Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [64]
“That’s it!” exclaimed Bridget. “That’s exactly what we have to do!” She stretched to her tiptoes, caught the big man’s face between her hands, and kissed his cheek. “Farley, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”
She hurried back inside, calling for Lindsay, leaving Farley to touch a wondering finger to the place her lips had been.
Lindsay was on the telephone in the office, and a big grin was spread over her face. “Dominic,” she declared, “we are going to make you the best dinner you ever had! Just not on Sunday,” she added quickly. She hesitated, and laughed in response to something he said. “You bet. Thank you! You saved our lives.”
She turned to Bridget as she hung up the phone. “Dominic says—”
“The smell will be gone by Sunday,” Bridget supplied.
“Which means we just have to move the tasting to Sunday afternoon.”
“Which means we actually have time to get ready for it!”
Lindsay sank back into the chair and Bridget leaned against the doorframe with folded arms, each of them taking a moment to enjoy their victory. Then Bridget tilted her head toward the telephone. “You called Dominic.”
Lindsay shrugged. “Was that Farley’s truck I heard pulling up?”
“Hmm. He brought some honey.” Bridget was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, if this whole thing with the fertilizer hadn’t happened, we would have killed ourselves getting ready for tomorrow.”
“I didn’t want to worry Cici,” agreed Lindsay, “but with just the two of us and Ida Mae—even if Noah could have been drafted to polish the silver and peel potatoes—we would have been up all night.”
“Literally. And it still would have been a disaster, because my brain is fried.”
“Mine, too.”
Bridget grinned. “So, I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes men are worth the trouble.”
“Even if only by accident.”
Bridget turned for the door, suddenly energized. “I’ll tell Ida Mae to put the food back in the refrigerator.”
“And I’ll call Catherine.” Lindsay turned back to the phone.
“And then,” Bridget began.
“Bed!” they finished in chorus.
When Richard walked into a restaurant, he got the best table, the head waiter, the reserve wine. Part of it was the Hollywood cachet that clung to him like cheap cologne; part of it was just being—well, Richard. He expected the best, and he always got it.
Cici forgot how much that used to annoy her. Now she remembered only how much she missed living like that.
“So,” Richard said, slicing into his porterhouse, “tell me about this farm of yours.”
“You wouldn’t like it. Not a supermodel in sight. And no home gym.”
Cici had ordered a smoked chicken and fire-roasted pepper thick-crust pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and, yes, shaved truffles, because Richard was paying. She took a bite and barely repressed a moan of ecstasy as Richard said, “Very funny. You have horses, I suppose. Isn’t this part of the country known for its jumpers?”
Cici held up a staying finger. “Please,” she murmured. “This is a sacred moment.” She took another bite of the pizza. “Oh, my God. Ida Mae never made anything like this.”
He smiled at her across the candlelit table. “Well, whatever it is about that farm, it must agree with you. You look great.”
Cici was so surprised she almost forgot about the pizza. “Thank you.”
He cut and speared another bite of his steak. “I mean it. Ten years younger, at least. And I like your hair.”
“Oh.” Self-consciously she touched her freshly blow-dried locks. “Miss Clairol Honey-Blond.”
“It’s longer, isn’t it?”
“Since the last time you saw me, five years ago?”
“Lori sends pictures,” he pointed out with a small frown. “And you’re in most of them.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned back to her pizza.
“No horses,” she said after a moment.
“What?”
“We don’t have horses,” she explained. “We have sheep. And chickens, and a deer, and a crazy dog. And a goat,” she remembered.
“Good God.” He paused with a forkful of baked potato poised in midair. “It sounds very ... Beverly Hillbillies.”
She laughed.