Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [88]
Lori added, “Yeah.”
Noah said, “Yeah, I know. But it’s nicer to know I don’t have to.”
Bridget smiled at him. “That’s fine, too.”
He looked around the room at all of them for a moment, then he said, “There’s one thing I wanted to say. Then maybe ... in a week or two, when things kind of calm down around here, maybe we’ll talk, you know, about that other thing.” He looked at Lindsay, an uncertain mixture of shyness, pretended nonchalance, and hope in his eyes. “That legal thing you told me about in Richmond.”
Lindsay had to swallow before she could speak, but she could not restrain her smile. “Okay. That would be great.”
Noah went on. “What I wanted to say was, I know ya’ll are thinking I’m mad at her. My mom. But that’s not it. I don’t blame her, not now. I’ve been reading her letters. I think about her writing them to me when I was just a little baby, and she didn’t even know where I was. She was kind of funny.” He smiled a little, faintly. “And interesting. She sounds like somebody I might have liked to know. So that’s the thing. I had a whole year, after I knew where she was and who she was, and I could have talked to her. But I wasted it. I wasted it trying to punish her, or trying to prove I didn’t care, or I don’t know, a lotta different things. But that’s what I’m mad at. Nothing else.”
He glanced around the room once again, a little more quickly, trying to hide his embarrassment, and his gaze landed on Cici. “You want me to do the cherries?”
Cici smiled, and handed him the cherry pitter. “Thanks, Noah. That would be great.”
He sat down beside her, and as they all worked together in companionable ease the atmosphere around the table was a bit more thoughtful than it had been before.
Trucks arrived. The UPS truck, bearing apricot and spring green frocks for Bridget and Lindsay. The postal carrier in his mud-stained red station wagon, with jar labels and cellophane bags. FedEx, with embossed place cards. UPS again, with stockings and shoes. Party Favors out of Charlottesville, with glassware, china, and cutlery. FedEx with monogrammed napkins. UPS with bolts of ivory scrim and satin ribbon. Two hearses, filled with chairs, and a Silverado carrying tents. Rebel started to lose his voice and, toward the end of the week, made only a token charge at the wheels of each vehicle before he retreated, panting hard, to the shade under the porch. The goat ran away twice and, somewhat to their dismay, returned each time. The hens stopped laying.
Paul orchestrated it all like a Broadway director on opening night. He found a hands-free telephone headset and managed to hook it up so that he could direct boxes to the kitchen, chairs to the barn, and fabric to the parlor, all while ordering table covers from a restaurant supply and measuring the rose garden for the placement of chairs, and, of course, never missing a call from Catherine or Traci. Noah was sent to town to buy every white candle he could find, and Lori spent the day wrapping them in apricot tulle. A bow-making assembly line was formed.
“We’ll gather the scrim and tie it every five feet with floral wire,” Paul explained to Lindsay, who was with Bridget in her room, trying on their dresses for the wedding. “Then we’ll drape it around the tents to hide the name of the funeral parlor, and let it float down over the tent poles like a cabana. Bows at each corner, and no one will ever know they aren’t custom wedding tents.”
“Perfect,” Lindsay said, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. “I hate this dress. Don’t you think it makes my hair look orange?”
“You were born to do this,” Bridget told Paul, adjusting the neckline of her own spring green dress. “You’re the one who should go into business. I look like a cupcake.”
“I have a job, thanks. This is just a fantasy.” He tied the satin ribbon on the front of Bridget’s dress and stepped back to observe her critically. “Lose the bow,” he advised.
“What are you going to do about your column?” Lindsay asked. “You’re not missing deadlines because of us, are you?”
“Are you joking? This is my column—for about