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  Christmas on Ladybug Farm

  A Ladybug Farm Short Novella

  By Donna Ball

  Copyright 2011 by Donna Ball, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author.

  www.donnaball.net

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  Drawer H

  Mountain City, Georgia 30562

  This is a work of fiction. All places, characters, events and organizations mentioned in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

  Chapter One

  In Which Everything is Picture Perfect

  Ladybug Farm was ready for Christmas. Two perfectly conical potted hemlocks flanked the bottom of the wide steps that led to the porch, each one decorated with hundreds of miniature red birds, tiny red bows, garlands of white beads, and white lights. The porch columns were wrapped in greenery and white lights, each one set off with a wreath stylishly decorated with silver glass balls and big red bows. The front door was draped with a swag of cedar into which springs of red-berried holly and white lights were cleverly woven, and on either side of it was a stack of gaily wrapped boxes, each topped with a giant red velvet bow. A huge wreath, decorated with shiny ornaments and silver and gold ribbon, adorned the front door.

  Three rocking chairs were arranged in front of the door. Bridget, Cici, and Lindsay, each wearing fur-lined Santa hats and white sweaters, sat in the chairs, smiling fixedly at the blinking red light on the camera. Cici’s daughter Lori knelt in front of them in a red ski vest and fleece lined boots, while seventeen year old Noah stood behind them in a heavy fisherman’s knit sweater, one hand on Lindsay’s chair and the other on Cici’s as he had been instructed, grimly staring down the camera.

  “I’m melting,” he muttered.

  “My hair is as big as Dolly Parton’s,” Lori complained.

  “I swear if that flash doesn’t go off in the next second I’m going to burst into flames,” Lindsay said.

  Bridget said through clenched, smiling teeth, “Three…two… one.”

  The camera clicked just as Noah blinked, Lori wiped a drop of sweat from her nose, and Lindsay tugged the neck of her sweater away from her skin. Bridget got up to check the digital display and said, “Okay, one more time.”

  A chorus of groans was her only reply. Noah walked away, stripping his sweater over his head. Lori stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Lindsay moved for the door. “I’m going to put on my shorts.”

  Cici dragged off her Santa hat, twisted her hair into a ponytail and snapped it back with an elastic band. “Hold it,” she commanded grimly.

  Steps halted, shoulders slumped, and each of them turned reluctantly back. “What’s the big deal about getting the Christmas picture done now?” Noah demanded, scowling. “You already sent out the Christmas cards.”

  “We always take the picture for next year’s Christmas card this Christmas,” Cici explained patiently. “That way we don’t have to decorate the house for Christmas in the middle of the summer, just to get a photograph.”

  “Might as well be the middle of the summer,” Lori complained. “If I’d wanted to spend Christmas in a sauna I could have gone to Mexico with Dad.”

  “This cedar is starting to look a little sad,” said Bridget worriedly, rubbing a section of the door garland between her fingers. “Do you think we should make another one?”

  “Seriously,” Lindsay said, holding her sweater away from her neck and fanning the exposed skin. “Flames.”

  “Hottest December I ever do recall.” Ida Mae pushed open the screen door with a tray of iced tea in her hands, and everyone rushed to grab a glass. “Radio says it’s going to hit eighty-eight today.”

  The chorus of groans was punctuated only by gulps of iced tea. “How can it be eighty-eight degrees on Christmas Eve?” Lori demanded, pushing back her damp copper curls from her forehead. Her makeup had long since melted away, leaving nothing but an over-heated flush on her cheeks. “How can it?”

  Bridget said, “Ida Mae, it must be a hundred and twenty degrees in that kitchen. Sit down, won’t you, and try to cool off.” She took the tray from her and set it on the white wicker table by the porch railing, nudging aside a candle-and-evergreen centerpiece to make room.

  Ida Mae, who was somewhere between seventy and a hundred years old, had been keeping house at Ladybug Farm since long before Cici, Bridget and Lindsay moved in and called it home. Her iron gray curls were dark with sweat and, in deference to the heat, her customary attire had been lightened by several layers to include only a pair of faded, elastic-waisted denim pants, a print cotton dress topped by a man’s Oxford cloth shirt, and a flour-dusted apron with a snowman on it. Her customary steel-toed work boots had been replaced, astonishingly, by a pair of red Crocs worn over argyle socks. She said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and lowered herself to the rocking chair Bridget had vacated, fanning her face with one of the starched cloth napkins from the tray. “But I can’t let my yeast rolls sit too long in this heat. They’ll rise up the size of pumpkins.”

  “I mean,” insisted Lori, “this is Virginia. Didn’t a whole colony freeze to death here one winter? How can it be eighty-eight degrees? ” She said it as though her outrage could somehow provoke the weather gods into lowering the temperature. “Virginia!”

  “It sure doesn’t feel much like Christmas,” Lindsay agreed, draining her glass. She wound her own shoulder-length auburn hair into a knot and stuffed it under her Santa hat. In another second, she jerked the Santa hat off and started fanning herself with it. She poured another glass of tea.

  “Not like the first Christmas we spent here,” Cici agreed, and for a moment she, Bridget and Lindsay shared a smile that was both rueful and nostalgic. “Speaking of almost freezing to death…”

  The three friends had discovered the stately, if somewhat age-worn, mansion in the Shenandoah Valley by accident and had fallen quite hopelessly in love with its elegant charm and sweeping pastoral views. On an impulse they had decided to pool their resources, leave the suburbs, and purchase the house. They had spent the first year restoring the blowsy gardens and crumbling fountains, painting porches, refinishing the wide plank floors. They redecorated the enormous, sun-filled bedrooms and reclaimed the antique porcelain fixtures in the five bathrooms. And as they discovered and restored more of the old house’s former glory, they had also discovered a new community, a new home, and a new family. Cici’s daughter Lori had come to live with them at the end of that first year, and Noah had joined the family shortly afterwards. They had faced their share of challenges, but they had faced them together, and they knew they were here to stay.

  “The Storm of the Century,” Bridget said, and her smile faded into a shiver of reminiscent horror as she remembered. “Boy, were we stupid.”

  Cici’s eyebrows shot up into her honey-colored bangs. “Excuse me? You’re the one who went out into a blizzard chasing after a dog!”

  “Rebel,” exclaimed Bridget, setting her glass on the railing with a clack. “He has to be in the photograph!”

  “Are you kidding me? That dog is crazy!” This was from Lindsay. “Do you remember what happened last year when we tried to take his picture?”

  Rebel was a working dog who determinedly resisted every effort to turn him into a pet. He had ostensibly been acquired to handle the flock of sheep that had come with the property, and he did that job extraordinarily well. Unfortunately, he considered every other moving object on the farm his responsibility to discipline as well, and he herded humans with the same ferocity that he directed toward the sheep. Bridget absently rubbed the indented scar
on her arm that had been left by the border collie, and she didn’t look so eager to find Rebel anymore.

  “Hey , if the dog is going to be on the card, then Bambi should be,” Noah insisted. “He’s as much a part of the family as that dumb dog.”

  Bambi had followed Lindsay home from a walk when he was only a fawn, and Noah had adopted him. Now a full grown deer with the beginnings of an impressive rack, he roamed the farm’s sixteen acres with the imperious fearlessness of one who knew exactly where he belonged.

  “Bambi,” Lori replied, staring at him, “is a deer. A wild animal.”

  He returned her stare belligerently. “You never heard of a reindeer? He’s got a lot more reason to be on the card than a stupid dog.”

  Cici grinned and sipped her tea. “He’s got a point. We could wind twinkle lights and garland around Bambi’s antlers and put a big red bow around his neck.”

  Ida Mae stopped rocking. “You ain’t bringing that wild animal up on my clean porch!”

  “Are we gonna do this thing or not?” Noah said. “I need to go to town.”

  Lori stared at him incredulously. “You haven’t done your Christmas shopping yet?”

  He scowled at her.

  Cici set down her glass with a sigh. “Okay, he’s right, we all have a lot to do before the party tomorrow. Let’s get this thing shot.”

  Bridget said, “I’ll get—”

  “No dog,” Cici said firmly, “No deer. Where’s my lipstick?”

  “Where’s my hairbrush?” Lindsay said. “Noah, put your sweater back on. And try smiling this time, will you?”

  Lori picked up a hand mirror and gazed at her twenty-two year old face critically. “I look like a plague victim. Mom, you know it’s really stupid to take these pictures a year in advance. I mean, next year we’re not even going to look like this.”

  “I am,” replied Cici indignantly, and slapped a tube of lipstick into her daughter’s outstretched hand.

  “You know what I mean.” Lori’s words were slightly muffled by the O she made of her mouth while she traced the perfect line of color around her lips, then filled it in with artistic strokes. “Last year Noah wasn’t even in the picture. Next year who knows where I’ll be?” She completed her lipstick, smacked her lips together, and admired the results in the mirror. “It’s Whiskers all over again.”

  Lindsay, Bridget and Cici were deliberately silent. Noah opened his mouth to ask, “Who is—?” but the warning blaze in Cici’s eyes cut him off in mid-breath.

  Ida Mae pushed herself to her feet. “Well, I got a ham in the oven.”

  “Oh, Ida Mae, you should be in the photo!” Bridget said. “You’re family, too.”

  Ida Mae gave her a look that suggested Bridget had clearly lost her mind. “You might have time for this foolishnesss,” she said flatly. “I don’t. Bring that tray in when you’re done.”

  She let the screen door slam loudly behind her as she returned to the house.

  Noah said, “Well, if she doesn’t have to be in it, I don’t see why I—”

  “Put on your sweater,” Lindsay snapped.

  And Lori added, “Yeah, are you a part of this family or not?”

  Cici said sharply, “Lori, mind your own business.”

  Bridget set the camera timer and said brightly, “Okay, everyone, twenty seconds!”

  Noah pulled on his sweater and scowled into the camera. Lindsay pulled her Santa hat down over her ears. Bridget hurried into her chair, breathless. Lori declared, “Everybody, say ‘peaches’.”

  Cici stared at her. “Peaches?”

  Noah grumbled, “I’m not saying ‘peaches’.”

  Lindsay twisted around to look at him. “Will you stop being so difficult? It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake! Do what you’re told! ”

  Bridget patted her short platinum bob a little frantically. “My hat!”

  The camera clicked.

  Lori smiled. “Peaches,” she said.

  Noah rolled his eyes and stalked away. Everyone else was absolutely silent. Then Bridget forced another, rather weak smile. “Okay, maybe just one more…”

  “No!”

  “No way!”

  “I’m outta here.”

  The screen door slammed behind Noah and they could hear him clattering up the staircase to his room before even one of them could draw a breath to stop him.

  “I promised to drive Ida Mae to deliver her fruitcakes,” Lori said, scrambling to her feet. “I’d better go see what time she wants to leave.”

  And even Cici admitted, wiping her forehead with her Santa hat, “Maybe we can try again this evening, when it’s cooler.”

  Lindsay grabbed a handful of ice from her glass and massaged her throat with it. “Who even cares? Why can’t we just skip Christmas this year?”

  Bridget stared at her. “Are you delirious?”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Cici replied a little irritably. “Let’s just toss out twenty five pounds of ham and turkey, a hundred and fifty cheese puffs, four pies, two cakes and three cases of wine—“

  “I’ll drink the wine,” Lindsay objected.

  Cici ignored her. “And let’s just call all our neighbors and friends and tell them to stay home this year because it’s too hot and we’re not in the mood. All in favor, say Aye.”

  Bridget sighed as she started to dismantle the camera from the tripod. “Well, to tell the truth, except for the part about throwing out twenty five pounds of ham and turkey, I could almost get on board with that right now.”

  “Ha.” Lindsay tried for a note of smugness but it came out as merely exhausted. “I knew there was a real person behind that perky little elf.”

  Lori widened her eyes meaningfully. “You people are horrible,” she declared. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  “Hey kid, guess what?” her mother said, sprawling out in the rocking chair and leaning her head against the back. “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”

  Lori gave her a pitying look. “Too late, Mom. You already shattered all my illusions fifteen years ago with Whiskers.”

  All three women groaned.

  “Exactly my point,” said Cici. “You try to do something nice for someone…”

  “Bah, humbug,” said Lori, jerking open the screen door. “If you need me I’ll be delivering fruitcakes, or caroling to prisoners, or reading to the blind, or—or something!”

  Cici lifted a hand in weak salute. “That’s my girl.”

  “Seriously,” Lindsay said. She rubbed the last few remaining ice cubes over her face. “Don’t you think Christmas would be a lot more fun if we only had it every four years, like the Olympics?”

  “You have a point.” Cici refilled her glass and Lindsay’s with iced tea from the pitcher. “As much as I hate to admit it, it seems like we just get over one Christmas before it’s time to start decorating for the next one.”

  She held the iced tea pitcher questioningly to Bridget, who shook her head. “That’s because the planet is spinning faster,” Bridget observed sagely. She snapped the locks on the tripod and set it beside the door, then started gathering the Santa hats. “It’s all the earthquakes.”

  Lindsay shook the melted ice off her fingers and picked up her glass, leveling a look on Bridget. Cici paused to stare at her before resuming her chair, but both women were too wise to ask for details. Bridget ignored them and added, “It’s true. Time is speeding up. I read it on the internet.”

  “Oh, well, if you read it on the internet,” Cici said, and started rocking again.

  “Great,” muttered Lindsay. “Winters are getting hotter and time is getting shorter. Is it too much to ask to grow old on the same planet you were born on?”

  “Come on, girls, this isn’t like us.” Bridget stacked the hats on the tea tray, took up her glass, and sank into her rocker. “We love the holidays, remember? Where is your Christmas spirit?”

  “The North Pole?” suggested Lindsay.

  Cici sipped her tea we
arily. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe by the time you’ve seen as many Christmases as we have, it’s hard to keep getting excited about it.”

  Bridget gave her a stern look. “How old are you, anyway?” She pressed the cool glass of tea against her flushed face.

  “The problem is that there aren’t any children in the house,” Cici said. “Little ones, I mean. Christmas is all about the children.”

  “The problem is that it’s eighty-eight degrees in Virginia on Christmas Eve,” returned Lindsay shortly. “The only thing children would add to that is sweat and sticky fingers. Not that I don’t love your grandkids,” she added hastily to Bridget. “Sorry they couldn’t make it this year.”

  Cici smothered a grin in her glass, and Bridget just shrugged. “That’s okay. I’d love to see them, of course, but kids today just don’t appreciate Christmas like we used to. For them it’s all about the Wii and the PlayStation, and grandparents don’t have to be there for that. As long as UPS doesn’t go on strike, they’re good.” She smiled and sipped her tea. “I’ll never forget Christmas with my grandma in Atlanta. It wasn’t just a day, it was a ritual. An event. And it started long before Christmas, with a trip downtown to have lunch at Rich's Tea Room and ride the Pink Pig.”

  “Ride the what?” Lindsay choked a little on her tea.

  “Did you say pig?” Cici leaned forward in her rocker to stare at her. “And I thought I had an interesting childhood.”

  “Oh, come on.” Bridget’s tone was scoffing. “Everyone who so much as passed through Atlanta in the sixties knew about the Pink Pig. It was a tradition. More than a tradition. A rite of passage.”

  “Okay,” said Cici, watching her, “We’ve got silver to polish and floors to wax and presents to wrap, but this is one story I have got to hear.”

  Lindsay grabbed a Santa hat from the tray and started fanning herself with it again. “Can I listen to it in my bra and panties?”

  Bridget slanted her an admonishing look. “It’s not that kind of story.”