Free The Ladies Farm by Viqui Litman Page B

stuck.”
    “Try,” Della said. She wheeled around and started back for her own office, then changed her mind and headed for the back door. “I’ll be on the river,” she said.
    The Nolan didn’t offer solace. Della paddled around a little, but it was hot and she’d forgotten both hat and sunblock and spent most of her time envisioning brown tumors blossoming over her nose and cheekbones. What’d you expect, she grumbled to herself as she dragged the canoe back up onto the lawn. She shoved her toes back into her shoes and stomped over to a lawn chair beneath the live oak.
    Flops, who’d spent most of Della’s boating time patrolling the shore, followed her over and sat next to the chair. Della rested a hand on the back of her neck. “You holding up okay?” she asked, scratching as the dog pushed up against the pressure of her fingers.
    “Hmmmm?”
    Let her write the thing, Della told herself. If she actually does, you’ll be done with it. And if not, it will at least give you a starting point. It’s a few hundred words. You can crank it out in no time once you get moving.
    She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The kitchen door opened and closed behind her, but she didn’t move.
    “You taking a siesta?” Rita asked.
    Della heard ice clinking in a glass, but she didn’t hear even a rustle from the ground as Rita moved over the grass. “You taking a vacation?” Della mumbled.
    “Somewhat. Mrs. Pumphries rescheduled. I think Mrs. Myerhoff got her to change her day so they could come together.”
    “Your customers scared of people dying?”
    “Either that or fat women who get hysterical over people dying.”
    “Well, that was probably pretty scary,” Della conceded.
    She listened to Rita nuzzling the black dog, pictured Rita’s slick black cap of hair against the dog’s neglected coat.
    “You need a good comb-out,” Rita was telling the animal in the tones she’d use to console a child. “You need a wash and a style.” Then her voice grew serious. “You all are going to buy out those kids, aren’t you?”
    “I guess.” Della roused herself, opened her eyes enough to squint toward the river. “If they’ll sell. If Barbara doesn’t outbid us.”
    “She wouldn’t do that, would she?” Rita had settled onto the grass.
    “You’re going to get eaten by ants,” Della warned. “Who knows what she’ll do?”
    “You think the kids know about Barbara owning half?”
    “Hugh Junior mentioned it when Kat talked to him. Evidently, Pauline was so upset, she called him about it.” Della closed her eyes again.
    “Did he sound surprised?”
    “Kat talked to him, I didn’t. And it doesn’t matter how he sounded. What matters is whether he’d sell to us before he sells to Barbara. And,” she anticipated Rita’s next question, “I have no idea whether he’ll do that or not. Or if she’d even offer.”
    “Why’s she here anyway?” Rita asked. “You really think she’s just so impressed with the way we live she can’t imagine living anywhere else?”
    Della weighed the possibilities and imagined herself confiding in a breezy, chatty way that the three women Barbara might most want to kill were living here. The potential efficiencies were astronomical. Instead, she shrugged. “Who knows?”
    Rita shifted gears. “Do you need any money?”
    Della stared at Rita. “Are you offering to lend it?”
    “Well, I’ve got some saved up!” Rita declared. “I’m not totally irresponsible.”
    Della stared, shook her head, then settled back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m thinking, if this works the way we plan, the kids’ll take back a mortgage and let us pay them out.”
    “And if Barbara sells out?”
    “Maybe the same. Who knows?” Della concentrated on sounding noncommittal. “Have you thought about buying in?”
    “It’s a little soon,” Rita said.
    “It’s a little soon for all of us.”
    “I just meant, you know, you and Kat have known