At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [4]
“What is it about the first warm day that makes everyone want to clean something?” observed Lori, snagging a chocolate chip cookie from the jar on the counter.
Ida Mae craned her head around, swept her gaze over Lori’s low-slung jeans and belly-skimming tank top, and scowled. “Put some clothes on, child. You’re a disgrace.”
Ida Mae was a square angular woman of undetermined age with blunt-cut iron gray hair and a habit of dressing in oddly matched layers. Today she wore a plaid wool shirtwaist dress over cotton dungarees and a purple turtleneck, topped by a pink cardigan and a gingham apron. Her face, etched with lines, rarely smiled, and her ears never missed a word that was said in the house—whether or not the words were meant to be heard.
Ida Mae had come with the house, and had been taking care of it, according to some accounts, almost since it was built. That gave her the right—in her own mind at least—to a great many opinions, and quite a few privileges. Lori, whose own grandparents were long gone, had been charmed by her immediately, although it was not entirely clear whether the sentiment was returned.
Lori hoisted herself lightly onto the soapstone countertop, which deepened Ida Mae’s scowl of disapproval. Lori didn’t notice. “Ida Mae, could I ask you something?” Taking silence as assent, she continued, “What’s the deal with that kid Noah, anyway? Doesn’t he have a family or anything?”
“Nope.” Wringing her sponge out in the vinegar and baking soda solution, Ida Mae turned her attention to scrubbing the oven door. “His folks are dead.”
“I know that. But I thought maybe aunts or cousins or something . . .” Lori eased open the lid of the cookie jar and slipped another cookie. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to be friends with him, but he’s just weird. How did he end up here, anyway?”
“Same way you did,” replied Ida Mae without looking up from her work. “He just showed up one day.”
Lori bit into the cookie. “But I’m family. I mean, my mom owns the place. Partially, anyway.”
“Then why don’t you go bother her with your stupid questions?”
Lori sighed, examined the cookie for a moment, and took another bite. “I don’t want her to think I disapprove.”
Ida Mae looked up from her cleaning long enough to determine that the young woman was absolutely serious, and then, with a small shake of her head, stooped to wring out her sponge in the bucket again. She said gruffly, “You’re a big-city girl. What you don’t know about people would fill a book.”
“Well, I don’t mean to seem inhospitable or anything, but don’t you think Mom and the others are a little old to be taking in foster children? And this isn’t exactly a homeless shelter.”
Ida Mae gave a grunt from inside the oven. “You just keep talking, Missy, about what your mama is too old for, and see what kind of shelter you end up in.” She wiped down the oven door. “As for this place, it’s been a lot worse than a homeless shelter, I can tell you that much. Back during the forties, it was a boarding house for war brides, and before that, in the Civil War, they turned it into a hospital—”
Lori interrupted curiously. “Civil War? I thought the house wasn’t built until 1902.”
“Rebuilt,” corrected Ida Mae, glancing over her shoulder. “The first place burnt down. What I’m trying to say is—”
“No kidding? Was it burned by the Yankees? That’s cool!”
Ida Mae scowled at her. “How should I know who burned it? It just burned. The point is—”
“Hospitality, I know,” said Lori, hopping down from the counter as she finished off the cookie. “Thanks, Ida Mae, that was really interesting. Mom said I should find something useful to do. Do you want me to help you clean the oven?”
Ida Mae straightened up, bracing a gloved hand against her back, and her scowl only deepened. “The day I can’t keep my own oven clean is the day they put me in the ground, young lady. Now get on out of here and pester somebody else. And put some clothes on.”
Lori grinned at her as she scampered out of the kitchen. “The cookies are great!” she called.
Ida Mae muttered after her, just