Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [37]
She did not quite get the receiver out of the cradle for the fifth slam when the telephone rang again.
It was Catherine, and given the last telephone conversation she had had, Cici was almost glad to talk to her.
“So, that’s how my day went,” Cici said glumly, stretching out her legs and slumping low in the rocking chair. “Another crappy day in paradise.”
“Whatever you do,” said Lindsay, “don’t let her go to Italy. Italian men think that seducing a woman is just an elaborate way to pay her a compliment. And they love to pay compliments—to pretty much every woman they see.”
“Peanut soup! What’s more Virginian than peanut soup!” Bridget sat in her own rocking chair with one foot tucked beneath her, an open cookbook and legal pad on her lap, a glass of white wine balanced precariously on the arm of the chair as she scribbled notes on the pad. She did not notice the odd looks Cici and Lindsay gave her. She didn’t, in fact, even glance up from the cookbook.
Cici said to Lindsay, “It sounds as though you speak from experience.”
Lindsay shrugged. “Everyone knows about Italian men. Although...” And she smiled, secretly, as she lifted her glass to her lips. “An argument definitely could be made that a girl hasn’t really lived until she’s been loved by an Italian man.”
“Terrific,” Cici said. “Fine. I don’t even want to know. And Lori can go to Italy after she graduates. I just don’t think I can stand another interruption in her education. At this rate, she’s going to be thirty before she gets her bachelor’s degree.”
“Thirty,” replied Lindsay thoughtfully, “is a long time to wait for an Italian man.”
Cici regarded her sourly for a moment, then spoke to Bridget. “How are you going to serve peanut soup at a buffet?”
“Chilled,” she replied without looking up, “sprinkled with crushed peanuts, served with a single hand-rolled cheese straw, in martini glasses. Very signature, local, farmhouse chic.”
Cici nodded approvingly. “It sounds to me as though you’re going to be able to write your own cookbook before this thing is over. Which is a good thing, by the way. You’re going to need something to do when the North-Deres fire us.”
That made Bridget look up. Both Lindsay and Bridget stared at Cici. “They’re going to fire us?” Lindsay asked.
Cici nodded, rocking. “I’ve got it figured out. This is what people like them do. They torture the help until they get bored, and then they fire them. Why? Because they can. It’s all a big game to them.”
Bridget frowned. “Well, I hope not. I think I’ve finally come up with a shrimpless, seasonal, local, quasi-Mediterranean-Virginian menu that just might work.”
“And we’ve already cashed the check,” Lindsay added, looking worried.
Cici just smiled. “Not a problem,” she replied. “In the middle of all that faxing back and forth to get the perfect contract, I was able to add one little word in front of ‘deposit’: nonrefundable.”
Lindsay grinned. “Good job.”
After a moment, Bridget admitted reluctantly, “This is a little harder than I thought it would be. But you know, it takes a lot of hard work to make dreams come true.”
“And a lot of energy to get married,” Lindsay added.
“I never understood that,” Cici said.
“Marriage?”
“Well, that, too. But mostly the whole wedding thing. The thousands upon thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours—the dress, the church, the flowers, the candles, the reception hall, the cake, the band, the banquet, the party favors, the place cards, the little chocolates with the bride and groom’s initials monogrammed on them ... and for what? So two people who are already sleeping together can do it legally.” Cici shook her head. “It boggles the mind.”
“Well, not just sleep together,” Lindsay pointed out. “But have babies and a mortgage.”
“And a divorce,” Cici said.
“I think it’s sweet.” Bridget’s tone was not so much serene as determined. “Hopeful.”
Lindsay said flatly, “Ha.”
Cici raised her glass to that.
Bridget closed the