besides, we missed Christmas, didn’t we?”
They sat at the dining room table, at Ida Mae’s insistence, which was dressed with crisp white linen and ironed napkins. A fire crackled in the fireplace and spring blossoms decorated the table. “This reminds me of that B&B in Vermont we stopped at in ninety-two, remember?” Derrick said to Paul. “On our way to Lake Placid?”
“Except the food wasn’t as good,” Paul said as Ida Mae set a steaming bowl of stew before him.
“Ida Mae, please, you don’t have to wait on us,” Bridget insisted.
And Lori said triumphantly, “See I told you a B&B was a good idea.”
“We usually only eat lunch in the dining room on Sundays,” Noah interjected. “Wouldn’t want you to think we lived this fancy every day.”
“I’m sure there’s no danger of that,” Cici assured him, passing the bread basket. “But it’s nice to be a little fancy for company.”
“And I want you to know we do appreciate it,” Paul said, and raised his glass. “To our lovely hostesses.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed Paul and saluted them with his glass of iced tea.
“Sorry there’s no wine,” Lori said, sotto voce, glancing over her shoulder. “But Ida Mae doesn’t approve of drinking before five o’clock. She barely approves of it after five o’clock.”
Derrick cleared his throat. “Speaking of wine . . .”
Cici raised her hand to interrupt. “Let’s enjoy our lunch. There’s plenty of time for business afterward.”
Derrick obligingly changed the subject. “Well, then. What is this you were saying about a B&B?”
Lori relayed her idea of turning the old manor into a bed-and-breakfast, and Paul and Derrick returned so much attentive enthusiasm that Cici finally had to beg, “Please, you two! Don’t encourage her.”
“Well, all I know is that if you served meals like this to your guests you’d have a virtual gold mine.” Derrick spread thick purple jam on yet another buttered biscuit. “Bridget, what is this jam? It tastes like . . .” Derrick bit into the biscuit. “Wait, I’ve got it . . . Pinot noir! That’s what it tastes like.”
Bridget laughed as she got up to help Ida Mae with dessert. “Maybe it is. I made it out of the grapes from the vineyard out back.”
“Pinot noir jam,” mused Derrick. “Now there’s something you could bottle and sell.”
Lori’s eyes took on a speculative light. “Say, that’s right. All those little specialty shops in Washington and Baltimore are just filled with gourmet delicacies like that. They get ten or twelve dollars a jar!” She twisted in her chair. “Aunt Bridget! Have you ever thought about that?”
Paul murmured to Cici, “These children are consumed with high finance, aren’t they?”
And Cici sighed in return, “Aren’t we all?”
Bridget returned from the kitchen with a bubbling peach cobbler made from the peaches they had frozen last year from their own trees. Ida Mae followed with the coffeepot. “No, I haven’t thought about that, Lori,” she said. “But if you’re willing to do the kind of work it would take to get those grapevines under control, we can certainly give it a try.”
“We could make cabernet jam and chardonnay jam and pinot grigio jam . . .”
“Only if you have cabernet and chardonnay and pinot grapes,” Derrick pointed out.
“Of course,” Bridget went on, dishing up the cobbler, “you’ll have to be careful of snakes—they love to hide out in grapevines—and remember the wasps last year, girls?”
Lori said cautiously, “Snakes?”
“Besides,” Cici added, “I think we’d have to harvest a lot more grapes than we have to turn jam making into a commercial venture.”
“They used to make wine here,” Lori pointed out. “How can there be enough grapes for wine and not for jam?”
Paul said, “I had no idea the vineyard was still here.”
“If you could call it that,” Bridget said.
“It’s a mess,” Lindsay admitted, “just like the orchard. When we first moved in, I planned to have all the gardens and the
orchard and the vineyard cleared out and trimmed back and looking like a picture postcard by now. But it’s a lot of land, and a lot of work.”
“But you can still get grapes,” Lori pointed out, “from tangled vines.”
Paul smiled and toasted her with a jam-spread biscuit. “True enough, princess. Maybe after lunch you’ll take me on a tour and we’ll see just how much jam is left on those vines.”
Derrick, glancing around the table, cleared his throat. “And now that the subject has turned, inevitably, once again, to wine . . .” He looked questioningly at Cici.
She smiled. “Okay, Derrick, let’s have it. Noah . . .” She reached across the table to tap his arm. “It’s impolite to listen to headphones at the table. Ida Mae, wait. This concerns you, too.”
Ida Mae, looking impatient, stood by the swinging door to the kitchen with her arms folded. Noah, equally impatient, removed the earphones and dug into his peach cobbler. Paul looked longingly at his own cobbler, but gave his partner his attention. Derrick cleared his throat.
“The good news is,” he said, “the broker was able to sell your wine.”
The three ladies shared a hopeful look.
“The bad news is,” Derrick went on, “it wasn’t for as much as we’d hoped.” He reached into his vest pocket. “I have your check.” He removed an envelope, hesitated a moment, and passed it to Cici.
“The wine itself is still collectible,” Derrick went on quickly. “And the fact that this was the last bottle of a popular vintage makes it even more so. Still . . . the eight thousand dollars that was paid for the other bottle was a fluke, I’m afraid.”
Cici looked inside the envelope, smiled, and passed the envelope to Lindsay.
“How much?” Lindsay asked before she looked inside.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Cici said.
“That’s minus the broker’s fee, of course,” Derrick said.
“Well,” Lindsay admitted, “thousands would have been better. But that’s still not bad for a bottle of wine.” She passed the envelope to Bridget.
