Love Letters from Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  He tossed her a salute and headed for the door. Ida Mae said, “I got cheese biscuits in the oven. I mixed in some chives like you said. I never heard of putting raspberry jam on cheese biscuits with ham, but I reckon you learn something new every day.”

  She left for the kitchen, and Bridget watched her go, her expression softened with affection. Lindsay came over to her, bumped her shoulder with her own, and smiled. “Family” she said, and Bridget returned a weary, contented smile.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they go and do something nice.”

  For a moment they leaned together, reveling in the moment. Then Lindsay asked, “What are we going to do about the smell?”

  Bridget hesitated. “Scented candles?”

  Lindsay gave her a dour look.” I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe there’s some kind of—I don’t know—odor neutralizer for fertilizer. I’m going to call Farley.”

  Lindsay suppressed a groan. “Don’t call Farley. Don’t call anybody. He’ll just try to fix it and make things worse. Noah tried to fix things. Dominic tried to fix things. That’s the trouble with men—they’re always doing something when there’s absolutely nothing to be done.”

  “Well, what are we going to do? Even if we serve lunch inside, they’re going to want to tour the gardens, and the wedding planner will have to do measurements and whatnot, and after all this work they’re going to cancel everything because of the fertilizer, I just know it.” There was genuine panic in her eyes as she confessed, “I spent over $250 on the food for the tasting. We can’t lose this job!”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to us,” Lindsay said, barely mustering the energy to get the words out. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve slept?”

  “At least as long as it has been since I have. And I have twelve hours to prepare a meal that should take two days to do right.”

  They looked at each other for a long, bleak moment. Then Lindsay said, “I guess we’d better get started, then.”

  After her shower, Cici decided to close her eyes for just a minute, and when she woke up it was after five. By the time she made it back to the hospital, Lori was finishing her dinner, and she and her father were joking about the quality of the Jell-O while CNN played on the overhead television. Cici came forward and kissed her hair, and Lori said, “You smell good.”

  “I also come bearing gifts.” Cici opened the bakery bag she carried and brought out two chocolate cupcakes.

  Lori’s eyes lit up. “I love you, Mom.” She began peeling the paper cup off one.

  Richard occupied the chair that had been pulled up close to the bed. He took out his phone and dialed in to check his messages. Cici gave him a hard look and after a moment he understood. “Right,” he said. He stood and offered the chair to her.

  “So,” Cici said as she took her seat, “what have you been up to all day?”

  “Well,” Lori answered, swallowing a bite of cupcake, “first Prince William came to visit, then we took in an opera, and after that ...”

  “Very funny.’

  “That phone of hers hasn’t stopped ringing all day,” Richard said. Then he spoke into his own phone. “Hi, sweetheart, I thought I told you we’re not taking any meetings with Caplin ... no, let him stew in his own juices for a while ... Yeah, that’s fine, let me know.”

  Cici smiled mirthlessly. “What a nice visit the two of you must have had then,” she said. “Of course”—she turned a meaningful look on Richard—“it might have been easier to do it by phone.”

  He ignored her and dialed another number.

  Lori said, “Kelley came by with my stuff. And look.” She pointed to an array of teddy bears that had joined the dozens of pink roses that were arranged in jars and vases around the room, along with a cluster of balloons. “People have been sending things all afternoon.”

  Cici smiled. “Now you’re starting to get the hang of being sick.”

  The nurse pushed open the door. “I don’t remember seeing cupcakes on the menu,” she remarked with an admonishing smile as she took Lori’s tray. “You know the rule is that no outside food can be brought in unless you share with the nursing staff.”

  “Talk to my mom,” Lori said. “I have half a cupcake left,” she added generously, holding it up.

  The nurse laughed. “Thanks, but you look like you need it more than I do. You have some friends waiting outside,” she added, “but we only allow three visitors at a time. Shall I send in one?”

  “Oh,” Lori said, and was unable to hide her disappointment. “I guess.”

  Richard flipped his phone closed and came forward. “Send them all in,” he said. “Your mother and I were just going to go get a bite to eat.”

  “I just got here!” Cici protested as he took her arm and gently tugged her to her feet.

  Richard kissed Lori’s cheek. “No booze or loud music,” he advised, and she laughed.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” Cici said as he ushered her toward the door. “And if you get tired, just tell your friends to leave.”

  But even as Richard opened the door three high-energy, cheery college students pushed inside, bearing more balloons and teddy bears and all of them talking at once. Lori squealed with delight and opened her arms to receive the gifts and the hugs, and Cici muttered, “You always have to be the cool dad.”

  “Seeing those kids will do her more good than anything you or I could do.” He dropped her arm as they reached the elevator. “Besides, I’m starved.”

  “What a pity,” she replied. “Because the one thing you won’t find in this hospital is food.”

  “Good thing I called ahead for reservations at Bon Homme, then,” he said. “Continental cuisine, wine cellar, and just around the corner. Also ...” The elevator pinged and he touched her shoulder to escort her inside. “Brick oven pizza.”

  Cici lifted an eyebrow. “Now I remember why I married you.”

  He smiled at her as the elevator doors closed.

  Bridget didn’t have to call Farley. He was waiting at the back door when she came down from her shower, somewhat refreshed and dying for a cup of coffee. When she smelled the aroma of fresh brew intermingled with that of sautéed onions and warm cheese biscuits and sweet caramel sauce, she blessed Ida Mae with every fiber of her being and made a private vow never to think another mean thought about her—for at least the rest of the week.

  The woman of the hour was saying, “I’ll tell her you was here,” as she closed the screen door. She had a quart-sized jar of clear golden honey in her hand.

  “Farley brought you some honey,” Ida Mae said as Bridget came in. She set the jar on the counter and went back to the stove.

  “Red clover,” Farley called through the screen door.

  “Oh, hi, Farley,” Bridget said. She detoured, a little reluctantly, from the coffeepot to the back door. She stepped out onto the porch and quickly closed the kitchen door behind her, trying not to make a face at the smell that was even stronger on this side of the house.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I want to ask you something.”

  He took his cap off quickly, and Bridget noticed the absence of his customary chewing tobacco and soda can. “It’s from the bees that live on the far side of your meadow,” he explained. “You know, where it’s all covered with red clover of a season? I thought you might like it.”

  “Why, thank you, Farley,” Bridget said, smiling. “That was really thoughtful. And thank you for helping Noah fertilize the vineyard this morning, but what I wanted to ask you was—”

  “Weren’t no problem,” he replied. “Sorry about the smell, but you just keep your windows closed for a day or two and it’ll be fine.”

  “Well, that’s the problem. You see—”

  “Miss Bridget,” Farley said somberly. He held his cap against his heart and the expression in his clear hazel eyes was grave. “I heard about the tragedy that s
truck your house. Now, you know I’m not much of a churchgoing man, but if it would help your feelings any, I’d be proud to sit by you at preaching on Sunday and pray for the good Lord to lay his hand on that precious girl.”

  Bridget’s astonishment was so great that her jaw actually dropped. “Why—why, I ... that’s so sweet of you. I don’t know what to say. But Lori’s fine, really, she’ll be coming home next week.”

  He looked disappointed. “Glad to hear it.” He started to put his hat back on, then turned back, an expression close to hopeful in his eyes. “But about Sunday .. .”

  “Sunday,” Bridget repeated slowly as her beleaguered thought processes gradually began to catch up with the conversation. “Farley, did you say the smell would be gone in a couple of days?”

  “Yes’m,” he allowed. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “But what I wanted to say was—”

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Bridget. “That’s exactly what we have to do!” She stretched to her tiptoes, caught the big man’s face between her hands, and kissed his cheek. “Farley, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”

  She hurried back inside, calling for Lindsay, leaving Farley to touch a wondering finger to the place her lips had been.

  Lindsay was on the telephone in the office, and a big grin was spread over her face. “Dominic,” she declared, “we are going to make you the best dinner you ever had! Just not on Sunday,” she added quickly. She hesitated, and laughed in response to something he said. “You bet. Thank you! You saved our lives.”

  She turned to Bridget as she hung up the phone. “Dominic says—”

  “The smell will be gone by Sunday,” Bridget supplied.

  “Which means we just have to move the tasting to Sunday afternoon.”

  “Which means we actually have time to get ready for it!”

  Lindsay sank back into the chair and Bridget leaned against the doorframe with folded arms, each of them taking a moment to enjoy their victory. Then Bridget tilted her head toward the telephone. “You called Dominic.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Was that Farley’s truck I heard pulling up?”

  “Hmm. He brought some honey.” Bridget was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, if this whole thing with the fertilizer hadn’t happened, we would have killed ourselves getting ready for tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t want to worry Cici,” agreed Lindsay, “but with just the two of us and Ida Mae—even if Noah could have been drafted to polish the silver and peel potatoes—we would have been up all night.”

  “Literally. And it still would have been a disaster, because my brain is fried.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Bridget grinned. “So, I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes men are worth the trouble.”

  “Even if only by accident.”

  Bridget turned for the door, suddenly energized. “I’ll tell Ida Mae to put the food back in the refrigerator.”

  “And I’ll call Catherine.” Lindsay turned back to the phone.

  “And then,” Bridget began.

  “Bed!” they finished in chorus.

  When Richard walked into a restaurant, he got the best table, the head waiter, the reserve wine. Part of it was the Hollywood cachet that clung to him like cheap cologne; part of it was just being—well, Richard. He expected the best, and he always got it.

  Cici forgot how much that used to annoy her. Now she remembered only how much she missed living like that.

  “So,” Richard said, slicing into his porterhouse, “tell me about this farm of yours.”

  “You wouldn’t like it. Not a supermodel in sight. And no home gym.”

  Cici had ordered a smoked chicken and fire-roasted pepper thick-crust pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and, yes, shaved truffles, because Richard was paying. She took a bite and barely repressed a moan of ecstasy as Richard said, “Very funny. You have horses, I suppose. Isn’t this part of the country known for its jumpers?”

  Cici held up a staying finger. “Please,” she murmured. “This is a sacred moment.” She took another bite of the pizza. “Oh, my God. Ida Mae never made anything like this.”

  He smiled at her across the candlelit table. “Well, whatever it is about that farm, it must agree with you. You look great.”

  Cici was so surprised she almost forgot about the pizza. “Thank you.”

  He cut and speared another bite of his steak. “I mean it. Ten years younger, at least. And I like your hair.”

  “Oh.” Self-consciously she touched her freshly blow-dried locks. “Miss Clairol Honey-Blond.”

  “It’s longer, isn’t it?”

  “Since the last time you saw me, five years ago?”

  “Lori sends pictures,” he pointed out with a small frown. “And you’re in most of them.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned back to her pizza.

  “No horses,” she said after a moment.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have horses,” she explained. “We have sheep. And chickens, and a deer, and a crazy dog. And a goat,” she remembered.

  “Good God.” He paused with a forkful of baked potato poised in midair. “It sounds very ... Beverly Hillbillies.”

  She laughed. “Not a bad comparison, actually.”

  “And somehow this ... paradise ... managed to seduce my daughter from her future as president of a Fortune 500 company to a major in—what does she call it? Agronomy?”

  Cici looked at him levelly. “Lori,” she told him, “was never going to be president of a Fortune 500 anything.”

  He thought about this for a moment, and shrugged. “Maybe not. Do you think she’s serious about this wine thing?”

  Comfortable now on the subject of their daughter, Cici relaxed and began to talk. She talked about the time Lori had spent at Ladybug Farm, exploring her talents and discovering her passions; she talked about their successes and their failures. As Richard ordered a second bottle of wine, she told him about Noah, and what an astonishing young man he was growing into, and about their plans and hopes for the vineyard. She talked about the rhythm of their life at Ladybug Farm, about the way the sunrise painted a pinkish yellow glow on the stone floor of the kitchen, and how the dew glistened when she went to gather eggs in the morning, and how one could hear the rain coming across the valley long before it actually reached their house. And, simply talking about it, she felt an ache of homesickness that was so intense it actually tightened her throat.

  Richard told funny stories about his celebrity clients—none of which Cici was actually convinced were true—and made dry observations about life in the high-speed world of the Hollywood glitterati. And even though the tales he told were tongue-in-cheek, even though the life he described was light-years away from her own—or anything she wanted her own to be—he made her laugh. He also made her a little envious. And for two and a half hours, he took her out of her everyday worries and into a world where living was easy, and someone else picked up the check.

  Over brandy Alexanders and a decadent chocolate dessert topped with amaretto ice cream and two spoons, Cici said, “You know, Richard, sometimes I forget what a nice guy you can be.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for tonight. I needed it.”

  He lifted his glass to her and replied in kind, “You know, Cici, I really like the woman you’ve become. I don’t know if I’ve told you that often enough.”

  She swirled a spoonful of ice cream and popped it into her mouth. “I don’t think you ever told me that. Are you going to eat any of this?”

  He looked at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable in the candlelight, his smile absent, almost as though he wanted to say something else. Then he picked up the other spoon. “Don’t eat all the ice cream,” he said.

  Visiting hours were over by the time they returned to the hospital, and the nurse told them Lori was asleep. They sneaked into her room anyway.

  “I feel like a terrible mother,” Cici whispered. “My baby is lying there with her leg in a ca
st and I’m two hours late. With brandy on my breath.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Richard said softly, smiling in the dark. “I somehow don’t think she’ll mind.”

  Cici tiptoed across the room, and smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped from Lori’s braid. She bent forward and kissed her sleeping daughter’s cheek. When she straightened, Richard was standing beside her, very close.

  “Look at that beautiful creature,” he said. His voice was a half whisper, almost like prayer, and his hand dropped to Cici’s shoulder, fingers massaging gently. “That wonderful girl.” He looked at Cici, his eyes tender, his smile sad and far away. “You know, sweetie, whatever else we did wrong, we did this one thing right. And that makes it all worth it, doesn’t it?”

  Cici nodded, and returned his smile, and when he slipped his arm around her shoulder, she let herself lean into him. They stood there beside Lori’s bed, watching her sleep, for a long time.

  Richard murmured, after a time, “Lori was right. You do smell good.”

  Cici straightened up, and stepped away. “I should go.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  She hesitated. “The Embassy.”

  He smiled. “So am I.” He held out his hand. “Want a ride?”

  Cici found his eyes in the dimness and held them. Slowly, she smiled, too. “Okay,” she said.

  She slipped her hand into his, and they left.

  May 21, 2008

  My dearest love,

  I don’t know how many more letters I’ll be able to write to you, and I have so much more I wanted to say. The problem is that the things I want to say can’t be said in a letter. I want so much for you, and I’m so sorry I can’t tell you in person.

  I want your life to be filled with color.