Vintage Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball

Some chanting, breaking a glass …” He gave one of Lori’s curls a playful tug. “A lot of dancing.”
    She grinned up at him. “Are you going to wear a yamaka?”
    He plucked the fedora off her head and placed it on his own. “How do I look?”
    She giggled and snatched at the hat; he ducked and bobbed behind the kitchen island. Cici stepped between them before the game got out of hand, returned Lori’s hat firmly to her own head, and thrust a plate of stuffed dates into Mark’s hands.
    “Go,” Cici said sternly, giving both of them a little shove, “and keep our guests company in the parlor.”
    Lori said, “But aren’t you …”
    “In a minute,” Cici said. “Go.”
    When the swinging door closed behind them, Cici sank back against the counter and released a breath. “Kosher?” she said, indicating the dates.
    Bridget replied, “I have absolutely no idea.”
    Ida Mae nudged Bridget aside as she opened the oven to put a loaf of twice-risen herb bread inside. “You know what the good thing about being the cook is?” she said flatly. She shoved the pan far to the back of the oven and slammed the door shut. “When people come to your table, they eat what you serve.”
    Cici looked at Bridget. Bridget lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head. “I hope that includes berry pie,” she said, “because that’s all I’ve got.”
    Cici blew out a breath and tucked her arm through Bridget’s. “Come on,” she suggested. “Let’s go find out.”
     
    ~*~
     
    “Anyway, they were very nice about it,” Cici concluded to Lindsay as the late afternoon shadows once again gathered on the porch. “About our ignorance, I mean, not about them being Jewish. I could have wrung Lori’s neck. You’d think she might have mentioned a little thing like an interfaith ceremony before she invited the in-laws out to plan the wedding.”
    “And to think, I almost made a ham.” Bridget shuddered.
    “Wow,” said Lindsay. “Who would have guessed? They seemed so … southern.”
    Bridget gave her a superior look. “There is a huge Jewish community in the South.”
    “Well, I guess I know that,” Lindsay replied defensively. “I was thrown off by the southern accent. I mean, seriously, I almost asked her when she had her cotillion.”
    Bridget smothered a giggle, and even Cici couldn’t repress a rather lopsided grin. “It turns out they’re reformed, not orthodox,” she explained. “Which basically means Mark was raised Jewish, but he doesn’t practice.”
    “But he still has to be married in the Jewish faith,” added Bridget.
    “About which I know absolutely nothing,” admitted Cici. “Fortunately, none of this seems to bother Lori. And how can you not like someone who spent the whole day talking about how much they envy you? They’re already making plans for us all to go on a wine-tasting tour of upstate New York this summer.”
    The day had turned into one of those bright winter surprises, with temperatures in the fifties and a brassy sun flinging shards of light across a cobalt sky. Bambi, the deer who had followed Lindsay home from a walk one day and stayed for three years, ambled across the lawn, sniffing out shoots of green grass and dried acorns. As the lowering sun formed bleached-white pools of warmth across the porch, the ladies instinctively stretched out their legs toward it, leaning back in their rockers, loosening scarves and unbuttoning jackets.
    “So,” invited Cici, sliding a glance toward Lindsay, “how was your day?”
    The corners of Lindsay’s lips twitched in what might have been private memory. “Fine. Nice, actually. The B&B isn’t nearly as nice as our house, of course, but they did something really interesting with the front foyer—which is about half the size of this porch—they turned it into a little art gallery. They had some interesting pieces—wildlife, florals, that kind of thing—so naturally I mentioned Noah to the manager, and she wants him to bring in some