At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [29]
“Wow,” said Cici, taking it. “Look at that. How do you suppose it got there? “
Bridget examined it curiously. “Grosgrain,” she pronounced.
“Mom,” Lori said, “you cut a hole in our wall for a ribbon?”
“There’s some more junk back there,” Lindsay said, “but this was all I could reach. It looks like it’s been closed up forever. There must be six inches of dust on the floor.”
“What kind of junk?” Cici wanted to know.
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Did anything look like it might be a chest full of money?” prompted Bridget.
“How far back does it go?” Cici asked.
“Not as big as a room. Maybe a foot. But it’s long.”
Cici looked around thoughtfully. “Lori,” she decided, “wiggle in there and take a look.”
Lori’s eyes flew wide. “Me? Are you kidding?”
Cici plucked the new purple hat off Lori’s head and pushed her gently toward the opening. “That’s what you get for being a size two. You’re the only one who can fit.”
“But—there could be mice!”
Cici turned to Lindsay. “Did you see any mice?”
Lindsay shook her head.
“Go,” she told Lori.
Five minutes later a very disgruntled Lori wriggled back out of the hole, covered with grime, and with nothing to show for her effort but a rusty tool of some sort, a wooden block, and a broken iron chain. “These jeans will never be clean again,” she declared, brushing at them furiously, “and all for an ice pick, a chain, and a piece of wood!”
“It’s not an ice pick,” Cici replied, disappointed, “It’s an awl. You use them for punching holes in things.”
“I guess whoever built the wall dropped it while he was working,” suggested Bridget.
“I guess,” Cici agreed. “I wonder why they built the wall in the first place.”
“And what about the ribbon?” wondered Lori.
Cici looked at the space thoughtfully. “You know what?” she said. “I’m going to open it back up.”
“The wall?” Bridget sounded alarmed. “That’s an awfully big job.”
“Not really. It will be easier than fixing the hole, actually. And I’m thinking some built-in bookshelves would be perfect there.”
“But what about the floors?”
Cici shook her head. “No point in starting the floors until we get the wall torn down.”
“We?” Lori said. “Did you say we?”
“I’ll get the sledgehammer,” Lindsay said.
“I’ll get the wheelbarrow,” Bridget volunteered.
As they departed, Cici looked at her daughter. “Didn’t you say something about wanting to learn how to restore old houses?”
Lori looked at her fingernails, which she had painstakingly French-manicured herself only last night. “I kind of pictured myself on the management end.”
“I kind of pictured you learning from the ground up.”
Lori looked at her mother’s determined expression, spared a last regretful look at her manicure, and said, “Guess I’d better go find my work gloves.”
Four hours and twelve wheelbarrows of debris later, Lori couldn’t stop saying, “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
What they had uncovered was a tall arched alcove, framed in white decorative trim, of the kind often found in the grand old houses of Europe. Inside the alcove was a painted mural that depicted a pastoral scene. The more they scrubbed away the accumulated dust and grime, the more they came to recognize the scene as a portrayal of their own sheep meadow, with the mountains behind.
“Durndest thing I ever did see,” commented Noah, who had been recruited to do the sledgehammer work after their arms grew tired. “Why’d anybody want to paint a picture on a wall?”
“Murals have been very popular at various times in history,” replied Lindsay absently, studying the painting. “Like the Sistine Chapel, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. That dude that painted on the ceiling.”
Bridget gave the bottom corner a final once-over with her sponge, and stepped back with her bucket of soapy water. “There’s no signature,” she pointed out.
“Traveling muralists were commissioned, just like any other craftsperson,” Lindsay said. “They rarely signed their work.”
“Wow,” said Lori reverently. “A real work of art, right on our walls. It’s like one of those stories you hear