Love Letters from Ladybug Farm Page 8

  “He hardly said a word at dinner.”

  “Teenage boys,” observed Bridget sagely. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what’s going on in their heads. But you can’t afford not to.”

  Lindsay sighed. “Some girl at school, I guess.”

  “It usually is.”

  Bridget reached into her back pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper, passing it to Lindsay. “Here’s the menu.”

  “The final menu,” queried Cici, “or the latest menu?”

  “Final,” Bridget said firmly.

  Lindsay unfolded the paper and held it at arm’s length, squinting in the dim light. “Wow. I didn’t know they made print this small.”

  Cici snatched the paper from her and flipped down her glasses, which were nestled in her hair. She read out loud, “Brie en croute with Midori crème fraiche, chèvre and roasted pepper tarts, fried green tomatoes with bacon and bleu cheese crumbles, herbed-roasted pork with peppered peach chutney, fresh mozzarella with sliced vine-ripened tomatoes and olive oil, charred beef tenderloin with horseradish mayonnaise, honey-glazed fried chicken bites...” She looked up, leaning forward to stare at Bridget. “Are you serious? This sounds like the entire à la carte menu from the Waldorf Astoria.”

  “It’s just for the tasting,” Bridget said wearily. “They’ll pick two meats and six accompaniments for the buffet.”

  “It sounds incredible. But not exactly something you can whip up in your spare time. How many are coming to the tasting?”

  “Just the bride, the wedding planner, and the mothers. It’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know, Bridge.” Cici looked worried. “Are you sure you still want to do this? That’s a pretty complicated menu and...” She cast a quick glance toward the house and lowered her voice. “It’s not exactly as though you have a lot of help. Is it worth it?”

  Bridget grimly stuffed the menu back into her pocket. “For thirty-five dollars a head it is.”

  “You go, girl,” said Lindsay, sipping her wine. “And Paul would say add a fifty percent premium for fresh, local, and prepared on-site.”

  “Forty-five dollars a head,” replied Bridget determinedly. “Besides, Ida Mae can follow a recipe, and Lori will be here to help with the actual wedding.”

  “Things must be desperate, if you’re actually looking forward to having Lori in the kitchen.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bridget said uncomfortably. “But there are plenty of things she can do outside the kitchen.”

  Lindsay said sourly “They want me to design escort cards.”

  Cici said, “Escort cards? But I thought this was a buffet.”

  “It is,” Bridget assured her.

  “That’s what I told them,” Lindsay said. “Escort cards are for sit-down dinners.”

  “And?”

  “And Traci’s matron of honor had escort cards with diamond chips in the corner. Traci has to have something better.”

  They watched red streaks appear across the sky, and the apple blossoms soaked up the bright pink color. A bluebird visited the feeder that was hung under the eaves, gave the women a quick, bright look, and darted away.

  Bridget smiled a little into the twilight. “Do you remember your own wedding?”

  Lindsay nodded reminiscently. “The Fellowship Hall of El Camino Baptist Church in El Paso, Texas. We were just out of college, didn’t have two cents to rub together. Our parents flew in, and Mama bought me a wedding cake at the local bakery. It was awful.” She smiled. “I wore a white lace dress I bought in Mexico for twenty-five dollars, and twined baby’s breath in my hair. He wore a blue suit. They wouldn’t let us have champagne in the Fellowship Hall, so we had the reception in the park across the street, and danced to Cajun music until we were all too drunk to dance anymore.” She sighed. “The wedding was the highlight of the whole marriage. And lasted longer, come to think of it.”

  Cici said, “I had the works. Six bridesmaids, all in buttercup yellow. A big puffy dress with a train halfway down the aisle. Freesia and candles and white satin bows on every pew. The groomsmen wore cutaways with gray satin cummerbunds.”

  “Sounds like a fairy tale,” Lindsay said.

  Cici shrugged. “I guess. I don’t remember much about it. I was too stressed to enjoy it, and Richard and I had a big fight at the reception. I dumped a glass of champagne over his head.”

  Bridget and Lindsay chuckled. “Signs of things to come,” Lindsay said.

  Bridget’s voice softened with fond remembrance as she said, “Jim and I were married at City Hall. Jim had just gotten a job teaching at Columbia and he had to be there the next day. I wore a pink suit with a corsage of sweetheart roses. My best friend Martha stood up with me, and afterward she threw rice at us on the steps and a policeman yelled at her for littering.” She grinned. “We were brushing rice out of each other’s hair all the way to New York.”

  Cici smiled. “And you were married how long?”

  “Thirty-four years.”

  “Well, then,” said Lindsay, leaning back in her rocking chair. “There you go.”

  “Right,” said Cici. “It’s not the wedding; it’s the marriage that counts.”

  “Try telling that to Bridezilla.”

  “Or Bridezilla’s mom.”

  Bridget said softly, “I miss him every single day.”

  Lindsay reached across and squeezed Bridget’s hand. “You were lucky, Bridge. You got one of the good guys.”

  “There aren’t many of them left,” Cici said.

  Bridget smiled. “I know.”

  They were quiet for a time. The mountains began to fade to black in the distance, and the warmth of the day leeched into the twilight, leaving a mild and not entirely unpleasant chill on bare arms and ankles. A light came on in Noah’s room overhead. Lindsay finished her wine. Cici ate another cookie.

  Bridget said reluctantly, “Well, I guess I’d better go fax this menu to the blushing bride.” But she made no move to rise.

  “And I’ve got to e-mail Catherine about the contract,” Cici said. “Again.”

  “A lot of good our policy of not answering the phone after five did us,” observed Lindsay.

  “That’s the price you pay for life in the modern world.”

  “If you ask me, life was a lot easier before we got so modernized.”

  No one argued with that.

  They sat there for only a moment longer. Then one by one they got up, went inside, and went back to work.

  August 12, 2003

  My darling,

  Sometimes during the day I think of things I want to tell you, or I see something that makes me smile, and I think how it would be if you could see it, too. Here are some of the things I wish I could have shared with you today.

  A vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream cone

  A fat rabbit that darted right out in front of me when I went to get the paper this morning

  A brown and white puppy with a red collar

  Are you eating ice cream where you are? Is someone makingyou smile?

  Please be happy. Because the truth is that I can never be until you are.

  6

  A Few Complications

  The phone on the desk beside her began to ring, and Cici shouted up the stairs, “Fax!” Until the North-Deres had blown their way into their lives, the trusty old fax machine that Cici had kept for home use back in Maryland had been boxed up in the cellar behind Lindsay’s rowing machine, a garment rack, and three boxes of unused glassware. Now it was plugged into an extension line of the house phone, and when the telephone rang the women never knew whether they were going to hear the frustrating beeeep of the fax machine or the sound of an actual human voice.

  Until slightly more than a year ago, they had not even had cable television and had to drive to the library in town for high-speed Internet. But when Lori had finally convinced them of the practicality of bringing twenty-first-century conveniences to the nineteenth-century-house, they hadn’t coun
ted on how much space—and time—those amenities would consume.

  There was a small anteroom off the main entry that, according to Ida Mae, had once been a sewing room, and before that, a smoking lounge where men had enjoyed big smelly cigars. It had two sunny windows and a small coal heater which no longer worked, and the floor was covered with worn beige carpeting. The women had closed it off when they moved in, for it wasn’t as though they were in need of extra rooms. When technology came to Ladybug Farm, however, they found a purpose for the little room.

  Cici pulled up the carpet to expose the same heart pine floors that were in the living room. Lindsay painted the room pale yellow and Cici built shelves that she painted gloss white. They brought in a pretty Oriental rug and a comfy wing chair that Lindsay and Bridget upholstered in ivory silk with white brocade birds embossed into the pattern. Bridget hung a green birdcage in the corner, and sheers over the windows. An electrician brought in extra outlets and the Internet cable.

  They found a nice big desk in unfinished pine at a yard sale, and whitewashed and sealed it to match the rest of the decor. They hung photographs in an attractive wall grouping of the three of them on shared vacations, and on the opposite wall, for a punch of color, Lindsay had framed one of her paintings, of a giant red poppy. Then they proudly brought in and set up their home computer.

  Cici had spent most of her life in offices—her real estate office, her home office, other people’s offices—and she wasn’t that wild about having an office at Ladybug Farm. But even she had to admit the room was welcoming and attractive, as well as practical. And the best part was that, since it was sure to be the least used room in the house, the door could remain closed most of the time.

  But of course, that was before Lori set up the website, which required constant monitoring, and Bridget’s blog, which Bridget preferred to work on from her laptop, which required a wireless router. Soon all of their bookkeeping was transferred to the computer, as well as their correspondence. An extension telephone line had been brought in, because they couldn’t hear the kitchen phone ring from the office. And now there was the fax.

  The machine began to buzz and roll out paper, and Cici clicked Reply on the e-mail she had barely finished reading. just received the fax; returning it to you ASAP, she typed. Hopefully the eighth time will be the charm!

  Lindsay stood at the door behind her. “What do you think about this?”

  Cici pushed Send and said gloomily “Her husband is a lawyer. I’m telling you, we should have thought this through. Why am I doing this, anyway?”

  “Eight thousand dollars,” Lindsay reminded her. “Look at this.”

  Cici turned. Lindsay stood at the doorway with several lengths of pale printed calico draped over her arm—one pink, one blue on white, one yellow. Spread atop them she had arranged a square of Battenberg lace.

  “What is that?” Cici asked.

  “Remember all that fabric we found packed away in the attic?”

  “Oh, right,” Cici recalled. “You and Bridget were going to make curtains for the guest rooms.”

  “Right. But there wasn’t enough of one color. There is, however,” she pronounced triumphantly, “enough to make tablecloths. And look, with a white Battenberg topper to tie it all together ... what do you think?”

  Cici said uncertainly, “It’s pretty. But how many tablecloths do we need, anyway?”

  “I’m thinking ten.”

  Cici’s eyebrows shot up. “Ten!”

  “Four at each table, with one large one to accommodate the wedding party, which would of course be decorated differently.”

  “Oh. The wedding.” Cici leaned back in her chair. “Of course.” And then her gaze sharpened. “Wait. This started out as heavy hors d’oeuvres only. Then it was a buffet.”

  “With escort cards,” Lindsay reminded her.

  “So, now it’s official? We’re doing a sit-down dinner?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “People have to have some place to sit, even if they’re only eating hors d’oeuvres. Anyway, it’s up to Bridget what kind of dinner they have. I’ve got enough trouble keeping up with what I’m responsible for. So.” She held up her arm with the fabric draping over it, her expression hopeful. “What do you think? Simple, organic, very farmhouse. I’m picturing mismatched china bowls filled with Floribunda roses as the centerpiece at each table, Battenberg lace napkins with beaded napkin rings, and carrying out the whole country inn-tearoom theme, mismatched china and antique silver place settings.”

  Cici hesitated. “Don’t you think that’s a little ... informal?”

  Lindsay’s face fell—first into disappointment, then into resignation. “Well, of course I do.” She sank into the ivory silk chair and balled up the fabric. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t try to sell her on dusky rose satin table covers with white gardenia votives floating in crystal bowls at each place setting, or ivory satin and champagne glasses filled with sweetheart roses—I mean, that’s simple, isn’t it? That’s understated. But the girl is obsessed with a theme wedding. ‘Country chic,’ she says. ‘Farm natural,’ she says.”

  “Ceramic cows and burlap?” suggested Cici.

  Lindsay returned a brief scowl. “Very helpful.”

  “So, where are you going to put these ten tables seating four people each—which by the way is only forty people, you know. We’re in it for fifty.”

  Lindsay waved that away. “So, ten people sit at the head table with the bride and groom. And I measured—if we use the entire porch, we can get ten tables with four chairs around each one. So.” Now her expression became hopeful again. “A tiny favor?”

  Cici let her head fall back against the back of the desk chair. “Just as long as I don’t have to put my initials on anything.”

  “Could you build two or three mock-ups—they don’t have to be sturdy enough to hold food, just something that won’t tip over when you touch it—so that I can stage the porch for the weekend?”

  The phone rang. Bridget shouted from downstairs, “Got it!”

  And in a moment, her voice muffled and her warmth sounding forced, they heard her say, “Oh, hi, Traci.”

  Cici sighed, as her gaze wandered to the view from the window. “Remember when all we had to do before lunch was weed the carrot patch and pick strawberries?”

  Lindsay’s gaze followed hers briefly wistfully, but did not linger. “It will be worth it,” she said firmly. Then, with a beseeching smile, “So, what do you say? A little scrap lumber, an hour or two?”

  Cici looked at the fabric, at the contract that lay waiting in the fax machine tray, and at the view of the pear tree, dappled with spring green and ruffled white blossoms, outside the window. She stood, tucked in the trailing hem of her shirt, and declared, “If it will get me out of this office and away from the wonders of modern technology, I’ll build you a blessed gazebo. I’m going into town for a jigsaw blade and some quarter-inch plywood. Just have the measurements for me when I get back. I guess I might as well order the materials for the dance floor while I’m there. And,” she added, “I’m keeping the receipt for the bride.”

  “Plus ten percent labor!” Lindsay called after her, and Cici gave her a grinning thumbs-up as she left.

  Bridget sat at the kitchen table, intently studying the yellowing pages of Emily Blackwell’s cookbook. “There’s got to be something in here that’s as elegant as shrimp Newburg but without the shrimp. And more folksy. And more local.”

  Ida Mae gave her a withering look as she carried a potted geranium to the sink for water. “I don’t know what you’re looking in that book for if you want wedding food for city folks. You need that French woman.”

  Bridget looked up, puzzled.

  “You know, that movie star.”

  “Julia Child?”

  “If that’s the one that’s all the time slopping wine all over everything.”

  Bridget sighed. “I don’t know, Ida Mae, you might be right. French cooking with a Shenandoah Valley local Mediter
ranean country flair might be exactly what they’re looking for.”

  The potted geranium dripped a trail of water across the floor as Ida Mae carried it, two handed, from the sink to return it to the plant stand in front of the window. Bridget quickly sprang up to help. “Here let me take that.”

  But as Bridget reached for the plant Ida Mae angrily snatched it away. “So, now I’m too feeble to carry a potted geranium, is that it?” she demanded.

  “I didn’t say you were feeble, I said ...”

  “I know what you said, Miss Priss. There ain’t nothing wrong with my hearing, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” Ida Mae set the pot down on the stand with a thud that splashed more water and dirt onto the floor. “There!” she declared in disgust as she surveyed the mess. “Look what you made me do!”

  Bridget and Ida Mae had had their differences almost from the moment they met, as was only to be expected when two strong women ruled over the same kitchen. In time they had come to respect each other and even to work together as an efficient team. It had been a long time since Bridget had lost her temper with Ida Mae. And it had been almost as long since Ida Mae had made such a deliberate attempt to provoke her.

  “What I made you do? That’s what I was trying to stop you from doing!” Bridget quickly clamped down on further exclamations and turned away so that Ida Mae wouldn’t see the flare of color in her cheeks. She jerked open the cabinet under the sink, looking for towels.

  Ida Mae returned from the pantry with a mop in her hand just as Bridget straightened up from the cabinet with a towel. “Ida Mae,” she said gently, “I know something’s bothering you, but I can’t help if you won’t talk about it. None of us can. Don’t you want to—?”

  But before she could even finish the sentence, Ida Mae shoved the mop into Bridget’s hands.

  “And I’ve got too much to do to clean up your messes,” she told Bridget. “So, you can just do it yourself.”