Love Letters from Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball Read Free Book Online

pool and swept the outdoor patios. Cici rubbed down the mahogany banister with lemon oil and built a cheery fire in the living room, which could hold a chill even this late in the season. Bridget made sure that Rebel, once he had finished arranging the sheep that made such a picturesque tableau in the distant meadow to his satisfaction, was securely locked in the barn.
    They set the wicker table on the wraparound porch with an Irish linen tablecloth embroidered with pale pink roses, and used Bridget’s Haviland china and Cici’s sterling, and the antique napkins with hand-tatted edges that Lindsay had brought back from Germany. The centerpiece was a crystal vase of ruffled pink apple blossoms.
    “So, we have a few less apples this fall,” Bridget had said with a shrug as she arranged the stems. “The tree needed pruning anyway.”
    Ida Mae had grumbled about making such a fuss over a couple of no-account city folks they didn’t even know, anyhow, and Lindsay countered tartly, “My mother always said that strangers are the only people worth making a fuss over, since you’re not going to change anyone else’s opinion of you. Besides, you’re the one who always irons the dish towels when company is coming.”
    Now, as the elder Ms. North-Dere also removed her sunglasses and swept a slow, assessing gaze over everything within her view, the ladies found themselves wishing they had not only ironed the dish towels, but gotten manicures and maybe pedicures as well. Cici tried to look nonchalant as she ran a hand through her own honey-blond hair, Lindsay absently patted the pockets of her jeans for a lipstick, and Bridget looked down in dismay at her canvas print overalls and scuffed white sneakers.
    “We should have dressed up,” Bridget whispered.
    Cici frowned uncomfortably. “It’s not high tea with the queen you know. We’re doing them a favor.”
    Paul lifted his hand to them as he got out of the driver’s seat, and they waved back. He came around the car and offered an arm to each of the blondes. Paul, with his perfectly styled chestnut hair and blue eyes, always looked as though he had just stepped out of a high-priced magazine ad yet never looked out of place. He possessed the kind of effortless charm that few could resist, and these two were no exception. They wrapped their hands around his arms, laughing as he spoke to them, and he escorted them up the wide front steps onto the porch.
    “Darlings,” he said with a flourish, “may I present to you the legendary Cici Burke, Lindsay Wright, and Bridget Tyndale.”
    The ladies smiled and bobbed their heads in turn.
    “Ladies, my pleasure to introduce Catherine North-Dere, mother of the bride, and her delightful daughter Traci.”
    “Cici, Bridget, dearest Lindsay...” Catherine swept forward and caught them each into an embrace as tepid as pool water, all boney shoulders and musky perfume. “I feel I know you already! You are so good to have us out, really. Paul has told us so much about you.”
    Her voice was smoky and warm and her smile seemed genuine, and the ladies relaxed a little. Cici said, “It’s our pleasure, really. We love to show off our house.”
    “Well, I can certainly see why.” With a breath of pure pleasure, she surveyed the view—the tranquil sheep in the emerald meadow, blue-shadowed mountains beyond, frothy apple trees in bloom, daffodil-lined paths, pink weigela and deep blush azaleas swaying in the breeze. “This is just magnificent. Isn’t it, darling?”
    “Heaven,” replied Traci absently, snapping photographs with her cell phone. “Where’s the chapel?”
    Catherine’s hand closed about her daughter’s arm, tightly. Her smile was frozen. “No chapel, sweetie. This is a private home , remember?”
    Traci stopped taking pictures. “Oh. Right.”
    Catherine smiled apologetically. “This has been such a nightmare. We must have seen two dozen places in the past week, and the stress ... well, you just can’t