Love Letters from Ladybug Farm Read online

  From “Ladybug Farm Charms,” a blog by Bridget Tyndale

  One of the best things about living on a farm is that it’s usually pretty easy to get your priorities straight. In July and August, when tomatoes are coming in from the garden by the basketful twice a day, there’s nothing more important than peeling, slicing, and preserving. In March, when the little lettuces are just starting to come up and a freeze is predicted, you don’t wait until your nail polish dries to start covering the rows. And when you have to choose between a Caribbean cruise and making sure there’s firewood in the shed in October... I’m not saying that the choice is an easy one, but it is fairly obvious.

  Things have been a little hectic on Ladybug Farm this spring, with lots of changes and exciting new challenges. It’s been fun, but in the middle of all the excitement it’s been easy to forget what’s important, and to brush aside all the things I love most about living here. But over the past few days some things have happened that have put everything back into perspective for me, and made it a little easier to focus on my priorities.

  So today I’m announcing that I’ll be closing this blog at the end of the month. I’ve loved getting to know everyone, and I really appreciate those of you who’ve been reading from the beginning. But everyone knows what happens to a neglected garden, and exactly the same thing happens to a neglected life. So I’ve decided to get back to what’s important before everything is taken over by weeds.

  Meanwhile, you can still keep up with the goings-on here at Ladybug Farm through our website, or feel free to e-mail me with questions.

  Meanwhile, I wish you all the best, and cheers from LadybugFarm!

  Secret Admirer said:

  Dear Bridget,

  I’m sorry to hear you’ll be closing the blog. Coming home and reading about what’s happening in your world is the calmest, most pleasant part of my day. And I’ll miss the recipes.

  I made your apple-currant pie, but somehow it didn’t taste as sweet as I remembered. Thanks anyway for your help.

  Bridget smiled as she typed:

  Dear Secret Admirer,

  Most likely you left out a key ingredient: love.

  By the way, I think you know you have an admirer here, too. I hope you’ll do something about it before it’s too late. As I said, it’s all about priorities, and gardens aren’t the only things that can die from neglect.

  16

  Life Is Not a Rehearsal

  NORTH-DEERE/THORNTON REHEARSAL DINNER

  Menu

  Appetizer: Three-berry fruit cup in balsamic vinaigrette topped with Gorgonzola crumbles and toasted black walnuts, served with miniature cheese biscuits

  Soup: Chilled cantaloupe soup with mint and crème fraiche

  Entrée: Free-range roast turkey wrapped in applewoodsmoked bacon served on a bed of fresh cherry conserve and accompanied by fingerling potatoes and baby carrots sautéed in rosemary-infused olive oil

  Summer squash soufflé

  Garden fresh green beans, lightly sautéed and tossed with thyme, toasted almonds, and baby onions

  Dessert: Strawberry crumble topped with homemade vanilla ice cream

  The event was organized with the precision of the Invasion of Normandy.

  Countdown began at 5:45 a.m. Friday, when Rodrigo the rooster sounded the first call to action. By six, the troops were assembled in the kitchen, bleary-eyed and clutching coffee cups, to receive their orders. Noah and Cici: Construction and Assembly. Ida Mae and Bridget: Kitchen and Amenities. Lindsay: Design and Decoration. Lori: Hospitality and Incidentals. Everyone: Housekeeping and Aesthetics.

  By ten, the windows were washed, the baseboards scrubbed, the furniture oiled, the carpets vacuumed, the floors washed, waxed, and buffed; the curtains washed and rehung, the draperies steamed, the linens freshened; the porch pressure-washed; and every bathroom polished until it gleamed.

  At ten fifteen, florists’ trucks began to arrive. The bridal bouquet, the bridesmaids’ bouquets, the groomsmens’ boutonnieres, the mothers’ corsages, and the loose flowers that Bridget intended to use to decorate the cake were all stored in the supplemental refrigerator in the cellar. Giant potted ferns were placed strategically around the porch and on either side of the garden arbor. Silk dogwoods defined the reception area and screened the barnyard. Lindsay set up a workstation in the cellar, where it was cooler, to start trimming, arranging, and storing the dozens upon dozens of Apricot Delight roses that piled up in columns of boxes around her.

  The tents were erected on the back lawn, the scrim was secured, and the folding tables rented from the party supply company were set up beneath them. One hundred folding chairs were snapped into place along a precise fan-shaped path that Paul had outlined in the rose garden—and not a single rose, flower bed, or tree branch was disturbed. Noah assembled the twenty-five decorative table rounds that Cici had purchased at the dollar store, and arranged them around the dance floor. Tomorrow they would be covered with ivory satin and decorated with tulle-wrapped candles and apricot roses. The wedding arbor—a lacy affair built of bender board and balsa wood that Lindsay had spotted in the florist’s shop and purchased on the spot for a hundred dollars—was decorated with silk ivy, white roses, and satin ribbon. Anchored in place in the center of the rose garden, it framed the mountains and the vineyard in the background, and the fountain and the reflecting pool in the foreground. The three supplemental arbors that Catherine had insisted upon were suitably decorated with tulle, ribbons, and silk ivy. Roses were deadheaded, petals were swept off the rock paths and the grass. Satin ribbons were wrapped around one hundred funeral chairs. An altar table—which was actually a butcher block repurposed from Cici’s workshop—was set up for the unity candles. Cici had to admit—as she stepped back with her arm around Noah’s shoulders to admire their work—that it was magnificent.

  The six cake layers that had been deemed perfect enough to make the final cut were removed from the freezer, filled with lemon custard, carefully wrapped in the fondant that Bridget had been working on all week, and—with breath suspended—arranged with cake separators on a wheeled cart, and then stored carefully in a corner of the butler’s pantry with dire warnings from Bridget regarding what would happen to anyone who dared even breathe in its direction. The bride was bringing the cake topper to the rehearsal dinner, and it would be decorated just before serving with fresh flowers and fruit, in keeping with the “simply organic” theme.

  The turkey was removed from its brine, garlic and herbs were inserted under its skin, and it was wrapped in apple-wood bacon and put in the oven to roast. Bridget left Ida Mae with the recipe for the cheese biscuits and the dressing for the three-berry appetizer while she prepared the strawberry crumble and mixed the ice cream for the rehearsal dinner, and put two hams in the second oven for the wedding reception. They were working together like a well-oiled machine, and Bridget reminded herself to apologize to Ida Mae, when all this was over, for whatever unflattering things she had thought about her over the past several weeks.

  Lori reported that the entire bridal party and several of the guests had already checked into the Holiday Inn, the gift baskets had been delivered to the appropriate rooms, and Catherine was on her way with the wedding dress. Lindsay snapped a freshly ironed white tablecloth over the giant dining room table, lined the center with magnolia leaves, and set the table. She used the plain white china Paul had brought, a mixture of their own three silver patterns, and sparkling glassware from the butler’s pantry. Lori inserted a tiny apricot rosebud into each napkin ring and Lindsay arranged the floating candle champagne glasses in front of each place setting.

  At four thirty Paul did a final walk-through, adjusted a table setting here, a languid rose petal there, and declared, “All right, troops, hit the showers.” He checked his watch and smiled approvingly. “And right on schedule.”

  Things remained on schedule for another twenty-two minutes, at which point Ida Mae called up the stairs, “Somebody’s here!”

 
Cici dashed out of her bedroom in a terry robe, her hair half-dry and clipped up in sections on her head, barefoot and un-made-up. “That’s impossible!” she cried in dismay. “It takes an hour to get here from the Holiday Inn! Catherine couldn’t have made it already.”

  Noah called, “Hey, no fair! I was supposed to park the cars!”

  “It ain’t her,” Ida Mae called back. “It’s some man!”

  “My hair is wet!” Lindsay checked in.

  “I’ll be dressed in five minutes,” Bridget called, panic in her voice. “Paul is in the shower.”

  “Crap!” Cici muttered. She raced back to her room, flung off the robe, and began to tug on the silk slacks and floaty white shirt that were tonight’s hostess uniform. “Is there anything worse than an early guest?”

  The next thing she heard, almost as though in answer to that question, was Lori’s astonished exclamation from the front hall: “Daddy! What are you doing here?”

  Cici, holding the blow-dryer like a weapon and staring at her own grimly horrified reflection in the mirror, said simply, “I’ll kill him.”

  “Richard, you have to leave,” she declared, buttoning her cuff and tugging the clips from her hair as she hurried down the stairs. “I don’t care what your excuse is, you can’t be here.”

  “Nice to see you, too, sweetie.” He was standing at the bottom of the stairs with Lori, grinning up at her, and he kissed Cici’s cheek as she skidded to a breathless stop in front of him. “Gorgeous old place,” he added, gazing around appreciatively. “Lori’s description didn’t do it justice.”

  “Lori, finish getting dressed,” Cici demanded.

  Lori, who was wearing a clean pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt that left three inches of her waist exposed, explained, “I’m on kitchen duty, Mom. I don’t have to dress up.”

  Cici stared at her. “Whose idea was that?” Then, focusing, she whipped her head back to Richard. “Richard, I told you we’re having an event here this weekend. I don’t have time—”

  “I told him about the rehearsal dinner,” Lori said. “Did you know half your hair is wet?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He rested a gentling hand on her arm, smiling his easy confident smile. “I told you I was flying out this weekend to look at property. I thought I’d surprise my girls.”

  Lori’s face lit up. “Are you buying a place here, Dad?”

  Cici gave him a look that could have shattered glass. And he was completely oblivious. “Ooops,” he said, “guess the cat’s out of the bag.” He grinned and gave Lori’s shoulders a one-armed hug. “And the word is bought, sweetie. I bought a place about ten miles away.”

  Before Cici could recover her breath, Lindsay said from the landing in a carefully controlled tone, “Cici? Am I hallucinating?”

  The next few minutes were a melee of voices, questions, explanations, and introductions as one by one the residents of Ladybug Farm came to discover that the guest who had arrived was not among those who were expected. “As I was trying to explain,” Cici said at last, raising her voice to be heard, “we’re having a party tonight, so Richard, you have to go. Now.”

  “Mom, he’s come all this way!”

  “I could help,” Richard volunteered. “I don’t mind.”

  “So he could,” Paul declared, adjusting the knot in his apricot silk tie as he came down the stairs, jacket over his arm. “The only person I know who’s more charming than I am is your ex, sweetie, and we need a bartender.” He extended his hand to Richard as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Nice to see you, Richard.” He glanced over Richard’s polo shirt and khakis and decided, “You’ll need a jacket. Noah, take him upstairs and pick out one of mine, then give him a quick tour of the house. Bar supplies are set up on the side porch.”

  Richard winked at Cici as Noah led the way upstairs. “Looks like I’m hired.”

  Cici stared after him in helpless dismay, and Paul looked her over critically. “You might consider a little lipstick and blush,” he suggested. “And the hair is a bit trendy for this crowd, I think.”

  Bridget looked at her uncertainly. “Did I hear correctly? Did he say he had bought a place?”

  “Ten miles away?” questioned Lindsay, and even Paul lifted an eyebrow.

  “Look at it this way, Mom,” Lori offered helpfully. “At least you have a plus-one for the wedding tomorrow.”

  Cici clutched the wet side of her hair with one hand and clapped the other over her un-made-up face. “My life,” she muttered, “is over.”

  “Focus, ladies,” Paul commanded. He made a little shooing gesture to Cici. “Hair, makeup, go.” He tapped his watch. “Tick tock.”

  “Bartender!” Cici glared at him as she started up the stars. “I’ll get you for this, and that’s a promise.”

  But it was a promise she did not have time to keep, since before she reached the top of the stairs Catherine’s car was pulling up, horn honking imperiously. Before Lindsay and Bridget could even get the bridal gown out of the car and up the stairs to Lori’s room—which would be the bride’s staging room for the wedding—the bride herself arrived with three of her bridesmaids, demanding to see the garden setup. By the time Cici finished drying her hair and applying her makeup, strangers were wandering through the downstairs rooms of her house with drinks in their hands, gazing around like tourists in a museum, and more were meandering around the porch and spilling onto the lawn. Paul was in earnest conversation with Catherine, and Richard could be heard to say heartily, “Welcome to our home,” as he poured a glass of red wine for a bald man in a linen suit.

  “My home,” Cici corrected sharply, and then tried to soften the words with a smile. “Welcome to Ladybug Farm. I’m Cici Burke, one of your hostesses this evening.” She passed a sideways glance to Richard. “He’s just helping out.”

  While she conducted a rather pointless conversation with the man, who turned out to be the bride’s uncle and the officiant of the ceremony, she heard Richard say to one of the bridesmaids, “Now you look like someone who’d be interested in the bride’s special, an apricot-tini. Believe me,” he confided, “the color is the best part.” The girl burst into giggles, melting into his charm as effortlessly as any other twenty-three-year-old whose path he had ever crossed.

  “Just like old times, huh, Ci?” he said, coming around the bar to stand beside her when they both found themselves momentarily alone. He handed her a martini glass with something apricot-colored in it. “You and me, good times, good food, good people.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “No, it’s not just like old times.” She took a sip of the drink and grimaced a little. Apricots and martinis clearly were never meant to be mixed. “Our old times were beer and pizza and chicken pox.”

  He smiled and caressed her back briefly. “Which is why we deserve to treat ourselves now.” Then, with a deep breath of the clear fresh air, “God, this place is beautiful. Just look at those trees. What are they, anyway? Just like a movie set.”

  She stared up at him in blank incomprehension for a moment. “Richard, what are you doing here?”

  “Living the dream, baby,” he replied, smiling at someone across the way. “Living the dream.”

  “Richard, for heaven’s sake, what were you thinking? You bought property? In Virginia?”

  He looked extremely pleased with himself. “Not just property, Ci, but eighty-seven acres of the most beautiful horse country you’ve ever seen. Fenced and cross-fenced, with a fifteen-stall barn already standing. I can’t wait to show it to you. It’s exactly what I was looking for. Exactly.”

  “Eighty-seven acres?” Her voice was bordering on shrill as her incredulity rose. “Are you crazy? Why would you do such a thing?”

  He chuckled. “At today’s prices, I’d be crazy to pass it by. It’s a great investment, less than half an hour away from my little girl, everything I’ve always pictured when I thought about where I wanted to retire.”

  “You are not retiring here,”
Cici stated flatly. “You’re not.”

  “Listen.” He took her arm, turning her a little away from the crowd that was milling around at the bottom of the steps, and he bent his head close to hers, lowering his voice earnestly. “I know how we left things, and that’s fine with me, really. I know this probably seems impulsive but I’ve been thinking about it for years, and now everything is coming together. The timing is perfect. Don’t look at this like I’m trying to pressure you. Think of it as a chance for us to take our time, enjoy each other, settle into the feeling of being a family again...”

  With every word he spoke her eyes grew wider, and by the time he finished she was shaking her head adamantly. “No.” She downed the remainder of the martini in a single swallow. “No. Let me be clear about this, Richard—no.” She started to walk away, then spun back to him with a wide sweep of her arm. “This,” she declared, indicating all that surrounded them, “is my dream, not yours, don’t you see that? And now all of sudden you come swooping down like—like some kind of conquering hero and decide you want what I have, and it feels like you’re trying to steal my dream. That’s what it feels like!” The flash of hurt in his eyes stabbed at her, and she drew a breath, trying to gentle her tone. “I’m sorry, Richard, I really am, for whatever insane midlife crisis made you think this could work out. But we’re not a family. We’re barely even friends. You don’t belong here, and I. . . ”