She hesitated, remembering Lindsay’s recent mishaps, and added, “Maybe you should wear a helmet.”
Lindsay returned a grimace and said, “Maybe you should just do it.”
She offered the crowbar back to Cici but they both turned at the sound of Bridget’s voice.
“Cici! Did you see this e-mail?” She appeared at the door and stopped short at the sight of Lindsay. “Oh,” she said, and then smiled. “How do you like it?” She gestured with the paper in her hand. “Great idea, right?”
“Actually,” Lindsay agreed, “it is. Thank you both. But it’s an awful lot of work.”
“Don’t be silly. You deserve it, both of you, and we want to do this.”
Cici said, “What e-mail?”
Bridget passed her the printout. “It’s from Lori,” she said excitedly, “and it solves everything!” She turned to Lindsay. “How about this? Instead of a formal run-of-the-mill wedding reception like everyone has, we’ll open up the vineyard for the burning of the vines! Just like we did for the blessing of the vines last spring. We’ll publicize it all over town, put it on the website, make it a great big open house! We’ll have a wine tasting and sell tickets! We’ll have cheese pairings, of course, and heavy hors d’oeuvres instead of a sit -down meal, and nobody gets left out!”
Cici looked up from the paper with a light in her eyes. “It’s tax deductible,” she said. “And it’s entirely possible we could actually make money on your wedding reception!”
Lindsay scanned the e-mail. “What does Dominic say?”
“He says Lori is a marketing genius and when is she coming home?” Bridget watched Lindsay, her eyes sparkling. “What do you say?”
Lindsay looked up from the paper. “We could have that band from town, you know the bluegrass one that Dominic likes so much. And we’ll light the bonfire as soon as it gets dark and everyone will gather around and we’ll have toasts and wedding cake …”
“So much more romantic than a sit -down dinner,” Cici agreed. “I’ve got to admit, sometimes that kid of mine is pretty smart.”
“Now you see?” Bridget beamed at Lindsay. “Sometimes things do work out.”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said happily, grinning back. “Sometimes they do.”
With a laugh of delight, she swung the crowbar against the wall as Cici had shown her and pulled hard. There was a clang, a clatter, and the sound of rending metal. Lindsay stumbled backward and sat down hard as a geyser of water shot from the wall.
Bridget squealed and ran for the door, but Cici just stared at Lindsay in disbelief, oblivious to the torrent that was quickly soaking them both. “And sometimes,” she said, “they don’t.”
~*~
At the Hummingbird House
~*~
Cocktail hour in the wildflower garden was one of the unadvertised delights of the Hummingbird House, for both the owners and the guests. At the end of a long day of hiking, antiquing, sightseeing, or simply rocking on the porch, the guests would drift out onto the stone terrace to sample the sherry and the cheeses their hosts had selected for them, to chat and share their days while the hummingbirds buzzed and darted around the feeders and the yellow daisies and purple columbine nodded in the breeze of a setting sun. As the days grew shorter and cooler, their hosts would light the torches that meandered along the stone paths and guests might linger around the dancing flames of the outdoor fireplace for one last glass before departing to keep their dinner reservations. It was also, for the busy proprietors of the B&B, often their first opportunity of the day to catch up.
“So then, ” Derrick reported importantly, setting a tray of sherry and glasses on the patio bistro table, “they had to turn off the water to the entire second floor, but not before the carpets in two rooms were soaked through. Cici doesn’t think there’s any damage to
Lindsay returned a grimace and said, “Maybe you should just do it.”
She offered the crowbar back to Cici but they both turned at the sound of Bridget’s voice.
“Cici! Did you see this e-mail?” She appeared at the door and stopped short at the sight of Lindsay. “Oh,” she said, and then smiled. “How do you like it?” She gestured with the paper in her hand. “Great idea, right?”
“Actually,” Lindsay agreed, “it is. Thank you both. But it’s an awful lot of work.”
“Don’t be silly. You deserve it, both of you, and we want to do this.”
Cici said, “What e-mail?”
Bridget passed her the printout. “It’s from Lori,” she said excitedly, “and it solves everything!” She turned to Lindsay. “How about this? Instead of a formal run-of-the-mill wedding reception like everyone has, we’ll open up the vineyard for the burning of the vines! Just like we did for the blessing of the vines last spring. We’ll publicize it all over town, put it on the website, make it a great big open house! We’ll have a wine tasting and sell tickets! We’ll have cheese pairings, of course, and heavy hors d’oeuvres instead of a sit -down meal, and nobody gets left out!”
Cici looked up from the paper with a light in her eyes. “It’s tax deductible,” she said. “And it’s entirely possible we could actually make money on your wedding reception!”
Lindsay scanned the e-mail. “What does Dominic say?”
“He says Lori is a marketing genius and when is she coming home?” Bridget watched Lindsay, her eyes sparkling. “What do you say?”
Lindsay looked up from the paper. “We could have that band from town, you know the bluegrass one that Dominic likes so much. And we’ll light the bonfire as soon as it gets dark and everyone will gather around and we’ll have toasts and wedding cake …”
“So much more romantic than a sit -down dinner,” Cici agreed. “I’ve got to admit, sometimes that kid of mine is pretty smart.”
“Now you see?” Bridget beamed at Lindsay. “Sometimes things do work out.”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said happily, grinning back. “Sometimes they do.”
With a laugh of delight, she swung the crowbar against the wall as Cici had shown her and pulled hard. There was a clang, a clatter, and the sound of rending metal. Lindsay stumbled backward and sat down hard as a geyser of water shot from the wall.
Bridget squealed and ran for the door, but Cici just stared at Lindsay in disbelief, oblivious to the torrent that was quickly soaking them both. “And sometimes,” she said, “they don’t.”
~*~
At the Hummingbird House
~*~
Cocktail hour in the wildflower garden was one of the unadvertised delights of the Hummingbird House, for both the owners and the guests. At the end of a long day of hiking, antiquing, sightseeing, or simply rocking on the porch, the guests would drift out onto the stone terrace to sample the sherry and the cheeses their hosts had selected for them, to chat and share their days while the hummingbirds buzzed and darted around the feeders and the yellow daisies and purple columbine nodded in the breeze of a setting sun. As the days grew shorter and cooler, their hosts would light the torches that meandered along the stone paths and guests might linger around the dancing flames of the outdoor fireplace for one last glass before departing to keep their dinner reservations. It was also, for the busy proprietors of the B&B, often their first opportunity of the day to catch up.
“So then, ” Derrick reported importantly, setting a tray of sherry and glasses on the patio bistro table, “they had to turn off the water to the entire second floor, but not before the carpets in two rooms were soaked through. Cici doesn’t think there’s any damage to
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