At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [73]
“I’m sorry Aunt Lindsay,” Lori said, and she turned away, busying herself with stroking the tiny bobbing chirping heads in the cardboard box as Lindsay closed the door.
“I reckon we could clear out a place for them in the conservatory,” Ida Mae grumbled, “at least till you get a coop built. Plenty of daylight in there. I’ll go take up the carpets.”
Bridget stood and gave Lori’s shoulder a sympathetic stroke before she left the room. “Honey,” she reminded her gently, “the library is our friend.”
When they were alone, Cici pushed herself to her feet with an air of resolve. “Lori,” she began.
Lori whirled on her, with her arms flung wide and her eyes flashing. “Okay, Mom, I get it, okay? I’m a total screwup. Nothing I do is right. I don’t know anything about farming or old houses or sheep or chickens. The only chance I’ll ever have at making a life for myself is to go sit in some boring classroom and bat my eyelashes at some boring professor until he gives me a passing grade in some boring subject so I can be some boring lawyer or something. Got it. I’m not as smart as you. I’m not as talented as you. I can’t make things work like you can, and guess what? I’m not perfect like you are! But I don’t see anyone else coming up with any better ideas, do you? At least I’m trying! And if you want to know the truth, I think you’re afraid to even consider the possibility that one—even one—of my ideas might work because then you’d have to admit you were wrong! Well, my new goal in life is to make sure that’s exactly what you have to do. You’re wrong, okay? You’re wrong and I’m going to prove it to you! Maybe not with chickens, maybe not with sheep, but I’ll prove it! You just watch me!”
Lori’s face was flushed, her breath was quick, and there was a slight catch in her voice with the last words. The room practically rang with the silence that followed her impassioned speech, broken only by the cheeping from the box on the countertop behind her.
At last Cici spoke. “I was just going to say, we’d better bring the other boxes in from the porch before some stray cat wanders up.”
It seemed to take a moment for her mother’s mild tone to register, and yet another for the heat to fade from Lori’s gaze. Finally she glanced away, embarrassed. “Oh.”
Cici crossed the room, opened the back door, and let Lori lead the way to the porch. And she waited until Lori was out of hearing distance to murmur, under her breath, “That’s my girl.”
“Well.” Cici lowered herself into the rocking chair, next to her friends, and stretched out her legs, grimacing a little as she did so. “One temporary chicken coop-slash-incubator is up and running. One hundred and forty-four tiny little chickens are scattering sawdust all over the sunroom and preparing to keep us up all night with their cheeping. Tomorrow I start building a chicken house. Oh no, don’t thank me. It’s all part of the service here at what is rapidly becoming Loony-bug Farm.”
Following Ida Mae’s instructions, Cici had built a large, bottomless wooden box out of one-by-sixes to contain the chicks, drilled holes for ventilation, and added a lid. She then had taken apart several small lamps, threaded the sockets through holes in the lid, and added sixty-watt bulbs to keep the chickens at their ideal temperature throughout the night. It had taken most of the afternoon.
Bridget poured white wine into the glass Cici held out. “Isn’t there some kind of law against building chicken habitats on Easter?”
“If there’s not, there should be.” Cici leaned back in her rocking chair and groaned. “My daughter hates me.”
“Which only means you’re doing your job.”
“Why did I think this would get easier the older Lori got? I’m the worst mother in the world.”
“Impossible,” Bridget assured her. “I am.”
“Remember last year how worried I was about her? All I wanted was for her to come home. And now that’s she’s home . . .”
Bridget stretched her hand across and patted Cici’s arm. “It’s the old be-careful-what-you-wish-for syndrome.