by Donna Ball
“Of course you will!” Bridget said it as though to think otherwise was blasphemy. “Why wouldn’t you?”
And Lindsay said, “When will you leave?”
“It’s not a sure thing,” he reiterated, trying not to panic. “I’m not even meeting with them until next week.”
That much was true at least. He was, in fact, one of over two hundred people who had managed to wrangle his way into an interview with what amounted to the assistant director of human resources, and that was only thanks to some very creative writing on his resume. It had seemed like something to hope for at the time. Now … not so much.
Lindsay said, “Do you speak enough Italian to work in Italy?”
“I might not take it,” he assured her quickly, wishing for all he was worth—which wasn’t very much at the moment—that he could rewrite the past five minutes. “In fact, I probably won’t. I just thought I’d mention it, just in case, you know …” He summoned up a coaxing smile, the kind his mother never could resist, “they make me an offer I can’t refuse.”
Cici said, “Lori’s in Italy.”
He looked at her, more grateful than he could say for the change of subject. “That’s right, Mom mentioned that.” He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. “What’s she doing there, again?”
“She’s got a boyfriend,” said Lindsay.
Cici gave her a cool look. “She’s apprenticing at a winery.” She sipped her tea. “And she has a boyfriend.”
“Where is she?” he inquired, to be polite, and to keep the focus off of himself.
“Siena,” Cici said.
Bridget’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Kevin, you’ve got to look her up while you’re there. I’ll get you her address before you leave. We’re dying for some real news from her and …” She glanced at Cici. “I know her mother would appreciate knowing what you think of this fellow of hers.”
Cici must have sensed his discomfort because she said quickly, “Bridget, I don’t think Siena is anywhere near Rome, and—”
“There’s a train,” Lindsay said helpfully, “and it’s a gorgeous trip from Rome. I know Lori would love to see a familiar face. She must be so homesick!”
“How can you go to Italy without seeing Lori?” Bridget demanded. “Or Tuscany, for that matter!”
Cici looked hopeful. “If you do go,” she said, “I have a few things I’d like to send to her. Nothing that would take up too much room in your bag,” she promised. “Just some of her favorite bath salts and some English magazines she can’t get over there, things like that.”
“And cookies,” declared Bridget. “We’ll have to send her cookies.”
Kevin understood then how a mountain climber must feel at the moment the avalanche finally overtakes him; at that instant when panic turns to horror and finally gives way to inevitability, acceptance, and yes, even relief. That was it then. There was no way he could backtrack now. His mother was baking cookies. Cici was depending on him. Everyone was proud of him. He was going to Italy.
And what the hell? One last hurrah. There were certainly worse ways to end a career.
So he sat back, smiled, and picked up his tea glass. “Sure,” he said, “it’ll be fun to see her. And I’ve never been to an Italian winery. I’ll send you a case of wine.”
“You’re staying overnight, right?” Lindsay said, rising. “I’ll get the guest room ready.”
Cici said, “Um, about that …”
“No,” Kevin said quickly, “no, I can’t stay.” He wanted to, he longed to. Nothing would make him happier than to sink into the oasis that was Ladybug Farm, to listen to the crickets at night and watch the birds in the morning and be fawned and fussed over by people who thought he was a rare and wonderful creature whose very presence on this earth was cause for celebration. But he knew he couldn’t bear the pretense for another twenty-four hours. He wasn’t that good a liar.
“But I was going to make fried chicken for supper,” Bridget said, disappointed, “and my caramel apple pie that you like so much.” Then she cheered. “I could make it for lunch. You can stay that long, can’t you?”
He smiled. “Oh, I think I could probably be talked into that.”
And so he lingered. He admired the winery and walked the vines with Dominic; he laughed and talked with his mom and her friends and stored up all the gossip to share with Lori. He ate fried chicken and apple pie until his stomach was swollen. He drank deep of the sweet country air and looked long into the gold-etched mountains, and there was an ache in his chest when he hugged his mother good-bye.
He left Ladybug Farm with a bag full of gifts for Lori and the smiles and good wishes of everyone he left behind, and he made reservations for his flight to Italy without ever once mentioning that the job—the one he probably wouldn’t get anyway—was, in fact, in Rome, Georgia.
~*~
Lindsay stared in dismay at the hole in the guest room wall, which was now almost as big as a barn door. “Oh no!” she said, bringing her fingers to her lips. “Cici, what happened? Can you fix it?”
Cici, who was tearing at another square of lathing with her crowbar, looked up and pushed back her glasses, looking both surprised and disappointed. “I thought you were cutting back the tomato vines.”
The visit from Kevin had been a fun diversion from the routine and the ladies had enjoyed it, but the dust of his departure had barely settled on the drive before they were all back at their chores. With the schedule they had to keep, there was no time for idleness.
“I was.” Lindsay took a hesitant step into the room, looking around at the rubble. Broken strips of lath and chunks of plaster littered the plastic-covered floor, wallpaper hung in huge sagging strips from all the walls, and a fine coat of white dust covered everything, including Cici. “I heard the noise and came to see what was wrong.”
“Oh. Well, it can’t be helped now I guess.” Cici gave an apologetic shrug, and then grinned. “I wanted to get more done before I showed you, but what do you think?”
Lindsay’s consternation grew as she looked from the floor to the wall to Cici. “Think?”
“It’s going to be your new suite,” Cici explained. “Yours and Dominic’s. You see, these two rooms used to be one great big room—Miss Emily’s room when she was married—with the two windows overlooking the garden and the marble fireplace … didn’t you ever wonder why it was off-center? Look, the floorboards are even flowing the same way, and if I’m careful all I’ll have to do is touch up the finish underneath this frame. The bathroom is twice as big as the one in your room, and it even has a shower! You’re always having to use the guest bath to wash your hair. All we have to do is knock down this wall and the room will be just like it used to be, and big enough for two people. It’s our wedding gift to you,” she added, a little breathlessly. “Mine and Bridget’s.”
Lindsay’s lips parted but for a moment she didn’t seem to know what to say. She turned in a half circle. She looked at Cici. “But … we have a wedding in a matter of weeks! And trim to paint and chandeliers to wash and—and a wedding to plan!”
“We’ll have this done long before the wedding,” Cici assured her. “Seriously, a matter of days.”
“But …” It was almost possible to see the thoughts flickering and wrestling for attention behind Lindsay’s eyes. “Give up my room? I like my room. I worked hard on it.”
“But it’s your room,” Cici replied patiently. “Don’t you think you should have a room that’s yours and Dominic’s? You know, to start your new life together?”
“Wow.” Lindsay let this sink in for a moment. “A new life.” She brought herself back to the problem at hand with a visible effort. “But—all this work! Cici, I can’t let you and Bridget do this! You’re doing so much already!”
Cici waved it away. “Look what you did for Bridget when you turned your art studio into The Tasting Table. Look what you did for me when I broke my collarbone. Look what Dominic did for all of us. This is nothing.”
Hesi
tantly, Lindsay bent down and peered through the opening into the other room. “It sure looks like a lot.”
“It’s simple. I’ve done all this just since Kevin left. Here.” She handed the crowbar to Lindsay. “You try. It’s kind of fun.”
Lindsay took the tool, glanced at Cici dubiously, and took a halfhearted swing at the wall. The plaster gave a satisfying crack and a few pieces crumbled to the floor.
“Like this.” Cici corrected her grip and suggested, “Try pulling instead of hitting. And stand back if you don’t want to get hit by falling plaster.” She hesitated, remembering Lindsay’s recent mishaps, and added, “Maybe you should wear a helmet.”
Lindsay returned a grimace and said, “Maybe you should just do it.”
She offered the crowbar back to Cici but they both turned at the sound of Bridget’s voice.
“Cici! Did you see this e-mail?” She appeared at the door and stopped short at the sight of Lindsay. “Oh,” she said, and then smiled. “How do you like it?” She gestured with the paper in her hand. “Great idea, right?”
“Actually,” Lindsay agreed, “it is. Thank you both. But it’s an awful lot of work.”
“Don’t be silly. You deserve it, both of you, and we want to do this.”
Cici said, “What e-mail?”
Bridget passed her the printout. “It’s from Lori,” she said excitedly, “and it solves everything!” She turned to Lindsay. “How about this? Instead of a formal run-of-the-mill wedding reception like everyone has, we’ll open up the vineyard for the burning of the vines! Just like we did for the blessing of the vines last spring. We’ll publicize it all over town, put it on the website, make it a great big open house! We’ll have a wine tasting and sell tickets! We’ll have cheese pairings, of course, and heavy hors d’oeuvres instead of a sit-down meal, and nobody gets left out!”
Cici looked up from the paper with a light in her eyes. “It’s tax deductible,” she said. “And it’s entirely possible we could actually make money on your wedding reception!”
Lindsay scanned the e-mail. “What does Dominic say?”
“He says Lori is a marketing genius and when is she coming home?” Bridget watched Lindsay, her eyes sparkling. “What do you say?”
Lindsay looked up from the paper. “We could have that band from town, you know the bluegrass one that Dominic likes so much. And we’ll light the bonfire as soon as it gets dark and everyone will gather around and we’ll have toasts and wedding cake …”
“So much more romantic than a sit-down dinner,” Cici agreed. “I’ve got to admit, sometimes that kid of mine is pretty smart.”
“Now you see?” Bridget beamed at Lindsay. “Sometimes things do work out.”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said happily, grinning back. “Sometimes they do.”
With a laugh of delight, she swung the crowbar against the wall as Cici had shown her and pulled hard. There was a clang, a clatter, and the sound of rending metal. Lindsay stumbled backward and sat down hard as a geyser of water shot from the wall.
Bridget squealed and ran for the door, but Cici just stared at Lindsay in disbelief, oblivious to the torrent that was quickly soaking them both. “And sometimes,” she said, “they don’t.”
~*~
At the Hummingbird House
~*~
Cocktail hour in the wildflower garden was one of the unadvertised delights of the Hummingbird House, for both the owners and the guests. At the end of a long day of hiking, antiquing, sightseeing, or simply rocking on the porch, the guests would drift out onto the stone terrace to sample the sherry and the cheeses their hosts had selected for them, to chat and share their days while the hummingbirds buzzed and darted around the feeders and the yellow daisies and purple columbine nodded in the breeze of a setting sun. As the days grew shorter and cooler, their hosts would light the torches that meandered along the stone paths and guests might linger around the dancing flames of the outdoor fireplace for one last glass before departing to keep their dinner reservations. It was also, for the busy proprietors of the B&B, often their first opportunity of the day to catch up.
“So then,” Derrick reported importantly, setting a tray of sherry and glasses on the patio bistro table, “they had to turn off the water to the entire second floor, but not before the carpets in two rooms were soaked through. Cici doesn’t think there’s any damage to the underlying structure, thank heavens, but it’s going to take days to repair. Lindsay is in an absolute panic that it won’t be finished before the wedding.”
Paul followed closely with the cheese board and a selection of beautifully arranged sliced fruit and water crackers. “It’s not that I don’t have perfect confidence in our girl Cici,” he confided, “but honestly—who takes on a job like that mere weeks before hosting a wedding?”
Derrick sighed. “She and Bridget wanted to make the bridegroom feel welcome.”
Paul placed the cheese board beside the sherry tray and began to arrange the Hummingbird House logo cocktail napkins in a fan shape between them. “Poor Lindsay. She’s letting this wedding turn her into a complete wreck. She’s usually so competent and composed, but I’ve seen twenty-year-olds with more sangfroid about their big day than this. When she was over here the other day to drop off the dress for alterations, she backed her car into the oak tree trying to park—no damage to either one, thank goodness, tree or car—and then tripped on the bottom step and almost dropped the gown in the mud before she even got to the front door. Then …” he looked mildly abashed. “I’m afraid I might have stabbed her with a pin a couple of times during the fitting, which was completely not my fault because you know she’s utterly incapable of standing still for more than ten seconds at a time. But the odd thing was, as soon as the dress was boxed up and ready to be shipped to the seamstress, she was perfectly fine again. We had a lovely tea, and she even helped me cut flowers for the dining table—using real gardening sheers—with absolutely no incidents whatever. I just don’t know what to make of it.”
“It’s perfectly clear to me,” announced Harmony, sailing across the patio with her empty wine glass extended. “The poor girl has an attached spirit or two. A quick exorcism and she’ll be as good as new.”
Harmony Haven was a large woman somewhere on the far side of fifty with a headful of riotous blonde curls and a bosom that had been compared once too often to the jutting prow of a ship. She had a tendency to dress in flowing colorful garments and outrageous jewelry combinations, and she promoted herself as an expert on all things spiritual, esoteric, and arcane. She had moved into the fuchsia room almost before the B&B was even open, and had shown no signs of ever leaving. Fortunately, they had managed to convince her—ever-so-diplomatically—to pay in advance.
Paul looked alarmed, although whether that was from her words or from the fact that she clearly intended to pour sherry into a glass that had only moments ago contained red wine was not clear. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Lindsay that.” He took her glass and passed it to Derrick, who quickly filled a proper sherry glass for her. “She already has one foot on the slippery slope of no return as it is.”
“What, exactly, is an attached spirit?” Derrick inquired, passing the sherry glass to her. He had the look of one who both dreads and anticipates the answer.
Harmony waved a casual hand and cut herself a slice of cheese. “The easiest thing in the world to manage. Far easier than exorcising a whole house. I could take care of it in half an hour.”
Paul met Derrick’s eyes and then they dismissed the notion with a quick and mutual shake of their heads. Paul said, “Seriously, I read an article only the other day in O Magazine about how people define their futures and I’m starting to get a bit concerned.”
“Nonsense.” Derrick filled his own glass. “We make our own happiness and Lindsay is just being silly. The only thing we have to worry about now is an engagement party that will make her feel like the princess she is.”
He turned a meaningful look on Paul, who swallowed his
pride with a visible effort. “Harmony,” he said. “About that …”
~*~
Chapter Four
Surprise
Lori knew she was not very good at her job. She wouldn’t have been very good at it even if everyone spoke English, or if she spoke more than a mangled version of Google-translator Italian. She wouldn’t have been good at it even if she had liked her job, which she did not. She was not put on this earth to serve grappa and cappuccino to sweaty Italians for ten hours a day, and that was not simply a conceit. In the first place, she didn’t like grappa; in the second place, she didn’t like Italians—both of which were significant handicaps for someone who worked in one of the busiest cafés in Siena. As far as she could tell, the only reason the owner had hired her at all was because he liked to pinch her ass.
Of course, the charm of that had worn off for Lori fairly quickly, and had become meager compensation for her boss after the first day of spilled drinks, misplaced orders, and angry customers. Now they coexisted in a state of wary dislike that occasionally flared into active animosity, if not outright violence, and Lori was quite sure that if she could understand even half of what her employer was saying when he got all red in the face and shook his fist at her she would have quit weeks ago. As it was, she found him fairly easy to ignore amidst all the rest of the high-decibel chatter and clutter that characterized the afternoon cappuccino rush.
The café was something of a cross between a Starbucks and a corner bar, with wine, grappa, and hard liquor served any time of the day, along with a confusing variety of coffee drinks and even pastries. It would have been hard enough to keep up with the orders even if she could understand what they were ordering. Already she had sloshed hot coffee on one customer, given the wrong change to another, and dropped a tray of drinks on the floor. They were standing six-deep at the bar, and the boss was at it again, yelling something in her ear with many grand gesticulations, while she tried to remember which button was espresso and which one added the milk on the giant, brass-coated octopus that resembled a time-travel machine more than a coffee maker. That was when she heard an American voice shout from the back of the crowd. “Hey! What does a man have to do to get some service around here?”