A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [93]
Cici sighed. “What this house really needs is a full-time social worker.”
Bridget folded her arms. “Well, we can’t do anything tonight.”
“You mean—let her stay here?”
“It’s thirty-six degrees outside. We can’t toss her out!”
“It’s not like we don’t have the room,” Lindsay pointed out. “She’s been living here for months and we didn’t even know it.”
“Besides,” said Bridget, “as far as she’s concerned, I think, she’s the one who’s letting us live here.”
As though on cue, there was a sharp rap on the door, and Ida Mae poked her head in. “If you ladies are about finished hashin’ it out, I think I’ll turn in. Oh, and I’d appreciate the return of my Bible, if it ain’t too much trouble. I’m pleasured to do some reading before I doze off.”
Bridget said quickly, “Oh. Yes, I’ll bring it right down. And some extra blankets, too.”
When she was gone, the three women looked at each other for a moment, hesitant, uncertain, defensive. Then Cici sighed and shook her head in resignation. “Just until morning,” she said.
But in the morning, they were all awakened by the aroma of fresh coffee, breakfast casserole with sausage, and homemade yeast rolls with cinnamon and honey. The sky was barely pink as, one by one, they wandered into the kitchen, their expressions varying from confusion to astonishment as they took in the breakfast counter set with bright place mats, silverware and plates, and cups and saucers instead of their usual coffee mugs. There were glasses filled with juice at each place setting, and presectioned grapefruit halves in the center of each plate.
Lindsay said, wide-eyed, “Uhh . . . is it Christmas?”
Ida Mae poured grits into a blue earthenware bowl. “ ’Bout time you lazy bones got out of bed. Food’s getting cold.”
Cici said, “Are those grits?”
Lindsay practically sank into her place at the breakfast counter. “Yeast rolls! Those are yeast rolls!”
Bridget looked around uncertainly. “Gosh, Ida Mae, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. This is really too much.”
Ida Mae took the breakfast casserole out of the oven and set it on the trivet in the middle of the counter. “Good breakfast, good day,” she declared firmly. “Eat up.”
Bridget took her place between Cici and Lindsay. “Wow, all this food.”
“Yeast rolls,” said Lindsay, taking one. “She made yeast rolls for breakfast!”
“They take two hours to rise.” Bridget’s tone was a bit defensive.
“I haven’t had grits since my birthday.” Cici helped herself.
“I didn’t know you liked them that much,” Bridget said.
“Is this real sausage in the casserole?”
Bridget looked at Lindsay. “I thought you were trying to lose weight.”
Lindsay elbowed her in the ribs, hard. “She made yeast rolls.”
Bridget hesitated, then smiled. “I guess if I’d been out of a kitchen for as long as she has, I’d make yeast rolls, too.” Then she called to Ida Mae, “Oh, don’t bother getting the cream out. We all take our coffee black.”
Ida Mae poured cream into a pitcher and set it onto a small tray beside the sugar bowl. She carried the tray to the counter and set it down deliberately in front of Bridget. “In my kitchen,” she told her, “you put the cream and the sugar on the table when you serve the coffee.”
Bridget drew in a breath to respond, but this time it was Cici who elbowed her in the ribs. “Just like in a restaurant,” she said cheerily. “Grits, Bridget?”
The breakfast was delicious, but how could it not be, when the main course featured sausage? When the ladies got up to clear the table and load the dishwasher, Ida Mae shooed them away in no uncertain terms. She didn’t trust “that damn dishwashing contraption” and preferred to do the dishes by hand. Furthermore, she didn’t want anyone—not even Bridget—hovering around in the kitchen while she did.
On the way out of the kitchen, Lindsay grinned and gave Bridget a high-five. “Looks like you’ve got the day off,” she said. “Good deal.”
Bridget said, “I just hope she doesn’t wear herself out.” She looked back over her shoulder, her expression