A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [53]
“Maybe he should save some for New Year’s.”
Bridget changed the subject. “I have a theory about the garden thief,” she said.
Cici and Lindsay looked at her with interest. The nanny cam, cleverly set up in a tree to record everything that happened during the night, was unfortunately not equipped with night vision. So when two more stalks of corn had gone missing, a review of twelve hours’ worth of tape had shown nothing but foggy darkness.
“If you’ll notice,” elucidated Bridget, leaning forward a little to capture their attention, “all the thefts occur on the hedge side of the garden.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call that tangle of blackberry vines and honeysuckle a hedge,” Lindsay objected.
“But it’s always the same row,” Bridget insisted. “Right there, next to cover. I think whatever—or whoever—it is, is sneaking through the hedge at night and pulling stuff out of the ground, then hiding back in the hedge before anyone can catch him.”
There was nothing but the sound of rocking chairs and crickets for a while. Lindsay and Cici sipped their wine. Cici said, “I don’t know, Bridge. Sounds pretty weird to me.”
“You still don’t have a motive,” pointed out Lindsay.
“I’m working on it,” Bridget pronounced darkly.
A ladybug dive-bombed into Cici’s wineglass. She plucked it out absently and flicked it away. She said, “It’s going to take the rest of the summer to get the air-conditioning installed.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if we could take a shower.”
“We can take a shower,” Bridget pointed out, with an obvious effort to remain positive. “We just can’t use more than five gallons of water doing it.”
“We haven’t even gotten the estimate on what digging the new drain field is going to cost.”
“Whatever it is,” Lindsay said, “it’s more than we can afford.”
They were silent for a while, rocking, listening to the crickets.
“I guess,” Bridget said in a moment, “this is the best part about not being twenty anymore. We know that plans hardly ever work out the way you planned them.”
Lindsay raised her glass in the dark. “Here’s to not looking back.”
Cici rocked forward and raised her glass as well. “Here’s to Hugh Grant,” she said.
“And here’s to catching the hedgerow garden thief and prosecuting his sorry ass to within an inch of his life,” added Lindsay.
Bridget raised her glass as well. “I’ll drink to that.”
They drank, and sat back and listened to the crickets until it was time for bed.
12
On Farming
Lindsay came downstairs a little after seven, as she always did, yawning and belting her short pink terry robe around her waist as she made her way to the kitchen. She stepped over tools and neat piles of materials, as she always did, and said, “Morning, Sam. Morning, Deke. Morning, Farley” as she always did, and made her way to the coffeepot, as she always did. “Morning, Bridge.”
The kitchen was redolent of cinnamon and butter, with warm base notes of fresh ground coffee, as it always was. Privately, Lindsay thought Bridget was spoiling the workmen by providing them with coffee and sticky buns each morning—and no doubt prolonging their stay—but being Bridget, she could hardly be expected to do anything less. Besides, Lindsay enjoyed the sticky buns as much as the men did.
A chorus of “Morning, Miss Lindsay,” “Morning, ma’am,” and “Good morning, Linds” greeted her, just as it always did. She poured her coffee, added cold milk, drank a generous portion, and noticed for the first time that everyone was standing at the window in the breakfast room that overlooked the front porch, staring out. She said, coming over to them, “What are you looking at?”
No one answered. They just kept looking. And that was her first hint that this was not a morning just like any other.
“Oh my God,” she said, staring through the window. “Cici’s going to have a fit.”
Just then Cici entered the kitchen in her robe and slippers. “Morning, Bridge. Morning Lindsay,” she said.
Neither woman could quite tear their eyes from the window. “Good morning, Cici.”
“Morning, Farley. Morning—” And she stopped, staring as they stared. “Oh my God. What is