At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [54]
Derrick paused in the process of passing Lindsay a cup of coffee. “I live,” he replied distinctly, “in Baltimore.”
She made a notation on her clipboard.
Carrie said apologetically, “We really just need to confirm a few things.”
“Why isn’t the child in school?” Mrs. Boynton wanted to know.
“He is in school,” Lindsay returned, a trifle indignantly. “Three hours a day, six days a week.”
Carrie added quickly. “Homeschooling was approved by the department and by the school board, and Lindsay is a certified teacher with twenty years’ classroom experience.”
The supervisor gave a disapproving “Hmph” and made another notation on her clipboard. She turned a page. “I see here that guardianship is shared by Reverend and Mrs. Stewart Holland. Why doesn’t the child live with them?”
Lindsay blinked. “Why—because I’m his teacher. It’s more convenient for him to stay here.”
“Besides,” added Bridget, “we have a bigger house, and the animals, and Noah likes to work outside . . .”
“And because he prefers to stay here,” Cici said with an air of simple finality.
For the first time a smile ghosted Mrs. Boynton’s lips. It was not a pretty sight. “One never wants to make the mistake of assuming that what a child prefers is in his best interests, Mrs. . . .” She checked her notes, searching for Cici’s name.
“Burke,” said Cici coolly. “And it’s Ms.”
“I wonder,” continued Mrs. Boynton, “whether the good reverend approves of your”—she slanted a glance toward Derrick—“lifestyle.”
Derrick’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?” Cici asked, as she raised herself to her full height of five foot, eight inches.
“Noah!” Carrie’s face flooded with relief as she looked over Cici’s shoulder. “Come in and join us, please.”
Noah stood at the entrance to the living room, his expression thunderous. Lori stood a few inches behind him, and it looked as though she had pushed or dragged him all the way. Even as they watched, Lori gave him a little shove from behind, which he returned with a backward thrust of his elbow that just missed her ribs.
He was wearing jeans which, though worn and fashionably frayed in some places, were at least clean. The pale pink cashmere sweater he wore, although tucked and pleated to its best fit, clearly was not his, and neither was the Oxford shirt with the maroon stripe and open French cuffs that were stylishly folded up over the sleeves of the sweater. Noah had, apparently, won the battle of the tie. His hair was wet and slicked back with a comb, and on his feet he wore mud- and manure-stained running shoes without laces. No socks.
Paul appeared behind the two young people with his hands and eyebrows raised in a helpless gesture. Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay smiled at him gratefully.
“Noah,” Lindsay said steadily, “you look very nice. Come in and sit down. These ladies would like to talk to you.”
Noah just stood there scowling. “This ain’t my sweater.”
Carrie said, “We were just talking about your schoolwork, Noah. I understand you’re doing very well.”
He said, “I ain’t talking to you.”
Mrs. Boynton said briskly, “Young man, come inside this minute and sit down. We have some questions for you. Ladies . . .” She swept her eyes around until they rested on Derrick. “And gentlemen,” she added precisely, “if you’ll excuse us.”
Derrick departed with obvious relief; the ladies a bit more reluctantly, each one touching Noah’s arm or straightening his collar or patting his shoulder as they passed by. They all met up in the hall on the way to the kitchen.
“The old one has lizard eyes,” Lori said with a mock shudder. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for that kid.”
“She doesn’t have any eyebrows, did you notice?” Derrick whispered.
“Not to mention a sense of humor,” said Bridget.
“Tell me about it. I’m the one who had to try to make conversation for half an eternity before you came down. Silas Marner was more fun.”
“Thanks for getting Noah cleaned up and downstairs, Paul,” Bridget said.
“I could only do so much with the raw material,” Paul admitted regretfully.