At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [65]
“No,” he said, as Lindsay helped Lori out of the pond, “you sure don’t look like a spoiled rich kid to me.”
Three showers and one frizzy-haired blow-dry later, Lori felt clean enough to go into town. Her clothes, on the other hand, would have to be destroyed.
She braided her hair to tame the worst of the flyaways, donned clean jeans and a T-shirt, and borrowed her mother’s car. It occurred to her that the kid might be right: If she elevated the pump above the level of the debris it might actually make the job easier to pump the water out first, and then clean the bottom of the pond. She did, however, hope he would keep his mouth shut about her intent to buy a pump. She had an unspoken agreement with her mom about acceptable uses of the American Express card: emergencies, yes; books and other school supplies, definitely; clothes, music downloads, shoes, makeup, and miscellaneous necessities of life—debatable. Household improvements, never.
But this was different. This was important.
Walking into Family Hardware was like walking back in time. The town of Blue Valley, a thirty-minute drive from Ladybug Farm, was little more than a village presided over by two tall-steepled churches, Methodist on one corner and Baptist on the other. Smack in the middle of the two of them was Family Hardware and Sundries, where you could buy anything from a penny nail, which actually cost a penny, to an antique chif forobe. In between were lightbulbs, cinnamon sticks in big jars, insect repellents, camping equipment, garden hoses, Norman Rockwell prints, dog collars, baby diapers, and scented candles—and that was just on the front display.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lori,” Jonesie, the proprietor, greeted her as she came in. “Don’t you look like sunshine today? Everything okay out at your place?”
Lori beamed. She loved the way he always remembered her name, even though she’d only been in a few times before with her mom or Bridget. And she loved the way he said, “your place,” as though she belonged there. “Hi, Jonesie. I’m looking for a . . . oh my goodness!”
She just then noticed a wire cage near the window whose floor was lined with sweet-smelling cedar chips and which contained an adorable assortment of baby bunnies in Easter-egg shades of pale pink, blue, and green. She dropped to her knees, cooing with delight, and poked her fingers through the wire. Several bunnies hopped over to investigate.
“They’re for Easter, don’t you know,” he said, coming over to her. “Kids snap them up this time of year. Here, you can hold one.” He reached inside, grabbed one of the bunnies by the scruff, and plopped it into her arms.
Lori buried her face in the cedar-scented, bunny-musky fur. “Oh, you’re just too cute. Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” She looked up at Jonesie. “Why is their fur pink, blue, and green?”
“It’s just food coloring. Won’t hurt them, and it grows out.”
She nuzzled the little ball of fluff one more time. “Why are they making that chirping sound?”
He laughed. “That’s not the rabbits. That’s the baby chicks. We just got a shipment in this morning.”
He gestured toward the opposite window where, amidst an assortment of toasters, hunting jackets, potpourri, and vacuum cleaners, another wire enclosure had been set up. This one was lined with newspaper, and filled with tiny chirping yellow chicks.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, holding on to the bunny as she went to investigate. “Oh, how cute! Why aren’t they colored, too?”
“These are Rhode Island Reds,” he told her, “prize-winning chickens. Most folks don’t put them in Easter baskets . . . although some do, I reckon,” he admitted.
She examined the trilling little chickens with greater interest. “Prize-winning, huh? Do they really have shows for chickens?”
“Sure. That’s how farmers know what to buy every year. Which chickens produce the most eggs, the best meat, that kind of thing. Now, then”—he smiled at her—“can I wrap up that bunny rabbit for