Vintage Ladybug Farm (11 page)

Bridget’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Rabbi?”

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t mind making the trip at all,” Diane assured her with a smile. “As long as he doesn’t have to travel on the Sabbath. He’s very strict about that. In fact, a good many people are, so I was hoping you would consider a Sunday afternoon, or even mid week. Of course we understand it’s your wedding,” she added, patting Cici’s hand confidently, “so we’re completely onboard with whatever you want to do about the reception, but I simply can’t imagine a more beautiful place than this house. And if you need a caterer, I can recommend several out of Washington who are just fabulous. But what am I saying? I’m sure you must have a whole list.”

Cici said, “Umm … I don’t think Lori mentioned Mark was Jewish.”

Diane smiled. “Didn’t she? We have a lot to talk about, then.”

Bridget said abruptly, “Excuse me. I have to check on something in the kitchen.”

Cici tried to disguise a flash of panic as she watched her go. She took a breath and turned back to the couple. “So then,” she said brightly, “would you like to see the upstairs?”

~*~

Cici left the Clerys in the parlor with a glass of wine and hurried to the kitchen, where she found Bridget frantically trying to pick out pieces of bacon from the beef bourguignon. “I swear I didn’t know,” she apologized, sounding a little desperate. “How could I not know?”

“You’re gonna ruin that stew,” said Ida Mae flatly. “And what am I supposed to do with these vegetables? Everybody knows the only thing that gives winter vegetables their flavor is pork fat.”

“The good news is they’re reformed, not orthodox,” Cici offered. “Maybe that’s why Lori didn’t mention it. Where is she anyway?” Cici looked around suspiciously, as though expecting her daughter to pop out from one of the cabinets. “I’m going to kill that girl.”

“Reformed,” repeated Bridget, looking harried. “What does that mean? Do they eat pork?”

“I don’t think so,” admitted Cici. “I don’t know what it means. Maybe you don’t have to be kosher.”

Bridget told Ida Mae, “Serve the vegetables. Drain off the fat. And don’t say a word.” She popped the lid back on the casserole and slid it back into the oven.

“What about berry pie?” demanded Ida Mae sourly. “Do they eat pie?”

Cici and Bridget looked at one another, at a loss.

The back door opened and Mark and Lori came in, flushed and bright-eyed from the cold, laughing together.

“You,” Cici demanded of Mark without hesitation, “did not tell me you were Jewish!”

“That’s because I’m not,” replied Mark easily. He took a piece of discarded bacon from the cutting board and popped it into his mouth. “My folks are.”

“What does that
mean
?” cried Bridget. “You can’t just be un-Jewish!”

Mark stared at her, another piece of bacon poised between thumb and forefinger, and Lori supplied impatiently, “What’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m going to convert or anything.” Then, excitedly, “Listen, Aunt Bridget, I had the best idea. You don’t have to have your restaurant in the barn. The dairy is a
much
better place! All those windows, the skylight …”

“It’s already plumbed and wired,” added Mark, “and those walls are solid stone. Easy to add an industrial-looking HVAC system that would fit right in, and you can’t beat the ambience.”

For a moment, both Cici and Bridget stared at them as though they had suddenly started speaking Greek. Then Bridget said, “The dairy is Lindsay’s art studio.”

“But she doesn’t need that big space, and besides—”

“Wait.” Cici threw up her hands as though to physically block the chatter. “The big deal is that this is a
wedding
. There are traditions, and rituals, and—and …”

“Ceremonies,” supplied Bridget helpfully. “The ceremony is a huge part of a wedding.”

“Neither one of us is very traditional,” Mark replied easily, finishing off the bacon. “Whatever you guys come up with will be fine.”

Lori nodded happily. “Really, Mom, the important thing is that everyone has a good time, and people
always
have a good time at Ladybug Farm.”

Mark added, “There’s really not that much to it. My mom will help you out. Some chanting, breaking a glass …” He gave one of Lori’s curls a playful tug. “A lot of dancing.”

She grinned up at him. “Are you going to wear a yamaka?”

He plucked the fedora off her head and placed it on his own. “How do I look?”

She giggled and snatched at the hat; he ducked and bobbed behind the kitchen island. Cici stepped between them before the game got out of hand, returned Lori’s hat firmly to her own head, and thrust a plate of stuffed dates into Mark’s hands.

“Go,” Cici said sternly, giving both of them a little shove, “and keep our guests company in the parlor.”

Lori said, “But aren’t you …”

“In a minute,” Cici said. “Go.”

When the swinging door closed behind them, Cici sank back against the counter and released a breath. “Kosher?” she said, indicating the dates.

Bridget replied, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Ida Mae nudged Bridget aside as she opened the oven to put a loaf of twice-risen herb bread inside. “You know what the good thing about being the cook is?” she said flatly. She shoved the pan far to the back of the oven and slammed the door shut. “When people come to your table, they eat what you serve.”

Cici looked at Bridget. Bridget lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head. “I hope that includes berry pie,” she said, “because that’s all I’ve got.”

Cici blew out a breath and tucked her arm through Bridget’s. “Come on,” she suggested. “Let’s go find out.”

~*~

“Anyway, they were very nice about it,” Cici concluded to Lindsay as the late afternoon shadows once again gathered on the porch. “About our ignorance, I mean, not about them being Jewish. I could have wrung Lori’s neck. You’d think she might have mentioned a little thing like an interfaith ceremony before she invited the in-laws out to plan the wedding.”

“And to think, I almost made a ham.” Bridget shuddered.

“Wow,” said Lindsay. “Who would have guessed? They seemed so … southern.”

Bridget gave her a superior look. “There is a huge Jewish community in the South.”

“Well, I guess I know that,” Lindsay replied defensively. “I was thrown off by the southern accent. I mean, seriously, I almost asked her when she had her cotillion.”

Bridget smothered a giggle, and even Cici couldn’t repress a rather lopsided grin. “It turns out they’re reformed, not orthodox,” she explained. “Which basically means Mark was raised Jewish, but he doesn’t practice.”

“But he still has to be married in the Jewish faith,” added Bridget.

“About which I know absolutely nothing,” admitted Cici. “Fortunately, none of this seems to bother Lori. And how can you not like someone who spent the whole day talking about how much they envy you? They’re already making plans for us all to go on a wine-tasting tour of upstate New York this summer.”

The day had turned into one of those bright winter surprises, with temperatures in the fifties and a brassy sun flinging shards of light across a cobalt sky. Bambi, the deer who had followed Lindsay home from a walk one day and stayed for three years, ambled across the lawn, sniffing out shoots of green grass and dried acorns. As the lowering sun formed bleached-white pools of warmth across the porch, the ladies instinctively stretched out their legs toward it, leaning back in their rockers, loosening scarves and unbuttoning jackets.

“So,” invited Cici, sliding a glance toward Lindsay, “how was your day?”

The corners of Lindsay’s lips twitched in what might have been private memory. “Fine. Nice, actually. The B&B isn’t nearly as nice as our house, of course, but they did something really interesting with the front foyer—which is about half the size of this porch—they turned it into a little art gallery. They had some interesting pieces—wildlife, florals, that kind of thing—so naturally I mentioned Noah to the manager, and she wants him to bring in some of his work. Then, Dominic just about embarrassed the life out of me by telling her I was an artist, too, and had actually hung my work in a Washington gallery—without mentioning, of course, that my best friend was the owner and that no one could have been more shocked than he was when someone actually offered him money for my painting—so naturally she had to insist that I bring in something to show her.” She shrugged, looking less embarrassed than secretly pleased. “Maybe I will. I mean, my painting of the fox in the berry bushes is twice as good as any of the wildlife she had in there, and of course, Noah’s work will make everything else on her walls look like paint by number.”

“Well, what do you know about that?” Cici said. “See, aren’t you glad you went?”

“Good for you!” Bridget added. “Or I should say, good for Dominic. Sounds like you have a fan.”

Lindsay colored faintly. “Well, it was kind of exciting,” she admitted. “Of course, nothing will probably come of it, but now that I’ve lost my gallery …” She grinned a little. “It would be nice to think of my work hanging somewhere besides my studio.

“The restaurant was darling,” she went on, “but really small, and kind of cutesy-pie. Nothing like yours is going to be, Bridge. Blue willow everywhere, lace tablecloths. I had shrimp and grits and Dominic had steak and pommes frits—that’s what they called the french fries on the menu. And, oh!—listen to this. They only serve Virginia wines, so naturally, Dominic told them about ours and we already have a customer! So it definitely wasn’t a wasted day.”

Bridget and Cici exchanged a look. “Well,” said Cici, “as long as it wasn’t wasted.”

Bridget prompted impatiently, “So? What did you talk about?”

“Oh, lots of things. The winery, mostly. How I’d decorate the tasting room. What things were like in the old days.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Didn’t you talk about anything personal?”

“Depends on what you mean by personal. He told me some stuff about his life; I told him some stuff about mine. Funny how you can know a person for a long time and not really know much about him at all.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, it’s really kind of an odd feeling, being around someone who hasn’t already known me most of my adult life and who’s interested in learning things about me. When I tell them, it makes me see myself, and my life, differently. Have you ever thought about how seldom we get to do that?”

“That’s true,” agreed Cici. “I guess people our age tend to hold on to the friends they have, and we’re not looking to make new ones. But it’s fun to see yourself through someone’s eyes.”

“And so?” Bridget reached across Cici and poked Lindsay with her index finger. “What’s the situation? Are you dating or not?”

Lindsay wrinkled her nose. “Dating is one of the few remaining legal forms of torture. You have to color your hair every three weeks instead of every month and shave your legs even in the winter and worry about sucking in your stomach all the time. Who needs it?”

Bridget feigned surprise. “What? You color your hair?”

“You only have to shave your legs,” added Cici mildly, “if you plan on taking off your pants. And as for sucking in your stomach, they make shape wear for that.”

Lindsay gave her a very dark look. “Shape wear. Another reason dating is not for sissies. Besides, we have more important things to worry about than my social life.”

“If you’re talking about the wedding,” Bridget assured her blithely, “we have it under control. Now that we know what we’re working with, that is.”

Lindsay gave her a meaningful look. “Famous last words. Remember last year’s wedding?”

“That was different,” Bridget said, although she looked a little uneasy. “Those people were awful.”

“The rooster attacked the bride,” Lindsay reminded her. “The goat ate the wedding favors. The pressure cooker exploded …”

Cici smothered a grin. “They deserved it.”

“And then,” concluded Lindsay triumphantly, “there was a tornado! So just don’t get so smug. Nothing is ever under control around here. Looks like you’d know that by now. So,” she invited, turning to Cici, “tell all. What are her colors? How many guests? How big is the wedding party? Has she picked a maid of honor? What about the dress?”

Cici pulled a strained face. “Oddly enough, her future mother-in-law and I had those very same questions.”

“Lori didn’t bring her book,” Bridget explained.

“Lori doesn’t
have
a book,” corrected Cici. “Turns out she’s—and I quote—not much of a wedding book kind of girl.”

Lindsay looked skeptical. “Every bride has a book. She probably just hasn’t had time to put it together yet.”

“But we did make some progress,” Bridget said. “It’s definitely going to be a garden wedding …”

“Uh-oh,” murmured Lindsay. “You’re just asking for trouble with that one.”

“With the chuppah up on the little hill exactly where we had the canopy last year, only facing the other direction so that the vineyard is in the background instead of the sheep meadow.”