Vintage Ladybug Farm (9 page)

“I’ll walk you out,” Lindsay said, deliberately refusing to look at her two friends.

Bridget and Cici pretended to be absorbed in studying the spreadsheet until the trap door closed behind the couple. Then they looked at each other, grinned, and shared a silent high five.

~*~

In Ida Mae’s Kitchen

~*~

Dominic felt like a school boy again the minute he stepped into that kitchen, and he suspected he looked like one, too: wiping his feet on the mat, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, just standing there grinning and taking in the smells and sights and tastes of home.

“Miss Ida Mae,” he said, “I declare you are looking fine. And this place smells like every dream of my faraway childhood.”

She straightened up from removing a tray of cookies from the oven, giving him a glance and a small grunt of dismissal. “You always was full of words, boy.”

He came forward and took her face in both his hands, kissing her on each cheek. She not only tolerated the affection, but flushed with it and slapped him playfully on the arm with her dishtowel as she stepped away. “You are your papa’s son, and that’s a fact.”

“Whoever would have guessed that after all these years my path would lead me back here, following in his footsteps, eh?” He unzipped his jacket and sat at the work island, watching her plate the cookies.

“I would,” she said flatly. “You staying for lunch?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I just came to talk to the ladies and look over the winery. It looks like we might be making wine as early as this summer.”

“Is that a fact?” It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was skeptical or matter of fact. She set the plate of cookies on the counter before him, the warm moist flavor so fresh from the oven that it practically left rivulets of steam in the air as it drifted toward his face. “You sure it wouldn’t be anything else that brings you sniffing around here, are you?”

He fought back a grin with only partial success as he broke off a corner of a cookie and popped it into his mouth. “Some things,” he admitted, “are irresistible.”

Ida Mae took two onions and three potatoes from the vegetable bin and brought them to the cutting board. Dominic took another cookie, a whole one this time.

“An odd situation, isn’t it?” he observed. “Three city women buying a big old house like this out here in the country. But then, I guess they’re not ordinary women.”

Ida Mae brought the sharp edge of a chef’s knife down on the end of an onion, severing it with a clank. She peeled away the skin and began to rock the knife back and forth, producing neat, even slices.

“That young one of Miss Cici’s, Lori, is as sharp as a tack. And Lindsay has done a world of wonder with Noah. I’m as proud to work beside him as any man I’ve ever known, and that’s no small thing when you consider where he came from. You have to have a big heart to reach out to an orphan boy like that and make him your own. She’s quite a woman.”

Ida Mae turned the onion slices over and began a deft chopping motion. Dominic pretended to watch her.

“Not,” he added casually, “that they’re not all fine women. But …” He took his time selecting another cookie. “Supposing a man was to take a particular interest in courting just one of them. I wonder what would happen.”

Ida Mae scraped the diced onions to one side of the board and sliced the head off a second one. “Not a thing in this world,” she said sharply, “if that man don’t get out of my kitchen and speak up for hisself.”

Dominic’s grin was slow and abashed. “Ah, well, now no one can say I haven’t tried. The truth of the matter is, there’s so much estrogen in the air around here I’m not sure any man has a chance to even be noticed through it.”

“Is that a fact, Mr. Fancy Words?” She did not look up from her chopping. “I reckon you’d best just go on home, then.”

He broke his cookie in half and chewed one half of it thoughtfully. “What they’ve done here, what they all have together, it’s really something special. A fellow would be a fool to try to break it up.” He stood up. “It was good visiting with you, Miss Ida Mae.”

Ida Mae scraped the onions to the side of the board and began paring a potato with swift, economical movements. “A house full of women is a soft place to land, that’s a fact. But it’s also got itself some hard edges, and I don’t reckon anybody you’d ask would deny that. Now that boy, he’s got his own time coming, and he won’t be wasting much time brushing the dust of this place off his feet. Seems to me it might be a welcome thing to have a man around to chop the wood and climb the ladders and leave his wet towels on the floor from time to time. Just seems to me.”

Dominic paused and looked back at her speculatively. Then he smiled, snagged another cookie, and saluted her with it. “Thanks for the cookies, Miss Ida Mae,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

~*~

Bridget came into the small room off the sun porch that they used as an office and tapped Cici on the shoulder. The little room might once have been what the original owner would have called a morning room, with east-facing windows that flooded the room with early light and just enough space for a breakfast table and a few occasional chairs. They had furnished it with a wraparound desk, a computer, wooden filing cabinets painted in bright colors, an easy chair, and walls decorated with Lindsay’s artwork and enlarged photos of the three of them on various vacations together. Here they paid bills, checked e-mails, reconciled the household accounts, and, on occasions like this one, labored over special projects such as preparing a business plan for Ladybug Farm Winery.

Cici clicked the mouse and brought up another screen without glancing at Bridget. “The child goes to college for four years to learn how to write a business plan,” she muttered, “and where is she when I need her?”

“Quitting time,” Bridget said and handed her a glass of rich red cabernet sauvignon.

Cici accepted the glass with both hands. “You are my best friend forever,” she declared fervently and took a sip.

Bridget tilted her head meaningfully toward the front of the house. “Bring a coat,” she advised.

The two of them took their wine to the front porch, Bridget wrapped in a thick, scratchy Alpaca wool throw, and Cici in a heavy knit cardigan that she had grabbed from the front hall tree. Lindsay was already outside, standing at the front porch rail in her fur-trimmed jacket, wine in hand, gazing out over the most spectacular sunset any of them had ever seen.

A silver-edged, scarlet cloud bisected the deep purple mountain landscape. Beyond it, a slash of clear cerulean-blue faded into pink, bright yellow, and viridian green. Against this breathtaking backdrop, the black fingers of winter trees stood in stark relief.

“Oh my,” said Bridget softly, leaning against the rail beside Lindsay.

“Wow,” agreed Cici. Her breath frosted on the chill evening air. “Now I remember why we live here.”

Across the barren, winter-brown meadow, a black-and-white border collie circled a flock of muddy, lazy sheep. They gave him little argument as he moved them with laser-like efficiency toward the shed where several bales of hay had just been unwrapped. No one ever told the border collie what to do with the sheep; he just did it. It was a mystery.

“I’m not speaking to you,” said Lindsay, staring straight ahead. She spared a quick impartial glance toward Bridget. “You either.”

“Good,” said Cici, enjoying the sunset. “Let’s not spoil the moment.”

Bridget sipped her wine. “Oaky,” she observed. “A touch of blackberry. A little young, I think.”

Both women stared at her, and she shrugged. “Just trying to develop my palate. Dominic says that’s the minimum requirement for a wine maker.”

Cici tasted the wine, tilted her head thoughtfully, and shrugged. “Pretty good for $11.95, if you ask me.”

The scarlet cloud turned purple, giving off a radiant glow of orange and pink, and they watched in respectful silence for a moment.

“Dominic,” said Lindsay, tossing back a swallow, “doesn’t know everything. And it doesn’t taste like blackberry. It tastes like thyme.”

Bridget took a sip, and so did Cici. Bridget pursed her lips thoughtfully and agreed. “You’re right.”

Cici took one more sip. “So that’s what it is.”

A dove-gray shade descended over the mountain, leeching brilliance from the sky. The women moved back into the shadows of the porch and settled into their rocking chairs, watching the last of the light show from a distance. Bridget arranged the throw over her shoulders, and Cici zipped up her cardigan.

Lindsay said, “If I wanted a boyfriend, I could get one for myself.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Bridget. “You’ve always had the most interesting sex life of any of us.”

Cici’s eyebrows shot up in protest. “I beg your pardon.”

“Sorry, Cici, but it’s true,” Bridget said, unperturbed. “Although,” she added kindly, “I’m sure you could be a contender if you had more free time.”

Cici drew a breath to reply to that but seemed to fall short of words. Instead, looking a little confused, she took another sip of wine.

“I don’t need you guys making dates for me.” Lindsay maintained her stiff shoulders.

“Well, someone needs to,” Cici said. “Dominic has asked you out four times already.”

“I went with him for ice cream at the county fair, didn’t I?” Lindsay defended.

“With Noah and Ida Mae tagging along.”

“And to the Christmas parade,” Lindsay pointed out.

“You were dressed as an elf,” Bridget replied patiently, “and he was a reindeer. Not exactly what I’d call romantic.”

Lindsay frowned uneasily. “I’m too old for romance.”

“That’s probably true,” Cici agreed, and when Lindsay shot her a surprised look, she explained. “Romance is all about hormones, and we hardly have any hormones left.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Lindsay.

“No, I think she’s right,” Bridget said. “Not necessarily about the hormones part, or even about the romance … but women our age are looking for an entirely different set of things in a relationship than someone, say, Lori’s age.”

“Exactly,” agreed Cici. “For example, a man who knows how to give a good foot massage is going to win out over a guy with great pecs every time.” She thought about that for a moment. “Well, maybe not every time.”

“If anyone were to tell Lori that the most important thing to look for in a man is someone who knows how to listen,” Bridget said, “she would laugh.”

“Someone who knows what you’re thinking before you do,” added Cici.

“Who can take care of himself and not be underfoot,” added Bridget.

“Who always has something interesting to say,” Lindsay suggested, “and knows how to be quiet.”

“Someone who makes you laugh.”

“Who knows things you don’t know and doesn’t try to make you like everything he likes.”

“Who makes you feel like there is someone who’s always on your side.”

“The trouble is,” said Lindsay, smiling a little into her glass, “I already have somebody like that.” She glanced at them in the bluish twilight. “You guys.”

“Well,” Cici said, “except for the foot massage part.”

They all laughed softly and rocked in gentle silence for a while, sipping their wine and enjoying the still breath of winter on their hands and faces as the day slipped away into a pale purple evening. In the distance, Rebel gave forth a series of barks that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever, except to announce his presence to the coming night, and then was silent.

“Anyway,” said Lindsay with what sounded suspiciously like a muffled sigh, “it doesn’t matter now. If Dominic is going to be our business partner, he can’t be my boyfriend.”

Bridget stopped with her glass midway to her lips. “Who says?”

Lindsay seemed momentarily confused; then she shrugged. “There are rules.”

“They only apply to companies with ten or more employees,” Cici assured her earnestly.

“You know what I mean.” Lindsay frowned uncomfortably. “We’re depending on him. He’s taking money from us. It’s complicated.”

Bridget nodded, pretending to understand. “Which is why no one ever dates her accountant.”

“Or lawyer,” added Cici, “or building contractor, or piano teacher.”

“Ah,” Bridget remembered with a smile, “I had this piano teacher once …” And when the other two stared at her, she insisted, “What? I was of age.” And then she hid her grin with her upraised glass. “Well, almost.”

It took a moment for Lindsay to bring her attention back to the matter at hand. “What I mean is,” she said, “what if we have a fight, or he gets tired of me, or I get tired of him …? How happy is he going to be about helping us out then? I don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

Cici, with one last puzzled glance at Bridget, replied patiently, “Lindsay, you’re awfully cute, but I really don’t think a grown-up man with a college degree and thirty years of expertise would agree to go into business with three women he barely knows just because he likes you. He’s doing it because he wants to and because we’re paying him thirty-five percent of our profit for the first five years.”