Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [12]
Cici said, “I don’t know...”
“It will just be the bride and her mother. All they need to do is walk around the property and talk to you about what they have in mind.”
The three women glanced at each other. “That doesn’t sound too hard,” Bridget offered.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk,” Lindsay agreed.
“Perfect!” They could practically see the sparkle in Paul’s eyes over the telephone line. “I knew my favorite girls wouldn’t let me down. And I have a feeling you’re going to be very happy you did this. We’ll be there about lunchtime.”
Ida Mae muttered, “Good thing we won’t know you’re here.”
Paul laughed. “Good-bye, my darlings! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
The three women looked at each other for a moment. “Well,” said Cici at last.
“Yeah,” said Lindsay, and she grinned. “I guess we are famous. You know there’s going to be no living with that daughter of yours now. It couldn’t have been better if she had orchestrated it all herself.”
“She practically did,” Cici said.
Bridget thought out loud. “I should bake something. Maybe a seven-layer lemon-raspberry torte. We still have some raspberries in the freezer. And a shrimp and asparagus quiche.”
Ida Mae opened the container of thawed peaches and dumped them into a mixing bowl. “Where’re you gonna get the shrimp?”
“Ham and asparagus quiche,” Bridget amended, her eyes glowing as the menu took shape in her mind. “And beaten biscuits with dill butter—no, I know! Scones with those stone cherries we dried last year. Ida Mae, let’s save those dandelion greens for a salad tomorrow.”
“Got a yard full of them.” She poured sugar over the peaches. “You gonna make a cobbler or roll out a crust?”
“Crust. I wish the raspberries were in.”
“You making a pie and a cake?”
“No, for the salad. Ida Mae!” Bridget’s voice was alarmed as she snatched a bottle out of Ida Mae’s hand just before she sprinkled the contents over the peaches. “What are you doing? That’s red pepper!”
Ida Mae grabbed the bottle from her and slammed it down on the counter, her color flaring. “You don’t like the way I cook, you can just do it yourself!”
She jerked off her apron, flung it on the counter, and stomped out of the kitchen.
The three women shared a cautious, questioning look.
“Definitely crankier than usual,” Lindsay said after a moment, her voice subdued.
Cici cast a quick glance over her shoulder before agreeing, “Definitely.”
Bridget picked up the pepper bottle, read the label, and returned it to the cabinet, her expression carefully neutral. “Guess I’d better get busy on that piecrust,” she said.
Every evening at twilight since they had moved into the house, they gathered on the front porch to say farewell to the day. A glass of wine, a sweater against the chill of a spring evening, a rocking chair for each of them ... and peace. For three seasons of the year, the routine never varied. In the summer, they watched the hummingbirds dart back and forth between the red feeders. In the fall, the cardinals and the blue jays scolded each other from the ancient boxwoods that flanked the porch. In the spring, barn swallows soared against the pale lavender sky.
The mountains grew black, and the low-hanging sun etched distant evergreens in brilliant gold. They settled into the taste and texture of the coming night and let go of the challenges of the day. It was as though, in that quiet hour, they reconnected with the place that had won their hearts, with their reasons for coming here, and with each other.
Bridget said, sighing a little, “What a difference a year makes, huh?”
“I don’t know.” Cici sipped her wine, her voice lazy and content. “This time of day, it seems that nothing has changed for thousands of years. Or ever will.”
“Which is why I love this time of day” Lindsay put in with a sigh. She lifted her glass to Cici. “To things that never change.”
“I’ll drink to that,” agreed Bridget. She tried, not very successfully, to hide her grin of pleasure in