A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [10]
“I resent that,” Bridget said.
“So do I,” Lindsay answered, “but it’s true.”
“Then tell me this,” Cici said. She appeared to be making some kind of graph on the legal pad, with long straight lines and lots of shading. “Who’s going to be raising all those change-of-life babies if all the women past childbearing age are dead?”
“Poor planning on the part of the evolutionary process.”
“Not to mention on the part of the change-of-life mothers.”
“And who do you suppose is going to be taking care of all the old men if all the old women are gone?”
“Oh they’d be eaten by a mastodon long before then.” Lindsay sighed. “In a way, life was a lot simpler before we all started living so long.”
Then, noticing the brief wanness that crossed Bridget’s face, Lindsay squeezed her foot and smiled apologetically. Bridget shook her head. “Actually, I was just thinking you’re right. You know that old saying—Lord, let me run out before my money does? It’s hard.”
Cici was looking at the slide show. “I think that was my favorite part of the house,” she said. “That stained glass window on the landing.”
“The marble fireplace in the bedroom,” Lindsay said, as the next photograph came up. “I’ve always wanted a fireplace in my bedroom. ”
“Well, you could have your choice in this house. They all have them.”
Bridget turned back to her own laptop. “It says here ladybugs are a sign of good luck. They used to be called “The Beetles of Our Lady” because in the Middle Ages the farmers believed they came in answer to a prayer to the Virgin Mary to save their crops from being destroyed by insects. That’s how they got the name ladybug.”
Lindsay said, tossing the foil wrapper from a chocolate toward the waste basket, “I’m eligible for retirement this year.”
Cici raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to take it?”
“I’m fifty-one years old,” she replied morosely. “Who retires at fifty-one?”
Cici said, “Shut up with your fifty-one, already. Talk to me when you’re fifty-four.”
Bridget raised her hand. “Fifty-eight.”
“My hair is falling out,” she complained.
“You’ve got gorgeous hair.”
“Everything I wear makes me look fat.”
“You’re a size six for Pete’s sake!”
“I’m growing hair on my chin.”
Cici adjusted her glasses and peered closely at Lindsay. “So you are.”
“I hate my life.”
“Welcome to the club. So. Are you going to retire?”
“God, I’m tempted.” She stuffed another chocolate into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “But I can’t live on half pay. I can barely live on full pay. And what would I do? It would be like starting all over again.”
“I’d take it in a heartbeat,” Cici said.
“Are you kidding? You have a great job! You set your own hours, you get to walk around in other people’s houses all day, and every now and then you rake in a big fat commission.”
Cici just laughed.
“Well, what would you do if you didn’t sell houses?”
“Anything,” replied Cici. “This is a stupid job. There’s no point to it. I mean, there was a point to it when Lori was at home. It’s the kind of thing you can do and still raise a child, and you’re right—sometimes you can make a pretty good living. But with Lori gone . . .” Cici shrugged.
Cici’s daughter Lori was a sophomore at UCLA whose phone calls were growing almost as infrequent as her trips home, and whose tuition and living expenses were being completely funded by her father. The fact that her father, a Hollywood entertainment attorney whose glamorous lifestyle and celebrity clients only added to his charm, suddenly wanted to be her best friend no doubt contributed to Lori’s infrequent communications with her mother, not to mention her mediocre grades. But if Cici was hurt by this she worked hard at not showing it . . . except, of course, for the occasions upon which she referred to her daughter affectionately as “the ungrateful little brat.”
“It’s just a stupid, tiresome job. When you go home at the end of the day you don’t have anything to show for it. You haven’t made