A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [105]
Both women dropped their hands and looked at her, stunned. The wind-rouged spots of color on their faces suddenly seemed a stark contrast against paler skin.
“He . . .” Lindsay cleared her throat. “The dad, that is, was found a few feet away, dead from smoke inhalation. It looked as though he tried to get out, but too late.”
“Dear God,” said Bridget softly. “How awful.”
Cici said, “Noah?”
Again Lindsay cleared her throat. “Apparently he’s been living at a campground not too far away. The sheriff tracked him down to tell him about his father, and tried to get Noah to come to one of the shelters. But he ran away.” She stopped and shook her head fiercely as though trying to free herself of the images inside her head. “What kind of place is this anyway? Alcoholics left to burn to death in their trailers, children living in campgrounds . . .”
Cici and Bridget enfolded her in their arms, but no one knew what to say. And when Lindsay, furiously scrubbing hot tears out of her eyes, muttered, “I hate this place,” they didn’t know what to say to that, either.
Thanksgiving was fast approaching, but none of them was very interested. Bridget’s children hoped to make the trip to Virginia for Christmas, but Kevin had to work and Katie really couldn’t afford it; they hoped she understood. In fact, Bridget was relieved. A small turkey, soaked in bourbon and served with sausage dressing, would be fine for just the three of them. Ida Mae had already made the pecan pies.
Lindsay raked leaves and stacked kindling and pruned trees with a ladder. Bridget painted trim and tied up grapevines and spread bale after bale of hay over the frozen muddy meadow. The days were short and dark and filled, not with things they wanted to do, but with things they had to do. All of them were cold and tired, and in the backs of their minds, teasing and dancing like a playful imp, was the knowledge that, in little over a month, their contract would expire. Not that any of them seriously considered reneging on the deal.
Not really.
But a restlessness was rising within them like an arctic wind, fueled by disappointment, discouragement, and uncertainty. It was not something they could define or contain, or even understand most of the time. What had begun as a grand adventure was not so much fun anymore, and the cold, gray twilight came earlier every day. No one talked about it. But they didn’t sit on the porch anymore, and most nights, gathered around the fireplace, they were too tired to talk at all.
And then, two days before Thanksgiving, something happened that changed everything.
In the unwritten Rules of Sisterhood, there are very few occasions upon which it is acceptable to lie to your best friend. When she accidentally waxes off an eyebrow an hour before her dinner party, for example, of course you tell her that, as long as she combs her bangs down, no one will notice. When looking into the face of her newborn infant whose squashed-down features remind you of something from the cast of Alien, or after listening to her eight-year-old butcher the violin for two hours at his first recital, everyone can agree that discretion is always the better part of valor. However, Lindsay was almost certain that making a date to meet an old boyfriend for lunch was not among those Acceptable Occasions for Lying to Your Best Friends. And she was still not entirely certain why she had done it.
Nonetheless, when Shep called, she had barely even hesitated. She put on a skirt, swept up her hair, dug out earrings from the bottom of her jewelry box. She used hand lotion and shaved her legs. She told Cici and Bridget that she was going to Charlottesville to get an early start on her Christmas shopping, and she even hid a pair of high heels in her purse so that she could change when she got in the car. And then she went to Staunton to have lunch with Shep.
They met in a little street-front restaurant with chintz tablecloths and waitresses wearing Battenburg lace aprons, and were seated