The Ladies Farm Read Free Page A

Ladies Farm wasn’t big enough for Barbara and Della together, but Della would assure Pauline that there would be no scenes.
    It’s a good thing Rita doesn’t know, Della thought. When she was done being pissed at me for not telling her, she’d be disappointed that there aren’t any fireworks.
    “What are you smiling at?” Rita asked her as they all rose to clear the table and get the late lunch ready.
    “I’m imagining Barbara with your haircut,” Della said, stepping aside to let Pauline scoop the piles of buttons into little Baggies.
    “Well, I’m going to sharpen my scissors,” Rita retorted. “And change my shmate .”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Kat and Della grumbled in unison. One of Rita’s favorite customers was the Jewish wife of a man who owned a sportswear factory. While their guests were either puzzled or tickled to hear Rita drawl Yiddish expressions, her housemates had grown so used to them that they barely noticed her language. What they did notice was that she was carrying off two frozen muffins and that, once again, she was avoiding kitchen duty.
    “We have got to talk to her,” Kat muttered, yanking soup bowls from the cabinet.
    “Oh, why start trouble?” Pauline said. “She does her share.”
    “Just not on schedule,” Della added. They worked without speaking for a while. Della imagined the others were reliving the part Richard and Barbara had played in their lives. Because their sons had been the same age, the six of them—Richard and Barbara, Paulineand Hugh, and Della and her then-husband Tony—had acted as one extended family from Cub Scouts through high school. Kat and, for a while, her husband Grant, had joined them later, right after Richard practically set Kat up in the consulting business.
    He was in all our lives, Della reflected. Kat could barely spell practice management before Richard started referring clients to her. And Pauline had long ago confided that it had been Richard’s and Barbara’s money that had kept Sydon House going after the oil bust.
    A serving spoon clattered to the floor. “Dammit,” swore Kat, stooping down to retrieve it.
    “We need some music,” Pauline said.
    “I’ll do it.” Kat was out of the kitchen before either Della or Pauline could suggest a CD.
    “Do we trust her with this choice?” Della asked.
    Pauline shrugged. Della braced herself for the onslaught, but instead of the screaming rock which Kat usually favored, Dolly Parton filled the kitchen.
    Pauline inclined her head a little, then returned to shredding lettuce. “Maybe aliens,” Della said, then giggled a little.
    If it was revenge, it was an odd revenge. Neither Della nor Pauline minded country music. When Kat failed to reappear, Della decided her disappearance was the revenge.
    “I guess she’s pulled a Rita,” Pauline murmured, but Della could tell that it was Barbara she was thinking about.
    “Look,” Della sought to reassure her friend, “if she were going to shoot me, she would have taken her shot on the porch. I don’t think there’ll be violence.”
    “You don’t think there’ll be bloodshed,” Pauline corrected. She frowned down at the lettuce she was shredding. “Violence is another matter.”
    “As mad as she’d be, I’ll settle for a little violence, especially the metaphysical variety, to the soul. Besides,” Della loaded rolls into abread basket, “she doesn’t know unless you or I told her. And you or I didn’t.” She looked at Pauline, who shook her head in response.
    “You or I or her husband,” Pauline murmured.
    Della jerked the last roll out of the sack, placed the roll in the basket, and crumpled the brown bag. “Dead men tell no tales. And I was the last one of us to see him alive. So we’ve got no worries.”
    Della knew her glibness neither shocked nor convinced Pauline, who continued to frown. How much lettuce do we need? Della wondered as she watched the huge bowl fill beneath Pauline’s jerking fingers.
    First, there had been