Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [83]
“You,” declared Bridget, clapping her hands together, “are brilliant! Sit down. What do you want, milk? I’ll bring it to you. Have some pie, too.”
“Speaking of pie, you had three new messages from that secret admirer of yours. He wanted to know if you had a recipe for apple-currant pie. So there’s your next blog entry.”
“Do you mean the one I make with the currants soaked in brandy and the shortbread crust?”
“I guess.”
Cici helped Lori arrange her crutches and slide into a chair with her leg extended sideways under the table. “That seems strange to me,” Cici said. “Most people would just ask for an apple pie recipe. But apple-currant?”
“See, your pie is famous.”
“Maybe your secret admirer has had your pie before,” suggested Lindsay.
Bridget frowned thoughtfully as she set a glass of milk and a slice of custard pie before Lori. “I can’t imagine.”
“Oh, and I ordered new labels for the strawberry champagne jam and the cherry wine jam,” Lori said, picking up her fork. “And a gross of three-by-five cellophane bags.”
“By the way,” Bridget said, staring at Lindsay “did you say a hundred ladybug cookies?”
“We’ll help,” Lindsay assured her.
Ida Mae pushed open the screen doorwith her shoulder, her arms sagging under the weight of a box of glass jars. “What you going to do with all them cherries?” she demanded.
Cici took the box from her. “What cherries?”
“The ones Farley’s unloading out of his truck. I hope you got somebody else to help you pit them, because I sure don’t have the time.”
The ladies looked questioningly from one to the other. “Did anyone ask Farley to pick cherries?”
They all shook their heads.
“Well, that’s just weird.”
Bridget pushed open the screen door and bounded down the steps and across the back lawn, where Farley was removing white five-gallon buckets of cherries from the bed of his pickup and placing them under the shade of a maple tree. There were four so far. “Farley!” Bridget exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “That’s wonderful! Where did you get all those cherries?”
He took off his hat as she approached. “Picked ’em off my trees,” he told her. “I was gonna take them over to my sister, but heard you needed them more.”
“But how did you know?” She looked at him in confusion. “I mean, this is a lifesaver, and we really appreciate it, but—all that work!”
He placed the last bucket on the ground. “Not that hard.” He straightened up and nodded toward the barnyard, where the frame of the goat house was almost completed, and the little goat had poked her head through the fence wires, nibbling at the grass. “You like that goat, do you? I figured she’d make a good one for you. Nice sweet milk.”
Bridget said, “Wait—that goat is yours?”
“Well,” he confessed, looking a little abashed, “you said you wanted one, and I didn’t have no use for her. I know how you love animals and all.”
“Oh.” She tried to put the pieces together. “But how ... Farley” she declared, delighted, “do you read my blog?” And then it all made sense, and before she could stop herself she blurted, “You like my apple-currant pie, too! Farley are you my secret admirer?”
He glanced down at his hat in his hand, shuffled his feet, looked back up at her with frank, faded hazel eyes, and replied, “Well, yes’m, I can’t deny I’ve been an admirer of yours for some time now, and it honors me to do some little thing for you now and then. Fact is,” he added, “it would be a pure joy if you’d come out with me now and again, maybe for some barbecue or the firehouse fish fry next Saturday.”
Bridget tried to speak; she was certain she did. But absolutely no words came. She just stared at him, with her mouth open, searching for words, until the moment turned awkward.
Farley shifted his gaze away, slapped his hat back on his head, and said, “You better