A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [26]
“Oh, Bridge, your mother’s Baccarat,” Lindsay said reverently, holding hers with both hands. “You don’t even use these at Christmas.”
“First of all, this is a much more important occasion than Christmas,” she said, settling down beside them. “And secondly, that’s going to change. No more saving the good stuff for a special occasion. From now on, every day is a special occasion.” She raised her glass. “To us.”
Cici smiled, and so did Lindsay, and the tiredness ebbed out of their faces as they touched glasses to Bridget’s. “To us.”
There was a whirring sound, a blur of wings streaking between them, and a small yellow bird swooped toward the golden-crusted pan bread, snatched up a crumb, and flew away again. They didn’t even have time to register astonishment before it was over. Bridget jumped to her feet and ran toward the direction in which the bird had flown. She gasped.
“Oh, my goodness, girls, you have got to see this.”
Cici and Lindsay joined Bridget at the corner of the porch, where she was gazing in awe at the poplar tree. On every branch and limb, twittering and hopping from leaf to leaf, were tiny yellow goldfinches. Hundreds of them. Perhaps a thousand.
“It’s like living in an aviary,” Lindsay said wonderingly.
“They look just like the ones people pay hundreds of dollars for and keep in cages,” said Cici.
Bridget laughed and spread her arms. “Name me three other women in this country who get to have dinner with a thousand goldfinches tonight!”
“In this hemisphere,” said Lindsay, still in awe.
“In the world,” agreed Cici.
They grinned at each other again, and clinked their glasses. And they did not go back to the Holiday Inn that night.
6
In Which Help Arrives
Lindsay opened her eyes the next morning slowly, groggily. The three of them had made the best of a bad situation by constructing a pallet on the floor out of their combined bedding and huddling together for warmth, but the night had not passed easily. Her back felt as though it would break in two, Cici’s elbow was digging into her ribs, and a big man wearing a ginger-colored beard and camouflage gear was staring down at her, holding a soda can. She blinked. He was still there.
Lindsay punched Cici in the arm. Cici muttered something and punched her back. Lindsay hissed, “Cici! Bridget! There’s a man in our living room!”
Cici groaned, “Don’t listen to her, Bridge. She sees ghosts.”
Bridget opened her eyes, gasped, and sat up straight, hugging her pillow to her chest. “Cici!”
Cici turned over, rubbed one hand over her face, and opened her eyes. She looked the ginger-bearded man in the eye, and didn’t move another muscle.
The man spat a stream of tobacco juice into the soda can, and said, “It’s a boy.”
Bridget said hoarsely, “Wh-what?”
“Maggie said to tell you it’s a boy.”
A beat of silence, and then Cici said, still not moving, “You must be . . . Farley.”
The huge man gave a curt nod of his head, and spat again into the can. “Said I was to come see what you needed.”
Slowly, carefully, Cici stood up, bringing the blanket with her. She cleared her throat, ignoring Lindsay’s efforts to tug the blanket away as she wrapped it around her shoulders. “Do you mean besides a phone, electricity, hot water, and our furniture?”
The man spat again. “Ain’t got no phone on me.” He walked over to the light switch beside the front door, and toggled it upward. The brass-filigreed drop pendant in the foyer immediately sprang to life, as did the chandelier on the stairway.
The three women stared at each other. “But—the power was off. We tried every room in the house.”
Said Farley, “Where’s the water heater?”
Within the hour, Farley had replaced the pressure valve and the fixtures in the kitchen, and had patched the water heater with parts from the dusty, dented pickup truck he had parked at their back door. Bridget had made coffee with her French press and was flipping strawberry pancakes on her iron griddle. Apparently