Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [70]
The dark-haired woman looked at Catherine. “Really, Catherine, what were you thinking? I can’t believe all this nonsense was inspired by Michelle Obama’s ridiculous little garden. I mean, it’s not as though you can’t have an organic wedding in the city, and no one is going to drive all the way out here no matter how trendy it is. Where are the guest cottages?”
Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Guest cottages?”
Catherine looked slightly more harried than she had on the occasion of their last meeting. “Darling,” she said to Lindsay, “meet Margaret Thornton, the mother of the groom. And these”—she waved in the general direction of the bevy of chattering young women who were flitting like butterflies around the car—“are the girls.”
“Catherine, you know we never made any arrangements for guest accommodations ...” And then she stopped, looking around. “Where’s the wedding planner?”
“I’m afraid she didn’t work out at all,” Catherine confided as she came forward. “Impossible to work with, and she just didn’t understand our concept from the beginning. After all, we’re just talking about a small affair, here. That’s why, my dear”—she slipped her arm cozily through Lindsay’s—“we thought it would be easier all around for you all to manage the entire project from here. Don’t you agree? It will save all kinds of confusion.”
“Well, I—”
Catherine suddenly pivoted and raised her arm, pointing her key fob at the car. With a small beep the trunk of the car lifted, and she shouted, “Girls! Bring in the dresses! And don’t try to carry them all at once!”
“Dresses?” Lindsay repeated.
“Traci’s had just a teensy bit of trouble making a final decision on the dress,” Catherine confessed, “since we were forced”—the emphasis on this word was directed at Margaret-” to change the location.”
“Oh, yes, it was all my fault,” Margaret said. “Traci asked me to help her find the first venue, if you recall, since you were far too busy with your Save-the-Whale ball ...”
“So, naturally”—Catherine spoke over her, loudly—“we thought the thing to do would be for her to try them on in the actual location. I’m sure the right dress will simply sing to her once she sees it against this magnificent backdrop. Now, darling, we have so much to cover and such a short time I hardly know where to begin.” She turned her head and shouted, so loudly that Lindsay winced, “Traci! Bring the book!”
“Lindsay,” Lindsay said, trying to tug her arm away. “My name is Lindsay.”
“Yes, of course, dear. Now about the rehearsal dinner ...”
They had reached the steps, where Bridget was standing with a tray laden with sparkling orange mimosas. “Welcome,” she declared with a big, bright smile, “to Ladybug Farm.”
The two mothers ascended the steps without Lindsay, removing their sunglasses, surveying the table arrangements with a critical eye. Each of them plucked a mimosa off the tray without acknowledging their hostess before moving around the porch.
“Well, now,” said Catherine, smiling. “Isn’t this sweet?”
“Very farmer-in-the-dell,” agreed Margaret. She sipped the mimosa, made a face, and set the glass on one of the tables. “Catherine,” she murmured, “we really must talk about your champagne budget.”
Lindsay moved forward quickly. “I know you wanted a farmhouse theme,” she said, “so I set this up to show you what we could do with the reception. I wanted to evoke an old-fashioned tearoom feeling, and of course mixing china and silver patterns is very trendy ...”
Catherine lifted an eyebrow. “I thought we had decided on Lawrence of Arabia.”
Lindsay bit down hard on her first reply and managed pleasantly, “That was several e-mails ago.”
“Well, it is sweet,” Catherine said carefully. “I only wish we were doing the bridal luncheon here.”
“Bridal luncheon?” croaked Bridget in alarm. She set the tray down on one of the tables with a clatter.
“Unfortunately, we’ve already reserved the Fairmont,” Catherine said, and Bridget sagged visibly with relief.
“Traci!” Catherine shouted. “For heaven’s sake, where is the