A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [97]
Bridget said, very evenly, “I was going to make soup out of that broccoli.”
“What for?” Ida Mae was already leaving the room. “Nobody likes soup.”
And that was it. “Ida Mae, wait a minute.”
Ida Mae turned.
Bridget’s hands closed at her sides. She drew a breath, but she didn’t think about her words. She simply said them. “I know you’re used to running this house,” she said. “I know you like doing things your own way. But this isn’t your place anymore. It’s mine, and Lindsay’s and Cici’s. And in our house, we change the sheets once a week, not every day. We have cereal and fruit for breakfast, and sometimes I make muffins. We make our own lunch when we get hungry, and we have dinner when it gets dark. And oh, one more thing. I’m the cook. I prepare the meals. I bake the cakes and the pies and the breads, and if I want to make soup, we have soup. I’m the cook. That’s what I do. Do you understand?”
Ida Mae regarded her levelly. “How long have you been the cook here?”
Bridget blinked. “Well, since we moved in. When we bought this place, we decided. I was going to be the cook.”
Ida Mae nodded, although there seemed to be less understanding than pity in the gesture. “I’ve been the cook here for forty-five years. Now, I’m taking the quiche out of the oven. You want to set the table?”
Bridget almost let it go. She caught her breath, bit her tongue, started to turn back to the draperies. And suddenly the words that were boiling up inside her would be suppressed no longer; she actually pushed her fingers against her temples to try to stop them but they burst out of her, heedless. “Stop it!” she shouted. “Just—stop it!”
Ida Mae turned to her, startled.
“Listen to me,” Bridget said, breathing hard. “You’re the intruder here, don’t you get that? This is not your house! You’re lucky you’re not in jail for trespassing! I live here! I own this place! I’m in charge!”
And suddenly she caught herself with a gasp, a lurch that actually caused her to grip the back of a chair for support as her words suddenly echoed back at her and hit her like a slap. For a moment she couldn’t believe that was her voice. Her fingers went to her lips as though to recapture the words and send them back. But it was too late.
And, in truth, she was not entirely sure she wanted to.
She found her breath, and somehow she even managed to straighten her shoulders. She looked straight into the other woman’s eyes and she said, albeit somewhat stiffly, “I’m sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But . . .” Another breath. “I think what I was trying to say is that I know what it feels like to need to be in charge of something. To be needed. And—that’s probably why you and I keep bumping heads. Because we’re so much alike. But for you, it’s just a job. For me, it’s—well, it’s why I’m here. Cici has her building and her restoration, Lindsay has her art, but all I have is the kitchen. That’s all I know how to do. That’s all I can contribute. Can’t you understand that?”
Ida Mae looked at her for a long time, and Bridget couldn’t be certain whether it was contempt or pity she saw in the other woman’s eyes. Then she said, “It ain’t just a job.”
She moved toward the door, then stopped and dug into her apron pocket. “Here’s your mail.”
Bridget stared at her for a moment, then stepped forward and snatched the envelopes out of her hand. “We change the sheets once a week,” she said again, tightening her fingers on the envelopes as though that could stop the shaking in her voice. “We make our own breakfast and lunch and we eat in the kitchen, not the dining room, and we don’t use tablecloths and linen napkins. And I’m the cook!”
Ida Mae left the room without responding, and when she was gone Bridget flung the mail to the floor in a fit of temper.