Vintage Ladybug Farm (6 page)

He was a tall, broad-shouldered eighteen-year-old, whose latest effort at self-expression was a Mohawk haircut and a pierced ear with a silver skull earring. There was nothing to be done about the earring, but apparently he’d already grown tired of the haircut, as evidenced by the bristly growth around his neck and temples. He entered the room in the way of most teenage boys: like a storm wind, dropping his backpack on the floor, shucking out of his leather jacket, letting the door slam behind him.

He rubbed the cold from his hands as he strode toward the breakfast table. “Man, was that a bust. Two little kids wet their beds, and one of them threw up all over the preacher’s wife. Then this other one got a bloody nose, and two of them got lost playing hide-and-seek. We didn’t find them till midnight. ‘The wrath of the Lord is visited upon evil-doers,’ I told them first thing, and that straightened them out, you’d better believe it. Man, this looks good.” He stuffed two biscuits with ham and scraped the last of the French toast and the eggs onto his plate. “All they had for breakfast was donuts. Stale.”

He took an enormous bite of the ham biscuit, dug into the eggs, and chewed for a moment before asking, “So what’s the tarp doing on the roof?” He looked around alertly. “I thought the guys were coming down. What’s been going on?”

They hardly knew where to begin.

~*~

Evenings on Ladybug Farm were special times. As soon as the temperature rose above forty—sometimes even sooner—the three friends would gather on the front porch with a glass of wine to watch the sunset, discuss the day, and count their blessings … or complain about them. But there was a magic to winter evenings, too, when an early dinner was done and the kitchen was cleaned, Ida Mae had retired to her basement suite and Noah to his room to do homework or, more likely, to chat on the phone with his latest girlfriend or play video games on the computer. There was always a fire in the main parlor’s walk-in fireplace, with its fan-brick surround and intricately carved mahogany mantle. When they closed the double doors, it provided enough heat to keep the room shirtsleeve cozy. Two Tiffany lamps turned down low spread a subtle golden glow across the polished heart pine floors and left the high tray ceiling with its carved plaster moldings in shadow. Cici’s two wing chairs and Lindsay’s surprisingly comfortable tapestry demi-sofa were drawn up in a semicircle around Bridget’s tufted velvet ottoman in front of the fireplace. It was there the women gathered on winter evenings with cocoa or cabernet, their slippered feet resting on the community ottoman, a tray of brownies or oatmeal cookies not far from reach.

On the first evening of the New Year, they gathered around the fire and let the sturdy silence of the old house embrace them. They had said good-bye to Paul and Derrick after lunch and, still pleasantly stuffed from the midday repast of curried pork loin, black-eyed peas, hot buttered cornbread, and turnip greens fresh from their own garden, they toasted each other with hot chocolate and nibbled on the last of the fruitcake cookies. The rain had stopped, Ida Mae had gone to bed, and Noah was upstairs, presumably working on the essay portion of his college application.

“I don’t know why he put it off ’til the last minute,” Lindsay said, frowning as she bit into a cookie. “Those applications should’ve been out last month.”

“Getting the application in early doesn’t improve your chances for admission,” Bridget pointed out, absently flipping through the
History of Blackwell Farms
book. “He’s got twenty days.”

“Yeah, but it
does
affect your chances of getting financial aid or a scholarship,” Lindsay pointed out, “which we are in desperate need of.” She frowned a little and corrected herself, “Of which we are in desperate need.”

Cici reminded her, “He already got two scholarship offers.”

Lindsay couldn’t prevent a small flush of pride as she admitted, “Well, that’s true.”

She had a right to be proud. When Noah had first come to Ladybug Farm as a virtually homeless waif, his education was sporadic and his attitude sullen and suspicious. Lindsay, a schoolteacher for twenty-five years and a secret artist herself, had uncovered a surprising talent for art in the young man and had bargained art lessons for his attention in math, science, and English. After a year of home schooling, he’d not only caught up with his classmates, but surpassed them and was even awarded a prestigious scholarship to a private school in his junior year. If Lindsay was ambitious for him, it was with justification.

“But,” she said, “the basketball scholarship is practically worthless—it’s only partial tuition for one year and you know what happens to those kids the first time they tear an ACL—and, well, as much as I’d like to see him at SCAD, Savannah is so far away, and besides, their program is limited. We could get a full financial aid package to UVA, or maybe even William and Mary, if he’d just try. Now
that’s
an education.”

“I definitely vote for UVA,” Bridget said. “He could be home weekends.”

Cici’s smile was wistful. “Just like Lori.”

Bridget tasted her chocolate, then paused. “Do you know what would be great in this? Some of that Kahlua Kevin sent us from Mexico.”

Bridget’s son, Kevin, was a DC attorney who had chosen to spend his Christmas holidays on the sunny beaches of Mexico. The elaborate gifts he sent had more than made up for his absence at the Christmas table, and in fact, had inspired the ladies to suggest that he vacation in Paris next year.

Everyone agreed that a touch of Kahlua would be just the thing, although Cici felt compelled to point out, “This is how people gain fifteen pounds over the holidays.”

Bridget brought the Kahlua from the corner cabinet that sat beneath a stained-glass window, which depicted a field of lilies against a blue sky. “Actually,” she said, pouring a generous dollop into each upheld cup, “a new study says that the average person only gains two pounds over Christmas.”

“Ha,” said Lindsay, swirling the liquor into the chocolate with the tip of her index finger. “Whoever did that study has never spent Christmas at Ladybug Farm.”

“Well, this is the last of it,” declared Cici, raising her cup in a toast. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet.”

“Famous last words,” muttered Lindsay, but she clinked her mug against the others and then made a muffled sound of pleasure as she tasted the hot chocolate.

They settled back for a moment of chocolate-Kahlua bliss, listening to the crackle of the fire and the occasional overhead squeak of a floorboard that told them Noah was still up and about. Bridget’s feet, clad in snug slipper socks with fuzzy sheep woven into the knit design, stretched toward the radiant heat of the fireplace, and she murmured, “Do you know what I like best about this house in the winter? The smell. It’s like opening up an old trunk and the whole past comes flooding out.”

“Hmm.” Cici sipped her chocolate. “I can’t believe it’s been four years since we first saw this place.”

Lindsay smiled at her. “I can’t believe we’re going to have a wedding.”

“Me either,” Cici admitted.

“Will she wear your wedding gown?”

Cici gave a snort of amusement. “Hardly. I burned that baby the minute the divorce was final.”

Bridget said, “Well, look at this.” Her eyes were on the book again, although now with renewed interest. “It says here that during the sixties, people came from as far away as Europe—Europe!—to attend the dinner pairings at the Blackwell Farms tasting room. Can you imagine? They built entire meals around their wines.”

“How about that?” Lindsay said. “Ida Mae must have done the cooking for them. We should ask her about it.”

“The sixties,” said Cici, smiling reminiscently. “Do you remember the sixties?”

“Of course not,” replied Lindsay archly, sipping her cocoa. “I was an infant.”

Cici kicked her ankle.

“It says here they entertained politicians, movie stars, and heads of state. Right here on Ladybug Farm.”

“Do you realize,” said Cici, “that if I still had any of that cheap-o furniture I bought when I first married, it would be legitimately considered antique?”

“Bridget’s Fiesta ware is antique,” Lindsay pointed out, “worth a fortune. And she got it with Green Stamps.”

“Remember Green Stamps?” Again, Cici’s smile was wistful.

“Of course not,” said Lindsay, sipping her chocolate. “I wasn’t even born.”

Cici gave her a dry look. “Well, I remember my
mother
using them.”

“A lot of wineries have restaurants on the premises,” said Bridget speculatively. “Remember, girls, all those great little cafes we visited in Sonoma? They were all attached to wineries.”

The other two looked at her.

“Well,” said Bridget a little defensively, “if Ida Mae could cook for heads of state, I don’t know why I can’t.”

Lindsay said, “I don’t either.”

And Cici lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were happy making goat soap.”

Bridget tilted her head. “The Tasting Table,” she said thoughtfully. “Cute name for a restaurant, don’t you think?”

Cici grinned, and so did Lindsay, and they lifted their mugs in salute to Bridget.

“What a year this is going to be,” Lindsay said and settled back in her chair with a small, anticipatory shake of her head.

“And just when I was starting to get comfortable,” said Bridget, sighing a little.

“You know where all the comfortable people are,” said Cici.

“In the rest home?”

“In the cemetery.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”

“Good,” said Cici, smiling and leaning back in her chair. “Because I feel better, too.”

~*~

CHAPTER
FOUR

The Importance of a Strong Start

T
he roofer arrived promptly at 8:30 a.m. on January second. And on the third. And on the fourth. Each day he stayed approximately forty-five minutes, during which time he might walk back and forth on the lawn, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and gazing up at the problem, or talk on his cell phone, or string a tape measure from one end of the porch to the other. Then he brought a friend, and the two of them walked back and forth, gazing up at the damage and talking it over. Once, he even climbed a ladder, only to climb back down again, get in his truck, and drive off.

Cici managed to catch him on the third visit.

“Well, you got yourself a complicated situation,” he told her, once again rubbing his chin as he pondered the bright blue tarp that still covered the hole in the roof. “A house this old, you can’t just go tearing in there without knowing what you’re doing.”

“I understand that.” Cici, who only had time to pull on a sweater before she rushed out into the cold, stood beside him on the lawn and hugged her arms to warm them. She tried to sound patient and reasonable. Long ago she had learned that the laborers in this county had no respect for pushy women. “What I don’t understand is why you haven’t even taken the tarp off to look at the damage.”

“Well, now you don’t want to go tearing things off before you’re ready to start putting them back on. What if there was to come a storm?”

Patience
, Cici reminded herself.
Reason
. “Couldn’t you at least give us an estimate?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, equally as reasonably. “Just as soon as I can get up there and have a look around.”

She managed to keep her expression pleasant, her tone level. “And when do you think that might be?”

“Well …” He gazed upward, considering the situation. “First, I’m going to have to tear off the tiles, see how bad the decking looks all around there. My guess, you’ve got more than one weak spot. Then I’ll have to check how far back the damage to the beams goes …”

“Wait.” Cici flung up a hand. “Just wait.” She took a breath. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to have to tear off our roof before you can even give us an estimate?”

“Well … Yes, ma’am. I reckon that’s about right.”

Now it was Cici’s turn to consider the roof, gazing long and hard at the blue tarp as it glistened in the morning sun. “Any idea when you might get started on that?”

He joined her in gazing at the roof. “Well, like I said, you don’t want to go tearing things off—”

“Before you’re ready to start putting them back on,” agreed Cici. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Nope. Can’t do it tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll get a couple of fellas out here Saturday with a piece of plywood to patch up the hole. We’ll put down some felt to keep it weather tight. How’s that sound?”

Cici smiled weakly. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

She went up the steps and into the house, closing the door firmly behind her. “We need a new roofer,” she announced to the house at large.

But, of course, no one answered. The phone, however, was ringing. Again.

~*~