Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [32]
“I didn’t say you were feeble, I said ...”
“I know what you said, Miss Priss. There ain’t nothing wrong with my hearing, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” Ida Mae set the pot down on the stand with a thud that splashed more water and dirt onto the floor. “There!” she declared in disgust as she surveyed the mess. “Look what you made me do!”
Bridget and Ida Mae had had their differences almost from the moment they met, as was only to be expected when two strong women ruled over the same kitchen. In time they had come to respect each other and even to work together as an efficient team. It had been a long time since Bridget had lost her temper with Ida Mae. And it had been almost as long since Ida Mae had made such a deliberate attempt to provoke her.
“What I made you do? That’s what I was trying to stop you from doing!” Bridget quickly clamped down on further exclamations and turned away so that Ida Mae wouldn’t see the flare of color in her cheeks. She jerked open the cabinet under the sink, looking for towels.
Ida Mae returned from the pantry with a mop in her hand just as Bridget straightened up from the cabinet with a towel. “Ida Mae,” she said gently, “I know something’s bothering you, but I can’t help if you won’t talk about it. None of us can. Don’t you want to—?”
But before she could even finish the sentence, Ida Mae shoved the mop into Bridget’s hands.
“And I’ve got too much to do to clean up your messes,” she told Bridget. “So, you can just do it yourself.”
With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, anger and contempt radiating from her with every step.
Bridget stood there for a moment, mouth agape. And just when she thought of something to shout after Ida Mae, the telephone rang.
It was, of course, Catherine.
A typical day in late spring at Ladybug Farm began with a leisurely breakfast on the porch, watching the mist rise over the meadow and the iridescent hummingbirds run war maneuvers around the bright red feeders that were hung under the eaves. They drank coffee in their pajamas, munched muffins and fresh fruit, and planned their days. Cici usually had some project going around the house—matching a piece of hand-milled molding from the 1920s, patching the crumbling mortar in the stone floor of a patio, building a closet or a set of shelves. By eight o’clock, Ida Mae was usually busy polishing furniture and mopping floors, and Bridget was feeding the chickens, checking on the sheep, or working in the vegetable garden. On the days that Lindsay had students in for art classes, she was in her converted dairy barn studio by nine, preparing canvases and mixing paints. Otherwise she never lacked for occupation with the flower gardens, the trellises, the ponds and patios. As the summer progressed, the orchard, vineyard, and nut-bearing trees all needed attention, and when harvest began an entirely new flurry of activity consumed the household. There were very few moments of downtime at Ladybug Farm.
So far this day had included for Cici twelve phone calls, eight e-mails, four faxes, and a trip to the hardware store. She had finished framing out the dance floor and was waiting for the rest of the materials to be delivered so that she could start placing the floorboards. It was after noon, and she was feeding the chickens because no one else had had time to do it, and she still had the table rounds to make.
Every surface in the kitchen was filled with sample dishes, pots were steaming on the burners, and Bridget was madly whisking, slicing, and basting. Ida Mae was sulking about something and taking out her pique on the windows, which she was polishing to a dangerous sheen. Lindsay hadn’t left the sewing machine all day, and Noah, it seemed, hadn’t been heard from all week. Cici didn’t blame him for staying out of the way. What worried her was that in only a matter of days, this kind of chaos had become the new normal.
When the telephone tucked into her back pocket rang yet again, she was