A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [94]
Lunch was a rich beef stew, which Ida Mae refused to allow Bridget to help her prepare. By the time Bridget was ready to start dinner, a pork loin was already roasting in the oven and Ida Mae was shelling pecans for a pie. No, she didn’t need any help with the pecans. No, there was nothing Bridget could do.
Cici located the underground gas tank, and by mid-afternoon had the gas company out to fill it, and to inspect and light all the heaters in the house. Within an hour the big old house was as toasty as any modern apartment.
“All the heaters are on thermostats,” Cici reported, practically chortling with delight. “We can just set them once and never worry about them again. Of course, we’ll still want to keep the wood furnace going to save on gas, but no more hauling in wood four times a day. Do you know what this means? We can live like normal people! We can be warm in any room we want to—even the sunroom! Why in the world didn’t Ida Mae show up before now?”
Dinner was served in the formal dining room, where the huge walnut table had been spread with a white linen cloth, and the sconces on the wall, now served by propane gas flames, glowed with freshly polished brass and brilliantly cleaned glass globes. The chairs, which Lindsay had spent the afternoon rescuing from the dairy loft, gleamed with lemon oil and beeswax. The napkins were ironed, and the pork loin was served on a bed of fresh rosemary and parsley cut from the garden.
“I feel like I should leave a tip,” Lindsay whispered, self-consciously pressing out the wrinkles in her jeans.
“She’s auditioning,” Cici pointed out. “She wants us to see what she can do.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, she’s got the part,” said Lindsay, scooping out a generous portion of horseradish mashed potatoes.
Bridget smiled stiffly and said nothing.
Three days later, Bridget had plenty to say.
Ida Mae did laundry, Ida Mae washed windows, Ida Mae dug a silver candelabra out of a box in the attic, polished it until it looked like a museum piece, and placed it in the center of the dining room table where she insisted they dine every night. She stripped the sheets off the beds every morning—often before the women who were sleeping on them were even dressed—and replaced them with freshly washed and ironed ones. Yes, she ironed sheets. She also ironed tablecloths, napkins, and dish towels. She polished the banister and waxed the stairs to a dangerous sheen. Using an ingenious mechanism none of the women had suspected before, she lowered the chandelier over the staircase, removed all the prisms, washed them in soapy water, and rehung the whole. The light that was thus refracted sparkled over the entire first floor.
On the other hand, she never lost an opportunity to criticize the ladies’ taste, decor, or personal habits. She insisted on breakfast at dawn, lunch at noon, and dinner at seven. At first this was a novelty, like being on a cruise ship, but no one really expected to keep to the schedule permanently. She didn’t like the way Cici dressed or the way Lindsay wore her hair, and worst of all, Bridget was banned from her own kitchen.
“The woman,” Bridget muttered, flinging herself into her front porch rocker a little after five on a cloudy, cold afternoon, “is making me crazy. We’ve got to do something.” She thrust out a half-empty wineglass for a refill. “Hit me, Lindsay. You know the worst part? I hate eating at seven. By seven I want to be soaking in the tub, up to my neck in bubbles. Why do we have to be on her schedule?”
“I feel like I should put on a dress to go to dinner,” admitted Lindsay, filling Bridget’s glass.
“We used to eat at seven back in the suburbs,” Cici pointed out.
“That’s not the point. We don’t do that anymore. We eat when we’re hungry and we drink when the sun goes down and then we go to bed. This is what we do.”
Cici gave a half shrug, and sipped her wine. “She’s a good cook.”
“Obviously, she’s never heard of cholesterol,” added Lindsay.
“I kind of