At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [70]
“Oh, I just admire you girls so much,” Prissy was saying. “What you’ve done with this old house, will you just look at that staircase? And don’t you just love the big old windows, but however do you manage to keep them clean? I’ve always wanted to see the inside of the place, but old Mr. Blackwell wasn’t very sociable, was he, Stewart?”
“You have a beautiful home, ladies,” Reverend Holland responded. “And you’re very gracious to have us. Something smells mighty good from that kitchen, too.”
But Prissy went on in her soft, happy, breathless way, “And I just can’t believe Ida Mae is still here and cooking for you! Isn’t that just the most wonderful thing? Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without one of her fruitcakes. They always make me think of my grandma. There’s something so old-fashioned about a fruitcake at Christmas, isn’t there? When I was a little girl I can remember mounds of flour and spices and all that chopped fruit spread out over the big wood kitchen table . . .”
Cici exchanged a look with Bridget over the small woman’s head. “Wouldn’t you like to see the upstairs? Lindsay, why don’t you show the Hollands around while Bridget and I see what we can do to help Ida Mae in the kitchen?”
After a time the sound of Prissy Holland’s voice became like sweet background music to which no one really listened but everyone enjoyed. By the time they led their guests to the dining room, the ladies had learned when to interrupt and when to let the music flow into conversational lapses.
The Easter table was spectacular. The wine stain had been removed from the white damask tablecloth through some miracle of baking soda and lemon juice. A three-tiered silver candelabra bearing a dozen snow-white candles sent sparks of light dancing across every glass, plate, spoon, and mirror in the room, and a mild breeze billowed the lace curtains at the open window. The ham, beautifully browned and glistening with honey glaze, rested on a bed of fresh parsley and red spiced apple rings, and was surrounded—in homage to a tradition only Ida Mae understood and would not deign to explain—by bright yellow deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika. Bowls of garden-fresh peas and carrots, roasted new potatoes, and fluffy sweet potato casserole flanked the ham platter, accompanied by buttered corn from the freezer, a pineapple-cheese casserole that was Ida Mae’s specialty, and a basket of fragrant homemade rolls. The table was set with Cici’s Haviland china and Bridget’s Baccarat crystal and starched white linen napkins. At each place setting was a bright yellow daffodil in a silver bud vase, courtesy of Lindsay’s collection.
After all, having the preacher to dinner was not something that happened every day.
Noah appeared at the table on time, still dressed in his white shirt and looking unhappy about it, but Lori was nowhere to be found. “It’s not like her to be late for a meal.” Cici cast an apologetic look at Lindsay, who had spent the entire trip home from sunrise services threatening dire consequences if both of them weren’t on their best behavior. “Maybe I’d better—”
“Oh, my, have you ever in your life seen anything so lovely?” intoned Prissy. “Why it’s just like a fairy tale. Everything’s so gorgeous, and all those flowers! You ladies certainly do have a flair, and will you just look at all that food—”
“Did you all invite somebody else to Easter dinner?” Ida Mae, her church dress covered by a frilly print apron, shouldered her way through the swinging door with a gravy boat in her hand. Her tone held a note of outrage at the mere thought they might have invited guests without telling her. “Because a truck just pulled up.”
“A truck?” Cici started toward the window. “I can’t imagine—”
Prissy went on, “My mama used to make a Coca-Cola ham every Easter. Have ya’ll ever heard of that? It’s the sugar