A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [4]
Maggie displayed a brave, rather forced smile, and tried to summon enthusiasm by rubbing her hands together. “Well then. Shall we have a look at the kitchen?”
They passed through an elegant dining room with a medallioned ceiling, twin built-in, custom-made china cabinets, and an enormous, elaborately carved walnut table. “The table stays,” Maggie pointed out. “Isn’t it gorgeous? It was built for this house, and to tell the truth, it’s so heavy no one could figure out how to move it.” She paused and smiled apologetically. “I don’t know what happened to the chairs.”
She pointed out the French doors that opened onto the broad wraparound porch. Lindsay admired the pale green paint and the matching silk wallpaper below the wainscoting—a historic color, Maggie told them. She pushed open a set of old-fashioned swinging doors to the kitchen.
Bridget walked to the center of the enormous room, drew in a breath, and pressed both hands to her cheeks, turning full circle. “Oh, my goodness,” she said.
The floor was paved in brick worn smooth by time, and the antique brick on the walls was oiled to a sheen. There was a raised cooking fireplace at one end of the enormous room where they could imagine placing a downy sofa and a couple of chairs for cozy winter evenings. The center island was soapstone, and the countertops were tiled in cottage white and delft blue. The backsplash behind the deep farmer’s sink was a mural in the blue willow pattern. There were two big stoves, two dishwashers, a giant refrigerator, and an upright freezer. “Obviously, the kitchen has been upgraded over the years, and the appliances are industrial grade,” Maggie said. “The Blackwells did a lot of entertaining in their prime.”
Bridget touched one of the stoves reverently. “Oh my God,” she said. “This is a Viking.”
“Bet you could whip up a casserole or two on that, huh Bridge?” said Lindsay with a grin.
“Of course all appliances are included,” Maggie said. “And there’s a butler’s pantry.”
Bridget dashed off to explore it, and in a moment they heard a muffled squeal of delight.
“I hate the tile,” Cici said, but she was grinning, too. It had been a long time since either of them had seen their friend this happy.
In a moment Bridget returned, breathless with excitement. “Unbelievable,” she said. “The silverware drawers are lined with blue velvet. There’s a pie safe with a lock! And just outside there’s a walled herb garden. Some of the herbs are still growing. There’s a rosemary bush as big as a tree!”
Maggie was looking very pleased with herself, and Cici knew what she was thinking, what any real estate agent worth her commission would think: The kitchen sells the house.
Unfortunately, not in this case.
“Let me show you around the grounds,” Maggie said cheerfully, and led the way.
She did a lot of chatting about an overgrown rose garden, which would take nothing, simply nothing, to bring back to glory, and Lindsay, who was Queen of the Roses back on Huntington Lane, identified several antique species. She seemed duly impressed.
“Do you ride?” asked Maggie, gesturing toward a big barn with a sagging shed and a rusted-out metal roof. “This is a great place to keep horses.”
“Don’t know one end of a horse from the other,” Cici said, stepping high over tangled knots of fescue grass. She shaded her eyes toward a stone building set in a sunny tangle of wisteria vines behind the house. “What’s that?”
Maggie led the way. “It’s an old dairy,” she said. “This place is just full of history. They used to make their own butter and cheese, and up until the 1950s, actually sold it. People used to come from as far away as DC to buy Blackwell cheese.”
She pushed open the recalcitrant wooden door of the building and gestured