At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [68]
Soon after they arrived at Ladybug Farm, the ladies had understood the social necessity of developing a nonpartisan alliance, so they had promptly joined both churches. After all, their banker was on the Methodist side, their plumber on the Baptist; their heating and air man was a Methodist, their wood supplier a Baptist, and they couldn’t afford to offend any of them. So at five o’clock on Sunday morning, every member of the Ladybug Farm household was dressed in his or her Easter finery and each of them stumbled, bleary-eyed, down the stairs and into the vehicle that would transport them to the site of the original Blue Valley Settler’s House of Worship, established 1786—the debate still raged as to whether the settlers had been Baptist or Methodist—where the two churches joined together to conduct Easter sunrise services.
A low, chill mist lay over the gray landscape as Cici pulled her SUV onto the wide field beside the rows of other, already parked cars. Hundreds of folding chairs had been lined up in front of a twelve- by twelve-foot rock foundation, which was all that remained of the original Blue Valley church. Just inside the square of rocks was a pulpit draped with a white cloth, and behind that, a white-robed choir. In the distance a haze of mountains overlooked the dramatic folds and shadows of the valley. Even in the predawn light, it was breathtaking.
Cici wore a new ivory suit with a flared skirt and a pale blue silk scarf artfully draped into her cleavage, with matching pale blue pumps and a blue linen hat worn low over her brow. Lindsay said she looked like she was going to the Kentucky Derby, but Cici just tossed her head and admired the effect of the hat in the mirror one last time before they left the house. She liked hats, and one of the great things about living in a small town was that everyone dressed up for Easter.
Lindsay herself wore a multilayered skirt of lilac georgette paired with a lace blouse and a spray of artificial lilacs at her throat. Her hair was pulled up into a twist, and although no one could talk her into a hat, she had added ornamental pearl combs. Bridget wore pink, and Lori, with her usual vintage flair, looked like something out of a Renaissance painting. Even Ida Mae honored the occasion with a dress—worn over black stockings and sturdy Oxfords—and Noah had been wrestled into a tie.
After all, Easter only came once a year.
“Whose turn is it this year?” Lindsay asked as she got out of the car. “Methodist or Baptist?”
Each year the respective pastors of the competing churches took turns delivering the holiday sermons—one at Easter, and the other at Christmas. “Methodist, I think,” replied Bridget. She adjusted the hem of her pink bouclé skirt and straightened the short matching jacket before reaching back inside the car. “Ida Mae, hand me the cinnamon rolls and I’ll take them over to the table.”
She hurried off across the lawn to the tables that were set up under green funeral home canopies. And Lori, dressed in a 1960s chiffon and velvet gored skirt and a smart little brocade peplum jacket (for which she had no doubt paid a fortune in California), offered Ida Mae her hand to help her out of the car. Ida Mae brushed it away. “Wow, this is fantastic,” Lori said, gazing around. “Is this the church you went to when you were a little girl, Ida Mae?”
Ida Mae scowled at her. “What am I, two hundred years old? Use your brain, child.”
Noah looked miserable in a starched white shirt, clean jeans, shined loafers—with socks—and a dark blue tie. “It’s cold,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “Whoever heard of going to church in the middle of the night, anyhow?”
Cici said mildly, “I told you to wear your blazer.”
“That’s a sissy coat.”
“It’s a gentleman’s coat,” corrected Lindsay.
“Are we going to stay for the Easter egg hunt?” Lori wanted to know, and Noah rolled his eyes.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“Well, they’re fun to watch. Sometimes