At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [51]
“It grows on you,” Cici agreed, contentedly stretching her own feet toward the fire.
“Tell the truth,” Paul insisted. “Don’t you miss it? Life in the real world?”
They laughed as one. “Of course I do!” Cici said. “I haven’t seen a movie in a year.”
“Or a manicurist,” added Bridget.
“Or a shopping mall,” sighed Lindsay.
“But . . .” Cici gestured to include the lamplit room, the glowing fire, the deep and velvety stillness of the night beyond the windows. “I would miss this even more.”
“Oddly enough,” said Derrick, “I can see that. And as much as I hate to admit I might actually have been wrong, I must say I think the move has been good for you.”
He glanced at Paul for confirmation, who nodded. “It’s the Zen of bucolic life,” he agreed. “It’s why agricultural peoples live an average of ten years longer than members of urban societies.”
“Of course,” mused Derrick, “one has to wonder what good ten extra years would be without Bergdorf’s.”
“Or Broadway,” added Paul.
“Or lamb chops marinated in truffle oil and served on a bed of baby asparagus.”
“Okay, now you’re just depressing us,” Bridget said, and everyone laughed.
“It was nice of you to take Noah under your wing,” Lindsay said to Derrick. “I hope he’s not being too much of a pest.”
“I rather like the scamp, actually,” Derrick admitted. “And you’re right—he has a good deal of raw talent, with which you’ve done wonders, by the way. We might talk about his doing an internship with me at the gallery in a couple of years.”
Lindsay’s face lit up. “Really? That would be fabulous!”
Derrick held up a finger. “I said ‘talk.’ He’d have to be cleaned up and smoothed out a good deal before then.”
“Not a problem.” Lindsay sipped her wine and grinned. “You’ve just given me something to bribe him with for at least another year.”
“And now let’s talk about you,” Derrick said. “I couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a single one of your paintings on display in your studio.”
Lindsay tried to look cavalier. “I think I’m a better teacher than an artist. You know what they say: ‘Those who can, do, those who can’t—’ ”
“Nonsense. Those who don’t have the courage, perhaps.”
Lindsay frowned.
“Besides,” Bridget pointed out, “you’ve done some wonderful paintings of Bambi, and what about that portrait of Rebel you gave me for Christmas? Derrick liked that, didn’t you, Derrick?”
“I thought all it needed was a spray of pine and a red bow and it would be perfect for the cover of the holiday L.L. Bean catalog.”
Lindsay lifted her foot as though to kick him and he leaned away with a grin.
“What?” demanded Cici. “Isn’t that a compliment?”
“You’re better than that,” Derrick told Lindsay. “You just haven’t found your passion yet.”
“Well, when I do,” Lindsay assured him, “you’ll be the last to know.”
Derrick chuckled, and Paul raised his glass. “A toast,” he said. “To the lovely ladies of Ladybug Farm, who never cease to amaze me. May your lives always be as full as they are now.”
Cici raised a cautionary finger. “But not any fuller.”
10
More Company
The next morning dawned cold and cloudy and, nestled under mounds of quilts, everyone slept late. It was the raucous barking of the sheepdog that shattered the silence.
Bridget, groaning, pulled a pillow over her head and waited for it to stop. But the barking went on and on, growing more furious and higher pitched with each moment, until finally she flung back the covers and reached for her robe.
She met Cici on the stairs, her hair tousled and her face puffy, belting her robe over flannel pajamas. “What in the world is wrong with that dog?” she said, and that’s when they both noticed Ida Mae, turning away from the front window.
“Ya’ll expecting more company?” she asked, looking annoyed.
Bridget and Cici joined her at the window, puzzling over the