At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [86]
“Half the time your kids end up hating you for at least five of their teenage years,” added Bridget, “but you count yourself a success if they don’t end up pregnant or in jail. And don’t ever expect anything so mundane as a thank-you.”
“If any of us really knew what we were getting into when we decided to have kids, I don’t think we would’ve signed up.”
Bridget smiled to herself in the dark. “I would’ve.”
Lindsay said, “I know this is the best thing. It just . . . doesn’t seem fair.”
“No,” agreed Cici softly. “It doesn’t.”
They sat and rocked, wrapped in their thoughts. The sky gave up the last of its light and swallowed the mountains. The balmy evening melted into a cooler breeze tinged with the dampness of dew and the scent of woodsmoke. Somewhere behind the house, Rebel started to bark.
After a time Bridget sighed and said, “I should go in. But I’m too tired to get up.”
“I told Noah he was having a history test tomorrow,” Lindsay said. “I’d better go write it.” Her voice had a catch in it. “Not that it will matter, I guess, by Wednesday. I really should give him the rest of the week off.”
“What in the world is the matter with that dog?”
“Oh, Cici, he’s probably chasing deer,” Lindsay said. “You’d think after living with one for all this time, he’d catch on.”
“He knows the difference between his own deer and strangers,” Bridget pointed out with only the slightest note of pride in her voice. “And it’s his job to keep them out of the garden.”
“Well, can’t someone tell him we’ve got a fence around the garden for that?”
Upstairs, there was the sound of a window opening, and then Noah’s voice. “Hey, dog!” he shouted. “Shut up!”
“Hey, Noah! History test!” But there was a small smile in Lindsay’s voice as she called out to him.
The window closed.
Cici glanced across at her, smiling. “You would have made a great mother, Linds.”
“Maybe I’ll sit just a little longer. It’s so nice out, isn’t it?”
“Kind of late in the year for anyone to build a fire,” Bridget commented.
“Warm, too.”
“Maybe Farley’s burning trash.”
“Probably.”
“Is it supposed to rain tonight?” Lindsay wondered. “Look at that mist.”
All of them turned toward the foggy bank of mist that was drifting in patches and threads across the yard. Cici stood slowly, moving toward it to get a better look. “That’s not mist,” she said in an odd, constricted tone.
She moved suddenly, rushing to the rail, peering around the corner of the house. “It’s smoke!” she cried. “Call 911! Get everyone out of the house! The barn is on fire!”
17
It Never Rains But . . .
Morning dawned gray and flat over Ladybug Farm. No spectacular watercolor sunrise painted the sky, no shafts of golden light etched unfurling leaves, no diamond dewdrops sparkled on the grass. The air was heavy and still and tasted like wet soot. The lawn was churned up by the tracks of heavy fire trucks and spattered with dark, oily puddles. The lilac bushes had been crushed by the weight of the fire hose and emitted a cloyingly sweet perfume, which, mixed with the rank, sharp taste of smoke in the air, was close to nauseating. A bird shrilled suddenly in a nearby tree and then, as though embarrassed by the inappropriateness of his song, ceased abruptly.
Cici had been sitting on the back steps in her pajamas for the last hour, her arms wrapped around her knees for warmth, waiting for enough light to survey the damage. No one had gotten much sleep after the volunteer fire department left. Cici herself had gotten out of bed every hour or so to look out the window, making certain the fire had not flared up again. She could hear the other women moving around during the night, no doubt doing the same thing. And at three a.m. Lori had crept into bed beside her. Cici wrapped her arms around her and held her tight. Her daughter’s hair smelled like smoke.
She got up and crossed to the remnants of the barn, the untied laces of her battered gym shoes dragging in the mud. Rebel, unusually subdued, sniffed along