A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (3 page)

“It certainly is quiet,” agreed Maggie. “But I love living out here. The community is so friendly and close-knit.”

“Well, we appreciate your time.” Cici offered her hand as they reached the car.

“We were really just looking,” Bridget apologized.

“Oh wait!” Lindsay untangled the camera strap from around her neck and handed it to Maggie. “Do you mind taking a picture of us in front of the house? We like to keep a photo journal of our vacations. Come on, girls, it’ll only take a minute.” She grabbed Cici and Bridget by the hand and tugged them back to the house, posing them one above the other on the steps, leaning forward, faces close together, grinning into the camera.

The photograph captured in the background a brick-faced, Corinthian-columned house, its paint a little cracked, its brick a little faded, but all in all aging beautifully. In the foreground were three women with the corners of their eyes crinkled by the sun, their lipstick a little faded, their faces full of the joy of adventure, and also aging beautifully.

When that photo eventually made it onto the first page of a brand-new scrapbook, mounted in 3-D with puffy torn-cotton clouds on a cerulean background, the scrolled caption would read, “In the Beginning . . .”

 

“Sweetie?” Cici came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “How about a cup of tea?”

From her place in a corner of the deep window seat, Bridget looked like a small black-and-white kitten, curled in upon itself and all but lost in its surroundings. She shook her head silently, staring out the window. An early winter dusk had settled over the suburban street, and there wasn’t much to see. Almost as though she suddenly realized that, she cleared her throat, pulled her gaze away, and directed a small, vague smile toward Cici. “No, thank you.”

Lindsay took a cashmere throw from the sofa and draped it over her friend’s knees. “You already have a cup, Bridge,” she reminded her, and picked up the untouched cup of tea on the windowsill. “It’s cold.”

“I’ve got a pot of decaf on,” Cici suggested, “if you’d rather.”

Bridget pulled up her black-stockinged knees, drawing the throw beneath her chin. “I don’t think so.”

Cici and Lindsay exchanged a helpless look. “How about a sandwich, then? There’s plenty of chicken and roast beef. Maybe some fruit? Honey, you’ve got to eat.”

“No,” Bridget replied softly, gazing at the window again. “You go ahead, though.”

Lindsay put down the cold cup of tea, pressed her hands against the sides of her black pencil skirt, and said, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m having Scotch.”

Bridget looked at her, and the smile that curved her lips was very close to genuine. “Now you’re talking,” she said.

Lindsay poured, Cici served, and Bridget made room for them on the window seat. Cici patted Bridget’s knee as she scrunched up her long legs and squeezed into the opposite corner. “Where are the kids?”

“Oh.” Bridget sipped the Scotch. “Kevin had a seven o’clock flight. Katie and the girls went back to the hotel. It’s been a hard day on them, and they’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

Cici looked incredulous. “Do you mean they’re not staying the weekend?”

Lindsay punched her in the leg and gave a warning frown as she kicked off her shoes and slid in beside her. Bridget glanced at the liquid in her glass. “Oh, I know. It sounds a little selfish. But they came so often while Jim was sick, and they both have jobs, and lives of their own . . .”

“Excuse me!” Cici said. “Their dad just
died
. I think they could spare one evening to spend with their mother.”

“Cici, will you shut up one minute?” This time Lindsay kicked her with a stockinged foot.

“Oh, come on, you know it’s the truth. And I’m sorry Bridge.” She gentled her voice as she squeezed Bridget’s knee. “You know I love Kevin and Kate, and Katie’s little girls are just too precious for words. But are we all really so wrapped up in our own little self-important worlds that we can’t even take a little time off for death?”

“Cici, for the love of—”

“No, it’s okay, Linds.” Bridget sighed and sipped her drink. “She’s right. Kids’ll break your heart every time. You were smart not to have any.”

Lindsay gave a little snort. “What, are you kidding? I’ve got thirty-two.” Lindsay had been a middle school teacher for twenty years. “And when they’re not selling drugs or giving each other blow jobs in the bathroom, they fill my life with joy, make my heart sing, and impart meaning and hope to a bleak and unforgiving world.”

Bridget smothered a half laugh. “Lindsay, you’re awful.” And then she sighed. “You know what else is awful? I’m glad the kids are gone. They get on my nerves. I don’t know them anymore, I hardly even know how to have a conversation with them, and I’m not . . .” She paused and sipped her whiskey. “Entirely sure I like them.”

The silence from the other two was understanding and nonjudgmental. They sat and drank without talking for a while, comfortable together in the way that is only possible between those who have known all the best and most of the worst of each other.

Their friendship had begun twenty-three years ago, when Cici, who lived on the cul-de-sac at 118 Huntington Lane, had sold Lindsay the house at 115 Huntington Lane, which was next door to Bridget, at 117. Bridget’s dog had promptly bitten Lindsay’s husband, and Cici, in an attempt to try to avoid a lawsuit and preserve her commission, had taken them all out to dinner. As it turned out, Bridget’s husband Jim was held up at work and Lindsay showed up at the restaurant without the person for whom the entire outing was arranged, because, as she announced without hesitation to the other two, her husband was a jerk and didn’t deserve to eat.

Two hours and twelve mai tais later, the three women had shared far too many secrets and laughs to ever be mere neighbors again. Less than a year later, Lindsay had divorced her husband, and even though the offending pooch had gone on to his Great Reward years ago, Lindsay still sent Bridget flowers on the dog’s birthday.

Together they had founded the Huntington Lane Reading Group, the Huntington Lane Neighborhood Watch, the Children’s Food Drive, and the Animal Rescue League. They had taken twenty-eight vacations together, and had spent every Christmas together since the time they met. When Bridget’s son Kevin had chased a ball into the street and been struck by a car, neither Cici nor Lindsay had left the hospital for the three days he was in a coma. Afterwards, quietly and without being asked, they took over the running of Bridget’s household, shopping, cooking meals, picking up Katie from school, until Kevin was home from the hospital and life was back to normal again. When Cici moved her mother into her home to care for her during her last months of life, Lindsay and Bridget had taken turns providing respite care. When Lindsay totaled her car during an ice storm one January, it was Bridget and Cici that the nurse called from the ER at two in the morning.

But those were not the things that made a moment like this possible, as they sat in easy, comforting silence in the cold dusk of loss. Such a moment was the result of a thousand cups of coffee, an endless stream of phone calls, shared diets, bad dates, and ruthless assessments of how the two-piece swimsuit
really
looked. They had gone from homework hotlines to hot flashes together, and everything in between. When Bridget said she wasn’t sure she liked her children anymore, what she really meant was that the only people she wanted with her right now were the two women at her side. Lindsay and Cici understood that, and that was why they did not have to say anything.

When her glass was almost empty, Bridget sighed, looked around the room, and said, “I can’t stay here. How can I stay here?”

Cici said hesitantly, “Do you mean—do you want me to sell your house?”

Bridget shook her head vehemently. “I love this house! I don’t want to sell my house. But how can I stay here? How can I take care of everything by myself?”

Both Lindsay and Cici, who had been taking care of everything by themselves for years, looked a little confused. “Like what? What things?”

“Oh, you know.” She made a clumsy, wavering gesture with her hand that encompassed the room, and then briefly blotted a tear from one eye with her knuckles. “The gutters. The storm windows. The lawn. Everything.”

“Oh, is that all?” Cici waved it away. “You can learn how to do that stuff. I’ll show you.”

“I don’t want to learn how to do it,” she said, sniffling. “I’m afraid of ladders. I hate mowing the lawn.”

“I don’t blame you,” Lindsay said, patting her hand. “Mowing the lawn sucks. We’ll get you a boy.”

Bridget covered her face with her free hand and sobbed. “I don’t want a boy!”

Lindsay moved in and slipped her arm around Bridget’s shoulders, hugging her close for a minute. Then she said, with her voice muffled into Bridget’s hair, “Do you mind if I get one?”

Bridget choked on a cross between a laugh and a sob, and wiped her face with a corner of the cashmere throw.

Cici said gently, patting her hand, “Honey, I think you’re a little drunk.”

Bridget sniffed again and held out her empty glass. “Not yet.”

Cici took the glass and got up to refill it. She returned with the bottle, and a box of tissues.

Bridget leaned back with her hands wrapped around the glass. “I just wish . . .” She exhaled a soft breath. “I just wish we’d had more adventures, you know? Jim used to talk about sailing to Bimini, tying up at the marina and living off the boat, catching our dinner right out of the ocean every night . . .”

“Sweetie,” Cici pointed out gently, “you get seasick.”

“I know. But it didn’t matter, because I knew . . . I knew he was never going to do it. And I was right. God, it’s just so sad.”

Cici passed her a tissue. “I guess we all have things like that, that we talk about doing, and dream about doing, but we never really get around to doing.”

“Like me and my art studio,” Lindsay said. “Some sun-filled loft where I can do nothing but paint all day, take in a few students on the side, you know, just to pay the rent . . . I’ve been threatening to do it—”

“And talking about it,” Cici pointed out.

“Ever since I got out of college, but somehow I never actually got around to it.” She shrugged a little and took a sip from her glass. “Everyone does that.”

Bridget nodded. “Like my restaurant. I’ve always wanted to do it, and I’d be good at it, you know? Jim and I even talked about it, and we could have used some of our savings to get started, but there were always so many other things to take care of first.”

“Then why don’t you do it now?” Cici said suddenly. “What’s stopping you now? You just said how sad it was that people don’t follow their dreams. Well, here’s your chance. You can make a whole new life for yourself.”

But long before Cici finished speaking Bridget was shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t do it now. Maybe when Jim was here, to help . . . but I can’t do it by myself.”

“Of course you can!” Lindsay insisted. “Come on, Bridget, Jim would want this for you, and it would be good for you to get involved in something that you care about. And we’d help you, wouldn’t we, Cici?”

“No,” Bridget said. Her voice was soft, but it was firm. “I know what it would take to start a business like that, and it’s more than I can afford. Not to mention the time and the energy . . . I can’t do it alone,” she repeated. “I just don’t have the courage.”

“Bridget, that’s crazy,” Lindsay said, squeezing her hand. “You’re one of the bravest women I know. It’s not a matter of courage, it’s a matter of just doing it.”

“So why don’t you open your art studio?” Bridget asked.

Lindsay hesitated, licked her lips, seemed about to protest, and then allowed a small smile. “Because it’s scary,” she said. “You’re right, it’s scary when you’re alone.”

Cici said, topping off their glasses, “Tell you what. Why don’t we all move in together, then nobody will be alone. Bridge can cook and do the housekeeping, and Lindsay can support us all with her painting.”

“And what will you do?”

Cici grinned. “I’ll fix things. The gutters, the plumbing, the shelves, whatever. You’ve got to have somebody to fix things.”

Lindsay sighed and clinked her glass with Cici’s. “Ain’t it the truth?”

Bridget smiled a little wanly. “This sounds like one more thing we can put on our list of things we talk about but never do.”

“So?” Cici lifted a shoulder. “Talking is good. Talking is great. Talking is what women do best. So let’s talk.” She leaned back into her corner, sipping her whiskey. “Where would this house be?”

“Florida,” said Bridget. “By the ocean.”

“Dry rot,” objected Cici.

“Too many old people,” agreed Lindsay. “How about Seattle?”

“Yuk!” Bridget shook her head. “Too rainy.”

“But lots of bookstores.”

“And coffee.”

“And men.”

“But they’re all geeks.”

“But
rich
geeks.”

“And a rich geek in hand is worth two in the pocket.”

“Depends on which pocket.”

Then they were laughing, and pretty soon they were laughing so hard they couldn’t talk, and before long they were laughing and crying, and spilled whiskey mixed with spilled tears as they tumbled together in an embrace. “I love you guys,” Bridget sobbed. “I love you.”

“You’re going to be okay, Bridge. We’re going to get you through this. You’re going to be okay.”

So they held each other and cried together, and after a long time Bridget’s muffled voice said, “Tennessee.”

Cici pulled away, looking at her in some puzzlement. “What?”

Bridget wiped her swollen eyes, and Lindsay pushed back the strands of pale hair that were caught in the moisture on Bridget’s face. “Tennessee,” she repeated thickly. She fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose. “It’s got mountains, beautiful farm country, horses . . .”