A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (11 page)

The bed was neatly made up with a patchwork quilt, and on the dresser was a worn leather Bible. Bridget carefully opened the front cover of the Bible and read the faded brown handwriting inside. “Ida Mae Simpson, 1951,” she said softly. “Wow.” She glanced around. “It’s like whoever lived here just . . . walked away.”

On the left-hand wall there were two doors. Cici opened one of them to reveal a small bathroom.

“Probably this whole cellar was the servants’ quarters,” Lindsay said, “until they decided to turn it into a wine cellar. And this room they would have kept and updated for the modern-day housekeeper.” She sighed. “Imagine being able to live like that. I feel like I’m in one of those PBS specials. You know,
Upstairs, Downstairs
or something.”

“I think you’re right about this being the old servants’ quarters.” Cici opened the second door, and found a light switch on the interior wall. A narrow staircase opened upward into the house. “Probably this opened into a hallway originally until they decided to build this room around it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Bridget. “That must be the staircase that goes from the kitchen to the attic. I never realized it went down, too!”

“That’s because there are doors on every level to conserve heat,” explained Cici. “This must have been the maid’s quarters, or maybe the chief housekeeper’s. She would have access to all the floors from here, plus the kitchen garden.” She nodded toward the outside doors. “Nice digs, for hired help.”

“Come on,” said Lindsay, catching Bridget’s hand and pulling her into the stairwell. “Let’s check it out.”

Cici flicked a switch that illuminated a bare bulb one floor above them, and Lindsay tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I just love this house!”

They traced the staircase all the way to the attic, a long, dusty-floored room that they had only briefly explored before. The small windows at each end were so caked with grime that only a pale wash of sunlight made its way through, and the expanse was mostly in shadows. There were some pieces of abandoned furniture—a rocking chair with broken rungs, a child’s wooden table, a painted lampshade—and odds and ends piled in various places against the wall.

“We really need to spend a day up here straightening this place up,” Lindsay observed, plucking a few cobwebs from her hair.

“I wonder what’s in those boxes,” said Bridget, making her way toward a haphazardly piled row of boxes—some cardboard, some wooden—that lined a long wall.

“Mice, probably,” replied Cici, and Bridget withdrew quickly.

“It’s like living in a castle,” said Lindsay with a wondering shake of her head. “You never run out of things to explore.”

“Say, Lindsay,” grinned Bridget, elbowing her in the ribs. “Do you think this is where your ghost hangs out?”

Lindsay drew a breath to reply, and then they all froze as a sound floated up the stairs, muffled and distant.

“Hal-loooo!”

Bridget’s eyes grew big. So did Lindsay’s. The voice came again.

“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

Cici went to the window and looked out. “It’s Maggie’s car,” she reported with visible relief, and they hurried downstairs to greet their guest.

Maggie insisted she just stopped by to see how they were settling in, but was easily persuaded to stay for coffee and muffins. She had brought Farley with her, and while she told them how to find the nearest hairdresser and where the Laundromat was, Farley rumbled around the barn until he found a box of tiles that matched the ones missing from their roof, and proceeded to make repairs. As usual, all he wanted in return was ten dollars.

“It’s his disability insurance,” confided Maggie. “He’s convinced that if he charges more than ten dollars for anything, the government will take it away. Lord, when that man goes, we’ll probably find a couple thousand ten-dollar bills hidden behind the walls of that trailer of his!

“Now,” she went on chattily, “have you had much chance to get out and look around? Finding everything you need? You know the best prices are at the supermarket on the highway, but Jason’s Grocery in town has the best smoked bacon in the state, and he cuts his own meat. His milk is delivered twice a week, but you need to be careful to check the expiration date on his dry goods—I don’t think he moves them fast enough to keep them fresh. I know I showed you the bank and the post office, but if you need a good mechanic . . .”

And so as they sat on the porch sipping coffee and nibbling on muffins, Maggie filled them in on the details of their new community. Cici could get whatever building materials she needed from J&J Lumber three miles west of town, and they delivered the same day—for free. Doug Hasting’s Chevron was fine for gas and oil, but never let him fix your car. The town library had a Charlottesville telephone directory, which would be helpful for finding contractors, and high-speed Internet. And Family Hardware on Main Street was worth spending an afternoon browsing even if you didn’t need hardware.

Bridget said, “Oh, that reminds me! When we were checking the fuse box this morning we found a room in the cellar we didn’t even know was there. We think it was the maid’s room. There was a Bible there from 1951—I think the name was Simpson.”

Maggie nodded. “It probably belonged to Ida Mae. She took care of this place for, oh, as long as I can remember. She used to make fruitcakes at Christmas and take them to all the neighbors. I think she went to Mountain Rest Nursing Home after Mr. Blackwell died.”

“Maybe I’ll send it to her there. It looked like a family heirloom.”

“That’d be real sweet, honey.” She finished off her second muffin and said, “Now those were just delicious. Where did you get the pecans?”

When Bridget confessed she bought them, Maggie gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You won’t be doing that anymore! See all those trees up and down your driveway? Pecan trees! And all behind the house here are hickory and black walnut. Some people make a hickory nut cake, but give me black walnut any day—as long as you can keep the squirrels away from them! Be careful not to get the juice on your hands, though. You’ll never get the stain out. That was what the Indians used to dye their clothes.”

She cocked her head and said, “Well, that sounds like Farley coming down off the ladder. He’ll be wanting to get back.” She pushed back her chair and stood while Cici hurried to get a ten dollar bill for Farley.

Bridget and Lindsay walked with her around the porch to the front of the house. “You ladies certainly do have your work cut out for you,” Maggie said, stopping to gaze back appreciatively as she descended the steps. “But my, this is a marvelous old place, isn’t it?”

They agreed that it was. Then Lindsay said, “We sure could use some help with the yard work. I don’t suppose you know a high school boy looking to pick up a little extra cash.”

“No, I can’t say that I do. But I’ll ask around for you.”

Farley was already in the car, and Cici was squinting up at the roof, admiring the job he’d done.

“Oh by the way, I love your sign,” Maggie called as she reached the car. “It’s a little crooked, though. I’ll have Farley fix it for you when we go by.” She opened the driver’s door. “Ladybug Farm. Is that the cutest thing? Welcome home!”

They waved as she drove away, and then turned back to gaze up at the big old mansion. “Home,” repeated Lindsay. “Wow.”

And Bridget added, with a note of wonder, “Imagine that.”

Cici was silent for a moment, nodding thoughtfully, and then she grinned. “I think I can get used to it,” she decided.

Linking arms, they mounted the steps and went inside.

 

 

While Bridget spent the morning scouring and rearranging the pantry, Cici drove into town for her first visit to the lumber store, and Lindsay decided to tackle the wallpaper in her bedroom. She had spent the winter flipping through decorating magazines and browsing the home improvement stores, and had arrived at Ladybug Farm armed with wallpaper stripper, glazing medium, two gallons of primer and two of base coat, and two painstakingly chosen shades of paint: Misty Arbor and Apple Blossom. To the untrained eye, the two colors looked very much the same, but Lindsay knew better. When she was finished the room would have the feel of a woodland bower, dappled with misty morning sun.

She moved the furniture to the center of the room and covered it with tarps, then taped down first a layer of plastic, followed by brown paper over the hardwood floors. With the help of a PaperTiger and a spray bottle of adhesive remover, the cabbage rose wallpaper came off strip by strip, and with surprisingly little resistance.

She was thrilled until she realized that underneath the wallpaper was another layer of paper. Newsprint had been used to even out the walls before applying the wallpaper, and it appeared to have been applied with permanent glue. In some places they had apparently run out of newsprint and had used sheets of newspaper—even writing paper—instead.

For a while she was intrigued by the scraps of printing she could make out:
July 1921 Chicken House Destroyed by Fire
;
December 1928, New Fire Engine Arrives
, and advertisements for Carter’s Pills and Borax, 20 cents. She even tried to save a few pieces intact, thinking they would make a nice collage or framed artwork for one of the downstairs rooms. But by lunchtime she was sticky with glue and her clothes were splotched with the water she was using to soften the papers, the room was littered with trash, and only half a wall was finished. It was clear to see that the project was not going to be as simple as she had assumed.

When Cici returned from town with a dozen two-by-fours sticking out of the back hatch window of the SUV, Lindsay was relieved to take a break to help her carry them upstairs. “I thought I’d start framing out the closets in that hall between your room and Bridget’s,” Cici explained, walking backward up the stairs with the bundled ends of a stack of two-by-fours in her gloved hands. “The lumber store said they could deliver the rest of the materials this afternoon.”

“Great,” said Lindsay. “I can unpack my suitcases. Of course, now I’ll be lucky if I can even find them.”

Cici glanced into Lindsay’s room as they passed. “What a mess.”

“You’re telling me.”

They placed the lumber in the connecting hall between the two rooms, and Cici wandered into Lindsay’s room to take a look at her progress. “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” she said, kicking away wallpaper scraps as she entered the room. “That underlayment looks like it’s been put on with mucilage.”

“What is that?”

“That’s the glue they used to make from—well, from horses. It’s almost impossible to dissolve.”

Lindsay grimaced. “Terrific.”

“You could repaper it.”

“I don’t want wallpaper. I wanted my own faux finish.”

“Wow, look at that.” Cici bent down to pick up a scrap of paper. “They used old newspapers.”

“Other things, too. I found some store receipts from 1912.”

Cici laughed. “That’s great. I always wanted to paper my walls with my bills.” She bent down again and picked up another paper.

“What’s this? It didn’t come off the wall did it?”

Lindsay turned to examine the paper she held. It was a little battered, torn at the corners, and crisp with age, but completely readable. “Oh my goodness,” Lindsay said, taking it slowly from Cici. “Do you know what this is? It’s a landscape map. A complete layout of the gardens!”

“How funny,” Cici said. “Only this morning you were saying you wished you had one.”

Lindsay gave her a startled look. “You’re right,” she said, “I did.”

“Look here.” Cici pointed on the map, “The paths were flagstone. I bet if we dug down a little they would still be there. And there was a wall around the whole rose garden. What is that—river rock?”

“There’s a stream at the edge of the property,” Lindsay said. “I didn’t know that, did you? I’ll bet that’s where they got the rocks.”

“Come on,” Cici said eagerly, “let’s go check it out.”

“Beats scraping wallpaper,” Lindsay agreed. “Let’s go!”

 

 

The streambed was in fact a virtually endless source of the kind of large, flat polished stones that, when arranged into a low wall, would transform the rose garden into a work of art. Lindsay remembered seeing an old wheelbarrow in the potting shed, and couldn’t wait to start hauling rocks to the garden. Cici found a hoe and started chopping away at the weeds and years of earth until she uncovered, just as she had predicted, the first flagstones of the original garden path. By the time they put away their tools for the day they were streaked with sweat and dirt, and they knew their muscles would ache in the morning. But an entire section of flagstone path had been uncovered, and one layer of shiny dark river stones outlined the rose garden.

“It’s never ending,” Lindsay said, bringing a glass of wine to join Cici on the front steps that evening. She groaned a little as she sat down on the top step beside her. “The list of projects just keeps growing and growing.”

“Yeah,” Cici agreed, smiling. “It’s hard to know what to do first.”

They wore jeans and sweaters against the chill of a spring evening, and Lindsay carried a lightweight knit throw over her arm. She spread it over her knees and Cici’s, and leaned back on one palm as she sipped her wine, admiring the glitter of the single evening star against a purple sky, and the chittering and trilling of the birds in the background.

“It was fun, though,” she said in a moment, contentedly. “Like an archaeological dig. And then to see the garden start to take shape like it used to be.”

“Tomorrow we’ll move the statue.”

“Meanwhile I’m sleeping in a bedroom with half a wall covered in newspaper.”

“I don’t know about you,” Cici said, “but I’ve slept in worse.”

“Like I said, it’s hard to know where to start.”

The screen door squeaked open softly behind them as Bridget came out. She wore a floor-length terry robe and had her hair wrapped in a towel. In addition to her own glass of wine, she carried a platter of chocolate chip cookies. “If you don’t mind a suggestion,” she said, “a new water heater would be first on my list.”