Read Online A Wedding on Ladybug Farm by Donna Ball - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna Ball
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You’ll be here, won’t you? Because Lindsay and Dominic would be SO disappointed if you weren’t! Dominic was just saying the other day how much he misses your help in the winery. I know you’re doing important work and this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you, but we really miss you here. So even if you can’t come home forever, please, please try to come home for the wedding.
I wish you could see the sunflowers in the garden. They’re taller than you are! Lindsay wants to harvest them and toast the seeds, but I say leave them for the birds. The cardinals love them, and there is nothing prettier than those red birds when the ground is covered with snow. Except maybe the sunflowers.
I was going to send pictures of the new kitten but they all turned out blurry. I’m thinking of calling him Casper.
Write soon. We love you!—
Bridget
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Wedding News
Hi Sweetie,
I guess you’ve heard from Aunt Lindsay by now that we have a new wedding date—Oct. 25—and this one appears to sticking. We’re mailing twenty-five hand-designed invitations this week so it had better be! Yours will probably make it through the Italian postal system by Christmas. It would mean so much to both of them if you could be here. I know your dad would send you the ticket (even if it does have to be round-tri p ). Please let us know so we can kill the fatted calf. (Just kidding! No calves, and even if there were Bridget wouldn’t let us kill it even if we were all starving and it was the last edible thing on earth). I wish I heard from you more often. Do you need more minutes on your phone? I know you said the signal is really weak there, which I guess is why I’m never able to get through when I call, but maybe you could go to town once in a while and call your old mom? I love you, sweetie, and miss you like crazy—
Mom
TO: LadiLori27 @locomail.net
FROM: Lindsay @LadybugFarmLadies.net
SUBJECT: Wedding News
Hi Lori!
You are cordially invited to attend the nuptials of Lindsay Sue Elizabeth Wright and Dominic Robert DuPoncier October 25 of this year at four p.m. at Ladybug Farm, Virginia. A reception will follow at The Tasting Table restaurant on the premises. The pleasure of your company will be most fervently appreciated!
RSVP the sooner the better. Dominic says we’ll drink the first toast with Ladybug Farm wine, but how can we do that if the winemaker isn’t here? We love you and miss you—
Lindsay & Dominic
Lori sat on the sagging brown sofa in the tiny lobby of her hostel and struggled to find a Wi-Fi signal on her phone, crushed between a sweaty fat man who was shouting either German or Portugese—she had no clue which one—into his cell phone and a doe-eyed teenage boy who kept inching his leg closer to hers and smiling at her in an enraptured way. The sofa was covered in dog hair, although she’d never seen a dog inside, and smelled of garlic—although, come to think of it, that might have been the oversized gentleman to her left. The manager, a black -eyed, greasy-haired man with a perpetual two-day growth of beard, kept craning his neck to look at her from behind the desk, and whenever Lori happened to glance up he would wink and his leer would only grow wider, revealing teeth that were as yellow as the stains on his shirt. She had grown used to the creepiness factor by now and, for the most part, found him easy to ignore.
The sweaty German, on the other hand, was proving to be more of a challenge.
She knew she stood out in the small Italian village with her cascade of wild red curls, her porcelain white skin and blue eyes. She’d thought that would be an advantage, and she played it as much as she could, but the effort was getting old. Besides, standing out was not as much fun as it should have been in a culture that valued testosterone
I wish you could see the sunflowers in the garden. They’re taller than you are! Lindsay wants to harvest them and toast the seeds, but I say leave them for the birds. The cardinals love them, and there is nothing prettier than those red birds when the ground is covered with snow. Except maybe the sunflowers.
I was going to send pictures of the new kitten but they all turned out blurry. I’m thinking of calling him Casper.
Write soon. We love you!—
Bridget
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Wedding News
Hi Sweetie,
I guess you’ve heard from Aunt Lindsay by now that we have a new wedding date—Oct. 25—and this one appears to sticking. We’re mailing twenty-five hand-designed invitations this week so it had better be! Yours will probably make it through the Italian postal system by Christmas. It would mean so much to both of them if you could be here. I know your dad would send you the ticket (even if it does have to be round-tri p ). Please let us know so we can kill the fatted calf. (Just kidding! No calves, and even if there were Bridget wouldn’t let us kill it even if we were all starving and it was the last edible thing on earth). I wish I heard from you more often. Do you need more minutes on your phone? I know you said the signal is really weak there, which I guess is why I’m never able to get through when I call, but maybe you could go to town once in a while and call your old mom? I love you, sweetie, and miss you like crazy—
Mom
TO: LadiLori27 @locomail.net
FROM: Lindsay @LadybugFarmLadies.net
SUBJECT: Wedding News
Hi Lori!
You are cordially invited to attend the nuptials of Lindsay Sue Elizabeth Wright and Dominic Robert DuPoncier October 25 of this year at four p.m. at Ladybug Farm, Virginia. A reception will follow at The Tasting Table restaurant on the premises. The pleasure of your company will be most fervently appreciated!
RSVP the sooner the better. Dominic says we’ll drink the first toast with Ladybug Farm wine, but how can we do that if the winemaker isn’t here? We love you and miss you—
Lindsay & Dominic
Lori sat on the sagging brown sofa in the tiny lobby of her hostel and struggled to find a Wi-Fi signal on her phone, crushed between a sweaty fat man who was shouting either German or Portugese—she had no clue which one—into his cell phone and a doe-eyed teenage boy who kept inching his leg closer to hers and smiling at her in an enraptured way. The sofa was covered in dog hair, although she’d never seen a dog inside, and smelled of garlic—although, come to think of it, that might have been the oversized gentleman to her left. The manager, a black -eyed, greasy-haired man with a perpetual two-day growth of beard, kept craning his neck to look at her from behind the desk, and whenever Lori happened to glance up he would wink and his leer would only grow wider, revealing teeth that were as yellow as the stains on his shirt. She had grown used to the creepiness factor by now and, for the most part, found him easy to ignore.
The sweaty German, on the other hand, was proving to be more of a challenge.
She knew she stood out in the small Italian village with her cascade of wild red curls, her porcelain white skin and blue eyes. She’d thought that would be an advantage, and she played it as much as she could, but the effort was getting old. Besides, standing out was not as much fun as it should have been in a culture that valued testosterone
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