A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [117]
“I miss Bridget’s canapes,” Lindsay said wistfully. “Remember that year you made fried green tomatoes with shrimp remoulade? And it was fun, you know, coming up with a different theme every year, planning all the food and the decorations to match . . .”
“Remember the year we did Pacific Rim?” Cici said. “Now that was a challenge.”
Lindsay shuddered. “Those hideous illuminated palm tree yard ornaments.”
“Oh my God.” Bridget sat up slowly, placing her cup carefully on the coffee table, and turned to face them. Her eyes were big with the promise of a dawning idea. “We have to do it,” she said. “That’s exactly what we have to do!”
Lindsay blinked. “What?”
And Cici said, “Pacific Rim? Are you kidding? I didn’t like it the first time.”
“No, no, no, no.” Bridget was practically bouncing up and down with excitement now. “A party! We have to have a Christmas party! It will be our thank-you to the neighbors for helping today, and all the people who’ve worked on the house—it’ll be like a, what do you call it? When your house is finished and you give a party for all the craftsmen who helped build it?”
“But our house isn’t finished,” Cici protested, confused.
“Our house will never be finished,” added Lindsay.
“And—listen to this! We’ll invite all our friends from the old neighborhood for a house party! Isn’t that what we bought a house with all these bedrooms for? Isn’t that what we promised we’d do when we moved here?”
“All these bedrooms don’t have beds,” Lindsay pointed out uncertainly.
“But we have a loft full of furniture! Can you think of a better time to get it down and dust it off ?”
“Bridget, it’s three weeks before Christmas.” Cici’s tone was reluctant, though she was clearly trying not to dampen Bridget’s enthusiasm. “Who’s going to drag all that furniture out of the loft and up the stairs? I have a broken arm. I can’t even make a bed, much less put one together. Besides, by this time most people already have plans . . .”
“Cici Burke, you know perfectly well that no one worth knowing has ever missed one of our parties!” Bridget retorted. “We’ll get Farley to help with the furniture. And so the timetable is a little short. It’s not like we have anything else to do!”
“Actually,” Lindsay said, and a slow, speculative light began to spark in her eyes as she looked around, “can’t you just see that staircase draped in live garland? And those windows?”
“With burgundy velvet ribbon,” Cici suggested.
“Not just ribbon, but fabric. Giant bows! I really am going to have to go to Charlottesville now. I hope there’s enough velvet left in the town for what I have in mind.”
“We could get a fourteen foot tree in that corner,” Cici speculated.
“We could get a twenty foot tree in the corner,” Bridget corrected, “and a fourteen foot one on the landing at the top of the stairs.”
“But a cut tree, not artificial,” Lindsay said, warming to the concept. “Everything has to be authentic to the period—exactly as it would have been in Victorian times.”
“Except for the candles on the tree,” Cici cautioned.
“Right. No burning down the house. Oh my God, can you imagine what we can do with the mantle decorations?”
“Piles of sugared fruit and glass beads.”
“I can make lace angels for the tree,” Bridget said, “and upholster foam balls with leftover drapery fabric.”
“It’s a big job,” Cici said, still trying to remain cautious. “Three weeks, a whole house to furnish and decorate and get ready for overnight guests . . . all that cooking and cleaning . . .”
Lindsay said abruptly, “I want to do it.”
“So do I,” said Bridget.
Cici looked from one to the other of them, and a slow grin spread over her face. “So do I.”
They raised their cups in a toast to seal the deal. “To the best party ever,” declared Bridget.
“The best ever!”
“Hear, hear.”
And yet, like a silent echo that none of them could completely ignore was the knowledge that it might also be their last. Perhaps, deep down, that was exactly