Love Letters from Ladybug Farm (35 page)

Traci, with eyes sparkling so brightly electric lighting was hardly needed, looked over his shoulder to catch Bridget’s eye. “Now,” she said, “I know what it means.”

She turned her flashlight to light the way upstairs.

Lori sighed. “That is so romantic.”

“They’re going to have sex on our nice clean sheets,” Lindsay said, grudgingly. “I just know it.”

Bridget looked worried. “If it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, just imagine what kind of luck it is if he has sex with her.”

Cici stared at her. “We just endured the worst rehearsal dinner in the history of rehearsal dinners. Our house was almost blown away by a tornado. We have people arriving for a wedding in less than twelve hours, and there is a fallen forest on our driveway. How much worse can our luck get?”

“The goat could eat the wedding cake,” Bridget suggested morosely.

“The goat ran away!”

“The lovebirds could burn down the house with scented candles,” Lindsay said.

Lori rolled her eyes. “You guys,” she said, “are really old. I’m going to bed.”

“Me, too,” Lindsay said, and Bridget agreed, “There’s not much more we can do until we have enough daylight to assess the damage.”

Paul said thoughtfully, “If no one is using the phone, I think I should make a call.”

“It’s after midnight,” Cici pointed out.

“That’s okay. I happen to know the person I’m calling is still up.” And he smiled. “Besides, as the girl said—we could have died. I don’t think this phone call can wait any longer.”

Cici and Richard stood alone at the bottom of the stairs in a foyer lit only by the two flashlights in their hands and the battery-operated lantern on the table a dozen feet away. Cici looked at him.

“Richard,” she said, with some difficulty. “Tonight—when you swept Lori up in your arms and carried her down to the cellar, without even hesitating or asking a single question, just like some kind of, I don’t know, hero or something... ” He smiled at her in the pale yellow light, and she smiled back, uncertainly. “And then, walking down the driveway in the dark to check the damage after the storm ... I just wanted to say I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier. And I’m glad you stayed.”

He curved his hand around the back of her neck, and kissed her cheek. “How about bringing me a pillow,” he said, “and showing me the sofa?”

Rodrigo sounded the alarm at five thirty. By six, Noah had fired up the chainsaw, and at seven fifteen, Farley’s blue tractor puttered around the side of the house, climbing over broken tree limbs and navigating around ditches. Bridget, who was taking an egg casserole out of the oven, ran out to meet him with the casserole still clutched between her oven-mitted hands.

Farley tipped his hat to her as he climbed off the still running tractor. “Thought I’d see if you had any storm damage over this way” he said. “I’ll go push some of them big limbs out of your driveway and over the bank, if you like, or I can help the boy cut up some stove wood.”

“Yes,” said Bridget breathlessly. “That would be wonderful. And then later ... if you’re not doing anything, that is ... I was wondering if you might consider being my escort to the wedding we’re having here this afternoon?”

Bridget held her breath as he returned her gaze for a long and thoughtful moment. Then he said, “Why Miss Bridget, I don’t mind if I do.”

She beamed at him. “Wonderful! But first come inside and have some breakfast. And,” she added as he drew up beside her, “do you mind if I ask—is Farley your first name or your last?”

They managed to rescue most of the chairs, although there was nothing to be done about the tents or the buffet tables they had once protected. Cici and Paul dragged sheets of plywood out of the workshop, arranged them atop sawhorses, and covered them with linen tablecloths. They robbed the bedrooms of full-length mirrors and set them in the middle of the tables, surrounded by green leaves—which were available from the yard in abundance—and apricot roses.

The rose garden itself was stripped to bare, naked rose twigs, and the beautifully decorated arbors were smashed beyond recognition. Lindsay’s eyes filled with tears when she saw it. “We can’t let Traci see this,” she declared, forcefully recovering herself. “The photographer will be here in two hours.” She whirled on Cici. “Do we have any beanpoles left?”

“I’m way ahead of you!” Cici called over her shoulder, running toward the barn.

They built a wedding canopy out of eight-foot-tall beanpoles, tulle, and beribboned rose bouquets. Paul swept all of the fallen rose petals into a colorful path for the processional. The fallen silk dogwoods were hosed off, fluffed up, and set in the sun to dry. Lindsay put Lori to work with twist ties, silk ivy, and apricot roses, trying to recreate the look of the real rosebushes that had fallen.

“I don’t believe this,” Cici said. “You’re tying florist roses and silk ivy onto real rosebushes.”

“It’s a wedding,” Lindsay assured her hurriedly, thrusting an armful of freshly washed candles into her hands. “It’s all about the fantasy.”

They lined the processional path with the pillar candles, now stripped of their soiled tulle and arranged in holders of every size and description—from plant stands to lazy Susans—that they had gathered from the house. Every holder was decorated with apricot roses, accented with a variety of green leaves gathered from the yard and tied together with draping ivory satin ribbon. The look was charming, eclectic, and hopelessly romantic.

Paul stood back with arms crossed on his chest, one finger resting aside his nose, to survey their work. “Well, dip me in chocolate and fry me in butter,” he murmured. “I think we pulled it off. The place looks like a freakin’ fairyland.”

The girls, sweaty and lank-haired, with fingers thorn-pricked and bleeding, stared at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter. They laughed for almost thirty seconds, leaning on each other, catching Lori when she almost overbalanced on her crutches, and then they each hurried on to their next task.

Chain saws buzzed all morning. The tractor roared. Bridget flew through the house, hiding lanterns and flashlights, freshening bathrooms, dusting and polishing. In the kitchen, Ida Mae cut the cheese biscuits—which Bridget had made herself—into perfect little circles and placed them in the oven to bake, sliced the ham, and battered the chicken breast strips. Two five-gallon clam steamers filled with sliced potatoes simmered away on the back burners, and the pressure cooker, filled with a combination of the season’s first blackberries, onions, apple vinegar, and hot peppers, hissed and groaned as it labored to turn the concoction into Bridget’s signature sweet-sour dipping sauce. Heritage tomatoes were marinating in olive oil and herbs. Four dozen baby beef Wellingtons were wrapped in pastry, arranged on cookie sheets, and stored in the refrigerator—which no one dared open for fear of allowing whatever precious cool air remained to escape—waiting to be baked. Ida Mae gathered three dozen eggs and began whipping them into quiche filling.

The bridesmaids arrived with the hairdresser, the makeup person, and so much paraphernalia that their dresses had to be stored in the hallway. Jason, now banished from the kingdom of the women, wandered around looking lost until Paul put him to work making bows. To the young man’s credit, he didn’t object and actually did a passable job. It turned out that sober—and away from the influence of his buddies—he was really quite nice.

“Ice!” Paul demanded as he burst into the kitchen. “What are we going to do about ice?”

“Send someone to town for it,” Bridget said, taking a tray of cheese biscuits out of the oven. “We have a cooler in the cellar.”

“It’s going to take more than one. I should go myself. We need at least another case of champagne. There’s a liquor store in this county, right?”

Cici admitted reluctantly, “Well, about that... ”

Lindsay suggested, “Maybe we can call the hotel and have Catherine stop on her way out and pick up what you need.”

Traci suddenly burst into the kitchen, wearing a short silk robe and a full-length bridal veil. “Listen,” she said, “I know there’s no electricity or anything, but the photographer is going to be here in twenty minutes and we really need to plug in the curling iron...”

It was at that moment that the pressure cooker exploded. The pressure valve sailed across the room, dented a copper teapot on a display shelf, and knocked over a serving tray. Blackberry sauce spattered the ceiling and everything else within a six-foot radius. Ida Mae dived to protect the cheese biscuits with her arms. Cici and Lindsay covered their heads. Traci screamed and ducked, but not in time to avoid a shower of blackberries over her hair, her robe, and her veil.

For a moment no one moved. Bridget, crouched beside the stove, caught Cici’s eye and mouthed,
Bad luck
.

Then Paul plucked a blackberry from the tip of his nose, examined it for a moment, tasted it, and decided, “Needs more salt.”

Bridget tried to rinse out the veil, but there really wasn’t much to be salvaged. Traci watched, looking shelled-shocked, as Bridget spread it over the line outside to dry, saying something about the sun bleaching out the dark spots. “I tried to tell you, sweetie,” Paul said, “a hat, not a veil.”

It was at that point that Lindsay rushed upstairs, tossed her closet, and came back down with a white linen portrait hat. While Cici and Bridget tried to wash the blackberry stains out of Traci’s hair without completely ruining her style, and while the stylist bemoaned the lack of a blow-dryer and the bridesmaids hovered around with eyelash curlers and bobby pins, Lindsay draped the hat in white tulle, wrapped the brim with ribbon and roses, and, to everyone’s amazement and delight, Traci actually smiled when she put it on.

The mothers arrived, and Cici assured them that the front lawn would be cleared of chicken feathers before the ceremony. She then looked around in amazement, because, until that moment, she hadn’t even noticed that last night’s storm had somehow swept up so many feathers from the chicken yard and deposited them on the front lawn that it looked as though someone had opened a feather pillow.

The groomsmen arrived, and they actually remembered to bring the groom’s tuxedo. Noah got a rake and tried to sweep up some of the chicken feathers. Cici made what repairs she could to the flower beds. Lindsay stapled bows and banners and swags and drapes on every possible surface, then began to trim down the smallest of the fallen leafy branches, supplement them with apricot roses, and arrange them in baskets that she hung from the porch rafters with ribbons. Catherine noticed and declared the touch “Utterly charming!” as though she had approved the plan from the beginning—which she no doubt thought she had.

The chain saw stopped buzzing, and Farley’s tractor puttered back down the road toward his house. Cici brushed some of the dirt off her hands as she came up the steps, and Lindsay, standing on a chair, made a final tuck in the satin banner over the doorway and stapled it. “Okay,” Cici said, “I guess we might as well get cleaned up, and then see what we can do to help Bridget in the kitchen.”

Lindsay stepped off the chair and pushed it aside. She glanced around. “There’s not much more we can do,” she admitted.

“Not without an army.” They heard a car turn into the driveway. “That’s got to be the photographer.”

But it wasn’t. As the car drew closer their looks of curiosity turned to astonishment, then to joy. Lindsay called through the screen door, “Paul!”

The car stopped in front of the steps and the two women grinned at each other as the driver got out.

“Derrick!” Cici called happily. “What are you doing here?”

“Friend of the bride.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cream-colored invitation, smiling his greeting. The screen door squeaked open, and the smile softened to something else as his eyes went over their shoulders. “Besides,” he added, “I heard a friend of mine needed some help.”