Love Letters from Ladybug Farm Read online

  “It’s hard,” Lindsay said, “to see someone you care about making a huge mistake.” She looked pointedly at Cici. “What did Richard want?”

  Bridget turned to look at Cici, filling the pan with soapy water. “Richard? Was that him on the phone?”

  Even as she said the word, the phone rang again. They all tensed, but it was answered midway through the second ring from the office. They relaxed.

  “He wants to buy a horse farm in Virginia,” Cici said.

  “Whatever for?” Bridget demanded, horrified.

  And Lindsay added, “Richard doesn’t even know how to ride a horse, does he?”

  Cici took a bite of a strawberry. “Who knows? I think he’s heard Lori talk about this place so much that he’s built up some kind of fantasy in his head about life as a gentleman farmer.”

  Bridget snorted with laughter. “A couple of days around here would cure him of that.”

  Lindsay raised a warning hand. “That is not an invitation.”

  “Don’t eat the strawberries,” Bridget admonished sharply as Lindsay started to pop a slice into her mouth. “I need every one of them.” She set a bowl of lemons and a tall measuring cup in front of Lindsay. “Two cups of juice,” she instructed.

  Lindsay regarded the lemons skeptically. “Are these local?”

  The phone rang again, but only once. Bridget smiled blissfully. “I love having Paul here.”

  “Which is another reason why we shouldn’t interfere in things that are none of our business.”

  They heard the clump of crutches outside the kitchen and Cici leaned forward quickly. “Don’t say anything to Lori about—you know,” she said in an undertone, and tried to look casual as Lori came into the room.

  “If you mean about you and Dad,” Lori said, “that’s like the worst-kept secret in the world. And I just want to go on record as saying that if you two get back together I’m divorcing both of you.”

  Cici looked chagrined, Lindsay smothered a laugh, and Lori made her way over to the refrigerator. “I posted an entry on your blog this morning,” Lori said to Bridget. “I just looked up some stuff about cherry wine and cherry trees and the history of cherries in Virginia—George Washington and all that—and included lots of links. Then I put in a plug for your new line of cherry wine jams and said something about anybody who had extra cherries should send them our way.”

  “You,” declared Bridget, clapping her hands together, “are brilliant! Sit down. What do you want, milk? I’ll bring it to you. Have some pie, too.”

  “Speaking of pie, you had three new messages from that secret admirer of yours. He wanted to know if you had a recipe for apple-currant pie. So there’s your next blog entry.”

  “Do you mean the one I make with the currants soaked in brandy and the shortbread crust?”

  “I guess.”

  Cici helped Lori arrange her crutches and slide into a chair with her leg extended sideways under the table. “That seems strange to me,” Cici said. “Most people would just ask for an apple pie recipe. But apple-currant?”

  “See, your pie is famous.”

  “Maybe your secret admirer has had your pie before,” suggested Lindsay.

  Bridget frowned thoughtfully as she set a glass of milk and a slice of custard pie before Lori. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Oh, and I ordered new labels for the strawberry champagne jam and the cherry wine jam,” Lori said, picking up her fork. “And a gross of three-by-five cellophane bags.”

  “By the way,” Bridget said, staring at Lindsay “did you say a hundred ladybug cookies?”

  “We’ll help,” Lindsay assured her.

  Ida Mae pushed open the screen doorwith her shoulder, her arms sagging under the weight of a box of glass jars. “What you going to do with all them cherries?” she demanded.

  Cici took the box from her. “What cherries?”

  “The ones Farley’s unloading out of his truck. I hope you got somebody else to help you pit them, because I sure don’t have the time.”

  The ladies looked questioningly from one to the other. “Did anyone ask Farley to pick cherries?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Well, that’s just weird.”

  Bridget pushed open the screen door and bounded down the steps and across the back lawn, where Farley was removing white five-gallon buckets of cherries from the bed of his pickup and placing them under the shade of a maple tree. There were four so far. “Farley!” Bridget exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “That’s wonderful! Where did you get all those cherries?”

  He took off his hat as she approached. “Picked ’em off my trees,” he told her. “I was gonna take them over to my sister, but heard you needed them more.”

  “But how did you know?” She looked at him in confusion. “I mean, this is a lifesaver, and we really appreciate it, but—all that work!”

  He placed the last bucket on the ground. “Not that hard.” He straightened up and nodded toward the barnyard, where the frame of the goat house was almost completed, and the little goat had poked her head through the fence wires, nibbling at the grass. “You like that goat, do you? I figured she’d make a good one for you. Nice sweet milk.”

  Bridget said, “Wait—that goat is yours?”

  “Well,” he confessed, looking a little abashed, “you said you wanted one, and I didn’t have no use for her. I know how you love animals and all.”

  “Oh.” She tried to put the pieces together. “But how ... Farley” she declared, delighted, “do you read my blog?” And then it all made sense, and before she could stop herself she blurted, “You like my apple-currant pie, too! Farley are you my secret admirer?”

  He glanced down at his hat in his hand, shuffled his feet, looked back up at her with frank, faded hazel eyes, and replied, “Well, yes’m, I can’t deny I’ve been an admirer of yours for some time now, and it honors me to do some little thing for you now and then. Fact is,” he added, “it would be a pure joy if you’d come out with me now and again, maybe for some barbecue or the firehouse fish fry next Saturday.”

  Bridget tried to speak; she was certain she did. But absolutely no words came. She just stared at him, with her mouth open, searching for words, until the moment turned awkward.

  Farley shifted his gaze away, slapped his hat back on his head, and said, “You better get them cherries in the house, before the bees get to them.” He headed back to his truck.

  “I, um, thank you,” Bridget said. Her voice was weaker than she intended. And as he climbed into the driver’s seat, she called after him, “And thank you for the nice goat!”

  She carried two buckets of cherries into the kitchen when she returned, still feeling a little stunned. “Farley brought us twenty-five gallons of cherries from his trees.”

  “Good heavens!” Lindsay exclaimed. “That’s a lot, when you’re talking about cherries.”

  “Ida Mae is right,” Lori said. “We’ll be pitting them for the rest of our natural lives.”

  “Sounds like a perfect job for someone who needs to spend her days sitting down,” Cici said. She started toward the door to bring in more cherries.

  “And he asked me out,” Bridget said.

  Cici stopped with her hand on the door and turned to look at her. Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Who did?”

  “Farley.” Bridget took down a colander and started transferring cherries to it.

  Cici and Lindsay struggled to hide smiles, and Ida Mae took the colander from Bridget and began picking out the leaves.

  Lindsay cleared her throat, trying not to giggle. “So. What did you say?”

  “What could I say?” She turned to them, hands braced against the counter, her expression dismayed. “He’s Farley.”

  Lori said defensively, “I like Farley. He’s always been more than nice to me. And he’s not that bad looking, if you can get around the tobacco.”

  The telephone rang. Paul picked it up in the next room.

  �
�I think he’s my secret admirer,” Bridget confessed uncomfortably.

  “No way. He doesn’t have a computer,” Lori pointed out.

  “But his sister the real estate agent does,” Cici said. “And didn’t you say she reads your blog?”

  Bridget said, “That would explain how he knew about the goat.”

  “The goat is Farley’s?”

  She nodded.

  “Does that mean we can send him a bill for the chocolates?” Cici lost her battle with a grin.

  “The man just picked twenty-five gallons of cherries and gave them to us for free,” Lori chided, her frown accusatory. “You’re just being mean.”

  Paul came around the corner. “Are those fresh cherries?” He plucked one from the colander, and Ida Mae slapped at his hand. “You ladies do in fact live in paradise. Telephone for you, Lindsay.”

  Lindsay groaned. “None of the North-Dere crowd, my dear,” he assured her. “It’s someone from Richmond.”

  When Paul and Cici returned from bringing in the rest of the cherries, Lindsay was sitting at the kitchen table, and neither she nor Lori were smiling. Bridget’s hand rested on Lindsay’s shoulder, and even Ida Mae had stopped working, looking at the group at the table with a helpless frown.

  Cici hoisted her bucket of cherries to the counter and came to them quickly. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  Paul added, concerned, “That can’t have been good news.”

  Lindsay looked up at them, tried to smile, and failed. “No,” she said wanly. “It wasn’t.”

  14

  Love Letters

  They were all sitting at the kitchen table when Noah came in an hour later, the saddlebags from his motorcycle flung over one shoulder, his tie stuffed into his back pocket. Because Ida Mae refused to have idle hands in her kitchen, she had put a bowl of cherries and a cherry pitter before each person. They were making steady, though desultory progress removing the stones from the cherries. Everyone looked up when Noah came in.

  “You’re home early,” Bridget said.

  “Last day of school.” He dumped his saddlebags on the counter and went to the refrigerator. “Nobody stays all day. Guess we’re having cherry pie for supper, huh?”

  Cici said, “Noah, come sit down for a minute.”

  He turned from the refrigerator, empty-handed, and regarded them all suspiciously. Paul stood up and handed Lori her crutches. “Come on, sweetie, help me out in the office, will you?”

  Lori glanced at Noah, once, then avoided his eyes as she concentrated on getting her crutches under her and following Paul. Ida Mae took Noah’s saddlebags and left the room. Noah came reluctantly to the table where the three women sat with their hands folded atop its surface, and sat down. He looked from one to the other of them cautiously. “What did I do?”

  Cici looked at Lindsay. Lindsay looked down at her hands. It was Bridget who said, “Noah, we’ve never really talked about your mother.”

  With her words, a shield came over his eyes. Otherwise he did not react at all.

  “That’s because,” Cici said, “when she made the decision to let you live with us, she asked us not to. She thought it would be better if, until you were older, anyway, you didn’t feel any pressure to, well, be involved with her if you didn’t want to.”

  “I’m not saying we agreed with that decision,” Bridget added. “But it’s what she wanted.”

  Lindsay took a breath. “Noah, we had a phone call today—”

  He interrupted, “I was going to tell you about it. I should’ve figured you’d find out anyway.”

  Cici asked, “Find out what?”

  He glanced at Lindsay, then away. “I found her e-mail and phone number online. So after a while, I e-mailed her and said could we meet. And she said that sounded fine, so a couple of weeks ago...” A quick, guilty glance around the table. “That day I told you I was working late, I rode up there to the place she said.”

  Bridget’s eyes grew big. “You rode your motorcycle all the way to Richmond?”

  He shrugged and shifted his gaze away again. “I knew you’d be mad.”

  “But ... why didn’t you tell us you wanted to meet her?” Cici asked. “We would have helped. You didn’t have to keep it such a secret.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, I guess,” he mumbled uncomfortably. “I mean, you’ve been so nice to me and all, I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful.”

  The three women looked at each other helplessly, but no one could find the words.

  “Anyway” he said, “it was a stupid thing to do, and it doesn’t matter because she never even showed up. Serves me right, I guess. I should’ve left well enough alone.”

  Cici covered Lindsay’s hand with her own. Lindsay drew a breath. “Noah, the reason your mom wanted you to live with us was because she was sick, and she knew she couldn’t take care of you. It wasn’t because she didn’t want you.”

  Bridget touched Noah’s shoulder. “I know she would have met you that day if she could have,” she said gently. “She must have been so excited when you contacted her.”

  Noah looked at her, confused, and then at Lindsay. “She was in the hospital that day” Lindsay said quietly, “and she has been ever since. Noah, I’m so sorry, but she passed away this morning.”

  There was no reaction but a slight tightening of his jaw. He sat there for a moment longer, but when Lindsay reached across the table to touch his hand he lurched to his feet, turned, and bolted from the room.

  The memorial service was held in a rambling white clap-board building with a big spreading oak in front and neatly tended evergreen plantings nestling against the foundation. A small brass plaque near the door read “Harbor Home.” Otherwise, it looked much like any other house on the street.

  Inside, rows of metal chairs had been set up, and all of them were filled with people of all descriptions—men in shirtsleeves and women in cotton dresses, boys in jeans and T-shirts, teenage girls with restless babies. At the front of the room were a bank of flowers and a picture of a pretty woman with straight brown hair and a shy smile who was far too young to die.

  Noah had not spoken on the long drive to Richmond; he rested his head against the back window and watched the landscape roll by with a bleak, unseeing gaze. The women did not try to engage him in conversation. None of them knew what to say.

  A woman named Sandra Wilkes identified herself as Mandy Cormier’s supervisor at Harbor Home Halfway House, and spoke about the work Mandy had done there, the lives she had touched. Some of her clients stood up and told stories of what she had meant to them. Some of them wept. Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay kept stealing glances at Noah, but he remained stony faced and stoic, gazing straight ahead.

  Afterward they went up to Sandra and introduced themselves. Noah mumbled, “Good to meet you,” and stuffed his hands into his suit pants pockets, staring over her shoulder.

  Sandra said, “Your mother meant so much to us here at Harbor Home. Just look around. There isn’t a kid in here whose life wasn’t changed because of her.”

  Noah replied, “Yeah, there is. Me.” Then he said, “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Sandra watched him sympathetically as he left. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be.”

  Lindsay said, “I don’t think any of us can.”

  “She told me about her arrangement with you. I have some papers for you. A small life insurance policy, some guardianship papers ... We’ll pack up her things, unless you’d like to go through them now.”

  Cici said, “I don’t think this is the right time.”

  “Oh, and these.” Sandra reached into her purse and brought out a packet of envelopes bound with a rubber band. “Mandy asked me to give these to Noah. Maybe you could ... ?”

  Lindsay took the envelopes, Cici and Bridget collected the other papers, and they made arrangements to have Mandy’s belongings held in storage for Noah until he was ready to go through them.

  Noah was leaning agai
nst the side of the car, his jacket off, staring straight ahead. All three women went to him. Lindsay handed him the bundle of envelopes. “These are from your mother.”

  He looked down at the packet, but said nothing.

  Lindsay glanced at the other two. “There’s something I think you should know. Before we knew about your mother, I was looking into the possibility of legally adopting you. I’d like to talk to you about that sometime. If you think it’s something you might be interested in.”

  Now he looked up at her, slowly.

  “Either way” Cici said, “there’s something else you need to know You might not have been born to us, but you are our kid.”

  Bridget laid a gentle hand upon his arm. “You’d better believe it.”

  He dropped his eyes again. His fingers closed on the packet in his hands and he said, lowly “I called her a liar.” His voice tightened, and so did his fingers. “The last e-mail I sent her ... I called her a liar.”

  His shoulders started to shake, his face began to crumple, and all three women stepped into him, surrounding him with their embrace as he sobbed.

  May 25, 2010

  Dear Noah,

  I wish it were possible to live without regrets, to always know you’re doing the right thing. The problem with choices is that you hardly ever know which is the right one until it’s all over and you look back, wondering how your life would have been if you had chosen differently. When I left you with your grandmother when you were a baby, I thought I was doing the right thing for you, and for me. Then, when she died and I lost contact with you, I spent years hating myself for doing the wrong thing. But now, when I look back over everything that happened, I’m not as sure as I once was. I don’t think you would have survived those years if I had tried to keep you with me. I barely survived them myself. You might not understand this now, and maybe you can never forgive me for what I’ve done, but please believe this: sometimes life has a poetry to it. Sometimes, against all odds, things do work out. I know you grew up in a hard way. But every step you took led you closer to home, where you belong.