A Wedding on Ladybug Farm (5 page)

Cici added quickly, “We don’t want to impose ourselves on your life—lives, I mean, yours and Lindsay’s.  We know it must seem like a lot of baggage to take on
…”

“I would never refer to you lovely ladies as baggage,” Dominic objected.

“Which is why, generally, when we have big decisions to make, we have a family meeting, like this one.  And you’re family now.”  Lindsay reached for his hand.

“Really,” Bridget assured him. “So
…” She practically held her breath.  “What do you think?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ida Mae declared impatiently, “will you tell them yes so they’ll stop pestering?  And somebody needs to drag out that vacuum from the storage room and clean up this mess.”

Dominic’s eyes twinkled.  “Ladies,” he said, “I’d be honored to join your household, and I’m even more honored that you’d want me.”  And just as their faces broke into smiles of relief, he added, “But there is one condition.”

Lindsay looked at him cautiously.  “What?”

He put his coffee cup on the table, stood, and reached into his pocket.  “I couldn’t help but notice,” he said, opening the lid, “that your finger looked a little bare.”

Lindsay barely had time to draw in a breath before he dropped to one knee.  “You asked me the last time,” he said. “I figured it was only fair that I should ask you back.  Will you marry me?”

The ice pack that Lindsay had been holding to her foot smacked on the floor.  She pressed her fingers to her lips and her eyes shone.  “Oh, my,” she said.  “I mean, yes.  Yes!  Thank you!”

Laughing, she held out her hand and he slipped the ring on her finger.  Cici and Bridget leapt to their feet, crowding around to see. 

“Oh, Linds, it’s gorgeous!”

“It’s perfect!
”

“Good job, Dominic!”

The ring was a silver twined vine pattern with a single round garnet surrounded by diamond chips.  When Lindsay held out her hand, it caught the sunlight from the window and cast a brief spray of fractured pink light across the wall. 

Dominic said, “I hope you like garnets.  We didn’t talk about it, but the color always makes me think of you.”

“It’s perfect,” Lindsay said, and pressed both hands—the one with the ring on it prominently displayed—to her heart.  She smiled into his eyes.  He smiled into hers.

“Garnet!” exclaimed Bridget, clapping her hands together.  “
That
’s the color our dresses should be!”

“It’s practically raspberry,” agreed Cici. “Perfect with the cake.”

“Lindsay!  I have a pair of garnet drop earrings you have to wear!  They can be your something borrowed.”

Lindsay just kept smiling.

“Now all we have to do is decide on a flower in that color tone.  Paul will have some ideas.”

Dominic said, taking Lindsay
’s hand in his, “The wedding bands match. Do you want to see them?”

“I know!” Bridget exclaimed.  “We’ll use the ring pattern on the invitations!  It looks like a grapevine, and that’s the theme, right?  Lindsay, take off the ring.  Let me see it.”

Just as Lindsay glanced at her in confusion, Ida Mae swatted Bridget across the rear with the broom, and then Cici.  Both women yelped indignantly, and she commanded, “Get on out of their business, both of you!  Can’t you see the man wants to be alone with the woman he just proposed to?  Now get!  And bring me back that vacuum.”

Bridget opened her mouth for an outraged objection, but Cici tilted her head meaningfully toward the couple and turned Bridget toward the door.  Dominic pulled Lindsay onto her feet and into his arms.  It was a truly beautiful moment until Lindsay, leaning in to kiss him, put weight on her injured foot and cried out, hopping on one foot while she tried to grab the other one to protect it.  She knocked over a chair and almost fell, but Dominic caught her. Flailing for balance, she stepped back and onto a shard of broken glass that had escaped Ida Mae’s broom
… with her good foot.

Cici cringed and closed her eyes.  “I can’t watch anymore.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit.” 

Bridget and Cici hurried from the kitchen and closed the door behind them.

~*~

Five hours later a relative calm and order had been restored, which was to say that matters at Ladybug Farm were as orderly as they were likely to be for the next four weeks.  Lindsay’s feet, battered and bandaged but not permanently injured, were encased in soft open-toed slippers, which did not prevent her from trying on the wedding gown over her jeans and tee shirt while Bridget tried on the coordinating shoes and held her feet close to the hem of Lindsay’s gown so that they could see the effect.  Paul tried not to wince too noticeably, but he couldn’t prevent a sigh as he watched.

He was a tall, slender man with impeccably styled silver hair and a somewhat perpetually arch expression, exquisitely groomed and attired today in what he called his “rustic collection”: tailored khakis and a windowpane-check shirt with the collar stiffened and turned up just so, the cuffs folded one and one-half turns, and the whole accented by a whimsical yellow kerchief tied with a half-Windsor simply because it brightened his mood.  Although he had known Cici the longest, and adored Bridget with equal fervor, there was something special about his relationship with Lindsay.  When she had asked Paul to walk her down the aisle, along with his partner Derrick, he
’d actually felt the sting of tears in his eyes, and he hadn’t wept over anything since the Gore-Bush election debacle.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her—for any of the girls, really—and he was determined that she was going to have the wedding of her dreams, even if it killed him.  Or her.

“And to think,” he murmured wistfully, watching Bridget balance on one foot as she tried to properly display each shoe against the hem of Lindsay’s gown,  “somewhere in this country at this very moment a bride is modeling gowns on a raised podium in a carpeted studio while her bridesmaids are sipping champagne on tufted velvet.  Bizet is wafting through the speakers and the air is scented with just a hint of attar of roses.  Two impeccably groomed attend
ants in dove-colored suits are pulling gowns while a dresser is taking measurements.  Cici, please,” he added, rushing forward quickly, “you know I love you, I do, but we simply cannot have cherry pie in the same room as white peau de soie!”

He took her fork in mid-bite and snatched away the plate. She gave him a sour look.  “It
is
a dining room,” she reminded him, and turned her attention back to the shoes Bridget was modeling—a different style on each foot—as he sailed through the door to the kitchen.

One of the best things about having Paul for lunch, aside from the fact that he brought with him a style portfolio, complete with samples, that was so
heavy it required wheels, was the fact that Ida Mae considered company—any company—a grand occasion.  While on an ordinary Wednesday the ladies would content themselves with a sandwich and a piece of fruit eaten at the kitchen counter for lunch, company required the dining room, the white tablecloth, a bacon and spinach quiche with hot rolls, salad and a freshly baked cherry pie.  This worked out well because, once the dishes were cleared away, the big dining room table was perfect for spreading out samples. It did, however, limit the potential for seconds on dessert.

Lindsay, holding the strapless gown up at the bodice—it wouldn’t quite zip over her jeans
—peered down at Bridget’s feet, which were as close as they could reasonably get to the hem of the dress.  “I don’t know,” she said, craning her neck to see over the top of Bridget’s head.  “Which one do you think, Cici?  The lace with the rose pattern or the satin with the buckle?”

“Neither one,” Cici said. “The minute you step outside in those heels you’re going to sink two inches into the mud.  This is a vineyard wedding, remember?”

A flash of panic crossed Lindsay’s eyes.  “Oh, my goodness, you’re right.  How can I wear fabric shoes to an outdoor wedding?”

“By using an aisle runner,” declared Paul, returning empty-handed from the kitchen.  “And it’s satin with the buckle, clearly.”

Bridget held out the satin-clad foot skeptically.  “A little young?”

“You can dress in the barn,” supplied Cici with a nod, “I mean, winery.  And if we set up right where the hill starts to crest, facing the vines, we’ll only need about twenty feet of runner.  That should keep your shoes clean.”

Lindsay grinned.  “I like that.  It’s a vineyard wedding, so I dress in the winery.”

“Not too young at all,” Paul told Bridget, holding out his hand for the shoe.  “We’re going to take off the buckle and replace it with a pearl cluster rosette.”

Lindsay clapped her hands together.  “Perfect!”

Bridget returned the shoes to Paul and Cici helped Lindsay shuffle out of the dress, folding it carefully at the waist to keep the hem off the floor.  “The weather could be cold in October,” she said.  “You’re going to need a jacket.”

“And cover up this cleavage?”  Lindsay looked horrified. “I don’t think so.”

Paul strode over to the garment bag he had spread out on the buffet and unzipped it, removing a long-sleeved lace jacket with a flourish.  “It’s a size four,” he said, holding it up to Lindsay’s chest, “but we can put in a few
lace panels—no offense darling, you know you are the perfect size,” he added quickly when Lindsay glared at him.  “It’s just that these vicious models with their disgusting binge-and-purge habits make life impossible for the rest of us.  And look, it fastens here, just under the bust, so we have even more natural enhancement of the cleavage.”

“Well
…”

He swept the jacket away and whipped out two hats from an oversized round box.  “What do you think, ladies?  Portrait hat or cloche?”

He set each hat on Lindsay’s head and when Bridget and Cici agreed unanimously, “Portrait!” he rolled his eyes and put the big hat back into the box.  “Cloche, obviously,” he told them, and set the rolled satin hat slightly askew on Lindsay’s head, twisting her hair into a rope over the opposite shoulder.  He turned Lindsay toward the big gilt-framed mirror on the wall.  “Fabulous, yes?  And picture the half-collar of the jacket framing your face from the back … you will be a walking poem!”

“Yes,” agreed Lindsay, eyes sparkling as she made a miniscule adjustment to the hat.  “I will!”

Paul plucked the hat from her head and, ignoring Lindsay’s protest, began to rewrap it in the blue tissue from which it had come.  “No more time to play, girls. Moving on, moving on.  We have decisions to make if we’re going to keep this event on schedule.”

Lindsay turned down a corner of her mouth and murmured, “And I thought
I
was going to get to be the Bridezilla.”

“I heard that,” replied Paul.

Ignoring them both, Bridget said, “Enough about her.  What about our dresses?”  She went to the table and began turning pages in the oversized five-ring binder that was the style sample book.  “Good heavens, Paul, you should go into the business.  Look at all of this, Cici.”

“Darling, if I were in the business, you couldn’t begin to afford me.”  He spun the binder around, flipped to a new section, and turned it back toward Bridget.  “Waltz length, bell skirt, three-quarter length sleeve cuffed at the elbow, braided gold belt four inches above the waist.”

“Does it come in garnet?” Cici wanted to know, peering over Bridget’s shoulder.

Paul reached into a plastic pocket on the design page and pulled out a swatch. “Also known as claret,” he said, presenting it to her with a flourish.  “The
only
color for autumn.  And for you, my gorgeous blonde …” He took out another swatch for Bridget. “French rose, your signature color.” 

“I always wear pink,” complained Bridget.

“That’s because it’s your signature color,” Paul explained patiently.  “And it does magical things for your skin.”

“Well
…”  Bridget held up the swatch near her face and turned to the mirror.

“Nice,” said Cici, rubbing the swatch of fabric between her fingers
.  “Shot silk.”  She looked at him hesitantly.  “How much?”

“Designer label, off the rack prices,” he assured her.  “And I can get them both in two weeks.  Now for the bouquets
…”

“No roses,” Lindsay warned, limping to the table.

He gave her a disdainful look.  “Of course, roses. They’re your signature flower.  Garnet for Bridget, French rose for Cici, and a mixture of both, accented with ivory, for you.”

“But the funeral
…” Lindsay protested.

“Will be long forgotten by then.  Roses, definitely.”

“I don’t know.”  Lindsay looked worried as she sank into the chair in front of the style book.  “It might be bad luck.  I don’t want to take any chances.”

Bridget leaned over her shoulder, turning pages of the book.  “What do
garnet roses look like anyway?”

“There is no such thing as bad luck when I’m in charge,” Paul assured Lindsay airily.  “Only expertise, precision, and execution.  Speaking of which, we will of course be hosting your engagement party at
the Hummingbird House, and it will be perfection personified. I’m thinking a champagne garden party, and we’ll invite all our old friends from the city …”