At Home on Ladybug Farm (19 page)

“But we really don’t live like this at all,” Lindsay objected. “We really live very nice quiet lives.”

Bridget stepped forward, laying a calming hand on Lindsay’s arm, smiling graciously. “I know we haven’t made a very good first impression, but maybe you’d like to have a cup of coffee while we freshen up and get ourselves organized? Ida Mae,” she called, but Ida Mae was already there, marching a tray filled with coffee cups toward the living room.

Lindsay scurried ahead of her, snatching up the wineglasses, empty bottles, and empty snack bowls from the night before. “Nightmare,” she muttered to Bridget as she passed, doing her ineffectual best to hide the empties in the folds of her house-coat. “This is a freakin’ nightmare.” And then she called brightly over her shoulder, “We’ll be right back. Make yourselves at home!”

Upstairs, they found Paul and Derrick tossing through their luggage with an air of purpose while Noah, across the hall, assured them, “I ain’t putting on no tie for no stupid social worker! You can’t make me!”

“Cici told us,” Paul assured Lindsay as she passed. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it under control.”

“Found it!” declared Derrick, holding up a red tie triumphantly.

“You . . . ” Bridget grabbed Derrick’s arm and propelled him toward the stairs. “Go downstairs and be charming. You . . .” She pushed Paul toward Noah’s room. “Do what you can to make him presentable. No tie!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried past.

Within ten minutes Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay came back down the stairs wearing jeans and sweaters, their hair brushed and their lipstick applied, with smiles that were as hastily applied as their makeup. The two social workers were sipping coffee in the living room, where Derrick’s charm was having a good effect on Carrie, but left the older woman utterly unmoved. He had managed to get a fire started in the fireplace from last night’s embers, and the dancing glow was beginning to dispel some of the room’s gloom.

“Noah will be down in a minute,” Lindsay said pleasantly, smoothing her hands on her jeans as she sat down in one of the wing chairs across from the social workers. “Things are always a little hectic around here in the morning.”

“But not usually as hectic as this,” Cici assured them quickly. “You see we stayed up late . . .”

“Yes, your friend was just explaining that,” Carrie said.

“We don’t get to see each other very often,” Lindsay added.

“Ladies, may I refill your cups?” offered Derrick, half standing.

Mrs. Boynton put her cup deliberately on the coffee table and took up her clipboard, ignoring him. Carrie covered her cup with her hand, smiling her refusal.

Lindsay said, “I’m not shy, if you’re pouring.”

Mrs. Boynton sat straight in her chair, shoulders square and not touching the back. Her formal tone and stern expression matched her posture as she announced, “The purpose of this visit is to inspect the premises on which the minor child resides, and to assess his living situation for the purpose of judging its suitability. We will be interviewing all members of the household, as well as the child.” She turned with a militarylike precision to Derrick. “Do you live in the home?”

Derrick paused in the process of passing Lindsay a cup of coffee. “I live,” he replied distinctly, “in Baltimore.”

She made a notation on her clipboard.

Carrie said apologetically, “We really just need to confirm a few things.”

“Why isn’t the child in school?” Mrs. Boynton wanted to know.

“He
is
in school,” Lindsay returned, a trifle indignantly. “Three hours a day, six days a week.”

Carrie added quickly. “Homeschooling was approved by the department and by the school board, and Lindsay is a certified teacher with twenty years’ classroom experience.”

The supervisor gave a disapproving “Hmph” and made another notation on her clipboard. She turned a page. “I see here that guardianship is shared by Reverend and Mrs. Stewart Holland. Why doesn’t the child live with them?”

Lindsay blinked. “Why—because I’m his teacher. It’s more convenient for him to stay here.”

“Besides,” added Bridget, “we have a bigger house, and the animals, and Noah likes to work outside . . .”

“And because he prefers to stay here,” Cici said with an air of simple finality.

For the first time a smile ghosted Mrs. Boynton’s lips. It was not a pretty sight. “One never wants to make the mistake of assuming that what a child prefers is in his best interests, Mrs. . . .” She checked her notes, searching for Cici’s name.

“Burke,” said Cici coolly. “And it’s Ms.”

“I wonder,” continued Mrs. Boynton, “whether the good reverend approves of your”—she slanted a glance toward Derrick—“lifestyle.”

Derrick’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?” Cici asked, as she raised herself to her full height of five foot, eight inches.

“Noah!” Carrie’s face flooded with relief as she looked over Cici’s shoulder. “Come in and join us, please.”

Noah stood at the entrance to the living room, his expression thunderous. Lori stood a few inches behind him, and it looked as though she had pushed or dragged him all the way. Even as they watched, Lori gave him a little shove from behind, which he returned with a backward thrust of his elbow that just missed her ribs.

He was wearing jeans which, though worn and fashionably frayed in some places, were at least clean. The pale pink cashmere sweater he wore, although tucked and pleated to its best fit, clearly was not his, and neither was the Oxford shirt with the maroon stripe and open French cuffs that were stylishly folded up over the sleeves of the sweater. Noah had, apparently, won the battle of the tie. His hair was wet and slicked back with a comb, and on his feet he wore mud- and manure-stained running shoes without laces. No socks.

Paul appeared behind the two young people with his hands and eyebrows raised in a helpless gesture. Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay smiled at him gratefully.

“Noah,” Lindsay said steadily, “you look very nice. Come in and sit down. These ladies would like to talk to you.”

Noah just stood there scowling. “This ain’t my sweater.”

Carrie said, “We were just talking about your schoolwork, Noah. I understand you’re doing very well.”

He said, “I ain’t talking to you.”

Mrs. Boynton said briskly, “Young man, come inside this minute and sit down. We have some questions for you. Ladies . . .” She swept her eyes around until they rested on Derrick. “And gentlemen,” she added precisely, “if you’ll excuse us.”

Derrick departed with obvious relief; the ladies a bit more reluctantly, each one touching Noah’s arm or straightening his collar or patting his shoulder as they passed by. They all met up in the hall on the way to the kitchen.

“The old one has lizard eyes,” Lori said with a mock shudder. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for that kid.”

“She doesn’t have any eyebrows, did you notice?” Derrick whispered.

“Not to mention a sense of humor,” said Bridget.

“Tell me about it. I’m the one who had to try to make conversation for half an eternity before you came down. Silas Marner was more fun.”

“Thanks for getting Noah cleaned up and downstairs, Paul,” Bridget said.

“I could only do so much with the raw material,” Paul admitted regretfully.

“I must say,” Derrick commented in his customary dry way, “you girls do lead colorful lives. Do be sure to invite us back real soon.”

Cici returned a weak smile as she pushed open the door to the kitchen and leaned against it to allow the others to pass. “I think I’m starting to remember why we don’t entertain anymore,” she said.

Hoping that the aroma of good things baking would have the same effect on cranky social workers that it did on prospective home buyers—which was why Cici had never shown a home without first sprinkling a little vanilla flavoring or cinnamon on a hot burner—Bridget and Ida Mae got busy whipping up a batch of muffins. But before the oven even preheated, Lori—who had volunteered to spy on the proceedings in the living room—came scurrying back to report, “They’re coming! You won’t believe it—he didn’t say a word! They kept asking him questions and he kept not answering until I guess they got tired of wasting their time. I guess he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to talk to them.”

As one, Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay groaned out loud.

Cici volunteered to take the social workers on a tour of the house while Noah, jerking Paul’s cashmere sweater over his head, stalked off to his room. Before the tour even made it up the stairs, he was barreling back down again, wearing his own sweatshirt and coat. “Goin’ to the barn,” he muttered as he shoved past, and was out the front door.

They looked into all the rooms and made notes. They asked about daily schedules and the division of labor. They refused muffins. They talked to Lori, to Ida Mae, and to each of the women separately. Finally Mrs. Boynton said crisply, “I think we have all we need. Ladies, you’ll be hearing from our office.”

Bridget, Cici, and Lindsay walked them to the door. Carrie lingered as the older woman went to the car. “I am so sorry,” she said, her expression distressed. “But since it was a court case, they had to send a supervisor.”

Lindsay asked seriously, “Are we in trouble? I mean . . . do you think she’ll try to take Noah away?”

Carrie hesitated. “I think there may be some concerns,” she admitted. Then she gave them a reassuring smile. “But in the end I’m sure she’ll see this is the best possible situation for Noah at the moment. After all, this is a very small county and, well, there simply aren’t that many foster homes available.” Again a pause before she added, “We might have to rethink the homeschooling, though.”

“We promised Noah he wouldn’t have to go to public school,” Bridget said.

“The public school doesn’t have an art program,” Lindsay objected.

Cici said, “Carrie, this is the longest he’s ever stayed anywhere without running away. We’re starting to make some real progress. It would be a shame to give up now. Can’t you see what you can do about keeping things stable for him a little while longer?”

Carrie smiled and squeezed her hand. “Of course I will. I’m on your side, remember?”

She opened the door and looked back over her shoulder. “It certainly would have helped if he had at least
talked
to us, though,” she said.

Lindsay leaned against the door and closed her eyes. “I am going to strangle that kid.”

“Not until after breakfast,” Bridget said, and linked her arm through hers. “Come on. We have company, remember?”

“You ain’t gonna invite them sour biddies to breakfast, are you?” Ida Mae demanded as she took the breakfast casserole out of the oven.

“Oh, yes, please, tell us you didn’t invite the sour biddies,” Paul said. He and Derrick, as at home in the Ladybug kitchen as they were in their own, were pouring orange juice into stemmed glasses and arranging them on the kitchen table, which was already set with bright yellow Fiesta ware and tangerine napkins. The hickory wood table, which was arranged in a nook beside the raised kitchen fireplace, was the coziest place in the house.

Lindsay made a face at him in reply to his remark, and he added, “I hope the kitchen table is okay for breakfast. We thought it would be cheerier than the dining room.”

Ida Mae grumbled, “I didn’t think no such thing. Decent folk use the dining room when they’ve got company.”

Derrick gave her a playful one-armed hug as he passed. “We’re not company, Ida Mae. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

She pretended annoyance as she shrugged way from his embrace and set the casserole down with a clunk on the center island beside a colorful bowl of fruit salad and a basket of muffins. “Ya’ll’re gonna have to serve yourselves from the counter,” she told them.

“You’re right, Paul,” Bridget declared, picking up her plate. “The kitchen table is cheerier. And if there’s one thing this house needs right now it’s a little cheer.”

“It’s funny,” Cici said, “but as much trouble as he is, and impossible as he can be sometimes, I’d really miss that kid if he were gone. I don’t want them to place him somewhere else.”

“I guess you never know how much someone really means to you until you’re faced with losing him,” Lindsay agreed somberly.

Lori took up her own plate. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t understand what you’re all so upset about. I thought Noah was only supposed to stay here temporarily, anyway. Isn’t that what temporary guardianship means? Maybe he’d be better off with the preacher and his wife.”

Cici gave her a look. “Don’t you take this the wrong way,” she told her daughter, “but go out to the barn and tell Noah to come to breakfast.”

“My eggs will get cold!”

“They will if you don’t hurry.”

With a huffing breath, Lori put down her plate, snatched up a muffin, and left the room.

“Put your coat on!” Cici called after her.