Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [8]
“I’ll print it out tonight.”
Cici said, still reading, “My car is gassed up if you change your mind.”
“That’s okay, I’m good.”
Ida Mae was coming up the back steps as he reached the door, and he propped the door open for her with his hip. “I’ll be leaving early in the morning,” he added casually as the older woman edged her way past him, carrying a basket filled with cut dandelion greens. “And it might be after supper before I get back. So don’t look for me.”
He glanced into the basket Ida Mae was carrying and made a face. “We having greens for supper? Maybe you better not count on me tonight, either.”
All three women braced themselves for the tirade they knew Ida Mae was about to unleash on him, and even Noah seemed surprised when she merely plopped the basket down on the soapstone counter next to the sink and started washing the greens, ignoring him.
Lindsay cast a quick startled look at Ida Mae’s back. “Don’t be a smart-mouth. And don’t forget I want to read that essay before I go to bed.”
“Yes’m.” The screen door slammed and Noah bounded down the steps.
Ida Mae shouted after him, “Don’t slam the—”
Noah reappeared before she could finish, an angelic smile on his face. “Farley’s coming,” he announced, and this time closed the door with barely a squeak.
“Hope he’s got my pressure cooker fixed,” Ida Mae grumbled as the sound of the sputtering pickup truck grew closer. “It’s been two weeks he’s been messin’ with it.”
“The safest two weeks I’ve ever spent in this house,” Cici said, without looking up from the magazine. “That thing is scary.”
“Even scarier now that Farley has worked on it,” Lindsay added.
“Wimps.” Bridget got up from the table. “Cooking is not for the faint of heart.” She went to the kitchen drawer where they kept the household cash and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. “Ida Mae, let’s pack up the rest of the breakfast muffins for Farley, okay?”
“You spoil that man.” Ida Mae began piling the dandelion greens into the sink.
“Well, it seems the least we can do, after all he does for us.”
Farley—none of them knew whether that was his first name or his last—was their closest neighbor, at three miles north, and their all-around handyman. Whether it was repairing a broken pipe, replacing a single roof tile, or plowing their driveway after a snowfall, he always charged ten dollars: no more, no less.
Ida Mae turned on the taps to rinse the greens and took the plate of leftover muffins from the cabinet. “Somebody needs to go get me a basket.”
Lindsay got up and went to the pantry.
Cici said, “Ida Mae, the magazine article is out, did you see it?”
Ida Mae was a tall, rangy woman of indeterminate age with iron gray hair and a brusque manner that left most people completely intimidated. Today she wore cotton jeans and steel-toed work boots underneath a belted red flannel dress and a pilled blue sweater, all topped with a cotton apron printed with bright red roosters. Her weathered face showed absolutely no signs of interest as she glanced over her shoulder at Bridget. “You gonna help me pack up these muffins or not?”
Rebel, their antisocial border collie, charged forth with a murderous round of barking as Farley’s truck pulled around the drive, and Bridget cast an anxious glance toward the back door before she hurried to take the basket that Lindsay had retrieved from the pantry. Rebel had been raised by Farley and had, in fact, been his gift to them when they discovered they had inherited a flock of sheep. But no one trusted the dog not to bite the hand that had fed him for the first three years of his life—particularly since he regularly tried to bite theirs.
Cici got up and came to help, the magazine in her hand. “Look, they even said something about you.”
“I’ll bet you never thought you’d see yourself in a magazine,” Lindsay encouraged.
And Bridget added, tossing muffins into the basket, “It’s a really nice article, Ida Mae.”
Ida Mae turned off the faucet and shook out the greens, spreading them out to dry on paper towels.
“You worked so hard helping us get the house ready for the photographers,