At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [63]
12
The Art of Parenting
Spring returned to Ladybug Farm. Baby lettuces formed straight green rows behind the garden fence, punctuated by the feathery tops of carrots and radishes. Spring peas sprang up overnight and began to climb the rope trellises that Bridget and Noah had built for them, their dainty white flowers promising an abundant harvest to come. Bridget set pots of herbs on the stone patio to soak up the sun, and Lindsay worked bonemeal into the soil of the rose garden, underplanting the beds with fragrant thyme and pale gray lamb’s ear.
The sheep gradually began to lose their pinkness to a soft thatch of baby white wool, and the pear trees, recovering from the late freeze, unfurled their snowy blossoms like lace parasols. Baby leaves of yellow green and emerald, gray green and lime green, ruby and pink, erupted on near and distant branches, and bluebirds, chickadees, and a magnificent display of yellow finches hopped hungrily back and forth between the nearest trees and Bridget’s feeders.
Once again the fireplaces were cleaned, the woodboxes emptied, the hearths swept. They touched up the winter-worn paint on the porches and scrubbed down the outdoor furniture. They raked up the last of winter’s debris and planted yellow and purple pansies in the flower beds. And the day before Easter Sunday, Lori donned hip boots borrowed from Farley, elbow-length rubber gloves borrowed from her mother’s workshop, and, armed with a shovel and a rake, waded into the murky black depths of the pool in the back garden.
“Bless her heart,” Bridget said, watching from the back porch. “She’s been at it all morning. You couldn’t pay me in gold to do that job.”
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for her,” Cici warned, peeling the striped cover off a wicker love seat. “And don’t take her any cookies either.”
“Gee, I’m glad you’re not my mom.”
“Let’s keep our eye on the prize,” Cici reminded Bridget. “Lori wants to work on a farm, so she’s going to get to work on a farm.”
Bridget grimaced as Lori dug her rake deep into the murk and brought up a glob of dripping black weed, some of which splattered onto her hair and face as she tossed it into a waiting wheelbarrow. She had already carted a half dozen similarly loaded wheelbarrows to the compost pile.
“Well, I can’t watch anymore.” Bridget turned toward the door. “I’m going to check the mail. Did you—”
The back door opened and Lindsay stood there, looking unsettled. “I just talked to Carrie,” she said, and both women immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to her. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I broke down and called her. She said that Noah’s case has been marked ‘pending further investigation. ’ ” A worried frown creased her brow. “What do you think that means?”
Cici tried to sound confident. “It sounds like a bureaucratic stamp to me. I’m sure it just means they haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Sure,” Bridget added reassuringly. They probably just haven’t finished the paperwork.”
“They might have to do some more interviews,” Cici suggested. “You know, talk to people around town, and don’t forget the Reverend and Mrs. Holland. They’re the ones vouching for this living arrangement, so what they say will carry a lot of weight.”
“Which is exactly why Noah will be sitting in the front row on Easter Sunday wearing a coat and a tie and scrubbed to within an inch of his life,” Lindsay assured them. “And,” she added, “it’s also why I just invited the illustrious pastor and his wife to Easter dinner tomorrow.”
Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. “I’d better tell Ida Mae. She’ll want to polish the silver.”
“Like there’s any silver left she hasn’t polished?” Cici quipped. “But you’d better remind her to drape a tablecloth over the liquor cabinet. Baptists don’t approve of drinking.”
“I doubt they approve of three single women having two gay men as overnight guests in their home, either,” Bridget ventured