Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [15]
4
Dreams Coming True
Catherine North-Dere and her daughter Traci arrived with Paul at quarter to one.
Traci was a tall, model-thin girl with shoulder-length feathery blond hair and salon-tan legs that were displayed to perfection in khaki walking shorts and three-inch wedge sandals. An immaculately fitted rolled-cuff white shirt and a wool navy blazer casually tossed over her shoulders, along with a gold cuff bracelet, dangle earrings, and a messenger bag—Coach, naturally—completed her “afternoon in the country” look.
Yet it wasn’t until she removed her designer sunglasses that Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay actually ventured a guess as to which was the daughter, and which was the mother.
Catherine’s blond hair was a shade darker and a bit thicker than her daughter’s. It was also more immaculately styled, curving perfectly toward the face at the shoulders to reveal realistic-looking honey-colored low lights. She wore custom-fitted boyfriend jeans, cuffed to display slim ankles and leopard-print heels, with a sand colored, form-fitting T-shirt and a black silk jacket with ruffled lapels. The diamond on her finger was three carats, minimum; her watch Piaget.
“Now that,” murmured Lindsay in unabashed appreciation, “is some kick-ass Botox.”
Cici shrugged, her arms folded. “I could look like that if I wanted to.”
Lindsay stifled a guffaw. “You and what army?”
Cici elbowed her hard in the ribs, glaring.
“I’ll bet she spends more on her hairstylist every month than I spent on my first car,” Bridget observed, a little awed.
“This is what I’m saying,” Cici replied. “All it takes is money.”
“And a personal trainer,” added Lindsay.
“And the ability to live on about three hundred calories a day” observed Bridget, and Cici scowled at her.
“But,” added Bridget, “those shoes are to die for.”
On that all three of them agreed.
The three women had been up since the rooster—the one Cici threatened to place in the stew pot at least once a day—let forth his first screeching crow, and they hadn’t stopped moving since daybreak: sweeping the porch, polishing the windows, vacuuming, dusting, knocking cobwebs from under the stairs and out of the corners. Lindsay skimmed debris from the reflecting pool and swept the outdoor patios. Cici rubbed down the mahogany banister with lemon oil and built a cheery fire in the living room, which could hold a chill even this late in the season. Bridget made sure that Rebel, once he had finished arranging the sheep that made such a picturesque tableau in the distant meadow to his satisfaction, was securely locked in the barn.
They set the wicker table on the wraparound porch with an Irish linen tablecloth embroidered with pale pink roses, and used Bridget’s Haviland china and Cici’s sterling, and the antique napkins with hand-tatted edges that Lindsay had brought back from Germany. The centerpiece was a crystal vase of ruffled pink apple blossoms.
“So, we have a few less apples this fall,” Bridget had said with a shrug as she arranged the stems. “The tree needed pruning anyway.”
Ida Mae had grumbled about making such a fuss over a couple of no-account city folks they didn’t even know, anyhow, and Lindsay countered tartly, “My mother always said that strangers are the only people worth making a fuss over, since you’re not going to change anyone else’s opinion of you. Besides, you’re the one who always irons the dish towels when company is coming.”
Now, as the elder Ms. North-Dere also removed her sunglasses and swept a slow, assessing gaze over everything within her view, the ladies found themselves wishing they had not only ironed the dish towels, but gotten manicures and maybe pedicures as well. Cici tried to look nonchalant as she ran a hand through her own honey-blond hair, Lindsay absently patted the pockets of her jeans for a lipstick, and Bridget looked down in dismay at her canvas print overalls and scuffed white sneakers.
“We should have dressed up,” Bridget whispered.
Cici frowned uncomfortably. “It’s not high tea with the queen you know. We’re doing