A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [114]
Again, there were quick murmurs of protest, and Cici held up a firm hand for silence. “Now, don’t you see that’s just exactly what women do, and exactly why we’re in this mess today.” Her voice was tight, bordering on harsh, and every word was clipped with frustration. “We just don’t face the facts. We say money doesn’t matter as long as we’re happy, money doesn’t matter as long as we’re together, we’re not going to let money affect our friendship, there are more important things in life than money . . . well, maybe there’s some truth to all of that but I’m here to tell you if I’d been a little more practical about the money part of this—if we all had—we’d probably all be sitting at home on Huntington Lane right now, surfing the Internet and watching Oprah, and turning up the thermostat whenever we liked. And if we don’t take a good, hard look at what we’re doing now, this time next year we might all be doing hair in a trailer park somewhere, and I’m not kidding.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Lindsay said, sounding a little hurt, “We’re not children, Cici. We knew what we were doing.”
And Bridget added, “I’m the one who got you both into this. If anyone’s to blame—”
“Oh, Bridge, no one’s to blame.” Cici ran a hand through her hair with her free hand, and now her expression was simply wretched. “The thing is, since I’ve had some time on my hands the last couple of days, I ran some figures, and it’s not a pretty sight. I made copies for you both.”
She drew another breath, winced, and touched her broken ribs, and added, “Anyway, we’ve got a few weeks before we have to make a decision. I think we should make each other a promise. Let’s use that time to think about what we, individually, really want, and not talk about it with each other. And, speaking for myself, whatever you decide won’t make me love you any less, and I mean that. You’ll always be my best friends, so don’t even let that come into the picture.”
“Oh, Cici, same for me.”
“You didn’t even have to say that.”
“Then can we promise?” Cici insisted. “No talking about it, just thinking about it, until January first?”
Lindsay looked at Bridget. Bridget looked at Lindsay. They both looked at Cici, and promised.
But the moment of tenderness was shattered almost before it had begun by the sound of Rebel racing across the yard and barking at the top of his lungs, followed almost immediately by a cavalcade of tires crunching on the gravel drive.
“What in the world?” They all turned to peer out the remaining bank of windows that faced the east side of the house. Two ladder trucks, equipment clattering, pulled up in front of the barn, followed by two pickup trucks with silver toolboxes in back, and a mud-spattered SUV. Doors opened and slammed, men in beards and hunting caps, flannel-lined jumpsuits, and leather work boots piled out of the vehicles and began to congregate in their yard, peering up at the barn roof, wandering around toward the sunroom. Cici recognized Jake Junior and Jake Senior, Jonesie, Sam and Deke, a deacon from the Baptist church, and two of the men who liked to hang around the lumber yard office, chewing tobacco and spitting into a coffee can. And, of course, Farley.
She whispered, “Oh, my goodness” and hurried out to greet them.
“Morning, Miss Cici,” said Jake Senior, and nodded politely to Lindsay and Bridget, who had followed Cici out with puzzled, rather alarmed looks on their faces.
He turned and shouted, “Junior, Nathan, why don’t ya’ll get started cuttin’ up them limbs for firewood?” They waved a confirmation, and took a chain saw out of the back of one of the pickups. Deke and Sam started unhooking a ladder from one of the trucks.
He turned back to them. “Sorry it took us so long to get out here, but we was waiting for the snow to ease up. Hear you got yourself a little bit of a mess.”
Cici looked from one to the other of the men, feeling almost as lost as Bridget and Lindsay. “Well . . . yes, I guess you could say that.