Vintage Ladybug Farm (24 page)

“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 effort 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.

The painting was a
trompe l’oeil
depiction of Ladybug Farm as seen through two swagged black velvet curtains: the sweep of lawn, the stately house, the sheep meadow, the rose garden, the vineyard in the distance, the barn and the gravel drive that curved toward the winery with its wooden sign: Ladybug Farm Winery. And if one looked very closely, a faint cloud formation in the eastern corner bore a very distinct resemblance to a feathery flying horse.

Bridget approached it with her hands pressed to her cheeks, her eyes wide and glistening, unable, for a moment, to even speak. Cici beamed at Lindsay. Dominic dropped a hand lightly on Lindsay’s shoulder, and Noah nudged her affectionately with his elbow, grinning. Lindsay impatiently struck a tear from her eye, not wanting to miss a moment.

“It’s …” Bridget finally managed. She half turned to them, choked on an exclamation that was part laugh and part sob, then whirled back. “Oh, look!” she cried, stretching out a hand. “There’s Rebel under the porch.”

“I painted him in,” Noah said. “Bambi, too, over there by the barn.”

“We’ve been working on the panels all winter,” Lindsay admitted, trying to sound casual. The glow of pleasure on her face betrayed her. “I was going to surprise you and move them in to the barn when you got your restaurant set up there, but as it turns out …” she shrugged, “This was a better place.”

Bridget turned back to them, one hand still shielding her trembling lips, her face flushed and her eyes full. “You … these last couple of days … you did all this? For me?”

“Dominic and Noah helped move all the art stuff to the loft,” Lindsay replied, casting a quick grateful smile from one to the other of them, “and they helped Cici build the table.”

“What luck Family Hardware had sixteen matching chairs out in their storehouse,” Cici put in. “They’re just plain pine, but they look nice painted like that, don’t they?”

“I can’t believe we were able to sneak them in here without you noticing,” Dominic added. “Didn’t you hear Farley’s truck yesterday morning?”

“And the dishes,” Noah said. “Don’t forget the dishes.”

“I saw them in Staunton when I was Christmas shopping,” Cici said, “so I called the shop and luckily they still had two sets. I had them keep the store open last night while Noah drove in to get them. Of course, we’ll order a lot more.”

“And I had all those glass bottles in the attic,” Noah added. “You know, picked up here and there around the place while we were planting stuff. Some of them are real antiques.”

“And see? We brought in some of the other artifacts from the house and the old barn to use as art.” Lindsay gazed around proudly at the polished-steel dairy cans that held fresh daffodils, the age-darkened chicken crate mounted on the wall, the horse collar that framed a mirror. “I know it’s not finished, but we were running out of time. And it does look a little like a real restaurant, doesn’t it?”

Bridget said, still struggling to get the words out, “It looks … it looks perfect! But Lindsay, your art studio.” She looked at her helplessly. “You can’t do this. Did Lori talk to you? I told her not to. This is your studio!”

Lindsay looked momentarily confused. “I think it was Ida Mae who first mentioned the idea to me,” she said, “but I didn’t give it much thought until I saw the barn. Bridget, really, what worked fifty years ago simply will not fly today.” She looked at Dominic for reassurance, and he nodded.

“The entire setup of the farm was different back then,” he said. “It was practical to have the tasting room upstairs because it was unused space. But now you’re using it for a different purpose. There’s no sense in trying to make something work for you just because it worked for someone else.”

“Seriously, Bridge, the expense of converting the barn would be enormous,” Cici said.

“Not to mention the smell,” added Noah.

Lindsay said, “And this place already has good lighting, a new electrical box, heating, plumbing, and a real bathroom with another one roughed in. And did you see the serving area Cici walled off for you? Right there by the sinks so you can do prep and clean up and with six—count them, six!—electrical outlets.”

Dominic cleared his throat. “Farley did the wiring,” he pointed out. “You might want to have it checked by a licensed electrician.”

Bridget looked from one to the other of them, brimming with hope and despair. “But, Lindsay, it’s your studio! It’s your dream. Where will you paint? Where will you have your classes?”

She shrugged it off cavalierly. “So now I have a better dream. My classes are down to practically nothing, and I never needed this much room for myself. The important thing is now I have a place to
sell
my paintings—with actual people coming through here to look at them. I can always paint upstairs in the loft when you’re not using the downstairs, right? The light is better up there anyway.”

Bridget ran to her and embraced her in a hug so fierce it almost knocked her down. Lindsay was laughing; Bridget was crying. “I love you!” she cried. “Thank you!”

She turned her embrace on Noah, and then on Cici, and then on Dominic. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She stepped back and wiped her damp face with both hands. “You’re the best friends in all the history of friends. I don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not,” replied Cici with a grin, “but we wanted to do it anyway.”

Lindsay draped her arm around Bridget’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Because we love you, too.”

Cici caught her hand. “Come here, let me show you where I thought you could set up your buffet station.”

Noah hurried after them. “Did you see the grape leaves I painted on the doors?”

Dominic, smiling, watched them for another moment, and then he turned and quietly left the building.

~*~

Paul looked around the entrance of the B&B, with its polished plank floors and country-bright décor, and observed, “I may be taking a risk here, but at first glance it doesn’t look a thing like the Bates Motel. Always a good sign.”

Derrick called out, “Hello?” His voice echoed.

Paul opened the door to a small, cluttered room marked “Office” and found it empty. Derrick looked around until he spotted a painting of a deer and another of a basket of wildflowers, each on opposite walls. “Aha,” he said, going over to them. “Noah and Lindsay Wright. I would know their work anywhere, however badly displayed. And I don’t see price cards on either one of them. Very bad marketing.”

“If it were me,” Paul said, “I’d turn this entire area into a gallery wall, get some proper lighting in here …”

“Lose the quilts and the tchotchkes.” Derrick bent to peer inside an old-fashioned glass-fronted hutch. “Really? Miniature teapots?”

“Tell me that’s not a wallpaper border,” said Paul, looking up toward the ceiling.

“I like the chandelier, though,” said Derrick. “Painted antlers. Just retro enough to be amusing.”

Paul went over to a pink birdcage displayed on an ornamented pedestal and lifted an eyebrow. “Someone has a sense of humor.”

“Now this room is not bad.” They left their luggage behind and wandered into the sitting room adjacent to the entrance. There was a tall stacked-stone fireplace and French doors leading out onto a stone patio and a walled garden just coming into bloom.

“I could do without the velvet settee,” suggested Derrick.

“And I would so paint that ceiling white,” said Paul, craning his head backwards, “beams and all. That dark wood just brings the whole thing crashing down.”

They made their way through the house, randomly opening doors and critiquing choices, occasionally fluffing a pillow or rearranging a candy dish, and pronouncing it on the whole acceptable. In the room that had been assigned to them there was a decanter of sherry and two glasses, which was a nice touch, and in the big, granite-and-steel kitchen there was a covered platter of chocolate chip cookies. They helped themselves to both and returned to the front room.

“We should call the girls,” said Paul.

“Maybe they’ll invite us to dinner.”

“You’re right. It might sound a bit needy to call them before dinner.”

“We could drive out and look at the house site.”

“And leave this place unlocked?”

“It was unlocked when we got here,” Derrick reminded him.

“But it didn’t have any of our possessions in it.”

“Good point.”

They spent a moment sipping sherry and contemplating the dilemma. Then Paul said, “Dinner on the terrace?”

“I saw some camembert and eggs in the refrigerator.”

“And fresh spinach for a salad.”

“We could open the bottle of Malbec we brought.”

“I’ll get the candles,” Derrick said.

“I’ll start the omelet,” said Paul.

Later, they lingered in the garden over wine and the dying candles, watching the dart and dive of the hummingbirds from a safe distance, until the garden disappeared into shadows. The stars appeared, one by one, like distant fireflies behind the gossamer veil of twilight, and they agreed that the evening was one of the nicest surprises they’d had in a long time.