A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [8]
“I don’t blame you,” Lindsay said, patting her hand. “Mowing the lawn sucks. We’ll get you a boy.”
Bridget covered her face with her free hand and sobbed. “I don’t want a boy!”
Lindsay moved in and slipped her arm around Bridget’s shoulders, hugging her close for a minute. Then she said, with her voice muffled into Bridget’s hair, “Do you mind if I get one?”
Bridget choked on a cross between a laugh and a sob, and wiped her face with a corner of the cashmere throw.
Cici said gently, patting her hand, “Honey, I think you’re a little drunk.”
Bridget sniffed again and held out her empty glass. “Not yet.”
Cici took the glass and got up to refill it. She returned with the bottle, and a box of tissues.
Bridget leaned back with her hands wrapped around the glass. “I just wish . . .” She exhaled a soft breath. “I just wish we’d had more adventures, you know? Jim used to talk about sailing to Bimini, tying up at the marina and living off the boat, catching our dinner right out of the ocean every night . . .”
“Sweetie,” Cici pointed out gently, “you get seasick.”
“I know. But it didn’t matter, because I knew . . . I knew he was never going to do it. And I was right. God, it’s just so sad.”
Cici passed her a tissue. “I guess we all have things like that, that we talk about doing, and dream about doing, but we never really get around to doing.”
“Like me and my art studio,” Lindsay said. “Some sun-filled loft where I can do nothing but paint all day, take in a few students on the side, you know, just to pay the rent . . . I’ve been threatening to do it—”
“And talking about it,” Cici pointed out.
“Ever since I got out of college, but somehow I never actually got around to it.” She shrugged a little and took a sip from her glass. “Everyone does that.”
Bridget nodded. “Like my restaurant. I’ve always wanted to do it, and I’d be good at it, you know? Jim and I even talked about it, and we could have used some of our savings to get started, but there were always so many other things to take care of first.”
“Then why don’t you do it now?” Cici said suddenly. “What’s stopping you now? You just said how sad it was that people don’t follow their dreams. Well, here’s your chance. You can make a whole new life for yourself.”
But long before Cici finished speaking Bridget was shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t do it now. Maybe when Jim was here, to help . . . but I can’t do it by myself.”
“Of course you can!” Lindsay insisted. “Come on, Bridget, Jim would want this for you, and it would be good for you to get involved in something that you care about. And we’d help you, wouldn’t we, Cici?”
“No,” Bridget said. Her voice was soft, but it was firm. “I know what it would take to start a business like that, and it’s more than I can afford. Not to mention the time and the energy . . . I can’t do it alone,” she repeated. “I just don’t have the courage.”
“Bridget, that’s crazy,” Lindsay said, squeezing her hand. “You’re one of the bravest women I know. It’s not a matter of courage, it’s a matter of just doing it.”
“So why don’t you open your art studio?” Bridget asked.
Lindsay hesitated, licked her lips, seemed about to protest, and then allowed a small smile. “Because it’s scary,” she said. “You’re right, it’s scary when you’re alone.”
Cici said, topping off their glasses, “Tell you what. Why don’t we all move in together, then nobody will be alone. Bridge can cook and do the housekeeping, and Lindsay can support us all with her painting.”
“And what will you do?”
Cici grinned. “I’ll fix things. The gutters, the plumbing, the shelves, whatever. You’ve got to have somebody to fix things.”
Lindsay sighed and clinked her glass with Cici’s. “Ain’t it the truth?”
Bridget smiled a little wanly. “This sounds like one more thing we can put on our list of things we talk about but never do.”
“So?” Cici lifted a shoulder. “Talking is good. Talking is great. Talking is what women do best. So let’s talk.” She leaned back into her corner, sipping her whiskey. “Where would this house be?”
“Florida,” said Bridget. “By the ocean.