Read Online A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 by Donna Ball - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Ball
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invest? Where are you going to draw the financial line?”
Lindsay said, “What line? It’s drawn. All I’ve got left is my retirement fund, and I’m not touching that.”
Bridget spread her hands. “My financial life is an open book. All I have to live on until Social Security kicks in is what’s left of Jim’s life insurance, unless we’re talking about selling my jewelry.” Absently she fingered the emerald and diamond ring which had been Jim’s last anniversary gift to her. It was extravagant, but he hadn’t been able to afford an engagement ring when they had gotten married, and this had been his way of making up for its absence.
Cici said, “And I’m not borrowing money from my ex. I don’t care if he is richer than God. So there you go. We’ve invested all we can afford to.”
“Exactly.” Delores tapped a clause on the document with a sharp red fingernail. “All written down plain as day in paragraph 12-A.” She flipped over a page. “Heirs and assigns, fair use of property . . . okay look at paragraph 15, term of contract. We talked about your agreement to give this situation a year before reassessing. We still good with that?”
She glanced around the table, and received three nods. “Okay, so at the end of a year, any one of you can offer your share of the property to any of the other two, or jointly agree to offer the entire property for sale to a third party at a mutually agreed upon price, or renegotiate this agreement or any part thereof in any way you choose. Understand?”
“It all sounds so lawlerly,” complained Lindsay.
“Can’t help it, dearie. I’m a lawyer. Now I need a date of termination. Shall we say January first?”
They consulted each other with a questioning glance, and shrugged. “Sure.” “Suits me.” “Sounds fine.”
Delores scrawled the date on her copy of the contract, while Sheryl went around the table and did the same to everyone else’s. “Okay, ladies, get out your pens. Let the signing begin.”
Six minutes and a flurry of signatures later, they all sat back and looked at each other in a kind of stunned astonishment. Just like that, it was over.
And it had just begun.
Spring
Starting Over
5
Moving On
Nine months to the day from the evening they had spent at the Holiday Inn with two laptops, a bottle of wine, and a legal pad between them, making their plans, a caravan of shiny SUVs pulled into the rutted and overgrown gravel drive that led to Blackwell Farm. They were loaded down with suitcases, pots and pans, nonperishable food items, art supplies, tools, pillows, linens, photo albums, electronics, toiletries, and all of those essential items that one snatches first from a house fire and refuses to trust to the movers. They had been driving for five hours, but the journey had taken most of a lifetime.
Lindsay, leading the procession, stopped fifty feet into the drive, sprang out of the car, and opened the back hatch. Bridget pulled in behind her, followed by Cici. From the top of a pile of boxes that was almost over her head, Lindsay slid a large, colorfully painted sign out of the van. Bridget came up quickly to help her. Between them, they carried the sign back to the end of the drive, followed by Cici with the hammer.
“Left,” Bridget advised, standing back as they positioned the sign in the midst of the weeds where the drive met the road. “No, left and back about three feet. It’s too close to the driveway.”
“There’s a big rock.”
“Leave room for the flower bed.”
“How about here?”
“It’s crooked. Go back a little.”
“There’s a ditch there!”
“Wait, I can do this . . .”
Straddling the ditch, Lindsay held the sign while Cici hammered it into the ground. “We’ll set it in cement later,” Cici said, and they joined Bridget to admire their work.
Cut in a sweeping scroll design, the sign was painted pastel yellow and decorated with three bright ladybugs. In flowing script, the lettering said,
Lindsay said, “What line? It’s drawn. All I’ve got left is my retirement fund, and I’m not touching that.”
Bridget spread her hands. “My financial life is an open book. All I have to live on until Social Security kicks in is what’s left of Jim’s life insurance, unless we’re talking about selling my jewelry.” Absently she fingered the emerald and diamond ring which had been Jim’s last anniversary gift to her. It was extravagant, but he hadn’t been able to afford an engagement ring when they had gotten married, and this had been his way of making up for its absence.
Cici said, “And I’m not borrowing money from my ex. I don’t care if he is richer than God. So there you go. We’ve invested all we can afford to.”
“Exactly.” Delores tapped a clause on the document with a sharp red fingernail. “All written down plain as day in paragraph 12-A.” She flipped over a page. “Heirs and assigns, fair use of property . . . okay look at paragraph 15, term of contract. We talked about your agreement to give this situation a year before reassessing. We still good with that?”
She glanced around the table, and received three nods. “Okay, so at the end of a year, any one of you can offer your share of the property to any of the other two, or jointly agree to offer the entire property for sale to a third party at a mutually agreed upon price, or renegotiate this agreement or any part thereof in any way you choose. Understand?”
“It all sounds so lawlerly,” complained Lindsay.
“Can’t help it, dearie. I’m a lawyer. Now I need a date of termination. Shall we say January first?”
They consulted each other with a questioning glance, and shrugged. “Sure.” “Suits me.” “Sounds fine.”
Delores scrawled the date on her copy of the contract, while Sheryl went around the table and did the same to everyone else’s. “Okay, ladies, get out your pens. Let the signing begin.”
Six minutes and a flurry of signatures later, they all sat back and looked at each other in a kind of stunned astonishment. Just like that, it was over.
And it had just begun.
Spring
Starting Over
5
Moving On
Nine months to the day from the evening they had spent at the Holiday Inn with two laptops, a bottle of wine, and a legal pad between them, making their plans, a caravan of shiny SUVs pulled into the rutted and overgrown gravel drive that led to Blackwell Farm. They were loaded down with suitcases, pots and pans, nonperishable food items, art supplies, tools, pillows, linens, photo albums, electronics, toiletries, and all of those essential items that one snatches first from a house fire and refuses to trust to the movers. They had been driving for five hours, but the journey had taken most of a lifetime.
Lindsay, leading the procession, stopped fifty feet into the drive, sprang out of the car, and opened the back hatch. Bridget pulled in behind her, followed by Cici. From the top of a pile of boxes that was almost over her head, Lindsay slid a large, colorfully painted sign out of the van. Bridget came up quickly to help her. Between them, they carried the sign back to the end of the drive, followed by Cici with the hammer.
“Left,” Bridget advised, standing back as they positioned the sign in the midst of the weeds where the drive met the road. “No, left and back about three feet. It’s too close to the driveway.”
“There’s a big rock.”
“Leave room for the flower bed.”
“How about here?”
“It’s crooked. Go back a little.”
“There’s a ditch there!”
“Wait, I can do this . . .”
Straddling the ditch, Lindsay held the sign while Cici hammered it into the ground. “We’ll set it in cement later,” Cici said, and they joined Bridget to admire their work.
Cut in a sweeping scroll design, the sign was painted pastel yellow and decorated with three bright ladybugs. In flowing script, the lettering said,
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