A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [116]
All were silent for a time, studying the sheet. Finally Bridget cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, and nothing more.
Lindsay looked up, her expression grim. “We can’t afford this place,” she said simply.
Bridget had the stunned look of someone who had just walked into a plate glass window. “Cici, I know you’ve been really depressed lately . . .”
Lindsay said, “Depression didn’t make up these numbers, Bridge. I just . . . I don’t think I realized it was this bad.”
Cici said, “I sold real estate for thirty years. I’ve seen this happen over and over again. Clients make an emotional decision about a house with absolutely no idea about what it will really cost, and before you know it they’re drowning in debt. I of all people should have known better. I am just . . . so damn sorry.” There was such a ferocity to her tone that Lindsay immediately turned and hugged her, and Bridget reached across to squeeze her knee.
“For the last time, this is not your fault,” Bridget said firmly. “We’ll figure this out.”
Cici pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, but could not prevent a tear from trickling from the corner of her eye. Lindsay wiped it away with her little finger.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Really.”
Cici sniffed, and tried to compose her expression. Bridget handed her a tissue. “I hate being such a bummer,” she said. “Especially after everything turned out so well with the sunroom and all.”
“Cici, you should be proud of the relationship you’ve built with those people,” Lindsay said. “All this time, Bridget and I never knew. But you’ve really made quite a reputation for yourself.”
Cici almost managed a smile. “Well,” she said. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“We should do something nice for them,” Bridget said. “Bake them cakes or something.”
“Well, it is that time of year.”
“ ’Tis the season.”
“If you can believe it.”
They picked up their mugs again and were silent for a moment, letting the gloom and the tension of the past drain away, losing themselves in the taste of chocolate and the popping and crackling of the fire. Then Cici said, unexpectedly, “Can you remember what we were doing this time last year?”
Lindsay stifled a chuckle. “What we were doing this time every year. Making ourselves crazy getting ready for the Christmas party. Decorating, baking, shopping, building, nailing, stapling, measuring, cutting . . .”
“Not to mention,” added Bridget, “packing up thirty years’ worth of living into boxes to get ready for the move.”
“It doesn’t seem like a year,” Lindsay said thoughtfully. “A lot has changed. We’ve changed.”
Bridget looked at her. “Do you really think so?”
Lindsay gave her a tolerant smile. “Do you really think that a year ago, you could have raised a flock of sheep or put up a hundred and thirty-seven jars of preserves all in one summer?”
“And do you really think you could have been Mama to a deer?” Bridget returned with a grin.
Cici said, “I know I’ve changed. I used to think being rich meant having a new Lexus in the garage every year. Now it means having a shed full of firewood in the winter.”
They all smiled agreement at that.
Then Cici said softly, “I miss it, you know. The Christmas parties, the neighbors, the gossip. The way old Mr. Millicker used to get drunk and break down in tears halfway through “Auld Lang Syne” and the way Carol Evans would always take off her panty hose in the