Free The Ladies Farm by Viqui Litman Page A

Richard’d be proud.”
    Barbara dimpled and launched into a description of Dickie’s accomplishments. Della knew why Tony put his arm around her then, and she was glad for it, to have this support while they listened to Barbara extol the son who had been Jamie’s friend. Dickie was a great kid, Della reminded herself as she always did, but it was never comfort enough against the cruelty that Dickie had grown up and Jamie was dead.
    Thankfully, the rest of the gang showed up, and while Tony shook hands with Dave and Kat filled Della in on when Hugh Jr. and Melissa were coming, they somehow all loaded up into the car.
    Della found herself waving to Tony from the back window. Nice guy in a bad suit, she thought.

    Silver Quest was due at the printer’s, and Della had barely started writing it. The ads, laid out by a part-timer who came in after school, were mostly in place, and the lead article, a state-by-state roundup of legislative activity, would not be tough. It was her column—the pieceshe usually wrote about women traveling alone; or how to dress to meet your daughter-in-law-to-be; or discussing safe sex, vaginal dryness, and impotence with a potential partner—that was causing problems. All she wanted to write about was Pauline.
    “Well, write about her,” Kat advised. “Our readers know who she is. Was.”
    “I can’t,” Della said.
    “Can’t?”
    “Nothing’s working.” Della felt stupid.
    “Nothing’s working? You have writer’s block over a newsletter?”
    “Oh, of course not. The newsletter’s not writing anyway, it’s just reporting.” Della paused. “I just can’t get anything out.”
    “Well, write something,” Kat repeated, turning back to the ledger she had opened on Pauline’s desk. It was a shock every time Della walked in and saw Kat rummaging through Pauline’s things.
    “She was in love with her own handwriting,” Kat murmured now, more in wonder than criticism. “That’s why she wouldn’t use the computer. Look at this!”
    Della peered over Kat’s shoulder, looking at the entries covering the page. Tortillas, carton, $11.95. Bed sheets, white, $124.50. 100% rag writing paper, $23.95 . Her capital letters twice the size of the lower case, her descenders flowing down in gentle slants to the next line. And the ink like rows of flowers, first peacock blue, then green, then lilac.
    “It’s a work of art,” Della said.
    Kat sighed. “Yeah.”
    Della knew Kat was worried about getting all the financials into the computer in time for Hugh Jr. and Melissa, but Della knew she’d do it. Pauline’s desk was in order, and so were her ledgers. If Kat wanted, Della thought, she could even hire someone to key in the data. But it was an act of faith with Kat. She had to key it in herself, the way she had every month that Pauline had lived and handed over those artful ledgers.
    “I’ll write it if you want,” Barbara said.
    “Jesus!” Kat jerked back. “I forgot you were here.”
    Barbara sat on—actually overflowed—the steno chair in front of the computer. With her back to the screen and one leg tucked up under her, she resembled a cherubic schoolgirl in her mother’s earrings.
    “They’re already written,” Della snapped. She hadn’t noticed Barbara at all. “They need to be keyed in.”
    “I meant your article. About Pauline.”
    “Oh, Barbara,” Della said. “That’s so sweet of you.”
    “I can write,” Barbara said. “And I want something to do.”
    “Maybe you could key the ledgers for Kat.” Della hated amateurs who thought they could write. Even newsletters. Every day brought manuscripts from hopefuls who had seen Silver Quest and just knew she would publish inspirational poetry, or spiritual testimony, or short stories, once she read theirs.
    “I’m keying these myself,” Kat said, rising from Pauline’s chair with the ledger clutched to her breast. “Why don’t you let her try,” she challenged Della. “You just said you’re