Vintage Ladybug Farm Page 2

  “You guys!” she cried, ripping off the paper. “I can’t believe you remembered!”

  “I didn’t even remember,” admitted Cici, crowding in to see what Bridget uncovered.

  “Four years?” said Lindsay. “Has it been four years?”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Bridget breathed. From the gold foil wrapping, she withdrew a slim book with tattered edges and a title stamped in faded gold: A History of Blackwell Farms. Blackwell Farms had been the name of their property before they bought it.

  “Are you kidding me?” Cici exclaimed, diving for the book.

  “Really?” Lindsay echoed, scrambling for a look. “Our house? Really? Where did you find it?”

  Paul and Derrick beamed at each other. “We wanted to give it to you for Christmas,” Paul admitted, “but it didn’t come in time. We had to order it from a book collector in England.”

  “England?” Cici stared at him. “What was it doing there?”

  “Who knows?” Both men watched, their smiles uncontained, as the women crowded together, turning the pages.

  “Look, it’s our house!”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s the original vineyard.”

  “Is that Judge Blackwell? Hey, he was good looking.”

  “How did you find this?” Bridget demanded, her face glowing as she clutched the book to her chest.

  “Fortunately, someone in the Blackwell family thought they were important enough to rate a book,” Derrick said. “It was a limited printing—hardly surprising—and most of them went to family members. We tracked this one down on the Internet.”

  Cici pried the book from Bridget’s hands. “Look at this.” Her tone was reverent. “Photographs from the twenties. Look at that staircase.”

  Bridget pointed to the opposite page. “Lindsay, look—it’s the folly, when it was first built. It looks like a little fairy castle in the glen with all that gingerbread trim.”

  Lindsay leaned in and turned a page. “Oh my God, did you guys see this? There’s a whole section on the Blackwell Farms Winery.” She pulled the book from Cici.

  Paul and Derrick sipped their champagne, looking enormously pleased with themselves. “Glad you like it.”

  The women flung themselves upon the men, hugging them, spilling champagne, declaring their thanks, and laughing with delight. When they all settled down again, Cici had the book and Lindsay said, “I can’t believe you came all the way down here just to give us this.”

  Paul said, “Well, actually ….” But Derrick poked him hard in the ribs.

  “Ten minutes ’til countdown,” he said, glancing at the big clock on the mantle. “What are our resolutions?”

  Cici looked up suddenly from the book, her head cocked. “What is that?”

  “Resolutions,” Paul explained patiently. “It’s a foolish undertaking performed by people worldwide on New Year’s Eve—”

  “Seriously, don’t you hear it?” Cici’s brows drew together in a frown. “It sounds like something splattering.”

  They all were silent for a moment, listening.

  “It’s the fire,” suggested Derrick.

  “Or the gutters need cleaning again,” said Bridget.

  “I’ll get Noah on it tomorrow,” Lindsay said.

  “Resolutions,” Derrick reminded them. “What is everyone going to accomplish this year?”

  “Personally,” said Paul, topping off his glass, “I’m hoping to gain ten pounds and drink twice as much. Anyone else?”

  The ladies were thoughtful. “Well,” Bridget offered after a moment, “we have two graduations coming up. Lori from college and Noah from high school. And we’ve got to get Noah on those college applications, and—”

  Derrick waved his glass dismissingly. “That’s for them, not for you. What are you going to do this year?”

  Lindsay said, “Wow, that’s funny. Every year since we moved in here we’ve had a list a mile long of New Year’s goals. Getting the gardens back in shape, restoring the ponds, turning the old dairy into an art studio …”

  “Repairing the barn, getting all the old furniture out of the attic, restoring the tile in the sunroom, refinishing the floors …”

  “Now Lindsay has her art studio,” Bridget said, “and it even has a real bathroom. The sheep and the goat and the chickens all have nice houses, and so do we.”

  “And don’t forget I sold a painting last year,” Lindsay reminded her, blowing a kiss to Derrick, whose gallery had managed the sale.

  “My Ladybug Farm gift baskets are doing great,” Bridget went on. “My children and grandchildren are happy and well … I can’t think of a single thing I want.” She thought about it for a moment. “I know. Maybe I’ll learn to make goat’s milk soap this year.”

  “I think I’ll grow heritage tomatoes from seed,” Lindsay decided with a nod.

  Cici held up the book with a grin. “And I’m going to read this book. For the first time in recent memory, I actually may have time to read a whole book all the way through. How about you guys?”

  Paul looked at Derrick. Derrick looked at Paul. They shared a grin. “We,” declared Derrick with a flourish, “are building a house.”

  “We sold the gallery,” Paul added, “and we meet with the architect tomorrow to site our house on the property we bought from Richard last year. We’re going to be neighbors!”

  The room erupted in a chorus of squeals and the ladies descended on them again. “You did it, you really did!”

  “That’s why you drove all the way out here in the rain.”

  “Congratulations! What a way to start to the New Year.”

  “It’s an adventure, all right,” Derrick said. “I don’t know how a couple of city mice are going to like living in the country, but it’s always been a dream of ours. And when Richard decided to sell his property last year, it seemed too portentous to pass up. All that rolling acreage, fenced and cross-fenced for horses—all that’s missing is the manor house.”

  Cici’s ex-husband, Richard, had had a brief and ultimately misguided notion that he would retire from his high-profile life as a Hollywood entertainment lawyer and build a house in the Virginia countryside, which would have been far too close to Ladybug Farm for Cici’s comfort. Fortunately, he’d seen the error of his ways before it was too late and offered the property for sale. Paul and Derrick snatched it up.

  “Best of all,” Paul said, “we’re only fifteen minutes away. Think of the parties we’ll be having this time next year.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Cici said, beaming. “Now I really couldn’t ask for anything more. How did life get so perfect?”

  In the hallway, the big clock began to chime the countdown to midnight.

  “Wait, does everyone have champagne?”

  They raised their glasses, counting out loud. “Five, four, three, two …”

  They turned to the sound of the front door opening with a gush of rain and giddy laughter. “Mom!” Lori cried. And in another moment, she was at the parlor door, dripping wet, pulling an equally soaked and delighted-looking Mark with her.

  “Lori! Mark, what on earth—”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you said not to drive down in the rain, but we couldn’t wait to tell you.” Lori held out her hand where the sparkle of something brilliant on her finger was unmistakable. “We’re engaged!”

  Even before a breath of surprise could be drawn, Ida Mae appeared at the doorway beside the two dripping young people. Her grey hair was in curlers and she wore an overcoat over her flannel pajamas and work boots. She looked around sourly. “Y’all gonna do anything about that leak?” she demanded.

  Cici moved her stunned gaze from her daughter to Ida Mae, the champagne forgotten in her hand. “Ummm … What leak?”

  And that was when the roof fell in.

  ~*~

  CHAPTER TWO

  Resolutions Revised

  For a moment no one moved. The section of plaster in the foyer that had crashed to the floor was only about
one foot square, but it brought with it a gush of water that splashed the toes of Lori’s already-soaked sequined shoes and the hem of Mark’s pants and caused Ida Mae to take a startled step backwards. The water marked the baseboards and the wallpaper before dissipating across the glossy wood floor like a small river freed of its banks.

  Cici watched it all as if in slow motion, staring without seeing. She didn’t see the decorative plaster rosette slowly pull away from its molding, swing damply by a thread of melting joint compound for a moment, then plop to the floor. She didn’t see the raindrops rippling in the shallow pond that had become their floor. She didn’t see the handsome young man in the water-splotched tuxedo, the young woman in the glittering little black dress with her coppery curls pulled back in a cascade down her back and raindrops sparkling on her eyelashes. What she saw, in a single, astonishing flash, was a fair-haired baby in a pink-and-yellow striped blanket, a freckle-faced preschooler in calico Garanimals playing with a fluffy gray kitten, a ballerina at her first recital, a teenager in a prom dress. And could it have been only four years ago that they’d said good-bye to the house on Huntington Lane where Lori had grown up? Moving through the elegantly decorated rooms at their last Christmas party there, twinkling lights and Christmas greenery in every room, laughter and music and beautifully dressed people everywhere, saying good-bye to all their friends, leaving behind the only life they’d ever known for new adventures—Lori off to college and Cici to a broken-down old mansion in the middle of the Shenandoah Valley with her two best friends. She could practically smell the Sterno from the buffet table, hear the murmuring voices, taste Bridget’s chocolate truffles with peppermint cream. It seemed like only yesterday. Lori had been a child, teetering on the verge of womanhood, and now …

  And then everyone moved at once.

  “The floors!” cried Bridget, then ran for towels. On her way past, she threw Lori a kiss and added, “Congratulations, sweetheart! Be right back.”

  “Is anyone hurt?” Lindsay demanded, rushing forward. “Ida Mae, are you all right? Lori, Mark—so happy for you! Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I’ll get a bucket,” Paul said quickly, and Derrick called after him, “Bring a mop!”

  Paul grabbed Lori and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he went by, and Derrick added to Mark, “Get used to it—something is always falling out of the sky in this place. Best wishes, by the way.” He hurried toward the broom closet, calling back, “You’re getting a treasure!”

  Ida Mae said, “You’re gonna need more than a mop,” and pushed past them all with heavy, clipped strides.

  Lori was still gazing at the ceiling, wide-eyed. “What happened?”

  Mark agreed, a little awed, “I never expected that kind of reaction.”

  Cici didn’t move. She stood in the center of the room, champagne glass still in hand, and stared at the two young people. “You’re getting married?” she said.

  Lori turned her attention from the remnants of disaster overhead back to her mother, and a slow grin lit her face. “We’re getting married,” she confirmed.

  Cici looked from Mark to Lori in slow disbelief. “But,” she said, “you’re just a baby.”

  Lori burst into laughter and ran to embrace her mother. “Mom, I’m twenty-four years old and I’m engaged. Be happy for me.”

  And when Lori, with her naturally irresistible enthusiasm, opened her arms to invite Mark into the embrace, he came forward and kissed Cici’s cheek, grinning. “Come on, Ms. B, you know you like me.”

  And because she did like him and she loved her daughter, Cici laughed and hugged them both. “Congratulations,” she said. “I’m happy for you. Really.”

  It was almost true.

  ~*~

  In Ida Mae’s Kitchen

  ~*~

  Ida Mae was awakened at five a.m. the following morning, when that young sprite came clattering down the back stairs with her beau in tow—fiancé, it was supposed to be now, although how that was supposed to give her the right to go living in sin right under her own mother’s nose was beyond Ida Mae’s ken. Sometimes, she had decided after many a year of prayerful thought, it was best to leave the judging up to God, because it could just about wear a body out, the way the world was these days. So the best she could do was put on a pot of coffee and shoo them both out of the way while she warmed up a plate of muffins from yesterday, because they were so anxious to get on the road they couldn’t take time for a proper breakfast. Kids these days, bound for tarnation on an empty stomach.

  About the time they were ready to start rolling out the door, each with a muffin in one hand and a thermos cup of coffee in the other, Cici came down and there was a lot of hugging and chatting and promises to call and checking to make sure they had everything, and even more hugging, right there in the middle of her kitchen while Ida Mae was trying to mix up biscuit dough. Finally, they were out the door and Cici, looking droopy-faced, went off somewhere else to mope.

  No sooner had Ida Mae gotten the biscuit dough stirred up and set on the back of the stove to rest, and was thinking about sitting and sipping a cup herself, than Miss Priss came bustling in, fussing over the French toast she had put in the fridge to soak last night and going on and on about making sure to use the heart-healthy chicken sausage and not to put any yolks in the scrambled eggs. Ida Mae just held her tongue and let her go on. She’d figured out a long time ago that the fastest way to get rid of Bridget was not to argue with her.

  So the biscuits were rolled out, the French toast in the oven, the fake sausage sliced and sitting in a cold pan, waiting to be cooked, and the egg yolks sitting in the refrigerator while the tasteless whites were coming to room temperature on the counter. She figured the yolks would make a right nice custard for supper, and the dog would appreciate the whites when nobody else ate them.

  She finally had a minute to sit at the table with a cup of coffee, flipping through that book about the old days somebody had left lying around. She’d never been much of one for book reading, but Judge Blackwell would have liked this; he surely would have. And Miss Emily, who had always been the symbol of Blackwell Farms in Ida Mae’s mind, and in the mind of just about everyone else around here, as far as that went—she wouldn’t have let on, but inside she would have been bursting her buttons with pride. The thought made Ida Mae smile, just a little, as she turned the page.

  “Good morning, Ida Mae. How is my favorite person this morning?”

  Ida Mae closed the book with a thud and looked up at Paul sourly as she pushed up from the table. “Don’t nobody sleep in anymore?”

  “This is the most exciting day of our lives,” Derrick said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he came down the stairs behind Paul. “We don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

  “And what is that delectable aroma coming from the oven?” Paul opened the door to peek and Ida Mae scowled at him.

  “If Miss Priss comes in to find her soufflé-top falling, you’ll be the one explaining, not me.”

  Paul quickly and carefully closed the oven. “I’ll just run out and get some wood for the fire,” he said.

  When he was gone, Derrick poured two cups of coffee, adding cream for Paul and two drops of Stevia from a container that he carried in his pocket for himself. “Ida Mae,” he said thoughtfully, “do you think we’re doing the right thing, moving out here?”

  She took the biscuit cutter out of the drawer, dipped it in a bowl of flour, and started cutting out perfect circles from the rectangle of dough on the cutting board. “Now how in His holy name would I know that?”

  He glanced toward the back door, where Paul’s silhouette could be seen through the window, selecting sticks of wood for the fireplace. “You know,” he said, “we always talked about retiring to the country. I just never thought retirement would come so soon.”

  “So what do you think you’re going to do with yourself once you get out here?” She expertly flipped the biscuit circles onto a dark, greased baking pan and brushed ea
ch with melted butter.

  “That’s just it; I don’t know. What do people generally do?”

  She picked up the baking pan and elbowed him out of the way as she moved to the stove. “Stand around cluttering up my kitchen, as far as I can tell,” she muttered.

  He hurried to open the door of the second oven for her, and when she had the biscuits in the oven and the temperature adjusted, he seemed to finally get around to saying what he wanted to say, which was, “Do you think people will like us here?”

  Ida Mae started sweeping flour off the counter with a dishtowel, collecting it on the cutting board. “Well, I imagine that depends,” she allowed.

  “On what?”

  She shuffled over to the sink and dumped the excess flour into the disposal. “What folks think of you usually depends on what you think of them,” she said. “You treat folks right, they’re generally going to do the same to you. Leastwise, that’s pretty much been my experience.” She dusted off her hands on her flour-streaked apron and turned to look at him. “What about you?”

  Derrick met her frank, unbiased gaze, and the ghost of a smile traced his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Pretty much.”

  Ida Mae gave a curt nod. “Surprises me you lived to be this old without knowing that,” she observed, and that made Derrick grin.

  Paul started banging on the door with his shoulder, his arms full of firewood, and Derrick went to let him in. They stirred up the fire and set the table while the aromas of home filled the kitchen. By the time the ladies came in for breakfast, everything was perfect.

  ~*~

  Cici stood in the foyer in her pajamas and robe, her hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, gazing blearily up at the dripping hole in the ceiling. The sodden plaster had been swept up and a clear plastic tarp was spread over the floor; the gallon bucket that had been placed under the drip was now half full. The occasional thud of footsteps and the slam of a hammer blow from above testified to the emergency patches that were already being made. She could see wet beams and sagging rafters, but thankfully, no daylight. Perhaps the situation wasn’t beyond repair, after all.