At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [50]
They walked in silence for a while, and it seemed that Paul would not reply at all. And then he said, reasonably, “How do you know?”
She looked at him. “What?”
“How do you know you’re not good at anything?” he repeated. “Have you tried everything?”
Her frown was dismissive. “Well, not everything. But—”
“But nothing. Oh, I could tell you all kinds of inspirational stories about how many books John Grisham had rejected before he sold his first manuscript and how Vermeer died a pauper and how Coco Chanel—well, forget Coco. The point is that if you keep trying, you’re bound to get it right sooner or later.”
She slid a glance toward him. “But Vermeer died a pauper.”
“Only because he didn’t live long enough,” replied Paul promptly. “He’s terribly famous now.”
Lori couldn’t restrain a giggle. “Uncle Paul, that’s the worst inspirational speech I’ve ever heard.”
He grinned and flung an arm around her shoulder. “That may be, my dear, but my heart’s in the right place. Come along, let’s get out of the wind.”
They started back toward the house, and his tone grew serious. “You know, I’m a huge fan of your mom’s.”
Lori sighed. “So am I.”
“She can run a business, a table saw, a sewing machine; build houses, drive a tractor, plan the perfect Zurich vacation, and throw the most exquisite parties I’ve ever been privileged to attend, and just when you think she can’t top herself she does something utterly outrageous like moving into a century-old mansion in the middle of nowhere and deciding to restore the place brick by brick . . . The lady casts one long shadow, that’s for certain.”
Again Lori sighed. “Tell me about it.”
“She’s a smart, ambitious, determined woman who made a lot of success for herself,” Paul agreed. Then he stopped, and stepped in front of Lori, and rested both hands on her shoulders somberly. “But,” he said, “the most incredible thing she has ever made is you. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Lori buried her face in his chest and hugged him hard. “Now that,” she said, sounding a little misty, “was a great speech.”
“Which only proves my point.” He patted her back briskly. “If you keep trying, you’re bound to get it right.”
Lori laughed, scrubbed the moisture from her eyes, and stepped away from him. And with their arms around each other’s waists, they made their way back to the house.
They stayed up late that night, tossing logs on the fire when it started to die down, opening a second bottle of wine, reminiscing and catching up, laughing and musing. Lori and Noah stayed up late, too, though not as late as the adults, popping corn over the open fire and drinking hot chocolate and quizzing Paul and Derrick endlessly about the places they had been and the things they had done. The gentlemen told stories about artists’ receptions and book signings, weekends in New York, and vacations in Brussels. The ladies told stories about drying apples and canning peaches, stripping furniture and reglazing bathtubs.
When Noah went upstairs to listen to his iPod and Lori, dozing before the fire, was reluctantly persuaded to say goodnight, Cici put another log on the fire. Lindsay took Lori’s place on the sofa, stretching out with a glass of wine and swinging her wool-clad feet across Paul’s knees. “Gosh, I’ve missed you guys,” she sighed.
“Mutual, my darling,” Paul returned, massaging her toes. “The old neighborhood just isn’t the same.”
Derrick refilled Lindsay’s glass, and Paul’s, and then raised the bottle to the others, who shook their heads. “I must say, I wouldn’t have believed