Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [27]
Bridget said:
wish you could see our meadow today—it’s covered with red clover! So glad you liked the stew. I’ll try to post some more one-dish recipes. I know it’s not much fun to cook fancy meals when you live alone.
“Secret admirer,” she repeated aloud. She was grinning as she clicked Post Comment. “What do you know about that?”
Cici sat in her rocking chair, a glass of white wine in her hand, and watched the mountains turn from gold to purple. Bambi the deer wandered across the lawn, cowbell clinking and head lowered to nibble the freshest sprigs of spring grass, and Rebel darted out from behind the corner of the house, barking furiously. When the deer raised his head and looked at him, Rebel lowered his tail and slunk back around the corner of the house, almost as though embarrassed to have been caught barking at a deer he knew.
The screen door closed with a familiar, friendly squeak as Lindsay came out and, with a sound that was half sigh, half moan, sank into her own chair. “I’ve done some calculations,” she announced. “The time-saving devices of modern life are actually costing me about three and a half hours a day.”
Cici sighed heavily. “Boy, isn’t that the truth? Do you know it takes four or five times as long to type an e-mail or send a text as it would to convey the same information over the telephone? Why do people keep doing it?”
“To avoid conversation,” replied Lindsay succinctly. “If you talk to someone on the telephone, you actually have to listen to the other person’s opinion.”
“Which is a total waste of time.”
“Precisely.”
Cici sipped her wine. “Do you hate them yet?”
“Oh, dear God. Don’t get me started.”
“At least we know what happened to the previous wedding planners.”
Lindsay frowned. “Speaking of which, why isn’t she the one sending me e-mails telling me what a rotten designer I am?”
Cici slid a glance toward her. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Say it isn’t so.” Lindsay groaned. “Because if the wedding planner has quit, and I have to have one more interaction with that spoiled, pretentious, preadolescent, self-aggrandizing, social misanthrope—”
“Ah, come on,” Cici protested, though without much vigor. “Traci’s not that bad.”
“I was talking about her mother!”
Cici choked on laughter and spilled her wine. “And you, a teacher,” she accused, brushing drops of wine from her jeans. “I thought you were supposed to have patience.”
“Listen,” Lindsay said, “when you’re the last line of defense in a classroom filled with thirty-five little people plotting to kill you, the last thing you’re interested in learning is patience.” She tossed back a healthy portion of her own wine. “Especially for idiots,” she added.
Bridget came out with a plate of cookies, let the door slam unceremoniously behind her, and flopped down into her chair. “That blog is consuming my life,” she declared. “Who in the name of heaven ever went to bed and dreamed up such a ridiculous, pointless, self-serving way to waste time?” She offered a cookie to Lindsay.
“Here’s a hint. He was twelve years old.” Before Lindsay could select her cookie, Bridget jerked the plate away, agitated. “I mean, when people don’t read it, it’s pointless, and when people do, it’s pointless. And it takes up half my day!”
“Then stop doing it.” Lindsay held out her hand for the cookie plate.
“Are you crazy? It’s my business!”
Before she could snatch the plate away again, Lindsay seized it with both hands, took two cookies, and passed the plate to Cici.
“Besides,” Bridget added, and the smile that played around her lips was secretly satisfied, “I’ve got a secret admirer.”
Cici paused in the act of reaching for a cookie. “A secret admirer? Who?”
“Well, if I knew that, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
Lindsay grinned at her. “Well, you be careful. That Internet dating business is risky stuff.”
Bridget gave her an impatient look and held out her hand for the cookie platter.
Rebel raised the alarm as Noah, returning from feeding the chickens, crossed the lawn. Noah dodged