A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [1]
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-1-101-01470-7
1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Shenandoah River Valley (Va. and W. Va.)—Fiction.
3. Dwellings—Maintenance and repair—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.A4545Y43 2009
813’.54—dc22
2008034288
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is for Shannon, Libby, and Janet . . .
Who sat on my porch, listened to my stories,
and said, “You should write a book.”
And for Gisele, who went for a walk one
morning and brought back a fawn
And for Karen, who never stopped believing
And for Jennifer, who extended her reach
And for Jackie, who brought us all home.
You are the women of Ladybug Farm.
Cheers!
In the Beginning
1
In Which the Ladies of Huntington Lane Go Looking
August
“Well,” said Cici, stepping slowly out of the car. “It certainly is big.”
“And old,” agreed Lindsay, getting out of the passenger side.
Bridget got out of the backseat and drew in a breath. “Good heavens. It’s—Monticello!”
Cici and Lindsay glanced back at her, then turned their eyes forward again. Cici pushed her sunglasses up into her hair to better assess the megalith of faded brick and painted Corinthian columns that sprawled before them. In the foreground stood a tangled and overgrown rose garden. In the background, sheep grazed in a meadow that seemed to sweep all the way to the Shenandoah mountains. On the deep front porch, which was partially obscured by giant boxwood tangled with Virginia creeper, a woman in a blue pantsuit waved to them. The three women waggled their fingers back.
“Okay,” said Bridget, “we’re just looking, right?”
“Of course we are,” said Lindsay.
“Absolutely,” agreed Cici.
“I mean, this isn’t serious.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Not even close.” Cici flipped the sunglasses back down over her eyes, finger-combed her honey blonde bangs back into place, and straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
Three doors slammed in a rhythmic concerto, three purse straps were slung over shoulders, and three pairs of legs strode forward. Viewed from a distance, they could have been sorority sisters in their designer jeans and walking shorts, slim tanned arms swinging gracefully at their sides, casually coiffed hair glinting in the sunlight. Bridget, the oldest of the three by a couple of years, was shorter and slightly rounder than the other two, but no one could pull off a pair of kitten-heeled sandals and fuchsia toenail polish like she could. Lindsay wore her auburn ponytail pulled through the band of a baseball cap, and a close-fitting T-shirt that barely skimmed the top of her jeans. There was a time when, as a college student, she couldn’t have afforded the special-edition Vera Bradley Sunshine and Shadow quilted backpack bag she carried by one strap across her shoulder, but no more. Cici was blue-eyed and covered in freckles, head to toe. She had the legs of a dancer, which looked twice as long and twice as lean in her CKs, and was tall enough to have been a basketball player. But she wasn’t. In fact, none of them were what they appeared to be from a distance.
It was not their clothes, their sizes, or their accessories that gave them away as they came across the lawn toward the wide front steps of the big house. It was the way they moved: with ease and confidence, and a kind of unconscious pride in being female that no one has when she’s twenty. You’re not born with a walk like that. You have to earn it.
They had already gotten their degrees—in liberal arts, education, business, and good old-fashioned survival. They had not only written mortgages, but had paid them off. Each one of them could soothe a teething baby, write a letter to the editor, and bake a soufflé—usually all at the same time and without interrupting anyone’s dinner to complain about it. They had elected seven presidents, picketed for paid day care, campaigned for national health insurance and secured