At Home on Ladybug Farm (18 page)

They walked in silence for a while, and it seemed that Paul would not reply at all. And then he said, reasonably, “How do you know?”

She looked at him. “What?”

“How do you know you’re not good at anything?” he repeated. “Have you tried everything?”

Her frown was dismissive. “Well, not everything. But—”

“But nothing. Oh, I could tell you all kinds of inspirational stories about how many books John Grisham had rejected before he sold his first manuscript and how Vermeer died a pauper and how Coco Chanel—well, forget Coco. The point is that if you keep trying, you’re bound to get it right sooner or later.”

She slid a glance toward him. “But Vermeer died a pauper.”

“Only because he didn’t live long enough,” replied Paul promptly. “He’s terribly famous now.”

Lori couldn’t restrain a giggle. “Uncle Paul, that’s the worst inspirational speech I’ve ever heard.”

He grinned and flung an arm around her shoulder. “That may be, my dear, but my heart’s in the right place. Come along, let’s get out of the wind.”

They started back toward the house, and his tone grew serious. “You know, I’m a huge fan of your mom’s.”

Lori sighed. “So am I.”

“She can run a business, a table saw, a sewing machine; build houses, drive a tractor, plan the perfect Zurich vacation, and throw the most exquisite parties I’ve ever been privileged to attend, and just when you think she can’t top herself she does something utterly outrageous like moving into a century-old mansion in the middle of nowhere and deciding to restore the place brick by brick . . . The lady casts one long shadow, that’s for certain.”

Again Lori sighed. “Tell me about it.”

“She’s a smart, ambitious, determined woman who made a lot of success for herself,” Paul agreed. Then he stopped, and stepped in front of Lori, and rested both hands on her shoulders somberly. “But,” he said, “the most incredible thing she has ever made is you. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Lori buried her face in his chest and hugged him hard. “Now that,” she said, sounding a little misty, “was a great speech.”

“Which only proves my point.” He patted her back briskly. “If you keep trying, you’re bound to get it right.”

Lori laughed, scrubbed the moisture from her eyes, and stepped away from him. And with their arms around each other’s waists, they made their way back to the house.

They stayed up late that night, tossing logs on the fire when it started to die down, opening a second bottle of wine, reminiscing and catching up, laughing and musing. Lori and Noah stayed up late, too, though not as late as the adults, popping corn over the open fire and drinking hot chocolate and quizzing Paul and Derrick endlessly about the places they had been and the things they had done. The gentlemen told stories about artists’ receptions and book signings, weekends in New York, and vacations in Brussels. The ladies told stories about drying apples and canning peaches, stripping furniture and reglazing bathtubs.

When Noah went upstairs to listen to his iPod and Lori, dozing before the fire, was reluctantly persuaded to say goodnight, Cici put another log on the fire. Lindsay took Lori’s place on the sofa, stretching out with a glass of wine and swinging her wool-clad feet across Paul’s knees. “Gosh, I’ve missed you guys,” she sighed.

“Mutual, my darling,” Paul returned, massaging her toes. “The old neighborhood just isn’t the same.”

Derrick refilled Lindsay’s glass, and Paul’s, and then raised the bottle to the others, who shook their heads. “I must say, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Sheep farming, wood chopping, forest creatures and wild dogs and teenage boys roaming at will . . . a far cry from sailing on the bay and dining in Georgetown. And the most astonishing thing is that you all seem perfectly at home here.”

“It grows on you,” Cici agreed, contentedly stretching her own feet toward the fire.

“Tell the truth,” Paul insisted. “Don’t you miss it? Life in the real world?”

They laughed as one. “Of course I do!” Cici said. “I haven’t seen a movie in a year.”

“Or a manicurist,” added Bridget.

“Or a shopping mall,” sighed Lindsay.

“But . . .” Cici gestured to include the lamplit room, the glowing fire, the deep and velvety stillness of the night beyond the windows. “I would miss this even more.”

“Oddly enough,” said Derrick, “I can see that. And as much as I hate to admit I might actually have been wrong, I must say I think the move has been good for you.”

He glanced at Paul for confirmation, who nodded. “It’s the Zen of bucolic life,” he agreed. “It’s why agricultural peoples live an average of ten years longer than members of urban societies.”

“Of course,” mused Derrick, “one has to wonder what good ten extra years would be without Bergdorf’s.”

“Or Broadway,” added Paul.

“Or lamb chops marinated in truffle oil and served on a bed of baby asparagus.”

“Okay, now you’re just depressing us,” Bridget said, and everyone laughed.

“It was nice of you to take Noah under your wing,” Lindsay said to Derrick. “I hope he’s not being too much of a pest.”

“I rather like the scamp, actually,” Derrick admitted. “And you’re right—he has a good deal of raw talent, with which you’ve done wonders, by the way. We might talk about his doing an internship with me at the gallery in a couple of years.”

Lindsay’s face lit up. “Really? That would be fabulous!”

Derrick held up a finger. “I said ‘talk.’ He’d have to be cleaned up and smoothed out a good deal before then.”

“Not a problem.” Lindsay sipped her wine and grinned. “You’ve just given me something to bribe him with for at least another year.”

“And now let’s talk about you,” Derrick said. “I couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a single one of
your
paintings on display in
your
studio.”

Lindsay tried to look cavalier. “I think I’m a better teacher than an artist. You know what they say: ‘Those who can, do, those who can’t—’ ”

“Nonsense. Those who don’t have the courage, perhaps.”

Lindsay frowned.

“Besides,” Bridget pointed out, “you’ve done some wonderful paintings of Bambi, and what about that portrait of Rebel you gave me for Christmas? Derrick liked that, didn’t you, Derrick?”

“I thought all it needed was a spray of pine and a red bow and it would be perfect for the cover of the holiday L.L. Bean catalog.”

Lindsay lifted her foot as though to kick him and he leaned away with a grin.

“What?” demanded Cici. “Isn’t that a compliment?”

“You’re better than that,” Derrick told Lindsay. “You just haven’t found your passion yet.”

“Well, when I do,” Lindsay assured him, “you’ll be the last to know.”

Derrick chuckled, and Paul raised his glass. “A toast,” he said. “To the lovely ladies of Ladybug Farm, who never cease to amaze me. May your lives always be as full as they are now.”

Cici raised a cautionary finger. “But not any fuller.”

10

More Company

The next morning dawned cold and cloudy and, nestled under mounds of quilts, everyone slept late. It was the raucous barking of the sheepdog that shattered the silence.

Bridget, groaning, pulled a pillow over her head and waited for it to stop. But the barking went on and on, growing more furious and higher pitched with each moment, until finally she flung back the covers and reached for her robe.

She met Cici on the stairs, her hair tousled and her face puffy, belting her robe over flannel pajamas. “What in the world is wrong with that dog?” she said, and that’s when they both noticed Ida Mae, turning away from the front window.

“Ya’ll expecting more company?” she asked, looking annoyed.

Bridget and Cici joined her at the window, puzzling over the burgundy sedan that Rebel repeatedly charged, teeth bared and legs stiff, as though his life depended upon keeping the sedan at bay. Through the car’s foggy windows they could make out the shapes of two cringing women.

“I wonder who they are,” Cici said.

“Jehovah’s Witnesses?” suggested Bridget.

“Somebody ought to do something,” declared Ida Mae.

“I’ll get ’im.” This from Noah, who had come down the stairs bare-chested and barefooted, and headed straight for the front door.

“For heaven’s sake,” Lindsay called from the landing behind him. “It’s freezing out there! Put on some clothes!”

But Noah, flinging open the front door, roared, “
Rebel!
” and dashed down the steps and across the frosty lawn to grab the dog’s collar and drag him away.

“Well, I guess that woke everyone up,” Bridget said. She smothered a yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”

Before Ida Mae could answer that, Lindsay joined them at the window, tying her French terry robe and peeling back the curtain for a better look. “What’s going on? Who is that? I can’t believe that boy went out in his bare feet!”

Noah, hopping on first one foot and then the other as the frozen grass cut into his soles, dragged the reluctant dog toward the barn, as the driver opened the door of the sedan. Lindsay gasped and sank back from the window.

“Oh my God,” she said, her hand at her throat. “That’s Carrie Lincoln. From the Department of Family and Children’s Services.”

Bridget peeked out the window again. “Who’s that with her?”

“I don’t know.” Lindsay groaned. “I guess I can understand a surprise visit, but why did it have to be
today
?”

Bridget repeated. “What time is it?”

There was a knock on the door, and Lindsay tried rather desperately to smooth her tangled hair as she went to answer it.

“Carrie.” She greeted her warmly and opened the door wide. “How nice to see you. Sorry about the dog. He really should be locked up. Come in. Goodness, it’s cold this morning, isn’t it?”

Carrie, a thirtyish woman with a pixie haircut and a quick—although at the moment rather strained—smile, stepped inside, accompanied by an older, stouter woman in a puffy quilted car coat. Carrie toted a messenger bag-type briefcase; the other woman carried a clipboard.

Carrie said, in her honey-thick New Orleans accent, “Lindsay, this is my supervisor, Marjorie Boynton. Marjorie, this is Lindsay Wright . . .” She turned to the other two, who did the best they could to straighten their hair and their bathrobes as they came forward. “Bridget Tindale and Cici Burke.”

Marjorie’s handshake was firm, cold, and no-nonsense. Her smile was nonexistent, her colorless gray eyes stern. She said, flatly, “Your sheep are wearing coats.”

Lindsay suppressed another groan, and tried to disguise it with a weak smile. “I guess Noah let the sheep out of the barn when he put Rebel up.”

Carrie said, a little uncertainly, “I hope we didn’t wake you. But it
is
almost ten o’clock.”

“Oh, good God,” Cici said, turning to stare at the grandfather clock in the living room. And then she apologized, “We never sleep this late, really, but we have company and we were up half the night—”

It was at that moment that Paul appeared at the top of the stairs in his paisley silk robe and leather slippers, and called down cheerfully, “Good morning, my beauties. Loved the wake-up call. Now, if you’d only offer room service . . .”

And Derrick, similarly attired, appeared behind him. “Is that coffee I smell? We’ll be down in a jiff.”

Lori emerged behind them, wrapped in a quilt and looking grumpy and rumpled,. “Mooommm,” she complained, “there’s no heat in my room again and it’s
freezing
. There’s ice in the toilet!”

At the same time Noah blew in from the kitchen, rubbing his hands briskly over his goosefleshed arms and wiping one bare foot and then the other against the leg of his jeans to warm them. “Man, it’s colder than a witch’s—”

“Noah,” Lindsay interrupted, perhaps a bit too loudly, “you remember Mrs. Lincoln from Social Services? And say hello to Mrs. Boynton.”

Noah stopped, his affable expression immediately turning suspicious. He scowled at them. “What do you want?”

“Mom!” Lori insisted.

Cici said, “Excuse me, we’re a little disorganized this morning.” She flashed the visitors a reassuring smile as she hurried toward the stairs. “There isn’t really ice in the toilet.” Then, “For heaven’s sake, Lori, use my bathroom!”

Mrs. Boynton said severely, “Your sheep are wearing coats while your children are freezing. Young man, do you have a coat? Or shoes?”

To which Noah returned sulkily, “What’s it to you?”

“Noah!” Lindsay said sharply. She took a breath. “Go get dressed. And don’t be late for breakfast,“ she added, loudly, as he turned away. She offered a weak apologetic smile to the social workers. “Teenagers,” she said.

Carrie cleared her throat. “I can see we’ve come at a bad time.” She glanced toward the staircase, where Cici was hustling Derrick and Paul back to their room, whispering to them frantically. “But you understand the point of this visit was to see how you really live.”