Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [39]
They were thoughtful for a moment. “We really have grown to depend on her,” Bridget said, her voice sad. “It’s hard to think of her ... you know. Going downhill.”
“There’s got to be some way we can persuade her to take it easy.”
Both Cici and Bridget shook their heads at Lindsay’s suggestion.
“It’s not like we haven’t tried that before.”
“She practically snapped my head off for trying to help her water a plant this afternoon,” Bridget recalled.
“There’s really only one thing we can do,” Cici said.
“Keep doing her job,” Lindsay agreed.
“And keep her from finding out,” added Bridget.
They rocked in silence for a while. The color faded from the sky, leaving a bleached blue gray canvas against which mountain silhouettes were painted, and in one corner, the accent of a single star. The night air smelled of green things and spring earth.
Lindsay said, “We’ll have to get the grass mowed by Thursday to give all the bugs a chance to go away before the crowd gets here Saturday.”
Bridget said, “Noah only works till three on Thursdays. He could do it in a couple of hours.”
Cici gazed into her glass. “So, I was at the hardware store today, talking to Jonesie. I was teasing him, you know, about keeping Noah such long hours working.” She looked up at the other two. “He said Noah didn’t work at all last weekend.”
At first there was no reaction. Then Lindsay frowned. “But Noah was gone from dawn to dusk Saturday. He said he was helping Jonesie with a shipment.” She glanced uncomfortably toward the house, where a faint square of light filtered from Noah’s window. “I wonder why he would tell us he’s working when he’s not.”
“He’s seemed a little moody lately, have you noticed?” Bridget sounded worried.
Cici gave a heavy sigh and a shake of her head. “Has he? God, I’ve been so caught up in this wedding thing I haven’t noticed.”
“Me either,” Lindsay admitted. “How do people do it? Have jobs, run a household, and be good parents?”
“I guess there’s a reason that nature arranges for you to have children when you’re young,” Bridget said.
“He’s such a good kid most of the time.” Cici frowned. “I hate to think we’re the kind of people who only notice when something goes wrong.”
“I don’t know about you,” Lindsay said, “but it’s all I can do to notice when things go right.”
“There’s good news,” Bridget said after a time, although she didn’t sound very excited about it. “Four more orders for gift baskets—two medium and two small.” She stood. “Any volunteers to help put them together? I’ll need some help if I’m going to get them to the post office in time for tomorrow’s mail.”
“I’m in,” Lindsay said, getting to her feet.
Cici pushed up wearily. “Remind me again why we wanted to do this?”
But no one had an answer.
October 4, 2006
Happy birthday! I’ve been wishing all day that I could tell you that. I baked a chocolate cake, because I remembered it was your favorite. But there was no one to eat it with. Still, just knowing you’re in the world makes me glad I was born, too. So happy, happy birthday.
7
Love Stories
On Wednesday afternoons from two to four o’clock, Lindsay taught an art class in the long, stone-floored, whitewashed building that had once been a dairy barn. She put up flyers in the bank, at the post office and library, and at Family Hardware, where they carried the selection of paints and canvases she recommended. Her first class consisted of three people who had never held a paintbrush before. Lindsay launched into the basics of complementary and tertiary colors, perspective, composition, primary, secondary, and reflective light sources, and the following week not a single student returned.
She was disconsolate until Cici pointed out that all of her students were well over the age of fifty, and that adults simply did not have the time or the patience to learn theory. They wanted results. It turned out she was right. Bridget volunteered Lindsay to do a watercolor demonstration at the next garden club meeting, and she signed up six new students on the spot. They did not want to be artists. They