A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [92]
“Now, Ida Mae,” she said. “You know you can’t stay here. You must have some place else to go.”
“How come?” demanded Ida Mae. She scooped two large spoonsful of sugar into her tea and stirred it sloppily. “How come I can’t stay here? Always have, ain’t I?”
“Because,” explained Cici patiently, “we own the place now.”
“You might own it,” returned Ida Mae, “but it’s plain you can’t take care of it by yourselves. I been doing for Mr. Blackwell nigh onto forty-five years. Now I’ll do for you. Cook your meals—”
“I do the cooking,” Bridget explained with a smile.
Ida Mae sniffed. “With my recipes.” She tasted the tea, gave another grimace, and set the cup down. “Keep the place tidy,” she went on, “dusting and mopping and such as that, keep the silver polished—”
“We don’t have any silver,” Lindsay said, and at the look Ida Mae gave her, she felt compelled to apologize. “Well not much, anyway. Not enough to worry about polishing . . .” she trailed off.
“You girls live like squatters,” said Ida Mae. “Ain’t you got no menfolk?”
“Well,” Bridget began, but Cici cut her off firmly.
“I really don’t think that’s any of your business,” she said. “And I’ve got to say I’m not all that comfortable with the thought of your spying on us all these months, much less with your opinion on how we live.”
Ida Mae said, “What are you, a lawyer or something?” Then she shrugged. “I guess it don’t matter. You don’t hardly need a man half the time anyhow. But they’re nice to do for.” There was, with that last, an almost wistful look in her eye, and Bridget patted her hand again.
Cici drew in a breath. “Look, Miss Simpson . . .”
“It’s Miz,” corrected Ida Mae. “Miz Simpson. But you can call me Ida Mae.”
“Fine. Ida Mae, we appreciate the offer, but we can’t afford a housekeeper, and—”
“Don’t need your money,” replied Ida Mae proudly. “I got my pension.”
“Oh.” Cici glanced quickly from Bridget to Lindsay. “Still . . .”
Bridget said suddenly, “Cici, Lindsay, could we talk?” She jerked her head toward the door. “In there?”
They left Ida Mae placidly stirring more sugar into her tea as Bridget firmly closed the pantry door between them.
“She doesn’t have any place to go,” Bridget insisted in a whisper.
Cici’s voice was incredulous. “You can’t be serious!”
Lindsay offered, “You’ve got to admit, it would be nice to have help keeping this place clean.”
“She’s got to be a hundred and three years old!” Cici said. “How much help could she be?”
“She’s lived here all her life,” Bridget said. “And now she’s homeless, all alone, feeling useless . . .”
“We’re not talking about a flock of sheep, here,” Cici said, “or a dog or a deer. She didn’t just come with the house.”
“In a way,” pointed out Lindsay, “that’s exactly what she did.”
“And you don’t find it the least bit creepy that she’s been living here all this time without our knowledge, coming in and out as she pleased, eating our food . . .”
“Creepy is a strong word,” said Lindsay uncomfortably.
“She was taking care of us,” Bridget pointed out. “Making sure we had what we needed . . .”
“We can’t keep her,” Cici said. “We can’t be responsible for a crazy old woman who goes around living in other people’s houses.”
Lindsay looked at Bridget, her expression apologetic. “You know she’s right, Bridge. We don’t know anything about this woman.”
“Except that she broke into our house,” pointed out Cici.
Bridget said, “Well, would you look at this?” Kneeling, she had located a metal vent below the shelf that held dry goods. Her fingers found a catch, and the slotted metal swung open. The other two women bent to see a fairly modern gas heater.
Cici murmured, “I wonder if it’s natural gas or propane.”
And Lindsay said, “Who cares? We can be warm again!”
Cici looked at Bridget, and Bridget said hopefully, “It might be nice, having someone around who knew how the place was put together.”
Cici said, “Come on, Bridget, you know she can’t stay.”
And Lindsay added, “We’re going to have