At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [72]
“We?” repeated Cici. “We?”
“But . . .” Bridget gestured helplessly. “I don’t understand. What . . . why . . . chickens?”
Lori spread her hands in a sincere gesture of apology. “I really didn’t mean to ruin Easter dinner, honestly, and I never would have brought them inside if I’d realized everyone was at the table, but Jonesie stopped by early—he had to go to his mother-in-law’s for dinner—and . . .”
“Lori,” Cici said. “The point.”
She took a breath, the spark of irrepressible excitement creeping back into her eyes, and declared, “The way to success in business is to reinvest your profit. Donald Trump or someone said that. So we’re taking our profit from the sheep and investing it in chickens. Our new business!”
There was absolute silence.
Ida Mae came through the swinging doors with a dustpan scattered with yellow chicken fluff. A scattering of laughter and Prissy’s melodic chatter filtered in from the dining room, signaling that all was not lost on that end, but neither Cici nor Bridget turned her head. “Ya’ll gonna eat?” Ida Mae demanded. “Food’s getting cold.”
They ignored her. “Where are they going to live?” Bridget asked. “What are you going to feed them? Don’t baby chicks have to have special food?”
Ida Mae shook the dustpan out in the trash can. “You’re gonna need an incubator, least till they get bigger.”
Lori looked at her in surprise. “An incubator? Jonesie didn’t say anything about that.”
“Everybody knows that,” Ida Mae returned with a touch of exasperation. “Reckon you could rig one up with a woodbox and some lightbulbs, though.”
“Lori, don’t you realize these chickens aren’t going to stay this size forever?” Cici demanded. “Do you have any idea how much room a hundred and forty-four chickens need?”
“We’ll build them a coop,” Lori assured her.
“A coop? For a hundred and forty-four chickens, we’re going to need a commercial chicken house!”
“Not to mention the work,” added Bridget. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but chickens make a mess!”
“Exactly,” returned Lori, pleased. “And do you know how much chicken manure costs?”
“No,” admitted Bridget, “but I do know how it smells.”
“It’s a high-nitrogen fertilizer,” Lori explained, “great for the garden. And we get it for free! But that’s not even the best part.”
“I’m so glad,” murmured Cici.
“Cage-free eggs!” Lori declared. “They’re over three dollars a dozen in the grocery! All we have to do is hook up with a distributor—”
“Who’ll take half the profit.”
“Which still leaves us with $1.50 a dozen, and if each chicken gives a dozen eggs a day—”
“Ain’t no chicken alive gonna give you a dozen eggs a day,” Ida Mae pointed out sourly. “It takes fourteen hours of sunlight a day for a laying hen if you want to get just one egg. It also takes a rooster. You got any roosters in there?”
For the first time, Lori looked nonplussed. She turned to the box. “Well . . . I don’t know. But I’m sure . . .”
“Lori, didn’t you do any research at all before you spent a hundred dollars on chickens?” Cici could not quite keep the incredulity out of her voice.
Lori’s chin went up in a gesture that was remarkably reminiscent of her mother. “Of course I did! For one thing, these aren’t just ordinary chickens. They’re Rhode Island Reds—show chickens! They’ve won all kinds of awards. And show chickens, I’ll have you know, can go for up to a thousand dollars a piece.”
Bridget’s eyebrows arched. “Where did you hear that? From Jonesie?”
“No,” Lori admitted, looking uncomfortable. “Noah.”
Ida Mae sniffed. “Rhode Island Reds are common as dirt. Fine chicken, but if I ever met a man who’d pay a thousand dollars for one I’d sell him my worn-out stockings next.”
Cici blew out a breath that was so forceful it ruffled her bangs. “Lori, we’ve talked about this. You’ve got to think these things through. You can’t just invest in a business idea and hope it works out—especially when it involves as much work as this one.”
Lindsay pushed open the door and poked her head through. “Ladies,” she said through gritted teeth, and rolled her eyes dramatically