Love Letters from Ladybug Farm (2 page)

Cici looked at her for another moment, then closed her eyes again. Her tone was flat. “I’m so glad.”

The screen door opened again, and the silk banner pulled away from the wall and sagged down on Bridget as she came through the door. She wrestled with it for a moment, her petite stature and frothy chiffon dress making her look like an Easter egg doing battle with a marshmallow. Finally she simply jerked the fabric away from the remaining staples that held it to the wall and let it cascade to the floor like a fallen flag. She kicked it aside unceremoniously.

Bridget was the oldest of the three, with a sweet round face, a bouncy platinum bob, and an earnest innocence that made her lookyounger than either of her two friends. She was wearing Hint of Spring green in a delicate
peau de soie
with an empire waist and matching two-inch heels. The Nearly Nude Shimmer & Silk stockings actually did make her legs look longer, as promised by the manufacturer.

“Feeling any better?” she ventured hopefully to Cici.

Bridget winced as Cici removed the package of peas from her face to reveal the ugly red and purple bruise that had half closed her left eye and was beginning to discolor her cheek.

“Oh, yes,” Cici said without expression. “I’m just fine. Thank you for asking.”

Bridget hurried over to her. “It was an accident, you know. She’s really sorry.”

Cici returned the peas to her eye. “What did I say about goats?” she demanded simply.

Bridget wisely declined to answer that. “I found your earring,” she said instead and offered up a mud-encrusted seed-pearl drop pendant.

Cici just stared at her for a moment, clearly debating whether maintaining her pique was worth the effort. Then a corner of her lips turned down ruefully, and she held out her hand. “Thanks.”

Bridget smiled, dropped the earring into her hand, and took a chair, and the three of them sat in exhausted silence for a while, watching the birds and the changing patterns of muted light. In comparison to the chaos that had reigned only hours before, the muffled sounds of activity from the house sounded like a benediction.

“You know,” Bridget observed after a time, “all things considered, it really was a lot of fun.”

Cici tried to lift her head to look at her, winced in pain, and settled back again. “You did not just say that to me.”

“Well, I mean, except for the storm.”

“Tornado,” corrected Lindsay.

“That hasn’t been confirmed yet,” Bridget objected.

“And the dog,” Cici said without opening her eyes.

“And the groom’s mother.”

“And the groom.”

“And the explosion.”

“And the goat.”

“Like I said,” Bridget said uncomfortably. “All things considered.”

No one spoke for a measure of time. No one had the energy.

“You know what the problem was, don’t you?” Bridget said after a moment.

“Personally,” replied Lindsay, a rather tired smile twitching at her lips, “I blame Michelle Obama.”

Bridget smothered a giggle, and even Cici, without opening her eyes, managed a lopsided smile.

“Okay,” Cici said, “Tell me what the problem was.”

“Sex.”

Cici opened her eyes and lifted her head to look at her two best friends. The three women thought about that for a while. Then Cici gave a slow, reflective nod of her head. “Do you know, Bridget,” she said, “this time I think you’ve got it exactly right.”

Lindsay agreed regretfully, “Sad but true.”

“But it was a beautiful ceremony” Bridget said.

Cici glanced at one of the half-empty champagne glasses on the small table beside her chair. She had no idea to whom it belonged. She picked it up dubiously sniffed the contents, gave the rim a cursory examination for lip marks, and drank it down.

“Yeah,” she said, and smiled just a little. “It was.”

The “girls” in question, just enough past middle age to consider it a compliment, each gave a considering tilt of her head, purse of her lips, or waggle of her eyebrows.

They were gathered around the oiled hickory table in the kitchen, a vase of fresh-picked daffodils between them. The raised fireplace at their backs smelled of last night’s fire, and the breeze that came through the open back door tasted of snow not long melted, clean and clear, with the cool base notes of the winter that had barely passed. The ancient bricks that paved the floor beneath their feet and the walls around them gleamed in the sun that flooded through the freshly washed windows. The last of the asparagus and spring onions were on the cutting board, a chicken, aromatic with sage, rosemary and garlic, was roasting in the oven, and a package of last year’s peaches was thawing in the sink, waiting to be made into a pie. A ladybug landed on the magazine page, and Cici absently flicked it off as she read aloud.

Cici lifted an eyebrow. “Attractive,” she repeated, preening a little.

The other two ladies gave her an impatient wave. “Go on.”

She started the sentence over.

Bridget said, “Well, just about anything, anyway. I guess you didn’t mention the chicken coop.”

“What about it?” Cici challenged.

“It was a disaster!”

“We got it built, didn’t we?”

“Will you go on?” Lindsay said. “Read.”

Cici returned her attention to the magazine.

Cici smiled. “That was nice of them to mention Ida Mae. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“If she doesn’t sue the magazine for misquoting her,” Bridget said.

“She has been crankier than usual lately...”

“Read?” prompted Lindsay.

Lindsay grinned. “That’s the part I was waiting for.”

Cici obligingly read it again.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Cici excitedly. She flipped the magazine around to show them. “They included one of Noah’s paintings! He’ll die! Where is he, anyway?”

“I sent him to town to get more copies,” Lindsay said, beaming as she snatched the magazine away from Cici to study it. “Oh, look, it’s the oil painting he did of the crow in the apple tree. Hey Bridget, look at you!”

Bridget peered over her shoulder to admire the photograph of her putting the finishing touches on a red velvet cake in the kitchen. “They printed my recipe,” she noted happily. “The writer said she wasn’t sure if there’d be room.”

“Wait, there’s a whole section on you.” Lindsay continued to read out loud.

Bridget wrinkled her nose. “One,” she repeated. “One local shop. Which sold exactly a dozen jars of pinot noir jam.”

“But the gift basket was a huge success at the church bazaar,” Lindsay pointed out.

“Come on girls,” Cici said, “the website has only been up a couple of months. What do you expect?”

Bridget sighed and Lindsay read on.