At Home on Ladybug Farm (22 page)

They listened to the knock on the door, the
clop-clop-clop
of Mrs. Blackwell’s sturdy black heels as they crossed the polished pine floors. The door opening. A murmur of voices.

“The girls are at church,” Marilee said on an exhaled breath, for of course it had to be for one of them. As much as she loved them, it had to be for one of them. It couldn’t be for Penny, her dearest friend, who had stayed behind today to see her off; not Penny, please God, not Penny.

Penny’s hand slipped into hers. It felt hot, feverish, even. “It doesn’t have to mean . . .” Her voice sounded as though it was filled with dust, cracking and strained. “It could be something else. Telegrams come all the time. It could be something else.”

The door closed. Steps crossed the floor again
. Make him go away, it’s no one here, please make him go away.

And then the steps started up the stairs.

Marilee looked at Penny, stricken. She felt small fingers tighten on hers. Penny’s blue eyes had turned dark, and she seemed to shrink within her skin.

Heavy black heels on the landing. Fingernails dug into Marilee’s palm. And then Mrs. Blackwell was at the door to their room; her stern, reserved features unrevealing, her shoulders straight in black broadcloth, her eyes still.

“Mrs. Hodge,” she said gently, “will you come with me, please? There is a telegram for you.”

The quilt slipped from Marilee’s clutches and pooled around her feet. She heard Penny stifle a sob at her side. Her hand left Penny’s and somehow found its way into the cool, dry grip of Emily Blackwell’s.

Marilee walked down the stairs, and took the telegram. Then she sat on the sofa between Mitch Crane and Emily Blackwell, and, with eyes that were dry and a heart that was bleeding, observed the amenities.

12

The Art of Parenting

Spring returned to Ladybug Farm. Baby lettuces formed straight green rows behind the garden fence, punctuated by the feathery tops of carrots and radishes. Spring peas sprang up overnight and began to climb the rope trellises that Bridget and Noah had built for them, their dainty white flowers promising an abundant harvest to come. Bridget set pots of herbs on the stone patio to soak up the sun, and Lindsay worked bonemeal into the soil of the rose garden, underplanting the beds with fragrant thyme and pale gray lamb’s ear.

The sheep gradually began to lose their pinkness to a soft thatch of baby white wool, and the pear trees, recovering from the late freeze, unfurled their snowy blossoms like lace parasols. Baby leaves of yellow green and emerald, gray green and lime green, ruby and pink, erupted on near and distant branches, and bluebirds, chickadees, and a magnificent display of yellow finches hopped hungrily back and forth between the nearest trees and Bridget’s feeders.

Once again the fireplaces were cleaned, the woodboxes emptied, the hearths swept. They touched up the winter-worn paint on the porches and scrubbed down the outdoor furniture. They raked up the last of winter’s debris and planted yellow and purple pansies in the flower beds. And the day before Easter Sunday, Lori donned hip boots borrowed from Farley, elbow-length rubber gloves borrowed from her mother’s workshop, and, armed with a shovel and a rake, waded into the murky black depths of the pool in the back garden.

“Bless her heart,” Bridget said, watching from the back porch. “She’s been at it all morning. You couldn’t pay me in gold to do that job.”

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for her,” Cici warned, peeling the striped cover off a wicker love seat. “And don’t take her any cookies either.”

“Gee, I’m glad you’re not my mom.”

“Let’s keep our eye on the prize,” Cici reminded Bridget. “Lori wants to work on a farm, so she’s going to get to
work
on a farm.”

Bridget grimaced as Lori dug her rake deep into the murk and brought up a glob of dripping black weed, some of which splattered onto her hair and face as she tossed it into a waiting wheelbarrow. She had already carted a half dozen similarly loaded wheelbarrows to the compost pile.

“Well, I can’t watch anymore.” Bridget turned toward the door. “I’m going to check the mail. Did you—”

The back door opened and Lindsay stood there, looking unsettled. “I just talked to Carrie,” she said, and both women immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to her. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I broke down and called her. She said that Noah’s case has been marked ‘pending further investigation. ’ ” A worried frown creased her brow. “What do you think that means?”

Cici tried to sound confident. “It sounds like a bureaucratic stamp to me. I’m sure it just means they haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Sure,” Bridget added reassuringly. They probably just haven’t finished the paperwork.”

“They might have to do some more interviews,” Cici suggested. “You know, talk to people around town, and don’t forget the Reverend and Mrs. Holland. They’re the ones vouching for this living arrangement, so what they say will carry a lot of weight.”

“Which is exactly why Noah will be sitting in the front row on Easter Sunday wearing a coat
and
a tie and scrubbed to within an inch of his life,” Lindsay assured them. “And,” she added, “it’s also why I just invited the illustrious pastor and his wife to Easter dinner tomorrow.”

Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. “I’d better tell Ida Mae. She’ll want to polish the silver.”

“Like there’s any silver left she hasn’t polished?” Cici quipped. “But you’d better remind her to drape a tablecloth over the liquor cabinet. Baptists don’t approve of drinking.”

“I doubt they approve of three single women having two gay men as overnight guests in their home, either,” Bridget ventured uncertainly.

“I thought we wouldn’t mention that,” said Lindsay, but she, too, sounded uneasy.

“The Hollands like us, though. And why shouldn’t they? We’re nice people.”

“And we never miss a service,” Bridget added.

“Or turn down a committee,” said Lindsay.

“Which reminds me. I promised to bring cinnamon rolls to the sunrise breakfast in the morning,” Bridget said, turning toward the house. “And I know Ida Mae is going to want to use the good damask tablecloth if the preacher is coming. Now I’ve got to find it.”

“I think it has a wine stain on it from Christmas,” Lindsay called after her.

“We’ll tell them it’s cranberry sauce!”

As the screen door closed behind her, Cici said seriously, “What you really need to do is have a talk with Noah. You know how he is about authority figures, and he’s not all that wild about the Hollands in the first place.”

“Don’t worry, that’s number one on my agenda.” She glanced at her watch. “Where is he, anyway? His placement tests are coming up soon and we have a study session scheduled this morning.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Cici said, and admitted, “I’ve been too busy watching Lori.”

“Oh, that poor child.” Lindsay winced as she watched Lori trundle another leaking wheelbarrow full of debris toward the compost pile behind the barn. “I hope she doesn’t get a disease, fooling around in all that muck.”

“It was your idea,” Cici reminded her sternly.

“I know. But maybe we should offer to help.”

“What is it with you and Bridget?” demanded Cici in exasperation. “You never heard of tough love?”

Lindsay gave a shake of her head. “All right, I promise I won’t do your only child any favors. But I think I will go try to find Noah, if you don’t mind. If I’m going to get him whipped into shape by tomorrow, I’d better get started.”

“I thought this was a smoke-free workplace.”

Noah whirled around guiltily to see Lori standing with her hands on her hips. He jerked the iPod earbuds from his ears and scowled, as he casually stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the barn door, then ground it underfoot—making sure that the evidence was buried in the mud. “You gonna tell on me?” he demanded.

Lori shrugged irritably and took up the handles of the empty wheelbarrow. “I’m not your mama. Besides, I’ve got better things to do with my time than babysit you.”

He followed her around the corner of the barn and across the yard, watching as she picked up the shovel and waded back down into the water.

“Any old catfish in that pond?”

“Why don’t you get down in here and see?” She swung a shovel full of debris that barely missed covering his shoes.

Noah pretended nonchalance as he stepped out of the way. “You’re going about it all wrong, you know. You need a pump.”

“You can’t put a pump in here until you clean out all the trash, smarty-pants,” Lori said.

“Shows what a girl knows. You put the pump on a rock or something, pump out all the water, then you scoop out the trash. Farley said he’d rent you one for ten dollars.”

Lori scowled, wondering how he knew these things. “I heard him. But I’m going to buy my own. We’ll need it to run the fountain.”

“What fountain?”

“The fountain that’s in here somewhere beneath all this garbage.”

“What makes you think there’s a fountain?”

She didn’t reply, but the answer dawned on him, anyway. “Because of that picture of mine?”

She couldn’t tell if he was flattered or incredulous, and then it didn’t matter because he let out a whoop of laughter. “That was a hundred years ago!”

She glared at him. “So?”

“So, that’s dumb, is all. Where’re you going to get the money?”

“For what?”

“The pump.”

“My dad’s Am-Ex.”

When he did not respond she looked up and explained patiently, “American Express credit card.”

He scowled at her. “I know what it is. All spoiled rich kids have them.”

Lori returned his scowl fiercely. “Do I look like a spoiled rich kid to you?”

At that moment Lindsay called, “Noah! You’re supposed to be at your desk!”

As Noah turned toward her voice, Lori’s feet slipped on the slimy pond bottom and she splashed backward into the murk.

Lori came up, gasping and sputtering and wiping black goo off her face and out of her hair while Lindsay raced toward her and Noah doubled over with laughter.

“No,” he said, as Lindsay helped Lori out of the pond, “you sure don’t look like a spoiled rich kid to me.”

Three showers and one frizzy-haired blow-dry later, Lori felt clean enough to go into town. Her clothes, on the other hand, would have to be destroyed.

She braided her hair to tame the worst of the flyaways, donned clean jeans and a T-shirt, and borrowed her mother’s car. It occurred to her that the kid might be right: If she elevated the pump above the level of the debris it might actually make the job easier to pump the water out first, and then clean the bottom of the pond. She did, however, hope he would keep his mouth shut about her intent to buy a pump. She had an unspoken agreement with her mom about acceptable uses of the American Express card: emergencies, yes; books and other school supplies, definitely; clothes, music downloads, shoes, makeup, and miscellaneous necessities of life—debatable. Household improvements, never.

But this was different. This was important.

Walking into Family Hardware was like walking back in time. The town of Blue Valley, a thirty-minute drive from Ladybug Farm, was little more than a village presided over by two tall-steepled churches, Methodist on one corner and Baptist on the other. Smack in the middle of the two of them was Family Hardware and Sundries, where you could buy anything from a penny nail, which actually cost a penny, to an antique chif forobe. In between were lightbulbs, cinnamon sticks in big jars, insect repellents, camping equipment, garden hoses, Norman Rockwell prints, dog collars, baby diapers, and scented candles—and that was just on the front display.

“Good afternoon, Miss Lori,” Jonesie, the proprietor, greeted her as she came in. “Don’t you look like sunshine today? Everything okay out at your place?”

Lori beamed. She loved the way he always remembered her name, even though she’d only been in a few times before with her mom or Bridget. And she loved the way he said, “your place,” as though she belonged there. “Hi, Jonesie. I’m looking for a . . . oh my goodness!”