Vintage Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball Page A

of his work. Then, Dominic just about embarrassed the life out of me by telling her I was an artist, too, and had actually hung my work in a Washington gallery—without mentioning, of course, that my best friend was the owner and that no one could have been more shocked than he was when someone actually offered him money for my painting—so naturally she had to insist that I bring in something to show her.” She shrugged, looking less embarrassed than secretly pleased. “Maybe I will. I mean, my painting of the fox in the berry bushes is twice as good as any of the wildlife she had in there, and of course, Noah’s work will make everything else on her walls look like paint by number.”
    “Well, what do you know about that?” Cici said. “See, aren’t you glad you went?”
    “Good for you!” Bridget added. “Or I should say, good for Dominic. Sounds like you have a fan.”
    Lindsay colored faintly. “Well, it was kind of exciting,” she admitted. “Of course, nothing will probably come of it, but now that I’ve lost my gallery …” She grinned a little. “It would be nice to think of my work hanging somewhere besides my studio.
    “The restaurant was darling,” she went on, “but really small, and kind of cutesy-pie. Nothing like yours is going to be, Bridge. Blue willow everywhere, lace tablecloths. I had shrimp and grits and Dominic had steak and pommes frits—that’s what they called the french fries on the menu. And, oh!—listen to this. They only serve Virginia wines, so naturally, Dominic told them about ours and we already have a customer! So it definitely wasn’t a wasted day.”
    Bridget and Cici exchanged a look. “Well,” said Cici, “as long as it wasn’t wasted.”
    Bridget prompted impatiently, “So? What did you talk about?”
    “Oh, lots of things. The winery, mostly. How I’d decorate the tasting room. What things were like in the old days.”
    “And?”
    “And what?”
    “Didn’t you talk about anything personal?”
    “Depends on what you mean by personal. He told me some stuff about his life; I told him some stuff about mine. Funny how you can know a person for a long time and not really know much about him at all.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, it’s really kind of an odd feeling, being around someone who hasn’t already known me most of my adult life and who’s interested in learning things about me. When I tell them, it makes me see myself, and my life, differently. Have you ever thought about how seldom we get to do that?”
    “That’s true,” agreed Cici. “I guess people our age tend to hold on to the friends they have, and we’re not looking to make new ones. But it’s fun to see yourself through someone’s eyes.”
    “And so?” Bridget reached across Cici and poked Lindsay with her index finger. “What’s the situation? Are you dating or not?”
    Lindsay wrinkled her nose. “Dating is one of the few remaining legal forms of torture. You have to color your hair every three weeks instead of every month and shave your legs even in the winter and worry about sucking in your stomach all the time. Who needs it?”
    Bridget feigned surprise. “What? You color your hair?”
    “You only have to shave your legs,” added Cici mildly, “if you plan on taking off your pants. And as for sucking in your stomach, they make shape wear for that.”
    Lindsay gave her a very dark look. “Shape wear. Another reason dating is not for sissies. Besides, we have more important things to worry about than my social life.”
    “If you’re talking about the wedding,” Bridget assured her blithely, “we have it under control. Now that we know what we’re working with, that is.”
    Lindsay gave her a meaningful look. “Famous last words. Remember last year’s wedding?”
    “That was different,” Bridget said, although she looked a little uneasy. “Those people were awful.”
    “The rooster attacked the bride,” Lindsay reminded her. “The goat