Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [95]
“You are not retiring here,” Cici stated flatly. “You’re not.”
“Listen.” He took her arm, turning her a little away from the crowd that was milling around at the bottom of the steps, and he bent his head close to hers, lowering his voice earnestly. “I know how we left things, and that’s fine with me, really. I know this probably seems impulsive but I’ve been thinking about it for years, and now everything is coming together. The timing is perfect. Don’t look at this like I’m trying to pressure you. Think of it as a chance for us to take our time, enjoy each other, settle into the feeling of being a family again...”
With every word he spoke her eyes grew wider, and by the time he finished she was shaking her head adamantly. “No.” She downed the remainder of the martini in a single swallow. “No. Let me be clear about this, Richard—no.” She started to walk away, then spun back to him with a wide sweep of her arm. “This,” she declared, indicating all that surrounded them, “is my dream, not yours, don’t you see that? And now all of sudden you come swooping down like—like some kind of conquering hero and decide you want what I have, and it feels like you’re trying to steal my dream. That’s what it feels like!” The flash of hurt in his eyes stabbed at her, and she drew a breath, trying to gentle her tone. “I’m sorry, Richard, I really am, for whatever insane midlife crisis made you think this could work out. But we’re not a family. We’re barely even friends. You don’t belong here, and I. . . ”
It was at that moment that a Mustang convertible came screeching up the driveway, top down and belching the thrum, thrum, thrum of woofers from the back speakers. It stopped with a spray of gravel in front of the house, dislodging a bevy of drunken young men, one of whom, wearing a mis-buttoned Hawaiian print shirt and baggy shorts and a silver paper crown, appeared to be the groom. He staggered and grinned with a goofy two thumbs-up as he clambered over the closed doors of the car.
“I have work to do,” she said, and walked away.
It was the arrival of the groom, everyone agreed, that signaled the downward turn of the event. Before he had even stumbled completely out of the car, Traci burst out of the house and started to scream at him. “Jason, where have you been? You’re late! I told you we were starting at five and I told you not to be late! Where’s the cake topper? Did you bring the cake topper? Don’t you dare stand there with all your drunk friends and tell me that you didn’t do the one thing I asked you to do!”
At which point Jason, who had been struggling to look suitably chastened, suddenly burst into laughter, and was supported by his groomsmen with a rousing chorus of “Here Comes the Groom.” Traci dissolved into tears and ran into the house, followed by her mother and all six bridesmaids.
Margaret, Jason’s mother, arrived in a print silk suit and three-inch spiked heels, which sank immediately into the soft ground of the lawn when she tried to cross it. She did, however, bring the missing cake topper, and insisted upon inspecting the dining room setup to make certain her instructions for the evening had been carried out. So while Lindsay tried to comfort the hysterical bride and Paul took charge of the groom, Cici was left to escort Margaret on her tour of inspection.
“Really Mrs. Thornton,” she insisted, “why don’t you just have a glass of wine and enjoy your evening? Leave everything to us.”
To which she merely snorted, surveyed the dining room arrangement, and demanded, “Where are the place cards? I sent silver-framed place cards and a seating chart. What did you people do, pawn them?”
Cici, whose temper had already been tested to the breaking point, drew a sharp breath for a reply. But, fortunately for her, before she could release it, Bridget, looking like an executive chef in a black straight skirt and high-collared white shirt, came through the swinging door with a bright smile and