A Wedding on Ladybug Farm (9 page)

Kevin Tyndale had no intention of telling his mother the truth.  He just really, really needed to see her.

Kevin had been skeptical—maybe more than skeptical—when his mother had announced her plan to sell everything she owned and buy an old mansion in the middle of nowhere with her two best friends.  It wasn’t that he had anything against Lindsay and Cici; they were practically family, after all, and there was no one to whom he would have trusted his mother’s welfare more than the two of them.  But the whole scheme had sounded crazy—still sounded crazy, if he were perfectly honest—and he had to admit that a large portion of his disapproval centered around the fact that she had made such a major decision without consulting him.  But all that was before he had seen the life the three women had created here, and how happy it made his mother.  Now he envied them all.

Kevin was a good
-looking young man with wavy chestnut hair and a square jawline, complemented by black-framed designer glasses that made him look both intellectual and disarmingly rakish.  He had been in the highly competitive world of a top DC law firm, with its eighty-hour work weeks, cutthroat colleagues, and ever-increasing demands for billable hours for six years last January.  An unrelenting dedication to his job and a willingness to cross any line had earned him a six-figure salary, a stock portfolio, and a condo overlooking the river that he hardly ever saw because most nights he worked so late it didn’t make sense to go home. When he had time off, he did the clubs or one of those glamour trips to Telluride or Belize, usually with people he didn’t know and didn’t much like.  He had been raised better than that.

He drove a red Maserati—for a few more weeks, anyway
—and the minute he pulled up, that crazy border collie came charging from somewhere in back of the house, tail whirling, teeth bared,  snarling and barking like it planned to take down the car and driver single-handedly.  Kevin wasn’t afraid of the dog, exactly, but the last time he had been here it had taken a chunk out of his favorite pair of Dockers.  He’d discovered the best course of action was to stay put until someone with more control over the beast than he had appeared to take charge.

He didn’t have to wait long.  Just as the dog launched an attack upon his tires
, the screen door burst open and the old woman, Ida Mae, appeared with a broom in her hand.  He never knew quite what to make of her and it seemed to Kevin that she always regarded him with an air of suspicion, but she was hell on wheels with that broom. 

“Hey, you filthy animal!  Get on outta here!”

Kevin assumed she was talking to the dog, so he kept his place behind the wheel.

“Scat!”  For a woman her age, she had a voice that could raise thunder.  “Scat, I tell you!”
She stomped down the steps in a faded print dress and army boots, swinging the broom like a machete, and the dog finally took notice.  With one last resentful bark and a warning stare at the tires, he spun on two legs and took off in the direction from which he’d come, leaving nothing but a blur in his wake.

Ida Mae, shouldering the broom, glared at Kevin through the windshield.  “Well?
” she demanded.  “You getting out, or not?” 

And before he could respond or even reach for the door handle, she turned and boomed over her shoulder, “
Comp’ny
!”

Kevin reached for the bouquet of flowers he had brought—which was rather like taking coals to Newcastle considering the riotous bloom of late-summer color that filled the flower gardens around the house—and opened the door.  In another moment his mother pushed open the screen door, followed closely by Cici.  “Kevin!” Bridget cried, running down the steps with arms open.  “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

“Kevin, what a treat!” added Cici, following.  “We didn’t know you were coming!”

There was the usual jubilation of hugs and greetings.  Lindsay came up from the winery with Dominic and all the excitement and questions started over again.  Bridget put the flowers in a vase and Cici brought a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of cookies out to the round wicker table on the porch.  There were always cookies at Ladybug Farm.  Kevin supposed that was why, whenever he came there, it felt so much like home. 

“Not that we’re not wild about seeing you,” Bridget said, fussing over him as she poured the tea and made sure he had a napkin and urged the cookie platter on him, “but what on earth brings you all the way out here in the middle of the week?  Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

Before she stepped away from his chair to fill the other glasses
, she paused to smooth back a lock of his hair in an unconscious motherly gesture, and it made him smile. “I just thought I’d surprise you,” he said.  “Can’t a guy visit his mother every now and then?”

“More than every now and then would be even better,” Bridget replied.  She pulled out a chair and sat next to him, her expression pleasant but curious.  Lindsay and Cici looked at him in the same way—welcoming, but puzzled.

Dominic took a couple of cookies and saluted Kevin with them.  “Well, it’s nice seeing you, Kevin, but I need to get back to the vines.  Come out to the winery later and I’ll give you a tour.”

“Sounds great.  I’d like that.”

Kevin lived in DC, which was an easy enough drive for any occasion, but it embarrassed him to realize he had not been to visit his mother more than half a dozen times in the four years she had been here.  There was no excuse for it.  He always planned to visit more, and every time he left, the good country cooking and quiet shadowed evenings would linger in his memory, making him promise to return the following weekend.  But when the weekend came he usually had to work, or there was a party he wanted to go to, or a client invited him on his boat, or he had a date.  He tried to get down to visit sometime during the Christmas season, and for his mom’s birthday, and once he’d even made it for Mother’s Day, but usually he just sent flowers.  He had not, he realized, been a very good son.

“Congratulations,” he told Lindsay, hoping to take their focus off himself.  “Mom e-mailed you’ve set the date.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling.  “You’ll be getting your invitation next week.”

“But only if you promise to come,” Bridget pointed out.  “Otherwise we’re taking you off the guest list.”

He hesitated.  “Actually, I have news.”

Bridget’s eyes lit up.  “Kevin!  Are you getting married?  But who?  How?
That
’s why you drove out here in the middle of the week!”

“Wait, no!” He held up a hand in self-defense, looking mildly horrified.  “That’s not it.”

Cici said, “You’ll have to forgive her.  We’re wedding-obsessed around here.”

“Well, all I can say is thank goodness,” Lindsay said, while Bridget looked a little disappointed.  “I don’t think we could stand another wedding in the works.  What’s your news, Kevin?”       

He glanced around the table, picked up his glass, and took a sip of sweet tea.  The pause might have appeared to be for dramatic effect, but in fact he needed the time to find just the right words to introduce the subject, just the right tone to make it sound like a good thing.  “I’ve been thinking about changing jobs,” he said.  “I have an opportunity.  In Rome.”

“Rome!” Cici exclaimed.

And Lindsay echoed, “Rome, Italy?”

Kevin said, “Well, actually
…”

“But,” Bridget said, looking stunned, “you have a job!”

She had been so proud when he decided to go into law, and even prouder when he landed a job at the big Washington firm.  So proud.

Lindsay elbowed Bridget in the arm.  “For heaven’s sake, Bridge, this one is in
Rome
!”

“But,” Cici said, “don’t you have to have a special license to practice law overseas?”

He said, floundering, “Um, it’s more corporate.”

Bridget sank back in her chair, the astonished expression in her eyes giving way to wonder. “Oh, my goodness,” she breathed, “my little boy, working in the international marketplace.”  She pressed her hands to her cheeks, and abruptly her eyes flashed bright with tears.  “Oh, Kevin, your dad would be so proud!”

He looked around desperately, feeling trapped.  “Really, Mom, it’s not that big a deal.  I might not even get it.”

“Of course you will!” Bridget said it as though to think otherwise was blasphemy.  “Why wouldn’t you?
”  

And Lindsay said, “When will you leave?”

“It’s not a sure thing,” he reiterated, trying not to panic.  “I’m not even meeting with them until next week.”

That much was true at least.  He was, in fact, one of over two hundred people who had managed to wrangle his way into an interview with what amounted to the assistant director of human resources, and that was only thanks to some very creative writing on his resume.  It had seemed like something to hope for at the time.  Now
… not so much. 

Lindsay said, “Do you speak enough Italian to work in Italy?”

“I might not take it,” he assured her quickly, wishing for all he was worth—which wasn’t very much at the moment—that he could rewrite the past five minutes.  “In fact, I probably won’t.  I just thought I’d mention it, just in case, you know …” He summoned up a coaxing smile, the kind his mother never could resist, “they make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

Cici said, “Lori’s in Italy.”

He looked at her, more grateful than he could say for the change of subject.  “That’s right, Mom mentioned that.”  He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.  “What’s she doing there, again?”

“She’s got a boyfriend,” said Lindsay.

Cici gave her a cool look.  “She’s apprenticing at a winery.”  She sipped her tea.  “And she has a boyfriend.”

“Where is she?” he inquired, to be polite, and to keep the focus off of himself.

“Siena,” Cici said.

Bridget’s eyes lit up.  “Oh, Kevin, you’ve got to look her up while you’re there.  I’ll get you her address before you leave.  We’re dying for some real news from her and
…” She glanced at Cici.  “I know her mother would appreciate knowing what you think of this fellow of hers.”

Cici must have sensed his discomfort because she said quickly, “Bridget, I don’t think Siena is anywhere near Rome, and—”

“There’s a train,” Lindsay said helpfully, “and it’s a gorgeous trip from Rome. I know Lori would love to see a familiar face.  She must be so homesick!”  

“How can you go to Italy without seeing Lori?” Bridget demanded.  “Or Tuscany, for that matter!”

Cici looked hopeful.  “If you do go,” she said, “I have a few things I’d like to send to her.  Nothing that would take up too much room in your bag,” she promised.  “Just some of her favorite bath salts and some English magazines she can’t get over there, things like that.”

“And cookies,” declared Bridget.  “We’ll have to send her cookies.”

Kevin understood then how a mountain climber must feel at the moment the avalanche finally overtakes him; at that instant when panic turns to horror and finally gives way to inevitability, acceptance, and yes, even relief.  That was it then. There was no way he could backtrack now.  His mother was baking cookies.  Cici was depending on him.  Everyone was proud of him.  He was going to Italy.

And what the hell?  One last hurrah.  There were certainly worse ways to end a career.

So he sat back, smiled, and picked up his tea glass.  “Sure,” he said, “it’ll be fun to see her.  And I’ve never been to an Italian winery.  I’ll send you a case of wine.”

“You’re staying overnight, right?” Lindsay said, rising. “I
’ll get the guest room ready.”

Cici said, “Um, about that
…”

“No,” Kevin said quickly, “no
, I can’t stay.”  He wanted to, he longed to.  Nothing would make him happier than to sink into the oasis that was Ladybug Farm, to listen to the crickets at night and watch the birds in the morning and be fawned and fussed over by people who thought he was a rare and wonderful creature whose very presence on this earth was cause for celebration.  But he knew he couldn’t bear the pretense for another twenty-four hours.  He wasn’t that good a liar.

“But I was going to make fried chicken for supper,” Bridget said, disappointed, “and my caramel apple pie that you like so much.”  Then she cheered.  “I could make it for lunch.  You can stay that long, can’t you?”

He smiled.  “Oh, I think I could probably be talked into that.”   

And so he lingered.  He admired the winery and walked the vines with Dominic; he laughed and talked with his mom and her friends and stored up all the gossip to share with Lori.  He ate fried chicken and apple pie until his stomach was swollen.  He drank deep of the sweet country air and looked long into the gold-etched mountains, and there was an ache in his chest when he hugged his mother good
-bye.

He left Ladybug Farm with a bag full of gifts for Lori and the smiles and good wishes of everyone he left behind, and he made reservations for his flight to Italy without ever once mentioning that the job—the one he probably wouldn’t get anyway—was, in fact, in Rome, Georgia.  

~*~

Lindsay stared in dismay at the hole in the guest room wall, which was now almost as big as a barn door.  “Oh no!” she said, bringing her fingers to her lips.  “Cici, what happened?  Can you fix it?”