Love Letters from Ladybug Farm Read online

  With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, anger and contempt radiating from her with every step.

  Bridget stood there for a moment, mouth agape. And just when she thought of something to shout after Ida Mae, the telephone rang.

  It was, of course, Catherine.

  A typical day in late spring at Ladybug Farm began with a leisurely breakfast on the porch, watching the mist rise over the meadow and the iridescent hummingbirds run war maneuvers around the bright red feeders that were hung under the eaves. They drank coffee in their pajamas, munched muffins and fresh fruit, and planned their days. Cici usually had some project going around the house—matching a piece of hand-milled molding from the 1920s, patching the crumbling mortar in the stone floor of a patio, building a closet or a set of shelves. By eight o’clock, Ida Mae was usually busy polishing furniture and mopping floors, and Bridget was feeding the chickens, checking on the sheep, or working in the vegetable garden. On the days that Lindsay had students in for art classes, she was in her converted dairy barn studio by nine, preparing canvases and mixing paints. Otherwise she never lacked for occupation with the flower gardens, the trellises, the ponds and patios. As the summer progressed, the orchard, vineyard, and nut-bearing trees all needed attention, and when harvest began an entirely new flurry of activity consumed the household. There were very few moments of downtime at Ladybug Farm.

  So far this day had included for Cici twelve phone calls, eight e-mails, four faxes, and a trip to the hardware store. She had finished framing out the dance floor and was waiting for the rest of the materials to be delivered so that she could start placing the floorboards. It was after noon, and she was feeding the chickens because no one else had had time to do it, and she still had the table rounds to make.

  Every surface in the kitchen was filled with sample dishes, pots were steaming on the burners, and Bridget was madly whisking, slicing, and basting. Ida Mae was sulking about something and taking out her pique on the windows, which she was polishing to a dangerous sheen. Lindsay hadn’t left the sewing machine all day, and Noah, it seemed, hadn’t been heard from all week. Cici didn’t blame him for staying out of the way. What worried her was that in only a matter of days, this kind of chaos had become the new normal.

  When the telephone tucked into her back pocket rang yet again, she was tempted not to answer it. When she heard her daughter’s voice, she almost sank with relief.

  “Lori, please, please, please say you’re coming home this weekend.” Cici propped the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear and lifted the gallon bucket of water with one hand while she unlatched the gate to the chicken yard with the other. Chickens squawked and scattered as she entered, and she did an effective little dance to shoo them away from the gate with one foot while trying not to step in chicken waste with the other. “Remember that great idea you had to turn this place into a wedding venue? And how hard you worked to make sure the people at Virginian at Home knew about ‘catering and special events’?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” replied Lori chirpily.

  “We’re killing ourselves here! A little help?”

  “I’m in Research and Development,” Lori informed her. “You guys are in Manufacturing.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Cici splashed water into the trough and scuffed her shoe over a patch of grass to clean it. She picked up a rake.

  “Mom, where are you? This connection is terrible!”

  “I’m cleaning the chicken yard,” Cici answered. “Do you see what I’ve been reduced to? Carrying a cordless telephone around the farm because someone has to be on office duty while Lindsay is sewing and Bridget is making wild peach blossom chutney or whatever it is she’s experimenting with now.” She raked the pile of chicken manure into a corner of the yard, to be collected later, and hung the rake back on its hook. “Your chickens, I might add, which you were so determined to have.”

  “Aunt Bridget liked them, too,” Lori defended. “Besides, think how much you’re saving on eggs.”

  “Not enough to pay for their feed. And we’re all getting high cholesterol.”

  “That’s a myth. Eggs do not give you high cholesterol.”

  “So, now you’re premed?” Cici exited the chicken yard and latched the gate.

  “Mom,” Lori said, “I’m excited about the wedding and I can’t wait to get back there and help, but I just don’t see how I can do it this weekend. After all, this is just surveying the site and tasting the menu, right? The hard stuff hasn’t even started yet.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had to cut out three plywood table rounds, repaint the trellis, and pressure wash the porch by Friday.” As she moved closer to the house, the reception became clearer and she asked, casually, “So, who is he?”

  Lori’s laugh was too light to be genuine. “Who is who?”

  “You know who. The new fella.”

  “Really Mom, I have this killer exam coming up and I have to stay on campus this weekend to study. Besides, I have some great news. That’s what I called to tell you.”

  “Oh?” Cici had learned from experience to be wary of what Lori considered great news.

  “It’s a terrific opportunity so perfect I really didn’t even think I had a chance, which is why I didn’t want to mention it to you before now.” Lori’s voice was practically breathless with excitement—or perhaps she was jogging to class, as she often was when she remembered to call her mother. “There’s this internship program that I found out about online, where agriculture students can actually get hands-on experience at a real winery, with some of the top winemakers in the world!”

  Already Cici had a bad feeling about this. “But you’re not an agriculture student.”

  “That’s why I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But it turns out I can apply through the business department, with the approval of the agriculture head, and because I’m coordinating all my credits to transfer to the enology program at Cornell, he actually approved me!”

  “Well,” said Cici, having absolutely no difficulty restraining her enthusiasm. “That’s really something.”

  “And you haven’t even heard the best part! It’s in Italy! Italy! And it starts in July, but don’t worry, I’ll be back for regular classes in September, and—the absolutely best part—five quarter hours credit, can you believe that? Of course, part of the credits are in language, so I guess I’d better learn Italian, but could you just die?”

  Cici sat down slowly on the porch steps. “Internship?” she repeated. “In Italy?”

  “Don’t worry about the expenses,” Lori assured her. “Dad’s got it covered.”

  Cici pressed her lips together and tried to count to three. “You talked to your dad about this?”

  “Oh, sure. But he’s cool with it, don’t worry.”

  Cici cleared her throat softly, and chose her words carefully. She had a sudden, disturbingly gratifying picture of serving up her ex-husband’s head on a platter, lined with curly endive and surrounded by spiced apple rings, at the wedding buffet. “How did this, um, all come about?”

  Lori hesitated, but she made no attempt to disguise the excitement in her voice as she confided, “Actually, there is this guy I met online...” And before her mother could smother her groan, she went on, “Don’t worry, he’s really nice. And he’s awfully cute—at least the picture he posted is—and we’ve been having the best time, e-mailing back and forth. He’s at the University of Milan, studying law. You have to be really smart to go to the University of Milan, but that’s where he is. He was helping me to research a paper, and then I heard about this internship, and it turns out his father actually knows the owner of Cascino Giovani, which is—yes!—at the top of approved sponsors, and he’s giving me a personal reference, which pretty much means I’m in. Well, as long as I keep my GPA up for another three weeks, anyway! He writes the most beautiful letters,” she confided, with a touch of wistfulness in her tone. “Sergio, not his father. Are all Italians so ... po
etic?”

  Cici ground her teeth together and drew in a slow breath. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  The sun, slanting behind the neatly tied rows of just-budding grape vines, broke a sweat on her face. She heard the sound of a truck engine—too well-tuned to be Farley’s—and tires crunching on the gravel driveway. She twisted around to see Dominic DuPoncier’s white pickup rounding the far corner of the house, moving toward the vineyard. Dominic, in straw hat and plaid shirt, lifted his arm through the open window toward her. “Afternoon, Miss Cici!” he called. Cici waved back.

  Dominic was the county extension agent, and his father, as it happened, had been responsible for developing the original Blackwell Farms vineyard and winery on this very site. He had spent his youth working with his father at what was now Ladybug Farm, and he was so excited when the women approached him with the plan of reestablishing the vineyard that he had volunteered his expertise, his labor, and practically every free hour he had for the past year helping them get started. He babied their vines as though they were his pets, and when he talked about wine making he left no doubt in anyone’s mind why it was considered an art.

  And thinking about him gave Cici an idea.

  She said, “You know, Lori, I think an internship is probably a good idea. I’m just not sure Italy is the best choice.”

  “Well, maybe. But the positions at all the best wineries in France were already filled.”

  That was exactly what she had hoped Lori would say. “We have some excellent wineries in the U.S.,” she said. “New York, Napa...”

  “Oh, Mother, please. If you’re talking wine, you’re talking Europe.”

  “Or European winemakers,” she pointed out. “And I’m betting there’s nothing you can learn at Casa Wherever—”

  “Cascino Giovani,” Lori supplied.

  “—that you couldn’t learn from Dominic DuPoncier. He not only worked at some of the best wineries in New York, he studied under one of the most accomplished winemakers in France: his own father.”

  Lori laughed. “Nice try, Mom. And don’t worry, I intend to learn loads of stuff from Dominic. But not until you have an actual winery for me to intern at.”

  Cici worked hard to keep her tone neutral. “I thought your plan was to get a degree in wine making—

  “Enology” supplied Lori helpfully.

  “Right. A degree in wine making from Cornell after you get your business degree from UVA next year. Wouldn’t it be more helpful to do your internship then?”

  “Well, that’s what I thought, too. But then I met Sergio in this online forum and we got to chatting, and that’s just not the way it’s done in places where they make real wine.”

  “We’re making real wine,” Cici objected. And she frowned a little. “I guess.”

  “Practical experience is everything,” Lori insisted. “And when I found out about this internship ... well, how could I not go for it?”

  Cici chose her next words carefully. “You know, Lori, before you moved out here, you were planning to spend the summer in Italy on an archaeological dig, remember? With that professor you had a crush on?”

  “Oh, him.” Her tone was dismissive. “He was a jerk. But Italy is my destiny.”

  “I just don’t understand why you didn’t mention it to me. We could have talked more about this.”

  “Well, there was no point in mentioning it until it was certain, was there?”

  “Is it? Certain?”

  “Just about,” Lori returned cheerfully. “I have one more exam, and if I pass it, I’m in! That’s why I really have to stay and study this weekend. I’m really sorry” she added, and the contrition in her voice was genuine. “I promise I’ll be more help as soon as finals are over.”

  Cici sighed. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. You are being a help by staying in college and studying hard. Just keep your eye on the goal, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about that! Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie. Good luck on the exam.”

  “Bye.”

  She pressed the Disconnect button and stood up, waiting for the dial tone so that she could enter her ex-husband’s number. But before she could punch the first digit, the telephone rang in her hand.

  “Darling, it’s Catherine.” Cici closed her eyes at the sound of the familiar sultry voice, and was glad the other woman couldn’t see through the telephone. “I just wondered if I could ask a teensy-weensy tiny favor.”

  Cici replied, as pleasantly as she possibly could, “Of course, Catherine. What is it?”

  “We would just love to include a little information about the site with our change-of-venue cards, wouldn’t that be darling? Nothing elaborate, you understand, just a paragraph or two about the history of the place, a description of the facilities, directions, of course, a list of nearby hotels and restaurants, that sort of thing.”

  Cici drew a breath to reply but Catherine went on. “And of course we’ll need some pictures of the house and the garden, particularly of that lovely mountain view—without the tree branch, of course—a front view of the house from the drive, and, oh, I’d love a picture taken from the entry hall, looking up at the staircase, wouldn’t that be marvelous? Or maybe a shot of the living room, and the stained glass window. Oh, what the heck, just send me both and I’ll decide when I see them.”

  Cici mounted the front steps and crossed the cool, shady foyer. Ida Mae had used lemon oil on the banister and the citrusy aroma lingered. Her voice echoed a little in the highceilinged room, but she tried to keep her tone light. “With all of that, we could have a brochure.”

  “You have brochures? Well, that certainly makes it easier!”

  “No,” Cici corrected quickly, “no, we don’t have a brochure. We’re not a business, we’re just a house.”

  “Well, now I’m confused. I thought—”

  “What I mean to say” Cici explained patiently, as she reached the office, “is that all of this will take some time to put together. The photographs, the descriptions...”

  “Oh, that’s all right, dear. As long as you can e-mail it all to me tonight, the printer says he can have something ready to go out with the cards tomorrow.”

  Cici felt a small needle of desperation prick her skull as she sank into the desk chair and picked up a pen. “Don’t you think it would be better to send out the information about the site in a separate packet? Maybe after you receive the RSVPs?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Catherine sounded just uncertain enough to give Cici the advantage.

  “I think that’s the way it’s usually done with a destination wedding,” Cici said confidently, making it up as she went along. “You give the destination address—Ladybug Farm, Blue Valley, Virginia—on the card, and in smaller print, after the RSVP, you add a line that says, ‘further information to follow.’ You should check with your wedding planner for the exact wording.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” However, Cici could tell that Catherine was taking notes. “We’re on such a terribly short deadline. Two mailings. That seems a bit unorthodox to me.”

  “Well, this is an informal wedding.”

  “A destination wedding,” added Catherine thoughtfully. “Why yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it?” She became decisive. “I think you may be right. I’ll mention it to Traci, and if you could just have all the information ready for me to pick up this weekend when I’m out there, that will be soon enough.”

  “Um, that’s three days.”

  “That’s not a problem, is it?”

  “No. Of course not.” Cici was doodling a long-haired female stick figure on the notepad, with spears sticking out of it at all angles.

  “And we can finalize whatever little details we need to take care of then, too.”

  “Sure. That will be fine.”

  “Wonderful! So I’ll see you then. And when you make the list of hotels, do include all price ranges, will you? And see what you can find out about group rates. Thank you, darling! Bye-bye.
”

  “I’m not a travel agent,” Cici muttered when the line was dead.

  Cici’s ex-husband, Richard, was an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles who made his living catering to the whims of the rich and famous. Getting through to him at his office was never an easy task, and Cici was not in a very good mood by the time she managed it. Richard, as usual, did not waste charm on her.

  “Do you know what would make you happy?” he demanded, after giving less than an adequate opportunity to state her case. “I’ve finally figured it out, after all these years. What would make you happy is if Lori could have been hatched, like a turtle, and a father didn’t have to be involved at all.”

  Cici said, “For God’s sake, Richard, I’m not asking you to abdicate your parental responsibilities, I’m just asking you to use them with a little more discretion.”

  Richard’s voice sounded as though it were traveling the three thousand miles across country through a rock-lined tunnel to reach her. “Look, babe, I don’t know what you want from me. You won the war, okay? Lori is in Virginia, I’m in L.A. And now you want to bust my chops over a stupid webcam?” Then his tone changed. “Make these changes and print me out three copies, will you, sweetheart? And get MGM on the phone.”

  Cici blinked. “What? What are you talking about, webcam? Am I on speaker? Will you for heaven’s sake focus? This is our daughter we’re talking about! And take me off speaker!”

  A click, a sigh, a decided improvement in the sound quality. “Okay, okay, but make it quick, will you? I’ve got a meeting.”

  Cici closed her eyes deliberately but didn’t even bother trying to count to ten. By the time she reached three, he would have assumed a bad connection and hung up. “Listen to me,” she said, very distinctly. “I want you to stop—and I mean right now—encouraging Lori with this trip to Italy thing.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s an internship. It’s part of her education. Besides, I promised her a summer in Italy long before she transferred to the boonies. I’m just following through.”