A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [11]
The people who knew Cici well—a short list, which was undisputably topped by Lindsay and Bridget—understood that she was a walking contradiction. With her cell phone pressed to one ear while she e-mailed with her BlackBerry and struck through clauses on a contract with her free hand, she was the quintessential twenty-first-century woman: She could build a high-rise in a Chanel suit and Jimmy Choos, give lessons in multitasking, and freeze the heart of the coldest competitor with a single unblinking gaze over the rim of her ebony-framed reading glasses.
But that persona was like a bodysuit that she pulled on at eight in the morning and peeled out of at five in the afternoon, when she would like as not pick up a sledgehammer and a hard hat and spend her happiest hours working alongside the construction crew on her latest house remodeling project. She mowed her own lawn—hatless, and in baggy shorts and running shoes, which was no doubt how she had gotten most of her freckles—she shingled her own roof, she built a gazebo in her own backyard while the neighborhood husbands, having been repeatedly and cheerfully turned down on their offers of help, gathered around with bottles of beer to watch and shake their heads in wonder.
If there was a petition to be drawn up, a plan to be presented, or a dispute to be resolved, Cici was your go-to girl. She coached soccer, headed the Arts and Music Society, and was chairwoman of the Library Fund Drive for ten years in a row. She was on boards and committees. She brought in guest speakers and organized charity balls. She was Cici, and she got things done.
But over the past few years it had become impossible not to notice that the Chanel suit came out less often, and the hard hat more. She joined fewer committees and took more vacations. More days than not, her BlackBerry never left her briefcase. She said that no woman past the age of fifty should be required to multitask. The truth was, she just wasn’t interested anymore. And neither Bridget nor Lindsay was really surprised to hear her say she was bored with her job.
“Oh my goodness, girls, listen to this!” Bridget sat up straighter, tapping a key on her computer as she read from the screen. “Blackwell Farm, Blue Valley, Virginia. Once listed on the Virginia register of historic places . . .” She glanced up to see their reactions, and then went on, “Blackwell Farm was once known for its regional cheeses, fruit jams, and wines. Its small runs and high quality made Blackwell Farm wines a favorite with collectors and restaurateurs alike in the sixties.” She looked up. “I wonder why Maggie didn’t tell us that?”
“She probably didn’t know.” Cici replied. “I’ll tell you something else she didn’t know. The tiles in the kitchen were hand-painted originals. The marble floor in the sunroom was real Cararra. And there’s a difference between glass doorknobs and crystal ones, and every interior doorknob in the place is cut crystal. That house is worth a fortune.”
“They’re asking a fortune.”
“Not really. A few cosmetic repairs, some updates, and a smart investor could double her money inside a year. And remember, there are no heirs. No one is motivated to fight for the asking price.”
The other two stared at her.
“It’s an eight thousand square foot brick house,” she explained patiently, “with antique heart pine floors, eight fireplaces, imported fixtures, a soapstone and brick kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances and imported tile work, a wine cellar, sixteen acres of valley with outrageous mountain views, outbuildings, orchards, a guesthouse—”
“Dairy,” corrected Bridget.
“Studio,” corrected Lindsay.
“It’s not a bad investment,” Cici said. “Some hotshot Washington consultant or software mogul wouldn’t blink at paying three, four million for a place like that.”
Two pairs of eyebrows shot up. “But it’s falling apart!”
“Well, there’s that,” Cici admitted. “But if it were fixed up . . .”
“I don’t think it would