At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [84]
“Hey,” said Noah, his face brightening.
Lori lifted an eyebrow at him. “Your idea?”
“So,” Lindsay went on, “in honor of that, I thought we’d take the day off. Everyone else gets spring holidays, and, besides, I have some things I need to get done today.”
“You got no argument from me,” said Noah, heading for the door.
The three of them watched him go. Then Cici said, “Well, I’d better change into my chicken coop-building clothes.”
“Yes,” said Lindsay, turning away from the door as though with an effort. “I’ll help you. Build the thing, that is. Whatever.”
“Me, too,” said Bridget.
Lori said, “You guys are acting weird.”
But no one seemed to hear her, and the three of them went upstairs.
Lori, shrugging, started to follow them, and then something caught her eye. She looked at the display on the entrance wall: the framed collage of historic newspaper scraps, the charcoal drawing of the house that Noah had given Lindsay for Christmas, an old-fashioned invitation, the faded scrap of paper with a child’s drawing on it that Lindsay had found in the guest room woodbin. She frowned, and opened the book, flipping through pages until she found it. She looked. And looked again.
“Holy cow,” she said. She turned toward the stairs and started to call “Hey!” but she stopped herself. Then she looked back at the book. “Holy cow,” she repeated, and the amazement on her face slowly turned into a big and satisfied smile.
She hurried to the door and saw Noah crossing the lawn. “Hey, kid!” she called. “You still want that ride into town?”
“I think this is a good thing,” Lindsay pronounced. The certainty in her voice seemed a little forced. “Of course it is.”
“No doubt about it. How big do you think a chicken coop is supposed to be, anyway?”
“I think it depends on the number of chickens, Cici,” Bridget said.
“They should each have their own nest.”
Cici stared at Lindsay. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know. Besides, they’re only three inches tall. If we make it too big, they won’t be able to keep warm at night.”
They had decided on a sunny spot behind the barn, and had brought a measuring tape, level, string, and dowels to mark the spot. Bridget handed over the tape to Cici. “Of course it’s a good thing. Every child should have a chance to know his mother.”
“I think the most important thing is to have a yard that’s big enough for them all to roam around in. We’ll have to enclose it in chicken wire.”
An hour later, as she took her turn wrestling the posthole diggers into the ground while Cici ran the power saw on an extension cord from the barn, Lindsay added, “I just hope she’ll encourage him to keep up with his art.”
“He could be going to a wonderful new life,” Bridget offered. She was panting as she dragged a two-by-four fence post across the ground. “Who knows what this could mean for him?”
“Definitely the best thing that could have happened.” Sweat rolled down Lindsay’s face and she grunted with effort as she stabbed the blades of the tool into the ground again.
Two hours later the three women examined the framework of what was roughly a six-by-eight-foot structure. The back was dramatically lower than the front; the left side seemed longer than the right; and the whole resembled a lopsided doghouse more than a building meant to house fowl.
“Did you leave room for windows?” Lindsay asked critically, tilting her head to one side.
Cici whipped off the sweatband that held back her perspiration-darkened hair and mopped her face with it. “Chickens don’t need windows. If they want fresh air, they can walk through the door.”
“You can’t leave the door open at night,” Lindsay said in alarm. “Foxes will come in!”
“That’s why we’re building a fence,” explained Cici patiently.
“Oh. Right.”
Bridget circled the entire structure, from front to back, before venturing an opinion. “I don’t see how we’re going to get in to collect the eggs. It seems a little . .