At Home on Ladybug Farm (16 page)

Paul gave her a look of disdain. “Like we would ever watch that trash.” But as he tucked her arm through his and leaned in close he murmured, “You won’t believe what Cowell is up to now. Tell you later.”

“Inside, inside,” Cici commanded, hugging her arms in the brisk air. “Before we all freeze to death. Noah will get your luggage. “

“Yes, and could we speak with you about that gorgeous spring weather you promised, with daffodils in bloom and cocktails on the porch . . . Well, will you look at this?” Paul interrupted himself to stop and gaze in admiration around the foyer. “Will you just look?”

The grand, sweeping staircase gleamed beneath the prisms of the huge chandelier overhead, mirroring the golden glow of the newly refinished floors. Every surface held a vase of fresh flowers—mounds of buttery daffodils, jewel-colored tulips, stately sprays of forsythia and pink weigela. A fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, scenting the room with the aroma of hickory, and sunlight poured through the tall windows, forming inviting pools of warmth on the floors and tabletops. Derrick exclaimed over the painted tin ceiling and the stained glass window, and Paul went immediately to the draperies, the fabric for which he had helped Bridget track down over the Internet.

“Gorgeous!” he exclaimed, fingering the pleats. “Just gorgeous.” He went quickly to one of the Queen Anne chairs that formed part of a group in front of the fireplace. “Don’t tell me you found this in the attic! And what is this?” He had discovered the muraled alcoves.

Derrick said, “Well, I can certainly see why you were enchanted. This place is unbelievable. How old did you say it was?”

Several conversations were going on at once, as Cici told the story of uncovering the alcoves, and Bridget related the history of the house, and Lindsay interrupted with her discovery of the hidden firewood bin, and Lori piped in with her contributions to unearthing the hidden treasure of the house. The walls rang with the sound of voices and laughter, soprano and baritone, and inside the house it felt like home.

“I know you want the grand tour, so I’m going to duck out and see about lunch,” Bridget said. “I thought today would be a good day for Brunswick stew.” She knew it was Paul’s favorite.

“You are a queen!” Paul exclaimed. “Tell me you made beaten biscuits. Do I pay you now or later?”

Beaming, Bridget turned toward the kitchen and saw Noah lurking near the stairs. “Oh, Noah,” she said, pulling him forward. “Come meet our company. Paul, this is Noah. We’ve spoken about him.”

Paul extended his hand gravely. “A pleasure to meet you, young man.”

Noah regarded him suspiciously, but did not shake his hand. “What kind of car is that?” he demanded.

Paul retrieved his hand graciously. “It’s a hybrid.”

He looked skeptical. “It didn’t make no noise when you drove up.”

“That’s because it runs on battery power.”

Noah grunted. “Couldn’t afford a real car, huh?”

Paul’s eyebrows shot up.

Lindsay said quickly, “Noah, come meet Derrick. Derrick owns an art gallery in Baltimore.”

Noah regarded him with interest. “Oh yeah? Any money in that?”

Derrick replied, deadpan, “I do all right.”

Noah jerked his head toward Paul. “Maybe you could buy your friend a real car.”

By now Cici was beginning to catch on to Noah’s sense of humor. “Very cute,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, would you bring the luggage in from the car? And you can let Rebel out of the barn, too.”

“Okay.” But he looked at Derrick curiously. “You got any of her paintings hanging in your gallery?”

Derrick looked at Lindsay in astonishment. “Are you producing? For display? You never said a word!”

“No, not really,” she protested. “I’m a long way from having anything to show. Come on, let’s see the rest of the house. Noah, the luggage?”

Before lunch, Paul and Derrick endeared themselves to everyone by distributing gifts. For Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay, spa baskets from Nordstrom. For Ida Mae, perfume, and even though she grumbled that she didn’t “have no use for such nonsense” she could not quite hide her embarrassed pleasure over the gift, and she smelled suspiciously sweet at lunch. For Lori they brought a Prada bag—which Paul, as the author of the popular syndicated “In Style” column for the
Washington Post
, had received gratis (“ ‘Swag,’ as it’s known in the business, sweetie,” he explained)—and it made Lori squeal with delight. They presented Noah with an iPod Shuffle, preloaded with what the sales clerk assured them were the most popular tunes downloaded by teenage boys. And though Noah tried to be cool about it, it was clear the two of them had earned a place in his esteem very few others would ever approach.

Lindsay slipped her arm through Paul’s and said softly, “That was sweet of you guys.”

Paul patted her hand. “We know how hard it is for you to get nice things here at the ends of the earth.”

And Derrick, smiling as he watched Lori trying to show Noah how to work the player, added, “Besides, we missed Christmas, didn’t we?”

They sat at the dining room table, at Ida Mae’s insistence, which was dressed with crisp white linen and ironed napkins. A fire crackled in the fireplace and spring blossoms decorated the table. “This reminds me of that B&B in Vermont we stopped at in ninety-two, remember?” Derrick said to Paul. “On our way to Lake Placid?”

“Except the food wasn’t as good,” Paul said as Ida Mae set a steaming bowl of stew before him.

“Ida Mae, please, you don’t have to wait on us,” Bridget insisted.

And Lori said triumphantly, “See I
told
you a B&B was a good idea.”

“We usually only eat lunch in the dining room on Sundays,” Noah interjected. “Wouldn’t want you to think we lived this fancy every day.”

“I’m sure there’s no danger of that,” Cici assured him, passing the bread basket. “But it’s nice to be a little fancy for company.”

“And I want you to know we do appreciate it,” Paul said, and raised his glass. “To our lovely hostesses.”

“Hear, hear,” agreed Paul and saluted them with his glass of iced tea.

“Sorry there’s no wine,” Lori said, sotto voce, glancing over her shoulder. “But Ida Mae doesn’t approve of drinking before five o’clock. She barely approves of it after five o’clock.”

Derrick cleared his throat. “Speaking of wine . . .”

Cici raised her hand to interrupt. “Let’s enjoy our lunch. There’s plenty of time for business afterward.”

Derrick obligingly changed the subject. “Well, then. What is this you were saying about a B&B?”

Lori relayed her idea of turning the old manor into a bed-and-breakfast, and Paul and Derrick returned so much attentive enthusiasm that Cici finally had to beg, “Please, you two! Don’t encourage her.”

“Well, all I know is that if you served meals like this to your guests you’d have a virtual gold mine.” Derrick spread thick purple jam on yet another buttered biscuit. “Bridget, what
is
this jam? It tastes like . . .” Derrick bit into the biscuit. “Wait, I’ve got it . . . Pinot noir! That’s what it tastes like.”

Bridget laughed as she got up to help Ida Mae with dessert. “Maybe it is. I made it out of the grapes from the vineyard out back.”

“Pinot noir jam,” mused Derrick. “Now
there’s
something you could bottle and sell.”

Lori’s eyes took on a speculative light. “Say, that’s right. All those little specialty shops in Washington and Baltimore are just filled with gourmet delicacies like that. They get ten or twelve dollars a jar!” She twisted in her chair. “Aunt Bridget! Have you ever thought about that?”

Paul murmured to Cici, “These children are consumed with high finance, aren’t they?”

And Cici sighed in return, “Aren’t we all?”

Bridget returned from the kitchen with a bubbling peach cobbler made from the peaches they had frozen last year from their own trees. Ida Mae followed with the coffeepot. “No, I haven’t thought about that, Lori,” she said. “But if you’re willing to do the kind of work it would take to get those grapevines under control, we can certainly give it a try.”

“We could make cabernet jam and chardonnay jam and pinot grigio jam . . .”

“Only if you have cabernet and chardonnay and pinot grapes,” Derrick pointed out.

“Of course,” Bridget went on, dishing up the cobbler, “you’ll have to be careful of snakes—they love to hide out in grapevines—and remember the wasps last year, girls?”

Lori said cautiously, “Snakes?”

“Besides,” Cici added, “I think we’d have to harvest a lot more grapes than we have to turn jam making into a commercial venture.”

“They used to make wine here,” Lori pointed out. “How can there be enough grapes for wine and not for jam?”

Paul said, “I had no idea the vineyard was still here.”

“If you could call it that,” Bridget said.

“It’s a mess,” Lindsay admitted, “just like the orchard. When we first moved in, I planned to have all the gardens and the orchard
and
the vineyard cleared out and trimmed back and looking like a picture postcard by now. But it’s a lot of land, and a lot of work.”

“But you can still get grapes,” Lori pointed out, “from tangled vines.”

Paul smiled and toasted her with a jam-spread biscuit. “True enough, princess. Maybe after lunch you’ll take me on a tour and we’ll see just how much jam is left on those vines.”

Derrick, glancing around the table, cleared his throat. “And now that the subject has turned, inevitably, once again, to wine . . .” He looked questioningly at Cici.

She smiled. “Okay, Derrick, let’s have it. Noah . . .” She reached across the table to tap his arm. “It’s impolite to listen to headphones at the table. Ida Mae, wait. This concerns you, too.”

Ida Mae, looking impatient, stood by the swinging door to the kitchen with her arms folded. Noah, equally impatient, removed the earphones and dug into his peach cobbler. Paul looked longingly at his own cobbler, but gave his partner his attention. Derrick cleared his throat.

“The good news is,” he said, “the broker was able to sell your wine.”

The three ladies shared a hopeful look.

“The bad news is,” Derrick went on, “it wasn’t for as much as we’d hoped.” He reached into his vest pocket. “I have your check.” He removed an envelope, hesitated a moment, and passed it to Cici.

“The wine itself is still collectible,” Derrick went on quickly. “And the fact that this was the last bottle of a popular vintage makes it even more so. Still . . . the eight thousand dollars that was paid for the other bottle was a fluke, I’m afraid.”

Cici looked inside the envelope, smiled, and passed the envelope to Lindsay.

“How much?” Lindsay asked before she looked inside.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Cici said.

“That’s minus the broker’s fee, of course,” Derrick said.

“Well,” Lindsay admitted, “thousands would have been better. But that’s still not bad for a bottle of wine.” She passed the envelope to Bridget.

“That you didn’t even pay for,” Ida Mae pointed out.

Bridget said, “That’s right, Ida Mae. If it hadn’t been for your generous Christmas gift, we wouldn’t have this money at all.” She tucked the check into her pocket. “I’ll get this to the bank first thing Monday. Thank you, Derrick. It will be put to good use.”

Paul looked confused. “You’re certainly taking this awfully well. I know you were expecting a lot more—we all were. Aren’t you disappointed?”

“Of course we are,” Cici said, picking up her spoon. “We’re just not surprised.”

“We know you too well,” Lindsay said. “You gave yourselves away with the expensive presents.”

“I felt bad,” Derrick said. “I should never have gotten your hopes up.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bridget said. “We knew it was never a sure thing.”

Lori dug into her cobbler with the enthusiasm of one who has never had to worry about calories a day in her life. “I don’t get it. How can one bottle sell for eight thousand dollars and another just like it sell for two fifty?”