A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [15]
They had made an offer on Blackwell Farm, and it had been accepted. The closing documents had arrived only that morning, and since their real estate attorney happened to be a guest at the party—as well as a dear friend to all of them—they had decided to have a ceremonial signing tonight, at the last gathering they would ever host in this house.
“The decorations are the best ever, Linds,” Bridget said.
Lindsay licked the peppermint cream off of a chocolate truffle. “Couldn’t have done it without Cici.”
Bridget grinned. “And her house.”
Cici slipped an arm around each of their waists. “This is the best Christmas party yet.”
Bridget’s expression grew wistful. “And we’ve given a few of them.”
They stood together for a moment against the background of festive lights and holiday glitter in a vignette that could have made a Christmas card: Bridget in misty green chiffon shot through with silver threads, Lindsay in sparkly sapphire blue, and Cici in a strapless black taffeta that flared out into a swing skirt accented by a timeless ivory cummerbund. Their hairstyles were curled and upswept, their manicures flawless, their makeup dramatic, their jewelry elegant. And on their faces were perfectly matched smiles of tender remembrance.
Across the room Cici spotted her daughter Lori, the cascade of her coppery hair spilling over the spaghetti-strapped shimmering metallic slip dress that barely covered her slender hips and perky A-cup breasts. She was standing in a group of people laughing and talking, but whether she was conversing with them or the cell phone earpiece cleverly hidden by her hair no one could tell—not even the people who were talking to her. Cici couldn’t help smiling even though she had spent most of Lori’s two weeks home alternately wanting to strangle her and trying to find her. So many Christmas trees in this house. So many Barbies and skateboards and iPods and piles of shiny wrapping paper scattered across the floor.
Lori had conceded to come home for Christmas, ostensibly to say good-bye to the house in which she had grown up, but mostly because Cici had threatened to donate to Goodwill any items from Lori’s room that were not claimed by December 31. That afternoon she had come upon one of the boxes Lori had packed, and the battered stuffed bunny lying atop one of them—battle-weary veteran of an entire childhood of tea parties, sleepovers, temper tantrums, and broken hearts—had made her eyes flood with tears. She was leaving more than a house behind. She was leaving a lifetime. And so were they all.
As though reading her thoughts, Lindsay said softly, “Good times.”
“So many of them,” agreed Bridget, and her voice sounded a little shaky.
Cici was surprised to find her own throat thick with emotion as she said, determinedly, “But better ones ahead.”
The women released a collective breath, and Cici saw in their eyes an expression that had become familiar over the past months, that she had seen over and over again in the mirror—a kind of sparkling excitement and dazed amazement that was usually reserved for people half their ages; people who had lives filled with adventure and accomplishment and discovery ahead of them and who couldn’t believe their good fortune. They were doing this. It was crazy, it was unreal, it was outrageous, and they were actually doing it.
“Girls, you are the best! And I hate you every one, I really do.” Their friend Paul, whose syndicated “In Style” column was a must-read in metro newspapers up and down the Eastern Seaboard, rested one arm on Bridget’s shoulder and another on Lindsay’s as, careful not to spill his glass of chardonnay, he air-kissed them each down the line. “You’re going to make a bleepin’ fortune on that broken-down pile of bricks and all you have to do