A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [52]
“Ooh, nice,” observed Bridget, rocking.
“Umm,” agreed Lindsay, passing Cici a cool glass of chardonnay. “How’s Lori?”
“Terrific.” Cici took a significant swallow of wine. “She’s going to a party with Hugh Grant.”
“No kidding!”
“There’s going to be nothing but wild sex and free drugs.”
“At a Hollywood party?” exclaimed Bridget, feigning shock. “Surely not!”
And Lindsay added, “Thank God we never had anything like that when we were in college.”
“She’s wearing a swimsuit”—Cici pointed out with great deliberation—“that’s held together at the bottom with three strands of Swarovski crystals.”
Lindsay and Bridget sipped their wine in silence for a moment. Then Bridget said, “Guess she won’t be doing any actual swimming, then.”
“It won’t matter,” Lindsay said, “since the swimming pool is probably filled with champagne.”
Cici sighed. “My daughter is going to a pool party with Hugh Grant. I’m sitting in a sweat pit with a thirty foot hole in the backyard and a ceiling that’s falling down. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“It’s a little cooler tonight,” Bridget offered.
“And the fireworks are nice,” Lindsay said. They watched as a red flare spiraled upward and exploded into a canopy that covered half the night sky. Everyone made an appreciative sound for that one. “Actually, I think I like this better than having them all on the Fourth of July.”
Farley, having finally obtained his fireworks, had decided to prolong the pleasure as long as possible by setting off a few each night from his backyard. The residents of Ladybug Farm had front row seats for every show.
“She wanted me to thank you for the book, Bridge,” Cici said, “and she loved the CD, Lindsay. She’s going to send notes.”
“She always writes such sweet notes,” Bridget said.
“She’s a good girl,” Lindsay added.
And Cici admitted, “I know.” She sipped her wine and appreciated the spectacle of another light show, this one red, white, and blue, blossoming against the sky. “Would you go back to being twenty if you could?”
Lindsay said, “For Hugh Grant? You bet your sweet booty. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “he might be disappointed. After all, I wouldn’t be nearly as good-looking as I am today.”
Bridget chuckled. “You couldn’t pay me to go back. Lord preserve me from ever being that stupid again.”
“It all seemed so simple then,” Cici agreed. “Remember? You made a plan, you mapped out your life, and you figured all you had to do was sit back and watch it unfold. Your job was done.”
“Hmm.” Lindsay sipped her wine. “I was going to study at the Sorbonne.”
Bridget said, “I was going to go to Africa and build irrigation systems. But first I was going to marry a priest.” When the other two looked at her she explained with a wistful sigh, “I was wild about The Thornbirds back then. I must have read it twenty times.”
Lindsay lifted her eyebrows. “It was a book?” She rocked back thoughtfully. “What do you know about that?”
Cici said, “When I first started working, right out of college, I was actually refused an apartment because I was a single woman. They wouldn’t even let me fill out an application.”
Bridget sipped her wine, and seemed a little embarrassed as she reported, “When Jim and I were first married and things were tight, you know, I applied for a job as a secretary at a glass factory. The manager wouldn’t hire me until he got my husband’s permission.”
“Jesus,” Lindsay said.
“You should have slapped his face and walked out,” Cici said.
“You should have taken the apartment manager to court,” Bridget said.
Both of them just smiled, sadly, reminiscing.
“Hell no,” Lindsay said after a moment. “You couldn’t pay me to go back.”
In the distance there was a fanfare series of pops, accompanied by a lively explosion of red and white sparks near the horizon line. They appreciated the show while it lasted.
The startled crickets, silent during the fireworks, started chirping again. Cici said, “Well, I guess that’s it for the night.”
“I wonder how many more fireworks he has left?