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By Root 762 0

once been an actual conservatory. According to Ida Mae, it had been used to house miniature citrus trees and tropical plants in the heyday of the house. The floor was hand-cut Italian tile and had a drain in the center for water runoff. One entire wall was filled with windows—the old-fashioned, double-hung kind that were elaborately trimmed with painted molding. During their first winter there, a tree branch had crashed through the roof of the room and presented a perfect opportunity for remodeling. They hadn’t been able to afford completely replacing the roof with glass, as it had been originally, but they had put in four skylights, replastered, and painted the room a pale buttermilk yellow. They had furnished the room sparsely with leftover wicker, a couple of faded floral rugs they did not deem nice enough for the main house, and whatever houseplants they were currently nursing back to health.

Now, however, with Ida Mae’s bright calico curtains draped back from the windows, the sunshine spilling over the bed, the potted plants inside, and the rolling green meadows, mountains, and colorful plantings outside, the room was cheery and uplifting, ultimately conducive to good health.

Or at least it would have been, if the mood of its occupants had not been so dire.

“Well, the good news is,” said Lori, tapping the keyboard of her laptop, “you did put the ‘allow four to six weeks for delivery’ disclaimer on your order form. Or at least I did.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Lindsay murmured, and when Lori glanced at her askance, she amended quickly, “I mean, thank you, Lori.”

“But you’ve got to acknowledge receipt of the order,” Lori went on, “and give them a shipping date. We can automate that if you like.”

“Yes,” Bridget said quickly, “automate it.”

“Hold on,” Cici said in alarm, “you can’t promise two hundred and fifty-six baskets—”

“Two hundred seventy-three,” corrected Lori, and Bridget groaned loudly.

“You don’t even have two hundred seventy-three baskets,” Cici pointed out, “much less the stuff to fill them with! How can you possibly fill all those orders and the wedding gift baskets?”

Bridget slumped down low in the wicker chair, closing her eyes. “I’m going to cry.”

“Don’t cry,” Lindsay soothed absently, pouring more tea. “We’ll figure this out.”

“Cici’s right,” Bridget said. “I only have about fifty jars of jam left, and I barely have enough dried herbs left to make sachets for the wedding and don’t know where I’m going to get the hand lotion and bath salts ...”

Lori shook her head sadly. “The only thing that causes small businesses to fail more often than apathy is success.”

All three women waited for her to explain, but she merely shrugged. “It’s an axiom.”

Cici drew a breath and turned to Bridget. “Okay,” she said. “Your first priority is to fill the wedding order. They’ve already tasted the pinot noir jam and smelled the hand lotion.”

“You can make more jam for the orders,” Lindsay suggested. “And dry the herbs in the microwave.”

“Microwave?” Bridget looked horrified. “How can I dry herbs in a microwave? And we don’t even start to harvest grapes until October! How can I—”

“Strawberry,” suggested Cici.

“You didn’t actually specify the kind of jam on the website,” Lori pointed out. “It just says ‘Ladybug Farm vintage wine jams.’”

“Maybe,” Bridget said thoughtfully reluctantly, “a strawberry champagne jam. I’ve never actually made it but ...”

“Perfect,” declared Lindsay.

“Do you know how many strawberries that will take?” Bridget said, starting to sound panicky again.

“We’ve got tons in the freezer.”

“I’m not sure you can even make jam out of frozen strawberries.”

Cici had been studying the extensive notes, drawings, and color swatches left behind by Catherine. Now she looked up, her expression sober. “We have bigger problems than frozen strawberries,” she announced. “You do realize that we have exactly eleven days to prepare a sit-down dinner for twenty, a wedding that includes a fifty-foot satin-lined processional with three arbors, a string quartet, a dance floor, and a buffet for one hundred people.