Vintage Ladybug Farm (13 page)

“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.

Noah actually completed his college applications and got them in the mail—before, unfortunately, allowing Lindsay to proofread his essay. Though the promise of a second job appeared to be the incentive he needed to complete the essay, he didn’t seem too disappointed when the job at the church went to someone else before he could apply for it. When school started again, he got caught up in the basketball schedule and the usual senior class mania, working after school at the hardware store in town, and seeing Amy on the weekends. He didn’t win the rodeo tickets—Amy did—but with such an overage of stored-up Bible verses, the scripture quoting did not slow down much. Lindsay admitted to Cici and Bridget privately that, even though she felt guilty for it, she was relieved when weeks went by and Noah didn’t mention anything about considering a calling to the ministry. Bridget, apparently, had been wrong.

Dominic had become even more of a fixture around the house than he was before, and sometimes he spent the afternoons with Lindsay in her studio, helping her sketch out what he remembered of the tasting room mural. Other times, Lindsay would walk with him through the vineyard, helping him check the dormant vines. Dominic had a small house and a couple of acres nearby, complete with horses, a dog, and a garden. On weekends he sometimes took Lindsay trail riding, and if the day wasn’t too cold, they packed a picnic. He became a regular at Sunday dinner and always brought an interesting wine for them to taste.

Lori decided on a theme for her wedding—vineyard—which came as a surprise to no one, and had set a definite date: Tuesday, September 10 at 2:00 p.m. She still hadn’t chosen her attendants, flowers, a color scheme, or invitations. She hadn’t registered anywhere. However, she had made plans to come this weekend while Paul was here to look at wedding gown sketches. That was huge.

In fact, everything at Ladybug Farm was going smoothly for the first time since they moved in. Everything except one.

“I see you’re making progress on the roof,” Derrick observed as they returned home from the photo shoot.

The damage to the roof had expanded from a one-tarp job to one requiring three tarps when the roofers began to tear off the clay tiles that were such a decorative part of the old house’s appeal and discovered water damage that appeared to have accumulated over a quarter of a century. Weather delays—and the fact that the roofing crew appeared to be unable to work more than two hours a day or two days in a row—had resulted in the bright blue roofing tarp becoming a more or less permanent feature of their front entrance.

“Don’t get me started,” Cici said.

“Don’t get her started,” agreed Bridget, carrying in a tray of coffee and cups from the kitchen. Ida Mae followed with a basket of cinnamon rolls that filled the room with the aroma of cinnamon and yeast.

“Ida Mae, you are an angel!” declared Derrick, reaching for the basket.

She twisted away from him, sheltering the basket with her arm and looking at him suspiciously. “I thought you was a on a diet.”

“It’s worth dying for,” he assured her, “if the last thing I taste is this bit of heaven on earth. Besides, cinnamon is great for the cholesterol.”

“I could have rebuilt the entire roof by now,” Cici said, beginning to fume. “By myself.”

“Which is one thing we’re really trying to avoid.” Lindsay flipped up the sections of the pie table beside the fireplace in the parlor, and Bridget set the tray on it. Ida Mae, still regarding Derrick suspiciously, followed with the cinnamon rolls.

Paul came into the room carrying a bottle of Montrachet decorated with a red bow and a huge heart-shaped box of chocolates wrapped in pink satin. “Happy Valentine’s Day, girls!” he declared, and kissed each of them on the cheek while they exclaimed over the chocolates. “And thanks for your hospitality once again.”

“Are you kidding? The worst thing about having you move here is that you won’t be staying with us anymore.”

“And bringing presents,” added Lindsay, eagerly opening the candy. “Are there any red ones?”

“Red whats?” asked Derrick, watching her lift the layer separator to search the bottom chocolates.

“Candies,” explained Bridget, pouring coffee. “Today is her red day.”

“She’s on the color wheel diet,” explained Cici. “You can only eat one color of food each day, and every day is a different color.”

Paul nodded sagely, accepting the cup of coffee Bridget offered. “Perfectly appropriate for an artist.”

“Today is the red day.”

“Aha,” said Derrick. “Beets, apples, rutabagas …”

“And cherries!” exclaimed Lindsay, triumphantly holding up a chocolate-covered cherry.

Cici held out her hand. “I’ll take the chocolate. You keep the cherry.”

Looking a little disappointed, Lindsay handed over the candy. “At least the wine is red.”

The two men watched in fascination as Cici peeled off the chocolate layer and returned the cherry to Lindsay. “So how’s it working for you?” Derrick asked.

Lindsay shrugged and popped the cherry into her mouth. “I’ve gained three pounds.” She passed the box of chocolates to Bridget.

“You look like a goddess to me,” declared Paul gallantly, and she blew him a kiss.

Bridget selected a chocolate and passed the box to Ida Mae. She took it with a sniff of disapproval. “Eating candy this time of day. You got no more sense than a bunch of young’uns.” Nonetheless, she searched the box until she found a candy whose size and shape appealed to her, and while she did, Derrick helped himself to a cinnamon roll.

“Umm,” Bridget said, biting into her chocolate. “Amaretto.”

“Might’ve known there’d be booze in it,” observed Ida Mae darkly. She bit into a chocolate and handed the box to Cici.

Bridget passed Derrick a cup of coffee. “You should call our builder about your roof,” Derrick told Cici, digging a card out of his pocket before he sat down. “He’s supposed to be one of the best in the county.”

Cici licked the last of the chocolate off her fingers and studied the card. “Hmm.” She passed the card to Bridget. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him. That must be because he’s fair, honest, and skilled. We prefer to deal with overpriced liars who don’t know what they’re doing.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “I told you not to get her started.”

“We must have talked to twenty different contractors,” Paul told her, “and he was the only one who would even talk about taking on the job. He wasn’t stumped by anything, either—the pool, the sauna, the bathtub on the balcony …”

Bridget lifted her eyebrows. “You’re putting your bathtub on the balcony?”