Hens and Chickens (16 page)

Hobart ruffled her short black hair. “Thanks for listening,” he said, awkwardly. “I never thought I’d tell that story to anybody, except maybe my Dad someday.”

“You’re a special guy, Mike Hobart,” Lila said. Her eyes glowed openly with admiration. She took his hand affectionately.

“Aw, I’m not that great,” he said. “I’m just a regular Maine guy.” Nevertheless, he was pleased. He toyed with her hand, and his heart began to sing.

“Well, you’re not like any guy I’ve ever known!”

“My Dad’s been a big influence in my life. Now,
he’s
a special guy!”

“Is he still alive?”

“Oh, yeah; Dad is very much alive!”

Lila felt a deep stirring of grief as Hobart spoke of his father. His words brought to her mind memories of her own beloved father, who had died when she was five years old. She had loved him; and she had lost him. Life was so fleeting! One minute her father was alive, like Hobart’s deer, and the next minute he was gone; bringing to an end to life as she knew it—including her innocent childhood.

She trembled at the memories of what had followed on the heels of her father’s death.
I will not let it affect me! I CAN do this!

But not tonight.

“It’s been a lovely evening, Mike,” she said, pulling apart from him with regret. “I don’t want to end it, but I think I should go home now. I’ve got a lot to do before my chickens arrive. Plus Rebecca’s coming on Wednesday!”

Hobart experienced a sudden letdown. He had been hoping for … what? A kiss, maybe? But he had told Lila that he would allow her to set the pace and tone of their relationship, and he would honor that decision.

“No problem,” he said, easily. He regrouped himself and fastened his seatbelt. Before he put the vehicle in gear, however, he scrutinized her closely. Once again he was reminded of an abandoned chick, searching for its mother. “Don’t forget what I told you earlier,” he reminded her. “If you ever need someone to listen to
your
deep dark secrets; I’m available.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. But I think I’ve had enough tears for one evening!”

“Me too,” he admitted. “Me too!”

Lila tittered, her peculiar chickadee-like laugh that he loved to hear, and once again all was right with the world.

Chapter 15

The New Arrivals

Lila was not exaggerating when she told the Gilpins she was depending upon Rebecca to manage the domestic affairs of the household as well as the business side of
The Egg
Ladies
. She had been so busy working with Mike Hobart to prepare the hen pen for the arrival of the chickens, that she had barely given the house a second thought.  Piles of magazines and poultry catalogs were stacked up like plates on the kitchen table and some had followed her like friendly pets into the living room. Lila had transformed the dining room into a make-shift office, and here her laptop and other office accoutrements were holding court on the rectangular oak dining room table. Lila’s clothes and personal items were confined to her bedroom, however, that was also the only room (except the bathroom) she had even thoroughly cleaned before taking occupation, which was now nearly six weeks ago.

“Place ain’t changed much,” Wendell said when he visited Lila on Monday morning to check on the time the laying hens would arrive the following day. He surveyed the kitchen and peeked around the corner into the great room, a combination living-dining room. “Good thing I took the newspapers off the furniture so’s you’d have some place to sit down.”

“You mean, so I’d have a place to put more stuff,” Lila said. “I know that’s what you’re really thinking, Wendell. But don’t worry, Rebecca is a GREAT housekeeper. She’ll have me whipped into shape in no time!” 

“Wal, you know—it’s
yore
house,” Wendell replied. “I’m jest glad to have someone livin’ heah agin.” A bashful look came over his good-natured face. “When do you expect yore little friend?”

“Who?” Lila asked. She was not used to hearing the pleasingly plump Rebecca referred to as ‘little’ and at first didn’t know to whom he was referring.

“Yore
little friend
.”

 “Oh, REBECCA!” Lila said, catching on. “Wednesday afternoon, thank goodness! Her daughter Amber and some friends are driving the rental truck up with all of her stuff, and Becca’s following in the car with her cat.”

“Wal, you know, if you need some help, jest let me know,” Wendell offered. “I ain’t as shaap as I used to be, but I kin still help.” Lila’s cell phone rang and Wendell headed for the kitchen door to let himself out.

“Remember, the hens arrive at 10 a.m.,” she called after him, as she picked up her phone.

Wendell paused and grinned. “I’ll be ovah!” he replied. “Wouldn’t miss it for a second helping of Ma Jean’s blackberry pie!”

On the phone was Miss Hastings who was also following up on Rebecca’s imminent arrival. Lila filled her friend and neighbor in on the details, and then reminded her of the big day tomorrow. “Don’t forget, Mike’s going to pick you up around 9:30,” she said; “so you’ll be here in plenty of time to see the chickens!”

“Dahrrrling, I’ll be there with bells on!” Miss Hastings said. “I’ve got my best duds all laid out, ready to roll!”

For some reason, however, Mike Hobart showed up at the old Russell homestead an hour earlier than scheduled. Lila, who had been excitedly bringing her followers on Twitter up to date with the latest on
The Egg Ladies
, was freshly showered but still dressed in her bathrobe. Her wet hair, slicked back behind her ears, looked blacker than ever and once again reminded Hobart, when she opened the door, of a chickadee’s cap.

Lila’s heart fluttered wildly at the sight of him. “This is awkward,” she said, pulling the pink fuzzy robe closer about her slender frame to keep out the damp chill from the April morning.

“Not for me,” Hobart replied. “But I can see how Wendell might be embarrassed.”

“You’re an hour early, Mike!”

“Yes, but I would have been an hour
late
if I hadn’t run into the truck driver with your chickens asking for directions here while I was getting my coffee at Gilpin’s.”

“Omigod! He’s HERE already?!”

“On the way up the hill, even as we speak. Why don’t you call Wendell while I run up and get Miss Hastings. Oh, and you might want to put some clothes on, darling.”

Lila shut the door, totally flummoxed.
The chickens are finally here!
she thought, doing a little dance on the way to the bedroom. But it was when she was dressing that she registered the
other
reason why her heart was singing.
Did he just call me DARLING?

The farmer from whom Lila had purchased the laying hens turned into her driveway only moments after she’d pulled on her Muck™ boots. She dashed outside and directed him to back the truck up to the lower entrance to the hen pen. The chickens, New Hampshire reds, were confined in wire cages stacked three-deep on the truck. Despite being packed generously, only four to a cage, the chickens were understandably excited by their trip up from southern Maine and squawked and jostled for position as though they were passengers on the Titanic.

“Hey, girls! Welcome home!” Lila called to the hens at large. She laughed happily. “Omigod, I didn’t know you were so big!”

While the truck backed up, Wendell ambled over the mushy spring ground from Bud’s place in a gait slightly faster than usual. He pulled his plastic comb quickly through his hair in a final finish to his morning toilet and returned it to the back pocket of his jeans. “Ain’t they shaap-lookin’,” he said to Lila, in a voice loud enough to override the cacophony of cackling chickens.

“You think so?” asked Lila, eagerly, seeking reassurance from the veteran chicken farmer. “They don’t look too beat up by the trip?”

“Nah, they git ovah thet pretty quick,” he said. The truck came to a stop four feet from the lower entrance and Wendell leaned in to examine the birds more closely. “They’re jest the size they should be for one year olds,” he said; “and they still got plenty of good color.” He directed Lila’s attention to a particular hen in the cage nearest to them. “Course you want to see thet yellow in them legs; means they still got a lot of egg-layin’ left in ‘em.”

Before the hens were unloaded Lila dutifully paid the farmer, who scribbled her out a receipt on the back of an old grain slip he scrounged up from his truck. By that time, Hobart had returned with Miss Hastings, dressed in her Sunday best.

Miss Hastings was as excited as Lila. “Dahrrrling, I’m so happy for you!” she exclaimed, squeezing Lila’s hand. “I knew you’d be much better off up here with us than staying at that stuffy old insurance agency in Boston!”

Miss Hastings’ words momentarily transported Lila back to that February morning when Rebecca had been fired and she’d walked out on Joe Kelly. It seemed a lifetime ago to her now. “You were soo right about that!” she said.

Mike Hobart and the farmer ferried the 25 cages of chickens into the hen pen, where Wendell cheerfully released one bird at a time, tossing them lightly into the rejuvenated coop. Hobart had completely rebuilt most of the nest boxes, and Lila had covered the boxes with a white primer and then painted the entire hen pen with a red-mite paint that was approved for certified organic use. Four new galvanized poultry feeders hung down from the high ceiling like stalactites and were strategically situated near the grain chutes for easy refilling. Two large waterers rose up like stalagmites from the floor of the coop, which was now ankle-deep in a pine-scented mixture of organic sawdust and sweet straw that MOGG regulations required.

After the farmer departed, the four friends gathered in the hen pen with mutual satisfaction to watch the birds adapt to their new home. The newly-liberated red chickens fluttered and
squawked
and flew a short distance about the hen pen before flapping to the ground or alighting onto the spruce polls that Hobart had installed in a raised, theatre-seat style for the roosts. The feathers on the large-breasted birds were a consistent chestnut color, except for the short tail feathers, which looked as though they had been dipped in a pail of black paint.

“What DAHRRRLING birds!” said Miss Hastings, who – not much taller than the poultry waterer and dressed in a fringed yellow shawl – looked much like a chicken herself.

“New Hampshire reds are not the best egg-layers,” Lila confided to Miss Hastings; “they’re more of a dual-purpose breed, both egg AND meat. But they were the only organic flock I could find that was for sale.”

Miss Hastings patted Lila’s hand reassuringly. “They are simply wonderful, dahrrrling; WONDERFUL!”

“Ayuh, you done good,” agreed Wendell. “And look! – you got one settin’ in a nest box already!”

As Wendell pointed out the lone setting hen to Miss Hastings, Mike Hobart took the opportunity of the diversion to lean over and place a light kiss on the nape of Lila’s neck. She shivered at the featherweight touch of his lips. “Good job, darling,” he whispered.

Lila’s face flushed with pride. Tears of joy filled her eyes. She brushed them away with her hand, and sniveled slightly.

“What, no handkerchief?” he said, searching his jacket pockets for his replacement blue bandanna. “This is getting to be a regular habit.”

No further work occurred during the rest of the day, which seemed like a merry holiday to Lila. The four friends celebrated the arrival of the chickens by going out to lunch at Ma Jean’s restaurant, where they cheerfully shared the particulars of the day’s event with several other interested patrons. Word passed around quickly that
The Egg Ladies
of Sovereign, Maine, was now open for business. After lunch, each went their separate way. Hobart dropped Miss Hastings at her house, then proceeded down to Troy to put together a quote on a post and beam horse barn for a family named Shorey. Wendell went back to Bud’s place to work on one of his many tinkering projects.

Lila herself spent most of the afternoon in the hen pen, observing her chickens and photographing them so that she could post new pictures to Twitter. She had provided herself in advance with a small, red plastic pail half-filled with organic scratch corn, and soon found herself overrun with the friendly, clucking creatures.

“Whoa! Hold up—there’s plenty for everyone!
There’s plenty for everyone!
” she cried, feeling like a Mardi Gras float participant dispensing loot as she tossed handfuls of coarsely-ground corn to the milling hens.

Lila hardly slept that night, so eager was she for the arrival of Rebecca to complete
The
Egg Ladies
operation. Although Lila had missed her best friend, she also recognized how much she had matured during this time that she had been making her own way in Sovereign. She slept with the bedroom window open several inches – as she had slept every night since the dinner party at Maude’s – and since that evening, as Mike Hobart had predicted, the initial solitary peeps from the tree frogs had swelled exponentially into the soothing sound of distant sleigh bells.

Rebecca and the caravan from Massachusetts arrived mid-afternoon the next day. The two friends hugged, and exchanged warm greetings.

“I’m soo glad you’re here, Becca!” Lila enthused.

“I can’t
wait
to see the house again!” said Rebecca, her pretty face flushed with excitement. “But Amber just wants to see her new bedroom!”

“You get your pick of three upstairs rooms,” said Lila, turning to Rebecca’s young daughter. Amber, a slim 21-year-old with gorgeous waist-length hair the burnt-brown color of her mother’s, was accompanied by two female college classmates. “I haven’t been beyond the bottom of the stairs since your mother was here,” Lila added.

“Oh, my goodness!” said Rebecca. “That was quite a while ago!”

“Eggs-actly,” joked Lila.

Lila respectfully restrained herself as Rebecca gave Amber and her friends a thorough tour of their new home. Rebecca pointed out highlights from every room, such as the huge soapstone sink in the kitchen, the white porcelain claw foot tub in the bathroom, and, of course, the precious copy of Grammie Addie’s cookbook shelved in the kitchen cupboard just like in Addie’s time. Rebecca’s pretty blue eyes shone with proprietary pride as the young people “Oh-d” and “Ah-d” over the antique farmhouse and all of its comfortable furnishings.