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By Root 1037 0

and to the largest of the two garden ponds. This one was a pool of about ten by ten feet and no more than two or three feet deep in its prime. Now, filled with uncounted years of rotted garden debris, leaves, broken branches, and who-knew-what-else, the oily black skim coat of fetid water was barely six inches deep. The pool was surrounded by a paving of smooth white stones—at least they might have once been white, and would have been smooth, had the mortar been restored—and a scar of ground where once there had been a statue. Lindsay and Cici had moved the statue to the center of the rose garden last year, where it would be more fully appreciated.

“Aunt Lindsay wants to bring the pools and fountains back into operating condition again,” Lori said. “I offered to help her.”

Farley grunted.

“The problem is,” prompted Lori, “that I don’t know where to start. I don’t suppose you . . . ?”

She left the sentence unfinished, hoping he would volunteer for the job.

But she either overestimated her charm, or underestimated his good will. Because all he said was, “Need a pump.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re gonna need a pump,” he explained, “to get the water out.”

“Oh.”

“I got one I can let you have for a day or two. Cost you ten dollar.”

Lori smiled weakly. The one major disadvantage of leaving school, California, and—most importantly—her father’s household was that she was always cash poor. “I don’t suppose you take Am-Ex?”

Now it was his turn to stare.

“Never mind.” Lori sighed, then cheered as she turned him back toward the front of the house. “Let’s talk about sheep.”

5

History Lessons

On Day One of the floor refinishing project, everyone was recruited to move the furniture out of the living area and onto the front porch, where Ida Mae, barking instructions all the while, covered everything with canvas dustcloths. The grand piano, which was too big to fit through the front door without lifting and turning, had to be rolled on its squeaky wheels behind the staircase, down the wide corridor, and into the double-doored dining room. The only obstacle was the uneven threshold at the dining room, which kept catching the front wheel.

Cici crawled underneath the piano to survey the situation. “We’re going to have to lift it,” she called up.

Lindsay pushed her hair back from her face. “Who’s got the forklift?”

Noah said, “Does anybody play this thing?”

“I used to,” Bridget replied, stretching out a kink in her back. “But I haven’t for a long time.”

“Seriously, Aunt Bridget,” Lori pitched, “there could be some real money in those sheep. I think we need to look into it. Farley says there might be ten or twelve pounds of fleece on each sheep by now—maybe more!”

Lindsay huffed, “I do believe Farley puts more words together for you in a single visit than he has for us in the entire time we’ve known him.”

“That’s because she’s young and cute,” replied Bridget with a grin, “and we’re old and bitter.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Cici, pulling herself out from under the piano and dusting off her hands. “I’m not at all bitter . . . yet.”

Noah grumbled, “What’s the point in having one, then?”

Bridget looked at him curiously. “Having what, dear?”

He turned his gaze meaningfully toward the object between them in something that was very close to an eye roll. “A piano.”

Cici said, “Okay, we’ve got to do this one leg at a time. Noah and Lori, you’re the least likely to end up in traction, so you take the front. Everybody else, push.”

Inch by inch, leg by leg, they rocked and eased the baby grand across the threshold and into the dining room. Lori scrambled ahead, moving chairs out of the way as they wedged the piano between the table and the buffet. Finally, they all straightened up, breathing hard and flexing their fingers.

Lindsay looked around. “Well, this is convenient.”

“We can eat in the kitchen for a while,” Cici offered.

“How’re you gonna get there?” Noah asked.

They looked around. The piano occupied the aisle between the table and the buffet that led to the kitchen, and it blocked the double door through