At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [93]
“Right now I feel as though our lives are out of control.”
“It’s not an interview,” Bridget had to remind them unhappily. “It really doesn’t matter what we look like in the eyes of Social Services, does it?”
And the other two, wearily, had to agree.
“By the way,” Cici said with an effort, after a moment, “Ida Mae said the fire marshal called while we were out cleaning up this afternoon. The reports are in, and it looks as though the fire started with that electrical outlet we were using yesterday for the power tools.”
Bridget gasped and sat up straight. “Oh, no! I was supposed to put all the tools away and I did, only—I left the extension cord plugged in. I thought we would be back at it this morning, so I just wound it up and—”
But before she was halfway through, Cici started shaking her head. “No, no, it’s okay, it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t your fault. It was old wiring, that’s all, and probably chewed on by mice . . . It might have overheated while we were using it, but how could we know that? It’s no one’s fault.”
“I guess not.”
“Funny how things work out,” she said after a moment. “If the barn hadn’t burned, we never would have known the winery was even there.”
“I’m not sure it’s much of a trade-off,” Cici said.
“It might be,” Lindsay offered, rousing herself with an effort, “if we can sell the equipment.”
“Maybe for enough to rebuild the barn.”
“Maybe,” agreed Cici. “But I’m really too tired to even think about it now.”
“One crisis at a time.”
Cici sighed. “Right.”
And, one by one, they pushed themselves to their feet and went to prepare for what awaited them tomorrow.
18
In Another Time
Emmy Marie, 1967
It was only six weeks, but six weeks can be a lifetime. She set to work with her sketchbook and her paints and an air of fierce concentration that endeared her to Andrew in a way he couldn’t entirely explain. They walked at sunset through the vines, and they talked. They had picnics in the vineyard, and talked. And as much as they talked, they laughed. And then one day he kissed her flushed, upturned face, and she kissed him back. They sank to the couch in the sun-dappled folly, shedding their clothes like impatient teenagers, and they made love.
With her, he did not feel like a forty-five-year-old man chasing a twenty-three-year-old girl. With her, he simply felt happy.
It was an extraordinary summer. Although he was running unopposed for the fall election, there were dinners and barbecues and speeches; the law practice still demanded token attention, if for no other reason than good public relations. He worked in the winery, he carried a briefcase, he shook hands and made speeches. But he led two lives, and the only one that mattered began and ended in a folly in the woods where a face dearer than life awaited him.
In the midst of all else, Blackwell Farms Winery was about to bottle its finest Shiraz yet. It was so fine, indeed, that Andrew and Robert still argued whether to bring it out under its own unique label. In the end it was Emmy’s opinion that won out, as of course it would. Andrew was impressed by how much she had learned from Robert and Dominic during the days she spent in the winery with them, and she was beginning to develop a respectable palate. When she tasted the subject of the dispute, she did so with care and reverence, and stood gazing thoughtfully at the glass for a moment before declaring softly, “A wine fit for kings. And it definitely deserves its own label.”
Dominic, who had taken his father’s side in the dispute, laughed and tugged at one of her curls in the familiar way of young people. “There you have it, Mr. Blackwell, you’re outvoted. And by the royal princess of the vines, no less!”
Emmy started to make a face at him, and suddenly her eyes went wide and she set down the glass on the tasting table. “Wait!” she said excitedly. “I have it. I have the perfect label for your wine.”
She scrambled through drop cloths and under scaffolding until she found her sketch pad and the nub of a pencil, and she quickly sketched out a rough