Free Vintage Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball Page B

of them. I wonder what would happen.”
    Ida Mae scraped the diced onions to one side of the board and sliced the head off a second one. “Not a thing in this world,” she said sharply, “if that man don’t get out of my kitchen and speak up for hisself.”
    Dominic’s grin was slow and abashed. “Ah, well, now no one can say I haven’t tried. The truth of the matter is, there’s so much estrogen in the air around here I’m not sure any man has a chance to even be noticed through it.”
    “Is that a fact, Mr. Fancy Words?” She did not look up from her chopping. “I reckon you’d best just go on home, then.”
    He broke his cookie in half and chewed one half of it thoughtfully. “What they’ve done here, what they all have together, it’s really something special. A fellow would be a fool to try to break it up.” He stood up. “It was good visiting with you, Miss Ida Mae.”
    Ida Mae scraped the onions to the side of the board and began paring a potato with swift, economical movements. “A house full of women is a soft place to land, that’s a fact. But it’s also got itself some hard edges, and I don’t reckon anybody you’d ask would deny that. Now that boy, he’s got his own time coming, and he won’t be wasting much time brushing the dust of this place off his feet. Seems to me it might be a welcome thing to have a man around to chop the wood and climb the ladders and leave his wet towels on the floor from time to time. Just seems to me.”
    Dominic paused and looked back at her speculatively. Then he smiled, snagged another cookie, and saluted her with it. “Thanks for the cookies, Miss Ida Mae,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
     
    ~*~
     
    Bridget came into the small room off the sun porch that they used as an office and tapped Cici on the shoulder. The little room might once have been what the original owner would have called a morning room, with east-facing windows that flooded the room with early light and just enough space for a breakfast table and a few occasional chairs. They had furnished it with a wraparound desk, a computer, wooden filing cabinets painted in bright colors, an easy chair, and walls decorated with Lindsay’s artwork and enlarged photos of the three of them on various vacations together. Here they paid bills, checked e-mails, reconciled the household accounts, and, on occasions like this one, labored over special projects such as preparing a business plan for Ladybug Farm Winery.
    Cici clicked the mouse and brought up another screen without glancing at Bridget. “The child goes to college for four years to learn how to write a business plan,” she muttered, “and where is she when I need her?”
    “Quitting time,” Bridget said and handed her a glass of rich red cabernet sauvignon.
    Cici accepted the glass with both hands. “You are my best friend forever,” she declared fervently and took a sip.
    Bridget tilted her head meaningfully toward the front of the house. “Bring a coat,” she advised.
    The two of them took their wine to the front porch, Bridget wrapped in a thick, scratchy Alpaca wool throw, and Cici in a heavy knit cardigan that she had grabbed from the front hall tree. Lindsay was already outside, standing at the front porch rail in her fur-trimmed jacket, wine in hand, gazing out over the most spectacular sunset any of them had ever seen.
    A silver-edged, scarlet cloud bisected the deep purple mountain landscape. Beyond it, a slash of clear cerulean-blue faded into pink, bright yellow, and viridian green. Against this breathtaking backdrop, the black fingers of winter trees stood in stark relief.
    “Oh my,” said Bridget softly, leaning against the rail beside Lindsay.
    “Wow,” agreed Cici. Her breath frosted on the chill evening air. “Now I remember why we live here.”
    Across the barren, winter-brown meadow, a black-and-white border collie circled a flock of muddy, lazy sheep. They gave him little argument as he moved them with