Christmas on Ladybug Farm
A Ladybug Farm Short Novella
By Donna Ball
Copyright 2011 by Donna Ball, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author.
www.donnaball.net
Published by Blue Merle Publishing at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. All places, characters, events and organizations mentioned in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
In Which Everything is Picture Perfect
Ladybug Farm was ready for Christmas. Two perfectly conical potted hemlocks flanked the bottom of the wide steps that led to the porch, each one decorated with hundreds of miniature red birds, tiny red bows, garlands of white beads, and white lights. The porch columns were wrapped in greenery and white lights, each one set off with a wreath stylishly decorated with silver glass balls and big red bows. The front door was draped with a swag of cedar into which springs of red-berried holly and white lights were cleverly woven, and on either side of it was a stack of gaily wrapped boxes, each topped with a giant red velvet bow. A huge wreath, decorated with shiny ornaments and silver and gold ribbon, adorned the front door.
Three rocking chairs were arranged in front of the door. Bridget, Cici, and Lindsay, each wearing fur-lined Santa hats and white sweaters, sat in the chairs, smiling fixedly at the blinking red light on the camera. Cici’s daughter Lori knelt in front of them in a red ski vest and fleece lined boots, while seventeen year old Noah stood behind them in a heavy fisherman’s knit sweater, one hand on Lindsay’s chair and the other on Cici’s as he had been instructed, grimly staring down the camera.
“I’m melting,” he muttered.
“My hair is as big as Dolly Parton’s,” Lori complained.
“I swear if that flash doesn’t go off in the next second I’m going to burst into flames,” Lindsay said.
Bridget said through clenched, smiling teeth, “Three…two… one.”
The camera clicked just as Noah blinked, Lori wiped a drop of sweat from her nose, and Lindsay tugged the neck of her sweater away from her skin. Bridget got up to check the digital display and said, “Okay, one more time.”
A chorus of groans was her only reply. Noah walked away, stripping his sweater over his head. Lori stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Lindsay moved for the door. “I’m going to put on my shorts.”
Cici dragged off her Santa hat, twisted her hair into a ponytail and snapped it back with an elastic band. “Hold it,” she commanded grimly.
Steps halted, shoulders slumped, and each of them turned reluctantly back. “What’s the big deal about getting the Christmas picture done now?” Noah demanded, scowling. “You already sent out the Christmas cards.”
“We always take the picture for next year’s Christmas card this Christmas,” Cici explained patiently. “That way we don’t have to decorate the house for Christmas in the middle of the summer, just to get a photograph.”
“Might as well be the middle of the summer,” Lori complained. “If I’d wanted to spend Christmas in a sauna I could have gone to Mexico with Dad.”
“This cedar is starting to look a little sad,” said Bridget worriedly, rubbing a section of the door garland between her fingers. “Do you think we should make another one?”
“Seriously,” Lindsay said, holding her sweater away from her neck and fanning the exposed skin. “Flames.”
“Hottest December I ever do recall.” Ida Mae pushed open the screen door with a tray of iced tea in her hands, and everyone rushed to grab a glass. “Radio says it’s going to hit eighty-eight today.”
The chorus of groans was punctuated only by gulps of iced tea. “How can it be eighty-eight degrees on Christmas Eve?” Lori demanded, pushing back her damp copper curls from her forehead. Her makeup had long since melted away, leaving nothing but an over-heated flush on her cheeks. “How can it?”
Bridget said, “Ida Mae, it must be a hundred and twenty degrees in that kitchen. Sit down, won’t you, and try to cool off.” She took the tray from her and set it on the white wicker table by the porch railing, nudging aside a candle-and-evergreen centerpiece to make room.
Ida Mae, who was somewhere between seventy and a hundred years old, had been keeping house at Ladybug Farm since long before Cici, Bridget and Lindsay moved in and called it home. Her iron gray curls were dark with sweat and, in deference to the heat, her customary attire had been lightened by several layers to include only a pair of faded, elastic-waisted denim pants, a print cotton dress topped by a man’s Oxford cloth shirt, and a flour-dusted apron with a snowman on it. Her customary steel-toed work boots had been replaced, astonishingly, by a pair of red Crocs worn over argyle socks. She said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and lowered herself to the rocking chair Bridget had vacated, fanning her face with one of the starched cloth napkins from the tray. “But I can’t let my yeast rolls sit too long in this heat. They’ll rise up the size of pumpkins.”
“I mean,” insisted Lori, “this is Virginia. Didn’t a whole colony freeze to death here one winter? How can it be eighty-eight degrees? ” She said it as though her outrage could somehow provoke the weather gods into lowering the temperature. “Virginia!”
“It sure doesn’t feel much like Christmas,” Lindsay agreed, draining her glass. She wound her own shoulder-length auburn hair into a knot and stuffed it under her Santa hat. In another second, she jerked the Santa hat off and started fanning herself with it. She poured another glass of tea.
“Not like the first Christmas we spent here,” Cici agreed, and for a moment she, Bridget and Lindsay shared a smile that was both rueful and nostalgic. “Speaking of almost freezing to death…”
The three friends had discovered the stately, if somewhat age-worn, mansion in the Shenandoah Valley by accident and had fallen quite hopelessly in love with its elegant charm and sweeping pastoral views. On an impulse they had decided to pool their resources, leave the suburbs, and purchase the house. They had spent the first year restoring the blowsy gardens and crumbling fountains, painting porches, refinishing the wide plank floors. They redecorated the enormous, sun-filled bedrooms and reclaimed the antique porcelain fixtures in the five bathrooms. And as they discovered and restored more of the old house’s former glory, they had also discovered a new community, a new home, and a new family. Cici’s daughter Lori had come to live with them at the end of that first year, and Noah had joined the family shortly afterwards. They had faced their share of challenges, but they had faced them together, and they knew they were here to stay.
“The Storm of the Century,” Bridget said, and her smile faded into a shiver of reminiscent horror as she remembered. “Boy, were we stupid.”
Cici’s eyebrows shot up into her honey-colored bangs. “Excuse me? You’re the one who went out into a blizzard chasing after a dog!”
“Rebel,” exclaimed Bridget, setting her glass on the railing with a clack. “He has to be in the photograph!”
“Are you kidding me? That dog is crazy!” This was from Lindsay. “Do you remember what happened last year when we tried to take his picture?”
Rebel was a working dog who determinedly resisted every effort to turn him into a pet. He had ostensibly been acquired to handle the flock of sheep that had come with the property, and he did that job extraordinarily well. Unfortunately, he considered every other moving object on the farm his responsibility to discipline as well, and he herded humans with the same ferocity that he directed toward the sheep. Bridget absently rubbed the indented scar on her arm that had been left by the border collie, and she didn’t look so eager to find Rebel anymore.
“Hey , if the dog is going to be on the card, then Bambi should be,” Noah insisted. “He’s as much a part of the family as that dumb dog.”
Bambi had followed Lindsay home from a walk when he was only a fawn, and Noah had adopted him. Now a full grown deer with the beginnings of an impressive rack, he roamed the farm’s sixteen acres with the imperious fearlessness of one who knew exactly where he belonged.
“Bambi,” Lori replied, staring at him, “is a deer. A wild animal.”
He returned her stare belligerently. “You never heard of a reindeer? He’s got a lot more reason to be on the card than a stupid dog.”
Cici grinned and sipped her tea. “He’s got a point. We could wind twinkle lights and garland around Bambi’s antlers and put a big red bow around his neck.”
Ida Mae stopped rocking. “You ain’t bringing that wild animal up on my clean porch!”
“Are we gonna do this thing or not?” Noah said. “I need to go to town.”
Lori stared at him incredulously. “You haven’t done your Christmas shopping yet?”
He scowled at her.
Cici set down her glass with a sigh. “Okay, he’s right, we all have a lot to do before the party tomorrow. Let’s get this thing shot.”
Bridget said, “I’ll get—”
“No dog,” Cici said firmly, “No deer. Where’s my lipstick?”
“Where’s my hairbrush?” Lindsay said. “Noah, put your sweater back on. And try smiling this time, will you?”
Lori picked up a hand mirror and gazed at her twenty-two year old face critically. “I look like a plague victim. Mom, you know it’s really stupid to take these pictures a year in advance. I mean, next year we’re not even going to look like this.”
“I am,” replied Cici indignantly, and slapped a tube of lipstick into her daughter’s outstretched hand.
“You know what I mean.” Lori’s words were slightly muffled by the O she made of her mouth while she traced the perfect line of color around her lips, then filled it in with artistic strokes. “Last year Noah wasn’t even in the picture. Next year who knows where I’ll be?” She completed her lipstick, smacked her lips together, and admired the results in the mirror. “It’s Whiskers all over again.”
Lindsay, Bridget and Cici were deliberately silent. Noah opened his mouth to ask, “Who is—?” but the warning blaze in Cici’s eyes cut him off in mid-breath.
Ida Mae pushed herself to her feet. “Well, I got a ham in the oven.”
“Oh, Ida Mae, you should be in the photo!” Bridget said. “You’re family, too.”
Ida Mae gave her a look that suggested Bridget had clearly lost her mind. “You might have time for this foolishnesss,” she said flatly. “I don’t. Bring that tray in when you’re done.”
She let the screen door slam loudly behind her as she returned to the house.
Noah said, “Well, if she doesn’t have to be in it, I don’t see why I—”
“Put on your sweater,” Lindsay snapped.
And Lori added, “Yeah, are you a part of this family or not?”
Cici said sharply, “Lori, mind your own business.”
Bridget set the camera timer and said brightly, “Okay, everyone, twenty seconds!”
Noah pulled on his sweater and scowled into the camera. Lindsay pulled her Santa hat down over her ears. Bridget hurried into her chair, breathless. Lori declared, “Everybody, say ‘peaches’.”
Cici stared at her. “Peaches?”
Noah grumbled, “I’m not saying ‘peaches’.”
Lindsay twisted around to look at him. “Will you stop being so difficult? It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake! Do what you’re told! ”
Bridget patted her short platinum bob a little frantically. “My hat!”
The camera clicked.
Lori smiled. “Peaches,” she said.
Noah rolled his eyes and stalked away. Everyone else was absolutely silent. Then Bridget forced another, rather weak smile. “Okay, maybe just one more…”
“No!”
“No way!”
“I’m outta here.”
The screen door slammed behind Noah and they could hear him clattering up the staircase to his room before even one of them could draw a breath to stop him.
“I promised to drive Ida Mae to deliver her fruitcakes,” Lori said, scrambling to her feet. “I’d better go see what time she wants to leave.”
And even Cici admitted, wiping her forehead with her Santa hat, “Maybe we can try again this evening, when it’s cooler.”
Lindsay grabbed a handful of ice from her glass and massaged her throat with it. “Who even cares? Why can’t we just skip Christmas this year?”
Bridget stared at her. “Are you delirious?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Cici replied a little irritably. “Let’s just toss out twenty five pounds of ham and turkey, a hundred and fifty cheese puffs, four pies, two cakes and three cases of wine—“
“I’ll drink the wine,” Lindsay objected.
Cici ignored her. “And let’s just call all our neighbors and friends and tell them to stay home this year because it’s too hot and we’re not in the mood. All in favor, say Aye.”
Bridget sighed as she started to dismantle the camera from the tripod. “Well, to tell the truth, except for the part about throwing out twenty five pounds of ham and turkey, I could almost get on board with that right now.”
“Ha.” Lindsay tried for a note of smugness but it came out as merely exhausted. “I knew there was a real person behind that perky little elf.”
Lori widened her eyes meaningfully. “You people are horrible,” she declared. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Hey kid, guess what?” her mother said, sprawling out in the rocking chair and leaning her head against the back. “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”
Lori gave her a pitying look. “Too late, Mom. You already shattered all my illusions fifteen years ago with Whiskers.”
All three women groaned.
“Exactly my point,” said Cici. “You try to do something nice for someone…”
“Bah, humbug,” said Lori, jerking open the screen door. “If you need me I’ll be delivering fruitcakes, or caroling to prisoners, or reading to the blind, or—or something!”
Cici lifted a hand in weak salute. “That’s my girl.”
“Seriously,” Lindsay said. She rubbed the last few remaining ice cubes over her face. “Don’t you think Christmas would be a lot more fun if we only had it every four years, like the Olympics?”
“You have a point.” Cici refilled her glass and Lindsay’s with iced tea from the pitcher. “As much as I hate to admit it, it seems like we just get over one Christmas before it’s time to start decorating for the next one.”
She held the iced tea pitcher questioningly to Bridget, who shook her head. “That’s because the planet is spinning faster,” Bridget observed sagely. She snapped the locks on the tripod and set it beside the door, then started gathering the Santa hats. “It’s all the earthquakes.”
Lindsay shook the melted ice off her fingers and picked up her glass, leveling a look on Bridget. Cici paused to stare at her before resuming her chair, but both women were too wise to ask for details. Bridget ignored them and added, “It’s true. Time is speeding up. I read it on the internet.”
“Oh, well, if you read it on the internet,” Cici said, and started rocking again.
“Great,” muttered Lindsay. “Winters are getting hotter and time is getting shorter. Is it too much to ask to grow old on the same planet you were born on?”
“Come on, girls, this isn’t like us.” Bridget stacked the hats on the tea tray, took up her glass, and sank into her rocker. “We love the holidays, remember? Where is your Christmas spirit?”
“The North Pole?” suggested Lindsay.
Cici sipped her tea wearily. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe by the time you’ve seen as many Christmases as we have, it’s hard to keep getting excited about it.”
Bridget gave her a stern look. “How old are you, anyway?” She pressed the cool glass of tea against her flushed face.
“The problem is that there aren’t any children in the house,” Cici said. “Little ones, I mean. Christmas is all about the children.”
“The problem is that it’s eighty-eight degrees in Virginia on Christmas Eve,” returned Lindsay shortly. “The only thing children would add to that is sweat and sticky fingers. Not that I don’t love your grandkids,” she added hastily to Bridget. “Sorry they couldn’t make it this year.”
Cici smothered a grin in her glass, and Bridget just shrugged. “That’s okay. I’d love to see them, of course, but kids today just don’t appreciate Christmas like we used to. For them it’s all about the Wii and the PlayStation, and grandparents don’t have to be there for that. As long as UPS doesn’t go on strike, they’re good.” She smiled and sipped her tea. “I’ll never forget Christmas with my grandma in Atlanta. It wasn’t just a day, it was a ritual. An event. And it started long before Christmas, with a trip downtown to have lunch at Rich's Tea Room and ride the Pink Pig.”
“Ride the what?” Lindsay choked a little on her tea.
“Did you say pig?” Cici leaned forward in her rocker to stare at her. “And I thought I had an interesting childhood.”
“Oh, come on.” Bridget’s tone was scoffing. “Everyone who so much as passed through Atlanta in the sixties knew about the Pink Pig. It was a tradition. More than a tradition. A rite of passage.”
“Okay,” said Cici, watching her, “We’ve got silver to polish and floors to wax and presents to wrap, but this is one story I have got to hear.”
Lindsay grabbed a Santa hat from the tray and started fanning herself with it again. “Can I listen to it in my bra and panties?”
Bridget slanted her an admonishing look. “It’s not that kind of story.”
Lindsay rolled her sweater up above her midriff and stretched out in the chair, fanning her bare stomach. A look of cautious relief came over her face. “Ah,” she said, closing her eyes. “Pigs. Tradition. Tea room. Right.”
Bridget said, “I really should help Ida Mae in the kitchen. I feel guilty letting her work so hard in this heat.”
“If she wanted help, she’d ask for it,” Cici said firmly, “and you’re not leaving this porch until I hear about the pink pig.”
Bridget smiled a little into her tea. “Well, okay. It really is a special Christmas memory for me. We used to go every year , my grandmother and me, from the time I was three or four. But it’s the last time we went that I remember most. That was the year I found out my great-great- grandmother was a spy, and I became a thief.”
Chapter Two
Ghosts of Christmas Past: Bridget
My grandmother was the last of the southern belles. She had lived in Atlanta all her life, and remembered when Peachtree Street was a two lane road lined with real trees. She never left the house without three things: a hat, a pair of gloves, and a girdle. She still referred to the Civil War as “the late unpleasantness” or “the War of Northern Aggression” and until the day she died she would not sit down at the table with a Yankee. I swear. I couldn’t make that up.
She had a big Georgian-style brick house with a bay window right in front where she would put the Christmas tree every year. Oh my, it was a gorgeous thing—ten feet tall and covered with those big old fashioned colored lights and an absolute curtain of tinsel. There were hundreds of glass balls, and every child and grandchild had an ornament especially made just for him or her. My cousin had a pair of ballet slippers, because she was a dancer, and my uncle had an open Bible with gold writing on it, because he was a preacher. Mine was a crown with rhinestones, because Daddy always called me his princess. Traffic would slow down in front of Grandma’s house, her Christmas tree in that window was so pretty. And her house smelled like cinnamon, oranges and evergreen the whole month of December.
Of course Christmas at Grandma’s was a huge event, with all the aunts and uncles and cousins and in-laws, the good china and heavy silver even at the children’s table, and so much food it looked like—well, it looked like Christmas at Ladybug Farm! But the best thing Grandma did every year was to take each granddaughter out to a special lunch, all by herself. And if you were under twelve, that could only mean one thing.
Rich’s Department Store was a landmark in Atlanta, and every holiday season they would run a tram ride for kids with the car shaped like—you guessed it—a pink pig. The ride went around the building and above the street, and it was really pretty exciting for the little kids. But as you got older, the real thrill was the other part of the tradition—getting all dressed up in your Christmas velvet, knee socks and black patent Mary Janes, putting on your rabbit-fur head band and your little white gloves, and going downtown to Rich’s tearoom to have lunch with Grandma.
Grandma always dressed up when she went downtown. That was part of the times, I think. and partly just the way she was raised. For our lunch that day she wore silk stockings and polished black pumps that matched her handbag, and a green silk brocade suit with a mink collar. She always let me help her pick out her jewelry, because a lady was not completely dressed until she put on her earrings, you know. And what a treat that was for me! Grandma’s jewelry box was a treasure chest in every sense of the word. It was this big polished mahogany box that sat on top of her dressing table, and locked with a brass key. It opened into four or five tiers and each tier was lined with blue velvet and divided into sections for rings, earrings, necklaces and bracelets. My favorite was an amethyst ring in an old fashioned silver setting with so many intricate filigrees and curly-ques that it was impossible to clean. The design was black with tarnish in the center, and I thought it had been painted that way.
Every year while she was putting on her earrings, Grandma would let me wear the ring. This year when I slipped it on my finger, it actually fit! Well, almost anyway. When I showed her, Grandma laughed and said, “Well, that settles it then. This ring will be yours some day.” Then she added, “Ladies’ fingers were much smaller back in the day when this ring was made, you know. Imagine a grown up married woman with a hand as tiny as yours!”
I admired the ring on my finger and asked, “Which grown up married woman, Grandma?”
“That ring belonged to my grandmother, Ivy Bodine Winchester, and she was a spy during the War of Northern Aggression.”
Imagine, my great-great-grandmother a spy! I didn’t even know that women could be spies, especially a woman as ladylike as I was sure anyone who was related to my grandmother must surely have been. Remember, this was a time in which I had never even heard of a woman doctor, much less a woman spy. It sounded like science fiction to me.
“How did she do that?” I asked, big-eyed.
“It was really very clever.” Grandma carefully fastened one of the emerald earrings onto her lobe, watching herself in the mirror. “She volunteered at the mission hospital that treated Union soliders… and also at the hospital that cared for our own gallant men. The Yankee soldiers were so grateful for the compassionate nursing of a gentlewoman that they often told her more than they should, and my grandmother had no compunction about passing along that information to certain Confederate wounded who were cleared to go back to the front. One time she made friends with the aid to a Yankee major and found out the troop position for the Battle of Kennesaw. She passed the information to a handsome captain who was recuperating from a shoulder wound, and he took the information back to save his whole battalion. After the war he came back to Atlanta and looked her up.” She smiled. “He ended up asking her to marry him, and he gave her this ring.”
I gazed in absolute rapture at the purple stone glittering on my finger, feeling as though I had been transported through the magic of the ring into a fairy tale. “Wow,” I said.
She turned from the mirror, beautifully coiffed, exquisitely jeweled, and smiled at me. “Wow, indeed,” she said. “The moral of the story, young lady, is that you can be anything you want to be. Greatness is in your heritage. Now,” she said briskly, “get your coat and your gloves. It’s rude to be late for lunch.”
I hurried to put on my coat and gloves, but I didn’t take off the ring, and Grandma didn’t notice. Oh, I don’t mean to pretend I forgot. I did it on purpose. I held on to it like a talisman, a magical gateway between the past and the future, because I wanted to believe it was mine, even though I knew it wasn’t.
All through the bus ride downtown I could feel that ring on my finger beneath my glove, solid and warm, like something alive. We walked down the street to Rich’s past the street corner Santas ringing their bells and past the giant Christmas tree with its miles of garland and ornaments as big as beach balls. The store was decorated like a winter wonderland and every inch of it smelled like Christmas. Rich’s had the best Santa in town, with a real beard down to his chest, and real rosy cheeks, not painted on. I stood in line with Grandma and when it was my turn you can guess what I told him I wanted for Christmas: an amethyst ring.
There was nothing more elegant than the Rich’s tearoom. I walked like a queen with my grandmother to our table with its heavy white tablecloth and napkins, and I sat with straight shoulders, like a real lady, and ordered a lobster salad, just like Grandma did. There was a giant Christmas tree in the corner decorated in blue and white, and a man at the grand piano playing Christmas carols. For dessert we had petit-fours with perfect little Christmas trees in the icing, and cups of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. It was the most wonderful lunch I had ever had.
We rode the elevator to the rooftop and the Pink Pig. I tell you, I was on top of the world when I got on that ride. And when I got off it, I realized the amethyst ring was gone.
I don’t know how it happened. I remembered the feel of it on my finger during the bus ride, and the sparkle of it on my finger at Grandma’s house while I listened to the story of my courageous ancestor the spy. I remembered taking off my gloves at lunch. Frantically, I searched my pockets and shook out my gloves. It wasn’t there.
I had no choice but to tell Grandma. I had stolen her ring, and lost it. I was so ashamed and miserable I could have died. But she just listened to me, gave one of those brisk nods of hers, and said, “Well, we’d best find it then, hadn’t we?”
I wish you could have seen her. She insisted that the entire ride be stopped and every seat searched, and you know what? No one questioned her. We went back to the tearoom and she had the maitre d’ search every square inch of the restaurant, and he was happy to do it for her. I had always thought of my grandmother as elegant and beautiful but I don’t think I’d ever realized what a powerful woman she was. She didn’t give orders, she never raised her voice, but the Queen of England couldn’t have commanded more respect than she did. All she had to do was ask, in that gentle Southern drawl of hers, and suddenly fifteen or twenty people were scurrying around trying to make her happy. She never once did or said anything to make me think she blamed me , and she never let me see the disappointment she must have felt. She didn’t have to, of course. I was disappointed enough in myself for both of us. And I couldn’t bear to think about what my mother would say when she found out what I’d done.
But my grandmother never told her. We didn’t find the ring, despite all those people searching for it. I might have been young, but I knew what irreplaceable meant, and I knew how valuable something that old must have been. I just wanted to die. And I think Grandma knew I was punishing myself more than any adult could have done, because she said on the bus ride home, “Let’s just keep this between ourselves, shall we? After all, I said the ring belonged to you, and what you chose to do with it really is no one’s business but your own.”
That was the moment I understood something about my grandmother that I had never been able to put into words before: She was a lady, from the inside out. That was what gave her her power. A genuine lady was more than someone who wore gloves on the bus and knew which earrings went with which hat. It was more, even, than someone who could shut down the most popular ride in the city at Christmastime just by asking. A lady was someone who would do everything in her power to make certain everyone around her felt good about themselves, because when the people you love are happy, you are happy.
I had started out the morning with my head full of dreams about my heroic ancestress, the Confederate spy, and if you had asked me then I would have said there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to be like her. But by the time I kissed my grandmother good bye that afternoon, I knew who the real hero was. And that was when I decided what I wanted to be when I grew up: a lady.
Chapter Three
In Which There Are a Few Complications
“That was the last Christmas we had with my grandmother,” Bridget said. “She had a stroke the next summer and died at home. Of course, that made her Christmas gift to me all the more meaningful, but even if she had lived another twenty years, I would have treasured it the rest of my life.”
“What did she give you?” Cici asked.
Bridget stretched out her hand to display a silver filigree ring with a small amethyst stone on her pinkie finger.
“You found it!” Lindsay exclaimed.
Bridget nodded. “One of the waiters at the restaurant turned it in, and of course the manager called my grandmother immediately. I couldn’t believe she would give it to me after I had been so irresponsible. Heaven knows, if it was one of my grandchildren I’d certainly think twice. But it was like a secret promise between us, and I think she understood that I valued the secret even more than the ring. My mother thought it was costume jewelry; if she had known the truth she never would have let me keep it. I only wear it at Christmas, and every time I look at it I think about the courage of one southern lady, and the classiness of another.”
Cici sipped her tea, nodding thoughtfully. “So there really was a pink pig.”
Lindsay stood. “I have got to get out of these clothes.”
“And I’ve got to get back to work.” Cici finished off her tea and picked up the tray. She glanced at Bridget. “Are you coming, Bridget?”
Bridget seemed for a moment not to hear her, her expression absent as she turned the ring slowly on her finger. Then she smiled, and got up to follow the others inside.
Noah pushed open Lori’s door and came inside. “Hey,” he said.
Lori finished tying her sneaker, frowning at him. “You could knock every once in awhile, you know. And I don’t have any money, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, his expression preoccupied. “You always have money.”
“Not at Christmas I don’t.”
“Anyway, I’ve got my own money. I’ve got a job, remember? Unlike some people.”
Lori’s scowl deepened. “What do you want?”
“What did you get your mom for Christmas?”
She tied the other shoe. “She likes Shalimar,” she said.
“Perfume? You got her perfume?”
“Expensive perfume,” she clarified.
“That doesn’t seem very…. I don’t know. Personal.”
“I didn’t have time to knit her a scarf.”
“Yeah, especially since you’d have to learn to knit first. What do you think she’d like?”
“Who? My mom?”
“No. You know.” He shrugged one shoulder uncomfortably and jerked his head toward the front of the house. “Her.”
He could have been referring to any of the four women downstairs, but Lori did not pretend to misunderstand. “You mean Aunt Lindsay,” she said. “Your mom.”
Again, he shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “And don’t say perfume. Perfume is stupid.”
She got to her feet, catching her hair back at the nape with a scrunchie. “You’re being awfully picky for a guy who waited 'til Christmas Eve to do his shopping. This isn’t Charlottesville, you know. Nothing is going to be open in town. Why don’t you give her one of your paintings? She’d love that.”
“She sees my paintings every day. That’s not for Christmas.”
“Well, maybe jewelry then. Every woman likes jewelry.”
“Maybe,” he muttered, but looked unconvinced.
“And have the store gift wrap it. That always makes it look special.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll have to go to Staunton. And you can’t borrow my car. I’m using it.”
“Don’t need it.”
“Look,” Lori said, “the important thing is that she knows you thought about her. That’s all moms really want—to know you’re thinking about them. Although,” she added with a shrug, “like my mom always says, diamonds are nice, too.”
He regarded her for another moment, expressionless, then pushed away from the door. “See ya.”
He started down the stairs and Lori called after him, “You’re going to have a hard time carrying my forty-two inch flat screen on the back of that motorcycle!”
The grand old house had been returned to the splendor of a Victorian Christmas for the traditional Christmas party that was scheduled the next day. Swags of evergreen and ribbon adorned every doorway and was wrapped around the stair rail. Each bathroom had its own Styrofoam Christmas tree covered with moss and decorated with bouquets of dried flowers. There was a massive Christmas tree in the parlor and another one on the second-floor landing, overlooking the foyer. Even the pots of the two big ferns that flanked the doorway were filled with shiny multicolored Christmas balls.
But Lindsay, the artist among them, always surveyed the interior with a critical eye.
“You know what’s missing?”she said, not for the first time. “Mistletoe. We always have mistletoe.”
“I told you, there wasn’t any this year,” Cici replied. “I sent Farley out looking for some but he said it had been too dry.” Farley was their handiman and closest neighbor. There were not many things the ladies had not learned to do on their own, but when they did come up against something they couldn't handle, Farley was the one to call.
“Besides,” added Bridget, “What do three middle-aged women living alone need with mistletoe?”
Lindsay returned an arch look. “Maybe you’re middle aged.”
Lindsay started up the stairs just as Noah bounded down them, two at a time. “Back in a bit,” he said, without pausing.
“You promised to sweep the walk,” she reminded him, but was speaking to his back before all the words were out.
“And fix that string of lights the wind knocked down!” Cici called as he blew past her.
“And I need you to help me hang some more garland!” Bridget said.
He threw up a hand without looking back. “Later!”
“Be back before lunch!” Lindsay called. “Don’t forget we’re having our family Christmas dinner tonight! And, hey! ” She took a step down, raising her voice. “Keep an eye out for mistletoe!”
The screen door banged.
Cici opened the door and called after him, “Paul and Derrick are coming for lunch! Don’t be late!”
The only reply was, after a moment’s delay, the roaring of a motorcycle engine, followed by the frantic barking of Rebel the border collie as he chased the machine around the house and down the drive.
Lindsay leaned against the evergreen-draped banister and watched through the screen door as the motorcycle disappeared in a cloud of dust and Rebel came trotting back up the drive, tongue lolling, his job done. She looked troubled.
“I’m a lousy mother,” she said.
“Welcome to the club,” Bridget replied cheerfully. “Being lousy is part of the job description.”
“No, I mean it. I don’t think Noah’s happy with the way things have turned out.”
“Don’t be silly,” Cici said, “of course he is. When we first met him he was a drop out camping in our back yard. Now he’s got a scholarship to a private art school, he’s on his way to college, and he’s got you for a mother. Not to mention his own set of wheels. What’s not to be happy about?”
Lindsay shook her head slowly. “I think he liked it better when I was just his teacher and he worked here. He knew where he stood then. I know legally adopting him was the best thing to do, for all sorts of reasons, but it changed everything. He doesn’t even know what to call me.”
“Well,” Bridget reminded her, “he is seventeen years old, and that’s practically an adult in his eyes. Maybe he thinks he’s too old to have a mother. I know that’s what my Kevin thought when he was that age, and I gave birth to him.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Lindsay said unhappily. “Maybe he is too old to need a mother. And I’m too old to be one.”
“Did you ever tell him what to call you?” Cici asked, practically.
“No,” Lindsay admitted. “It never seemed appropriate. Besides, that’s not the point. I don’t care what he calls me. I just want him to feel comfortable here, like part of the family. To be happy.”
“What do kids know about happy?” Cici shrugged.
“It’s his first Christmas with a new mom,” Bridget added. “Give him a chance.”
Lindsay sighed. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” she said, and started up the stairs. “And hot?” Impatiently, she tugged her sweater over her head and unzipped her jeans.
Lori, passing her on the stairs, lifted an eyebrow. “Laundry day?” she inquired when she reached her mother.
Ida Mae came out of the kitchen in time to see Lindsay marching up the stairs in her bra, and gave a disapproving shake of her head. “That girl has got to get herself some hormones,” she said. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Lori. “Well, come on then, let’s get them fruitcakes loaded up if we’re gonna get them all delivered before Christmas.”
“How long have you been taking fruitcakes to people for Christmas, Ida Mae?” Lori asked as she followed her back through the kitchen toward the cold pantry.
“Too many years,” replied Ida Mae. “That’s the trouble with doing stuff for folks. They start expectin’ it.”
“Why did you start doing it, then?”
“I didn’t. Miss Emily did.”
“The woman who used to own this house?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s her cookbook that Aunt Bridget is always looking at, isn’t it? Is the recipe for the fruitcake in there?”
“You don’t need a recipe for fruitcake. You just make it.”
“Everything has a recipe,” Lori replied. “Cooking is all chemistry, you know.”
Ida Mae gave her a disparaging look. “How many recipes have you followed, girl?”
“Well… a lot,” she admitted.
“And have you ever made anything worth eating?”
Lori’s shoulders slumped. Despite both Bridget’s and Ida Mae’s diligent efforts, all concerned had finally been persuaded that the one thing Lori would never master was the art of cooking.
“Grab a basket off the wall there,” Ida Mae advised as they moved down the short hall to the pantry. “That way we don’t have to—”
She stopped in mid-sentence when she opened the pantry door, and stood stock still. Lori wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”
The cold pantry had been built to store non-perishable food items in a time when supermarkets were not around every corner, and when a simple dinner party might mean a six course meal for thirty people. It was located on the north side of the house to remain cool in the summer, and lined with thick stone walls to keep the contents from freezing in the winter. There were bins to store things like potatoes and grains, and every wall was lined with shelves. Most of the shelves contained sparkling jars of jams and preserves that the women had put up during the summer, but from Thanksgiving until Christmas everything else was moved aside to make room for Ida Mae’s fruit cakes.