Read Love Letters from Ladybug Farm for Free Online Page B

anything.”
    “Maybe,” Bridget agreed, after a time. She did not sound convinced. “But what if it does mean something? She doesn’t have any relatives. We’re the ones responsible for her, have you thought about that? I mean, in case, you know, decisions have to be made.”
    “Why don’t we just wait awhile before we leap to conclusions,” Cici suggested.
    Lindsay frowned into her wine. “We sure are responsible for a lot, aren’t we?”
    “Comes with the girl suit,” Cici said. “Has there ever been a time in your life when you weren’t responsible for a lot?”
    From somewhere deep within the house, the telephone rang. But none of the women moved to get up.
    “Noah will take a message.”
    “Or the answering machine will pick up.”
    Upstairs, a window slid open. “It’s Lori,” Noah called down.
    “Tell her I’ll call her back,” Cici returned, tilting her head so her voice would carry.
    The window closed.
    Bridget said, leaning back in her chair, “Being a celebrity is exhausting.”
    Lindsay agreed, “Who knew?”
    Cici considered that for a moment. “Good thing we’re up to the task.”
    The three women allowed themselves a reflective moment, which slowly turned into a shared grin. They raised their glasses.
    “Here’s to us.”
    June 3, 2001
     
     
    My darling—
     
     
    There was a little blue bird in a bush outside my window today, and I thought of you. I had lunch in the park and watched some children trying to launch a toy boat in the pond, and I thought of you. I watched two young lovers holding hands on the street, and I thought about you.
    I think about you all the time, and I love you. That’s all I wanted to say. That I love you.

4
    Dreams Coming True
    Catherine North-Dere and her daughter Traci arrived with Paul at quarter to one.
    Traci was a tall, model-thin girl with shoulder-length feathery blond hair and salon-tan legs that were displayed to perfection in khaki walking shorts and three-inch wedge sandals. An immaculately fitted rolled-cuff white shirt and a wool navy blazer casually tossed over her shoulders, along with a gold cuff bracelet, dangle earrings, and a messenger bag—Coach, naturally—completed her “afternoon in the country” look.
    Yet it wasn’t until she removed her designer sunglasses that Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay actually ventured a guess as to which was the daughter, and which was the mother.
    Catherine’s blond hair was a shade darker and a bit thicker than her daughter’s. It was also more immaculately styled, curving perfectly toward the face at the shoulders to reveal realistic-looking honey-colored low lights. She wore custom-fitted boyfriend jeans, cuffed to display slim ankles and leopard-print heels, with a sand colored, form-fitting T-shirt and a black silk jacket with ruffled lapels. The diamond on her finger was three carats, minimum; her watch Piaget.
    “Now that,” murmured Lindsay in unabashed appreciation, “is some kick-ass Botox.”
    Cici shrugged, her arms folded. “I could look like that if I wanted to.”
    Lindsay stifled a guffaw. “You and what army?”
    Cici elbowed her hard in the ribs, glaring.
    “I’ll bet she spends more on her hairstylist every month than I spent on my first car,” Bridget observed, a little awed.
    “This is what I’m saying,” Cici replied. “All it takes is money.”
    “And a personal trainer,” added Lindsay.
    “And the ability to live on about three hundred calories a day” observed Bridget, and Cici scowled at her.
    “But,” added Bridget, “those shoes are to die for.”
    On that all three of them agreed.
    The three women had been up since the rooster—the one Cici threatened to place in the stew pot at least once a day—let forth his first screeching crow, and they hadn’t stopped moving since daybreak: sweeping the porch, polishing the windows, vacuuming, dusting, knocking cobwebs from under the stairs and out of the corners. Lindsay skimmed debris from the reflecting