Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [72]
“One hundred people,” Lindsay groaned. “Where are we going to put all those cars?”
“I have to make one hundred miniature gift baskets.” Bridget’s voice sounded heavy and thick with disbelief. “Plus twenty big ones for the wedding party.”
“Cici is going to kill us.”
“There are no rental places around here,” Bridget said in growing horror. “Where are we going to get a tent, a hundred chairs, tables—how are we going to set all of that up by ourselves?” She caught her breath. “Oh, my God, did I just volunteer to bake a wedding cake?”
“I told you not to serve dessert. They didn’t ask for dessert. They don’t deserve dessert.”
Bridget moaned. “Whenever anything goes wrong at a wedding, the cake is always involved. Someone drops the cake, someone sits on the cake, someone falls into the cake ... I don’t even know how to start to put together a wedding cake. It’s going to be a disaster, I just know it.”
“The wedding cake is the least of our problems, if you ask me. Do you have any idea what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”
“A rehearsal dinner,” Bridget said, “for twenty people. The night before a buffet for one hundred.”
“Three arbors and a podium. Cici is going to kill us.”
They sat in silence, shoulders slumped, arms resting on knees, staring dully at nothing for a long time. Then Bridget said, uncertainly, “What are we going to do?”
“I guess ...” Lindsay let the sentence drop, and for such a long time that it seemed she wouldn’t say anything else. Then she looked at Bridget and sighed, “We are going to do the best we can,” she said.
September 24, 2009
Dearest,
As I look back over everything I’ve written to you over the years Irealize there’s one thing I never told you, maybe because until now I didn’t know how true it was. I am so proud of you. I don’t know how I ever deserved anyone as strong and smart and talented and thoughtful and beautiful, inside and out, as you, and I guess the truth is that I don’t. If I could have dreamed up the perfect man, down to the last detail, he wouldn’t have been half as perfect as you. I want to tell you that in person. I hope you’ll understand one day why I can’t.
12
Homecoming
Clusters of balloons were tied to the front porch columns and bobbed gaily in the breeze. Rebel circled the car, barking madly, and from the chicken yard Rodrigo perched atop the chicken coop, flapped his wings, and screeched out a welcome. Bambi bounded across the shade-speckled lawn, cowbell clanging, as the front door opened and everyone inside hurried out.
Lori smiled for the first time in days as Lindsay and Bridget rushed down the steps to greet her. Noah followed at an easier pace, and Ida Mae brought up the rear, flapping her apron at the dog and shooing him away. There was a confusion of hugs and questions and welcomes, adjusting doors and crutches and distributing suitcases, and everyone hovering around as she carefully maneuvered her way up the small temporary ramp that Farley had built at the side of the house. She was home.
Noah carried in the boxes she’d brought from her dorm, casually congratulated her on only breaking one leg, and went back to working on the goat house. Ida Mae brought peanut butter cookies and milk to her room, and hurried back to the kitchen to attend to something that was simmering—and smelling wonderful—on the stove. Bridget, Lindsay, and Cici brought in the last of her luggage, and Bridget said, “We have you all set up in the sunroom, honey. It’s only ten steps from the bathroom—I counted—and we put your bed right next to the electrical outlet so you can plug in your laptop. Farley hooked up the cable for your TV, and Ida Mae even made new curtains!”
“Fortunately,” added Lindsay, with just a touch of bitterness, “I didn’t need the rest of the calico.”
But Lori was barely listening. She was staring, instead, at the boxes of tissue—apricot and green—and ribbon and candy and champagne glasses and small white wicker baskets, candles,