A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [22]
“Left,” Bridget advised, standing back as they positioned the sign in the midst of the weeds where the drive met the road. “No, left and back about three feet. It’s too close to the driveway.”
“There’s a big rock.”
“Leave room for the flower bed.”
“How about here?”
“It’s crooked. Go back a little.”
“There’s a ditch there!”
“Wait, I can do this . . .”
Straddling the ditch, Lindsay held the sign while Cici hammered it into the ground. “We’ll set it in cement later,” Cici said, and they joined Bridget to admire their work.
Cut in a sweeping scroll design, the sign was painted pastel yellow and decorated with three bright ladybugs. In flowing script, the lettering said, Welcome to Ladybug Farm.
The three shared a grin and a high five, and hurried back to their cars.
They had seen the house in November for a final walk-through before finalizing their offer, but had not been back since. They pulled their three cars in a semicircle in front of the house and got out one by one. They stood there for a moment in silence, taking it all in.
The good news was that the surroundings were even more beautiful in the spring than they had been in August when they had first toured the house. Baby grass the color of a chiffon ball gown swept in graceful arcs and curves around the house, and the red clover and yellow dandelions that dotted it were like colorful embroidery. The pear trees in the orchard were covered in snowy blossoms, and the apple trees were just beginning to show their pink flowers. The giant tulip poplars that surrounded the house were alight in brilliant green, and the big white flowers for which the trees were named were just beginning to unfurl. There was a crazy quilt of purple Siberian iris and bright yellow daffodils spilling across the path that led to the dairy, and the dairy itself was draped in purple clusters of fragrant wisteria. Wild dogwoods dotted the face of the distant mountains, which faded from dark to light in shades of blue and green.
The bad news was that winter had not been kind, either to the house or the yard. A hickory branch, big enough to be a small tree, had fallen on the barn, taking out part of the roof and one of the loft doors. A pile of sodden leaves and a network of thorny vines had blown onto the front porch, and mossy green mildew decorated the railings. The paint on the steps had flaked up in huge hunks, and there was more wood showing on the white columns than paint. The multigabled roof of the house had an odd, patchy appearance, and it took them a moment to realize that that was because quite a few of the clay tiles were missing. Rows of naked windows gazed down upon them like so many empty, forlorn eyes. A panel of torn screen on the little side porch flapped forlornly in the breeze.
Dead vines clung to the brick chimney and stretched their parasitic fingers toward the upstairs windows. As Lindsay’s dismayed eyes followed the path of the vines upward, she was struck by something odd. “Look at that,” she said, pointing.
“Look at what?”
“That top window there. The curtain is closed.”
“So it is.”
“But it wasn’t a minute ago.”
Bridget and Cici looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. When we first got out of the car all the windows were open. Now that one has a curtain over it. What is that, anyway, the attic? Someone must be in there.”
Cici thought about that for a minute, then shrugged. “Probably just a ghost.”
“Maybe it was Maggie,” Bridget suggested. The real estate agent had promised to meet them there to do a walk-through of the house and review some of the general maintenance and operating procedures.
“Well,” Cici said, rubbing her hands together with forced enthusiasm, “the movers are going to be here at two, and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Kitchen