At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [96]
“We look like we should be sitting at the defendant’s table in a courtroom,” Bridget said, straightening the skirt of her navy silk suit. She cast an uncomfortable glance toward a harried mother in tattered shorts who crossed the street in front of them toward the Health Department, carrying a crying toddler. “Wait,” she said. “I’m leaving my jacket in the car.”
“I wish I hadn’t worn heels,” Lindsay said. “I never wear heels. And these French cuffs are too much.”
Cici was wearing tailored gray slacks in a stylish pinstripe and a burgundy satin blouse underneath the matching, nipped-waist jacket. Her heels were even higher than Lindsay’s. She experimented with taking her jacket off, as Bridget had done, but Lindsay shook her head adamantly. “You look like you just got back from a night of clubbing. That blouse is too much.”
“It’s the blouse I always wear with this suit,” Cici protested.
“Button the jacket.”
“We have way too many nice clothes for our current lifestyle.”
“Maybe we can sell them to pay for a new barn,” Cici replied dryly, checking her hair in the side view mirror.
“I always overdress when I feel insecure,” Lindsay said uneasily. “Why do women do that?”
“It’s a power thing,” Cici assured her.
“I don’t feel very powerful.”
“Do you have a red lipstick?”
“Don’t you dare,” Lindsay commanded as Bridget began to search through her purse.
Cici glanced at her watch, and blew out a breath. “Well,” she said. She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and looked at the other two. “I guess we should go in.”
This time the waiting room was not empty when they came in. A pregnant, acne-faced young girl sat beside a very large woman in a cotton shift, and a rail-thin boy with a shaved head and a butterfly tattoo on his forearm was sprawled out in one of the plastic bucket chairs across from them, absorbed in a handheld video game. All three of them stared as the women crossed to the receptionist’s desk and were told to go right in.
Their high heels clacked with an embarrassingly loud rhythm on the linoleum as they crossed the room to Carrie’s door, knocked timidly, and stepped inside. Carrie rose from behind her desk to greet them. “Good morning, ladies, please come in.”
Four chairs were drawn up in a semicircle before the desk. One of them was occupied by a slight woman with dishwater blond hair, caught at the nape with an elastic band. She turned to look at them curiously as they entered. She was plain looking and painfully thin, with deep purple shadows under her eyes and lips that were cracked beneath her faded lipstick. She wore a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater, despite the warmth of the morning, and a full cotton skirt with sandals. Her hands were wound tightly around a brown vinyl clutch bag whose finish was scratched and worn, and if the ladies had felt overdressed when they stepped out of the car, they felt like runway models pinned by a spotlight now.
“I was so sorry to hear about the fire at your place,” Carrie was saying, and Lindsay, Bridget, and Cici dragged their attention away from the other woman long enough to assure her all was well, it had been nothing, really, no one was hurt, nothing of value was lost, and they were all doing just fine.
The thin woman rose uncertainly as Carrie made the introductions. “Mandy Clete, this is Bridget Tindale . . .” Her hand was cold and her fingers fragile as Bridget shook her hand. “Cici Burke . . .” She murmured a “nice to meet you.” “And Lindsay Wright.” Lindsay shook her hand. “Ladies, this is Noah’s mother.”
Somehow, they hadn’t expected it all to be that simple. There should have been more drama, perhaps a late-breaking development, significant delays. Perhaps they had half expected to walk into the office and discover there had been a mistake in identity, or to be informed that the woman had not shown up after all. After fifteen years of abandonment, it shouldn’t have been that simple.
“Cormier,” the woman corrected in