At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [52]
“I wonder who they are,” Cici said.
“Jehovah’s Witnesses?” suggested Bridget.
“Somebody ought to do something,” declared Ida Mae.
“I’ll get ’im.” This from Noah, who had come down the stairs bare-chested and barefooted, and headed straight for the front door.
“For heaven’s sake,” Lindsay called from the landing behind him. “It’s freezing out there! Put on some clothes!”
But Noah, flinging open the front door, roared, “Rebel!” and dashed down the steps and across the frosty lawn to grab the dog’s collar and drag him away.
“Well, I guess that woke everyone up,” Bridget said. She smothered a yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”
Before Ida Mae could answer that, Lindsay joined them at the window, tying her French terry robe and peeling back the curtain for a better look. “What’s going on? Who is that? I can’t believe that boy went out in his bare feet!”
Noah, hopping on first one foot and then the other as the frozen grass cut into his soles, dragged the reluctant dog toward the barn, as the driver opened the door of the sedan. Lindsay gasped and sank back from the window.
“Oh my God,” she said, her hand at her throat. “That’s Carrie Lincoln. From the Department of Family and Children’s Services.”
Bridget peeked out the window again. “Who’s that with her?”
“I don’t know.” Lindsay groaned. “I guess I can understand a surprise visit, but why did it have to be today?”
Bridget repeated. “What time is it?”
There was a knock on the door, and Lindsay tried rather desperately to smooth her tangled hair as she went to answer it.
“Carrie.” She greeted her warmly and opened the door wide. “How nice to see you. Sorry about the dog. He really should be locked up. Come in. Goodness, it’s cold this morning, isn’t it?”
Carrie, a thirtyish woman with a pixie haircut and a quick—although at the moment rather strained—smile, stepped inside, accompanied by an older, stouter woman in a puffy quilted car coat. Carrie toted a messenger bag-type briefcase; the other woman carried a clipboard.
Carrie said, in her honey-thick New Orleans accent, “Lindsay, this is my supervisor, Marjorie Boynton. Marjorie, this is Lindsay Wright . . .” She turned to the other two, who did the best they could to straighten their hair and their bathrobes as they came forward. “Bridget Tindale and Cici Burke.”
Marjorie’s handshake was firm, cold, and no-nonsense. Her smile was nonexistent, her colorless gray eyes stern. She said, flatly, “Your sheep are wearing coats.”
Lindsay suppressed another groan, and tried to disguise it with a weak smile. “I guess Noah let the sheep out of the barn when he put Rebel up.”
Carrie said, a little uncertainly, “I hope we didn’t wake you. But it is almost ten o’clock.”
“Oh, good God,” Cici said, turning to stare at the grandfather clock in the living room. And then she apologized, “We never sleep this late, really, but we have company and we were up half the night—”
It was at that moment that Paul appeared at the top of the stairs in his paisley silk robe and leather slippers, and called down cheerfully, “Good morning, my beauties. Loved the wake-up call. Now, if you’d only offer room service . . .”
And Derrick, similarly attired, appeared behind him. “Is that coffee I smell? We’ll be down in a jiff.”
Lori emerged behind them, wrapped in a quilt and looking grumpy and rumpled,. “Mooommm,” she complained, “there’s no heat in my room again and it’s freezing. There’s ice in the toilet!”
At the same time Noah blew in from the kitchen, rubbing his hands briskly over his goosefleshed arms and wiping one bare foot and then the other against the leg of his jeans to warm them. “Man, it’s colder than a witch’s—”
“Noah,” Lindsay interrupted, perhaps a bit too loudly, “you remember Mrs. Lincoln from Social Services? And say hello to Mrs. Boynton.”
Noah stopped, his affable expression immediately turning suspicious.