A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [41]
“I was just thinking about how you were too proud to admit to Mrs. Jones that you’d forgotten the pectin,” Cici went on. “I think maybe I should have listened to her husband. I thought he was trying to prove he knew more than a bunch of women, and I wanted to prove that he didn’t, so I stuck to my guns. But we need another water heater.”
They rocked in silence for a while, while the tide of darkness seeped across the lawn, and lapped at the steps. The mountains in the distance looked like purple clouds stacked against an indigo sky. A handful of stars were sprinkled across the horizon like carelessly tossed jewels.
Bridget said, “How do you suppose the cookbook got there?”
“I think it was Lindsay’s ghost,” Cici said.
Bridget said, “I think the house was talking to me. It wanted me to have Emily Blackwell’s recipes, just like it wanted Lindsay to have the map of the gardens.”
“I don’t think the house cares whose recipes you have. I think it just wants to suck every drop of life’s blood out of us. It’s even got Cici buying it two water heaters.”
“Oh, Lindsay, hush. Nobody hauls a hundred and twenty-eight river stones by hand unless she wants to. You love this place, you know you do.”
Lindsay smiled to herself, sipping her wine. Piece by piece, the rose garden was beginning to reveal what it must have looked like in its glory. When the flagstone paths were fully uncovered, the statue was cleaned and centered, and the river rock wall was rebuilt around it, the garden would be a work of art. Next year she would plant baby’s breath around the wall and lavender along the path. It would be like a living bouquet.
“It’s like a blank canvas,” she admitted. “The only limit to what you can create is your imagination.”
“Speaking of which,” Cici said, “I’m ready to help get your art studio started whenever you are.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. There’s not that much to do, and I have to finish my bedroom first. I think I’m going to do a Venetian plaster treatment.” Over the past weeks she had tried painting, paneling, and re-wallpapering, none of which had produced satisfactory results. The project, like everything else in the house, had become an exercise in patience.
“I wonder if Jonesie sells Venetian plaster.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
They laughed, softly, into the night.
“This whole house is kind of like a love affair, really,” said Cici after a moment. “You know, they say when you fall in love the body releases enough hormones to keep the feeling going for three to five years.”
“Those would be the hormones that make you stupid.”
“Right. And five years later you wake up in bed with some sweaty, hairy creature you never met before in your life.”
Lindsay said, “Do you think we’ll still be here in five years?”
No one answered, but the sound of the question turning over in their minds was almost palpable. So absorbed were they in their thoughts, in fact, that it was a moment before the sound of music—sweet, lilting, and a little tinny—registered with them. It took a moment longer to realize that the music was coming from inside the house.
They stopped rocking at once, listening, eyes wide in the darkness. “What is that?” Lindsay whispered.
“ ‘Roses of Picardy’,” Bridget whispered back.
Lindsay stared at her. “How could you possibly know that?”
Cici stood slowly. “It’s the Victrola,” she said.
Bridget stood, too, pressing close to Cici. “I don’t think those things play by themselves,” she whispered.
Lindsay inched to her feet. “Maybe this one does. Maybe . . . it’s glad to be home.”
Cici gave her one disparaging look, and then cast her gaze around the dim and shadowed porch, looking for a weapon. She found a twisted laurel branch that they had used to prop open the door while moving boxes in and out, and weighed it in her hand. It wasn’t very heavy, but it was better than nothing. She moved toward the door. Bridget whispered, “Not without me, you don’t!”
And Lindsay hurried to join them. “You’re not leaving me out here alone!”
Cici turned the doorknob