At Home on Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  Lindsay’s eyes went wide, and she looked at Cici. “Miriam Wilson spent eight thousand dollars to rent a hotel ballroom for her daughter’s reception, and God knows what she spent on the wedding itself.”

  “And the rehearsal dinner.” Bridget looked up from her folder. “Do you remember the rehearsal dinner I did for Katie?”

  “And you did that for free!” Cici said.

  “All we’d have to do is get the word out to Paul and Derrick,” Lindsay said, “and we’d have more business than we could handle—for jams and weddings!”

  Lori smiled. “All it took was a little research. And oh, by the way, don’t worry about hiring a marketing director. I’m enrolled for the fall in the business school at UVA, and after that I’ll transfer to Cornell for my degree in enology and viticulture. I should be ready to take over the business by the time you’re ready with your first vintage.”

  “Enology?” repeated Bridget blankly.

  “Viticulture?” said Lindsay, sharing Bridget’s puzzled look.

  Cici rose slowly and crossed the floor to Lori, where she wrapped her arms around her daughter and hugged her hard. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for my Mother’s Day present.”

  Lori returned her embrace, only a little embarrassed. “You ask for a business plan, you get a business plan.”

  “I don’t mean that.” Cici’s eyes glistened, and her nose was red, and she tucked a strand of Lori’s hair behind her ear fussily as she smiled. “I mean you.”

  Lori hugged her again, grinning, and replied, “You’re welcome.”

  As they broke apart, laughing, Lori added, “And another thing. I’d try to hold on to that boy, if I were you. He may not look like much now, but he’s a quick study, and I think he’s got potential. He can be a lot of help to you in the vineyard while I’m away at college.”

  They assured her gravely that they would do their best to hold on to Noah.

  “So, I guess I’ll leave you alone to look over your folders,” Lori said. “If you have any questions, I’ll be sitting on the hill behind the house, trying to get a signal on my phone so I can search the web for bargains on shipping materials. By the way . . .” She paused at the steps and held up a finger. “The Internet? Wave of the future.”

  And so they wandered off their separate ways: Lindsay to the fountain, Bridget to the kitchen, Cici to a nap in her room. But one by one they were drawn to open the folders and to glance through them, first in a desultory fashion, and then with more interest, and then with great intensity. Cici came down the stairs with her calculator. “Girls, you won’t believe this, but I just went over the cost analysis page and we might really be able to afford this.” They sat at the table. They turned pages. Lindsay said at last, with great hesitancy and no small amount of wonder, “This could actually work.”

  “Of course there are a lot of variables.”

  “Just like with any other business.”

  Bridget said, “I never wanted to be a businesswoman.”

  “I never wanted to be a farmer,” Cici put in.

  And Lindsay added, “I never wanted to be a mother.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, thinking about it. Then Cici closed her folder, leaned back in her chair, and announced in a voice that indicated she could not quite believe it herself, “Ladies, it looks like we are opening a winery.”

  22

  Stories

  After supper, they drifted onto the porch again, sipping chardonnay and marveling over the possibility that, in a few short years, the wine in their glasses might come from their own vineyard.

  “I’ve never actually tasted a Virginia wine, have you?” Bridget said.

  “I think I did, once, at a restaurant in Georgetown,” Cici replied.

  “They probably don’t sell it in grocery stores,” added Lindsay.

  Bridget held up her glass, turning it so that it caught the spark of a brilliant sunset. “We’ll have to get our wine on the menu at a White House dinner. Our future would be set.”

  “That sounds like a job for the marketing director,” Lindsay said. “And given her ambition, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we all weren’t drinking our wine at a White House dinner before too long.”

  Cici allowed herself a smile of secret pride.

  The screen door opened and Lori came out. “Did I hear my name?”

  Lindsay looked at her. “Enology?”

  And Bridget said, “Viticulture?”

  “It’s the study of wine making,” Cici said. When they all turned to look at her, she shrugged. “I looked it up in the dictionary. You don’t have to have the Internet to get answers, you know.”

  “But you do have to have Internet access to run a website,” Bridget said with a certain amount of determination, “which I’m going to need in order to sell my wine jams and gift baskets online.”

  “Go, Aunt Bridget.” Lori grinned and plopped down on the steps with her back against the rail, drawing up her knees.

  “Well,” agreed Cici reluctantly, “the satellite dish installer did say that if we cut down some trees we would have a pretty clear view of the southern sky. And a website would be helpful registering people for wedding weekends.”

  “Welcome to the double zeroes, Mom.”

  “Not to mention,” added Lindsay, and an odd note of shyness came into her voice as she glanced down at her glass, “drumming up interest in art shows.”

  They all turned to her curiously, and she tried to minimize her words with a shrug. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I sent Derrick a photograph of that portrait I did . . .” Her eyes met Cici’s and Bridget’s meaningfully. “You know the one. I just wanted an opinion, you know. He’d already told me that the painting I did for Bridget of Rebel looked like it belonged on an L.L. Bean catalog cover, so I knew I could at least count on him to be honest.”

  “I love the L.L. Bean catalog covers!”

  Lindsay ignored Bridget’s outburst. “So anyway,” she said with a breath, “he called to say that he liked it . . . Well, actually, what he said was that this was what he expected from me . . .” No one could be sure whether the rosy glow on her cheeks was from the sunset, or repressed pleasure. “Gallery quality, I believe were his words, and if I could do a dozen more in that vein he’d like to do a show.”

  There were squeals of delight and exclamations of excitement, and Lori got up and hugged her impulsively, and Lindsay, laughing, held up a hand in protest. “Well, it’s not like I’ve actually finished anything yet,” she said. “But I do have some ideas, and the best part is you know what Derrick charges people for the art in his gallery. With any luck, we might have that barn paid for sooner than we thought!”

  The screen door banged again and Noah came out. He sat himself down in the space Lori had just vacated and regarded them all earnestly. “Who do I talk to about getting a learner’s permit?” he demanded.

  Cici paused with her glass halfway to her lips. “Um, the Department of Motor Vehicles?”

  “I mean in this family. That social worker, Miss Lincoln, she said you all are my legal guardians now until I’m eighteen and you make all the decisions about my welfare. So what I want to know is which one of you makes the decisions about driving?”

  Lori rolled her eyes. “Just give me some notice and I’ll get off the road.”

  “Noah, you don’t have a car,” Lindsay pointed out.

  “I’ve got a motorcycle.”

  “It doesn’t have insurance. Or gas.”

  “I’ve got a job.”

  Lindsay looked at Bridget. Bridget looked at Cici. Cici looked at the sunset.

  Lindsay said, “You know, Noah, we usually keep the evenings to ourselves. As quiet time, you know. Maybe we can talk about this in the morning.”

  Noah insisted, “But I’ve got to have transportation to get back and forth to work. And think how much time I could save you, running errands and hauling stuff and—”

  Lindsay held up a quieting hand. “La
ter, Noah,” she said firmly. And then she added, “In the meantime, though, there might be some good news. I know you wanted to move to the folly.” As he drew a breath, she quelled it with, “That’s not going to happen. However, we’re all sensitive to the fact that you’re outnumbered five to one in this house full of women.” She glanced to the others for confirmation, which she received with sober nods. “So I’ve been thinking about a compromise. The studio has heat, and plumbing, and if you were willing to do the work yourself we wouldn’t object to your turning the loft into a kind of apartment.”

  He considered that for a moment. “Thanks, but I guess I’ll keep my room for now. Especially since that girl will be going off to college this fall. It don’t seem right to leave you all in the house by yourselves.”

  And before they could even recover from that, the screen door opened one more time, and the most astonishing thing of all happened. Ida Mae came out onto the porch, and she had a glass of sherry in her hand.

  “Young man,” she commanded, “run inside and fetch me that rocking chair from the front hall. I’ve got a mind to set awhile.”

  Immediately, Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay scurried to their feet, offering Ida Mae their chairs, but she waited calmly until Noah returned with Bridget’s mother’s antique sewing rocker, which usually sat in a place of honor by the walnut drop leaf table in the foyer. They all stared as Ida Mae sank into it, took a sip of her sherry, and smacked her lips.

  “Sit yourselves down,” she commanded. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Slowly, the women sank into their chairs, the alarm on their faces clear. Even Lori took her post on the steps with her back against the railing, and everyone looked at Ida Mae.

  Noah started to go back inside, but the older woman said sharply, “You too, young fella. This concerns you.”

  “Me?”

  She gave him a decisive nod, and, looking uneasy, he took a place on the opposite side of the steps.

  “Ida Mae, is everything all right?”

  “You’re not going to quit are you?”

  “Has there been bad news?”

  Ida Mae rocked, and sipped. And in a moment she said, “I’ve got a story to tell. It’s about you, young fella, and where you came from. It’s about your folks.”

  Noah looked uncomfortable. “I don’t need to hear nothing from you about my folks. My pa was a no-account drunk who burned hisself up and that’s all there is to it.” He looked as though he might get up again, but she stopped him with a look.

  “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. I don’t know about your pa and don’t give a rat’s big fat behind. What I’ve got to tell you is about your mama, and her folks, and a story that goes all the way back to the Old Country.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “What do you know about my mama?” Noah said, a little curiously, a lot cautiously.

  Ida Mae rocked, and sipped. A contented, reminiscent look spread over her face. “Your great-grandma and me, we stayed together, right here in this house. That was during the war, and I was just a slip of a thing. We all worked at the mill down the road, and prayed for our boys to come home. They used to call me Penny back then, on account of my hair, as bright as a copper penny, just like that girl-child there. And the mill, it closed down in fifty-three. But I remember your great-grandma. She was like a sister to me. And your great-grandpa, why, he was a hero in the war. He saved twelve men on that transport before it went down, and they gave him some kind of medal, I don’t remember what it’s called, after he was dead.”

  “My great-grandpa?” Noah said, astonished. “Mine?”

  She nodded firmly. “That’s a fact. Wasn’t I standing right there at the top of the stairs when the telegram came? And I’ll tell you something else. Your granny, you probably don’t remember her, but she was a painter, too, just like you. Matter of fact . . .” Ida Mae sipped the sherry, smacked her lips again, and slid a sly look around to the three women. “She’s the one that painted those pictures in the alcoves in yonder.”

  Lori clapped her hands in delight, but Bridget gave Ida Mae a frown of gentle reprimand. “Ida Mae, you said you didn’t know anything about those paintings.”

  “I told you I didn’t know everything,” Ida Mae corrected smugly, “and I don’t. And what I do know, I got a right to keep to myself. But I figure a young’un ought to know where he came from. So I’m here to tell the story.”

  Cici regarded her skeptically. “This wouldn’t be the same kind of story as the one about the Yankee coming through the window, would it?”

  Lori said excitedly, “What Yankee?”

  And Noah’s eyes lit up. “The same ones that hid the ammunition in the caves?”

  Now Bridget, Cici, and Lindsay looked thoroughly confused, and Ida Mae rocked back, enjoying herself. “Well now, there’s stories, and there’s stories. The one about the Yankee getting shot in the parlor . . . well, I guess that’s what you might call a little on the exaggerated side. Kind of gives the house some color, you know? But now this other story, the one I’m about to tell you about your folks, it has Yankees, and it has Indians, and it has sailing ships, and every word of it is true, just like it was told to me by your granny’s mama.”

  Already Noah’s shoulders were straighter, his head held taller. He said, “I remember my granny, kind of. She used to bake apple cookies. And she had this blanket with a horse on it that I always liked to sleep under.”

  Ida Mae said, “That was a quilt. And that’s the story I’m going to tell you about. There’s all kinds of ways to make pictures, you know, and back in the olden times, women did it with their needle and threads. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that’s how you come by your way with drawing things.”

  Lindsay’s fingers went to her lips. “Quilt?” she whispered. The other two women simply stared at Ida Mae as the connection was made.

  Ida Mae went on complacently. “The fact is, your folks were some of the first settlers in these parts. It was your great-great-great-great grandpappy, and he was what you call an emissary of the king, who the king himself sent over here to Virginia on a sailing ship to civilize the land.”

  “The king?” Lori repeated, her eyes big. “He knew the king?”

  Noah hushed her with an impatient gesture and leaned in close.

  “So I hear tell. Now he brought his young bride with him, because everybody knows you can’t civilize anything without a wife, and before they could do much more than fling up a log cabin, the wild Indians attacked his homestead, and burned him out, and he had a newborn baby . . .”

  The ladies stopped rocking, and lost interest in their wine. Noah barely took a breath, so intently was he listening, and Lori changed her position, to better see Ida Mae’s face.

  Cici grasped Lindsay’s hand and squeezed. Bridget leaned forward in her rocker. The day turned slowly to dusk as the ghosts of those who had gone before them marched proudly across the landscape of their imaginations and Ida Mae spun out the story. Ladybug Farm came alive with the retelling, and a boy called Noah, who once had been lost, finally found his way home.

  EPILOGUE

  In Another Time

  1720

  The mother who sewed the cloak, embroidering it with the finest of silk threads imported from India and twice wound, did not know that it was destined to endure three centuries. But it did.

  The son, the husband, and the father who wore the cloak did not know that his tale would be legend, passed down from mother to daughter, daughter to son, son to daughter for generations uncounted. But it was.

  He stayed beside his young wife throughout the night as the smoke of battle grew ever closer and she labored to bring forth their child. And when at last he could linger no longer, when the enemy must be faced for the sake of all he held dear, he gave his wife and his newborn child to the care of his faithful servant, and charged him with taking them to safety.

  He wrapped the infant in his cloak to protect it from the chill dawn, and he spent a lo
ng time looking into his baby’s eyes before returning her, with the greatest of tenderness, to her mother. He drew his sword. He did not know if he would return. And so at the last moment, he turned back, and knelt beside the woman he loved, and the child he did not know.

  “Remember,” he whispered to the tiny, sleeping creature who, at that moment, held all the future in its small curled hands. “Remember me. Remember who you are.”

  And so she did.