A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [6]
The photograph captured in the background a brick-faced, Corinthian-columned house, its paint a little cracked, its brick a little faded, but all in all aging beautifully. In the foreground were three women with the corners of their eyes crinkled by the sun, their lipstick a little faded, their faces full of the joy of adventure, and also aging beautifully.
When that photo eventually made it onto the first page of a brand-new scrapbook, mounted in 3-D with puffy torn-cotton clouds on a cerulean background, the scrolled caption would read, “In the Beginning . . .”
2
In Which a Dream Is Born
Eight Months Previously
“Sweetie?” Cici came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “How about a cup of tea?”
From her place in a corner of the deep window seat, Bridget looked like a small black-and-white kitten, curled in upon itself and all but lost in its surroundings. She shook her head silently, staring out the window. An early winter dusk had settled over the suburban street, and there wasn’t much to see. Almost as though she suddenly realized that, she cleared her throat, pulled her gaze away, and directed a small, vague smile toward Cici. “No, thank you.”
Lindsay took a cashmere throw from the sofa and draped it over her friend’s knees. “You already have a cup, Bridge,” she reminded her, and picked up the untouched cup of tea on the windowsill. “It’s cold.”
“I’ve got a pot of decaf on,” Cici suggested, “if you’d rather.”
Bridget pulled up her black-stockinged knees, drawing the throw beneath her chin. “I don’t think so.”
Cici and Lindsay exchanged a helpless look. “How about a sandwich, then? There’s plenty of chicken and roast beef. Maybe some fruit? Honey, you’ve got to eat.”
“No,” Bridget replied softly, gazing at the window again. “You go ahead, though.”
Lindsay put down the cold cup of tea, pressed her hands against the sides of her black pencil skirt, and said, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m having Scotch.”
Bridget looked at her, and the smile that curved her lips was very close to genuine. “Now you’re talking,” she said.
Lindsay poured, Cici served, and Bridget made room for them on the window seat. Cici patted Bridget’s knee as she scrunched up her long legs and squeezed into the opposite corner. “Where are the kids?”
“Oh.” Bridget sipped the Scotch. “Kevin had a seven o’clock flight. Katie and the girls went back to the hotel. It’s been a hard day on them, and they’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
Cici looked incredulous. “Do you mean they’re not staying the weekend?”
Lindsay punched her in the leg and gave a warning frown as she kicked off her shoes and slid in beside her. Bridget glanced at the liquid in her glass. “Oh, I know. It sounds a little selfish. But they came so often while Jim was sick, and they both have jobs, and lives of their own . . .”
“Excuse me!” Cici said. “Their dad just died. I think they could spare one evening to spend with their mother.”
“Cici, will you shut up one minute?” This time Lindsay kicked her with a stockinged foot.
“Oh, come on, you know it’s the truth. And I’m sorry Bridge.” She gentled her voice as she squeezed Bridget’s knee. “You know I love Kevin and Kate, and Katie’s little girls are just too precious for words. But are we all really so wrapped up in our own little self-important worlds that we can’t even take a little time off for death?”
“Cici, for the love of—”
“No, it’s okay, Linds.” Bridget sighed and sipped her drink. “She’s right. Kids’ll break your heart every time. You were smart not to have any.”
Lindsay gave a little snort. “What, are you kidding? I’ve got thirty-two.” Lindsay had been a middle school teacher for twenty years. “And when they’re not selling drugs or giving each other blow jobs in the bathroom, they fill my life with joy, make my heart sing, and impart meaning and hope to a bleak