Vintage Ladybug Farm (7 page)

Paul and Derrick rode the elevator to the offices of Daniel Bradstreet, Architectural Design, for the fourth time in two days, pushed open the gold-stenciled double glass doors, and gave a dismissive wave to the secretary who rose, with an expression somewhere between surprise and alarm on her face, to greet them. “He’s expecting us,” said Paul as they breezed by, and Derrick opened the door to the inner office with a peremptory knock.

Daniel Bradstreet, president and CEO of Daniel Bradstreet, Architectural Design, was on the phone when they came in, safely ensconced behind his nine-foot-long ebony and chrome desk, but he finished quickly when he saw them. “Seriously, guys,” he said, standing, “you don’t have to come down here every time we make a change. Like I told you on the phone—”

“No trouble at all,” Derrick said. “I’m a visual person. I need to see it on paper.”

With a smothered sigh, Daniel moved from behind the desk to the drawing table that was set up in the light-flooded alcove formed by two sets of floor-to-ceiling windows. “I thought you might say that.”

“We just want to make sure that we’re keeping the integrity of the design,” Derrick assured him. “You know, simple country lodge meets Frank Lloyd Wright. Sturdy but elegant.”

“I’d say we’re still in that ballpark,” Daniel assured him. He refrained from mentioning that the house had ceased being simple or lodge-like several revisions ago.

“All I want to know is why we can’t have the swimming pool,” said Paul. “That was the most important feature of the house.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t have the swimming pool,” Daniel explained patiently. “I said you couldn’t have a spring fed
and
solar heated pool. Not where you want it located, anyway.”

He spread the blueprints on his desk and used a pointer to demonstrate on paper what he already explained to them over the phone. “There isn’t enough sun on the north side of the house, and there’s no efficient way to get water from the spring on the south side.”

“What about the west?” suggested Paul.

“I’m afraid your budget doesn’t allow for removing part of a mountain.”

“It might be interesting to have the pool at the front entrance,” Derrick said, albeit reluctantly.

“Where would the pergola and koi pond go?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Maybe if we rotated the entire house forty-five degrees …”

“Then we’d lose the entire feng shui,” Derrick pointed out.

“Well, the feng shui is going to be blown anyway if we move the pool. The water has to be on the north side.”

“Then you’re going to have to find an alternative way of heating it,” Daniel said. “And on that subject, spring water might not be the best option for a swimming pool in Virginia. It comes out of the ground at about forty degrees.”

“What if we put the koi pond on the north side?” suggested Derrick. “That would keep the feng shui.”

“Then we’re back to putting the pool in the front entrance. With no heat and no spring.”

And so it went for another twenty-two minutes, by Daniel’s watch, until they finally agreed to sacrifice the spring water and the feng shui for solar heating, just as he suggested originally. Meanwhile, Daniel settled back, ordered coffee, and relaxed. To have done otherwise, he learned early on, would have been a waste of time.

“You know, fellows,” he observed, just as they began a discussion about whether to move the folding glass doors in the kitchen so they opened up onto the pool terrace rather than the outdoor kitchen, “this is supposed to be the easiest part. You haven’t even started building yet and you’re already behind. If you keep micromanaging you’re never going to get this thing done.”

“There’s a difference between micromanaging and attending to details,” Paul objected, a little pointedly.

“You can’t underestimate the importance of a strong start,” added Derrick cheerfully. “Now …” He helped himself to a cup of coffee and made himself comfortable in the guest chair. Paul did the same. “Let’s talk about the meditation garden.”

“And the sauna,” Paul reminded him. He told Daniel, “We’ve decided to move it from the master bath to the outdoor cabana near the hot tub.”

Resigned, Daniel picked up the telephone. “I’ll be a while,” he told his secretary. “Hold my calls.”

He picked up his pen and pad for note taking, forcing a patient and, he hoped, inviting smile. “Anything else?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” began Derrick, leaning forward.

By the time they departed two hours later, the simple country lodge had transformed itself into an Italian palazzo with touches of French country chic, and the architect was starting his eighth set of plans.

Fortunately, he was being paid by the hour.

~*~

Cici almost made it out the door before the phone rang again. She winced and considered not answering. “Ida Mae!” she called hopefully, even though she knew better. “Are you back?”

Ida Mae went into town every Thursday morning to do her “shopping,” returning at noon with such essentials as a jar of hand cream or a pair of socks from the dollar store. They took turns driving her, and today, the short straw had fallen to Noah, who was still on the school’s winter break. She had not heard the SUV pull around the gravel drive, and it was still an hour short of noon, so, as she expected, nothing but the continued insistent ringing of the telephone answered her voice. She pulled the door closed against the chill and retraced her steps to answer it.

“Hey, Mom,” Lori said. “I almost forgot. Be sure to ask Dominic what he thinks about trying the
Jurançon
region vinifera, especially the manseng. I know we talked about only producing reds, but a lot of Virginia wineries are having good luck with the petit manseng …”

“Lori,” Cici said, trying hard to sound at least as patient as she had been with the roofer, “I’m not going to be able to tell Dominic anything if you don’t stop calling. This is the fifth time this morning. Don’t you have a class to go to or something?”

“I’m just trying to help,” Lori said, not sounding in the least insulted. “After all, the whole idea for the winery was mine in the first place. The least I can do is make sure you get off to a good start.”

“It might have been your idea,” replied Cici pleasantly, “but I’m the one who’s actually doing it. Besides, you’re going to be in San Francisco.”

“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

“I’m not happy about it, sweetheart. I’m devastated about it. Fortunately, I have a winery to keep my mind off my broken heart.”

“Sweet, Mom, really sweet. And just because I won’t actually be here doesn’t mean I’m not still interested. Besides, the more involved I can be in helping start Ladybug Farm Winery, the better it’s going to look on my resume when I apply for an internship in California. Dominic might even write me a reference.”

There were a lot of replies Cici might have made to that, but she chose the least incendiary. “Honey, you do have a wedding to plan.”

She blew out a puff of dismissive air. “How hard can that be? We put together a whole society wedding for perfect strangers last year in three weeks.”

Cici thought the “we” part was a bit of an exaggeration, but before she could point that out, Lori added, “Oh, that reminds me. I invited Mark’s parents out to meet you this weekend.”

“You
what
?” It was almost a screech.

“Not for the whole weekend,” Lori assured her. “Just for Sunday. You don’t have to change the sheets or anything.”

“Here? You invited them
here
?”

She sounded a little defensive. “Well, I didn’t think it would seem very hospitable of you to just meet them in a restaurant like a homeless person or something.”

“But we have a hole in our roof!”

“Oh, they won’t care. I’ve told them all about the place. They’ll think it’s cute.”

Cici closed her eyes and counted to three.

“Mom?”

“This weekend? Three days from now? And you just remembered to tell me?”

“They’re driving all the way down there from Richmond. And then they’re flying to Hawaii for a month, so it was now or never, more or less. Of course,” she added, “we’re stopping in Los Angeles to have dinner with Dad.”

Cici blinked. “You’re flying to Hawaii?”

“Of course not. They’re flying to Hawaii. I’m flying to Los Angeles next week to introduce everyone. Then I have to be back in class.”

“Oh, right,” murmured Cici. “That little college thing.” She tried to remember a time when she had the kind of energy it took to fly across country for dinner, plan a wedding, finish college, and still have time left over to give advice to her mother. “Honey,” she said, “don’t you think you might be just a little bit over-scheduled?”

Lori laughed. “Me? You’re the one who’s planting a vineyard, opening a winery, rebuilding your house, and planning your only daughter’s wedding.” A note of anxiety crept into her voice as she said, “The roof
will
be fixed by the wedding, won’t it?”

Cici ignored the last part. “Actually, I was hoping you and I could start planning the wedding together, this weekend. Alone. A mother-daughter moment, you know.”

“Oh, we’ll have plenty of time for that,” Lori declared airily. “I’ll be home all summer while Mark is back and forth getting set up for the new job. So you ask Dominic about the manseng, okay? And we’ll see you Sunday. Love you!”

“Love you, too,” Cici replied a little absently, but Lori had already hung up.

~*~

CHAPTER F
IVE

Crush

“
T
hese days,” Dominic explained, “most small wineries use a garage or a metal storage building to age their wine. Not many folks have a set-up like this. You’re already way ahead of the game.”

Bridget and Lindsay were walking with Dominic through the long-abandoned winery that had been built beneath the original barn in the nineteen twenties and outfitted with modern winemaking equipment in the sixties. While Dominic inspected the equipment, checking fittings and jotting down what needed to be replaced in his notebook, the women grew ever more dismayed as they brushed away cobwebs and used their gloved fingers to rub away forty years of grime in random spots here and there. It was beginning to look as though it would take another forty years just to get the place clean.

“Of course,” Dominic went on, copying down a serial number and completely unaware of the ladies’ waning enthusiasm, “Judge Blackwell never intended to run a small winery, and he didn’t. Blackwell Farms wine shipped all over the world, won all kinds of awards. But I guess you know that.”

The last was said with a smile that was directed at both Bridget and Lindsay, but it seemed somehow to linger on Lindsay. Lindsay responded by stuffing her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans to warm them and hunching her shoulders a little inside her short, faux-fur trimmed jacket. “We know. We had a bottle that almost made us rich. But turned out it had the wrong label on it.”

“Oh, right,” he remembered. “That artist, Mary Ellen—no, Emmy Marie—who stayed here one summer designed that label. We only did half a run with it, and it became a collector’s item.” A pleasantly reminiscent spark came into his eyes. “I was wild about that girl. Completely broke my heart in the end, of course.”

He was a wiry man with sun-darkened skin and work-roughened hands, thick platinum hair that fell to his collar, and shockingly blue eyes. But it was his easy charm, even more than his natural good looks, that most people remembered about him, and that was what made Lindsay laugh now.

“I’m sure you deserved it.”

“I’m sure I did, too. I was an incorrigible young upstart.” He glanced around. “She painted a mural for the tasting room, too. It was really something—twelve feet tall and fifteen feet wide, with trompe l’oeil columns framing a view of the vineyard. I remember if you looked carefully at the clouds, you could see Pegasus the winged horse there. She was really very talented. I don’t know why they painted over that mural.”

“She was Noah’s grandmother, you know,” Lindsay said. “At least according to Ida Mae.”

“Is that right?” He seemed mildly surprised. “I always wondered what happened to her.”

Bridget said, “Tasting room? There was a tasting room here?” She looked around, peering into the shadows for signs of what might once have been an elegant tasting room. “Where was it?”

He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. What you all were using as a barn was Judge Blackwell’s tasting room. Or part of it was, anyway. He used to have big parties and fancy sit-down dinners out here every spring and fall for the blessing of the vines and the burning of the vines.”

“Oh, my.” Bridget’s eyes were beginning to light with the possibilities. “That sounds like fun.”

“Blessing?” Lindsay repeated. “Burning? What’s that?”

“It’s a vineyard tradition,” Dominic explained. “Every fall, the vine prunings have to be burned to make sure no diseases carry over to the next year’s crop, so in the early days, the farm laborers would gather around the bonfire and bring food and drink the off-cast vintage that the chateau owners would pass down to them. Eventually, the party started to look like so much fun, I guess, that the bosses joined in, and then the owners, and it was passed down through the generations. Same with the blessing of the vines in the spring, to ensure a good crop. Of course, that’s a little bit more on the subdued side.”