Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [104]
Farley tipped his hat to her as he climbed off the still running tractor. “Thought I’d see if you had any storm damage over this way” he said. “I’ll go push some of them big limbs out of your driveway and over the bank, if you like, or I can help the boy cut up some stove wood.”
“Yes,” said Bridget breathlessly. “That would be wonderful. And then later ... if you’re not doing anything, that is ... I was wondering if you might consider being my escort to the wedding we’re having here this afternoon?”
Bridget held her breath as he returned her gaze for a long and thoughtful moment. Then he said, “Why Miss Bridget, I don’t mind if I do.”
She beamed at him. “Wonderful! But first come inside and have some breakfast. And,” she added as he drew up beside her, “do you mind if I ask—is Farley your first name or your last?”
They managed to rescue most of the chairs, although there was nothing to be done about the tents or the buffet tables they had once protected. Cici and Paul dragged sheets of plywood out of the workshop, arranged them atop sawhorses, and covered them with linen tablecloths. They robbed the bedrooms of full-length mirrors and set them in the middle of the tables, surrounded by green leaves—which were available from the yard in abundance—and apricot roses.
The rose garden itself was stripped to bare, naked rose twigs, and the beautifully decorated arbors were smashed beyond recognition. Lindsay’s eyes filled with tears when she saw it. “We can’t let Traci see this,” she declared, forcefully recovering herself. “The photographer will be here in two hours.” She whirled on Cici. “Do we have any beanpoles left?”
“I’m way ahead of you!” Cici called over her shoulder, running toward the barn.
They built a wedding canopy out of eight-foot-tall beanpoles, tulle, and beribboned rose bouquets. Paul swept all of the fallen rose petals into a colorful path for the processional. The fallen silk dogwoods were hosed off, fluffed up, and set in the sun to dry. Lindsay put Lori to work with twist ties, silk ivy, and apricot roses, trying to recreate the look of the real rosebushes that had fallen.
“I don’t believe this,” Cici said. “You’re tying florist roses and silk ivy onto real rosebushes.”
“It’s a wedding,” Lindsay assured her hurriedly, thrusting an armful of freshly washed candles into her hands. “It’s all about the fantasy.”
They lined the processional path with the pillar candles, now stripped of their soiled tulle and arranged in holders of every size and description—from plant stands to lazy Susans—that they had gathered from the house. Every holder was decorated with apricot roses, accented with a variety of green leaves gathered from the yard and tied together with draping ivory satin ribbon. The look was charming, eclectic, and hopelessly romantic.
Paul stood back with arms crossed on his chest, one finger resting aside his nose, to survey their work. “Well, dip me in chocolate and fry me in butter,” he murmured. “I think we pulled it off. The place looks like a freakin’ fairyland.”
The girls, sweaty and lank-haired, with fingers thorn-pricked and bleeding, stared at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter. They laughed for almost thirty seconds, leaning on each other, catching Lori when she almost overbalanced on her crutches, and then they each hurried on to their next task.
Chain saws buzzed all morning. The tractor roared. Bridget flew through the house, hiding lanterns and flashlights, freshening bathrooms, dusting and polishing. In the kitchen, Ida Mae cut the cheese biscuits—which Bridget had made herself—into perfect little circles and placed them in the oven to bake, sliced the ham, and battered the chicken breast strips. Two five-gallon clam steamers filled with sliced potatoes simmered away on the