At Home on Ladybug Farm (15 page)

She dragged one of the heavy, blackened objects out and examined it closely. “Is this brass?” She pulled out the other one. “I think it is! They’ll have to be cleaned up, but wouldn’t they look great in the fireplace?”

“They’ll only get all sooted up again.”

“Then we’ll polish them again. Say, look at this.” Using her fingertips she prized up what turned out to be a filthy piece of scrap carpeting, obviously put there to protect the wood floor beneath from the damaging effects of the firewood. As she pulled the carpet out of the cubby most of the detritus it had been placed there to hold spilled onto the floor.

“Broom’s in the pantry,” Ida Mae told her with a humorless look, and left to arrange the towels artfully in a basket for the bathroom.

Lindsay swept up two dustpans filled with shredded bark, dried leaves, and just plain dirt, before she noticed several sheets of newspaper, which apparently once had been used as fire starter, lodged at the back of the bin. She pulled them out, but they weren’t very interesting—classifieds from 1962—and she tossed them in the trash bag. The last piece of paper was smaller, and half caught between the floor and the baseboard molding. She almost tore it tugging it out, but she could tell immediately it was not newsprint.

The paper itself was heavy, like stationery or even sketch paper, and it was yellowed at the corners with age. At first she thought it was blank, but when she turned it over she saw a crudely executed sketch—some kind of four-legged animal with wings in the center, a banner on top, and the whole surrounded by a pointed oval with one half shaded and what appeared to be feathers springing from the top. As she looked closer, Lindsay realized the animal was a horse. Lindsay smiled in puzzlement and started to crumple the paper into the trash, then hesitated.

This playful product of a child’s imagination might have been drawn twenty years ago, or fifty. Perhaps it was even older. As she smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper, Lindsay could not help imagining some long-ago budding artist, rushing to show his mother his latest masterpiece, his mother faithfully tacking it up among the dozens of other similar works of art she couldn’t throw away. This drawing, like the long-forgotten ribbon in the alcove, was a part of the history of the house, and it deserved a place of honor.

Lindsay found a dime-store frame in her studio, and was hanging the drawing on the tall narrow wall in the entry hall that was dedicated to personal art when Cici came in. On the same wall was a charcoal sketch Noah had done of the house, and a framed invitation to a party held at the house in 1920, which a neighbor had given them for Christmas. There was also a collage of newspaper scraps and receipts from the turn of the century that Lindsay had found while taking down the wallpaper in her own room.

“Look,” she said as Cici came in with a bag from the hardware store. “I found another treasure.” She stepped back to admire the drawing.

Cici tried to look appreciative. “What is it?”

Lindsay shrugged. “But it’s old. It was in the cubby behind the wall in the guest room where they used to store firewood. I also found a cool pair of brass andirons.”

“Good.” Cici dropped the package on the sofa. “Because we’re going to need them. I heard on the radio coming back that the temperature is really going to drop tonight. It’s going to stay cold all weekend, too. Wouldn’t you know? Just when we promised Paul and Derrick a lovely spring weekend in the mountains. I’m going to start bringing in some firewood.”

Lindsay followed her through the house to the kitchen. “How cold is it going to get?”

“In the twenties tonight, the teens tomorrow.”

Bridget was just taking the scones out of the oven and the kitchen was filled with the aroma of creamy vanilla and blueberries. She turned when Cici spoke, holding the baking sheet in her mittened hands. “
What
did you say?”

Lindsay went straight to the refrigerator and took out the butter dish. Cici filled the kettle and put it on to boil. “A cold front is moving in this afternoon. It’s not going to get above freezing all weekend.”

Bridget’s eyes went in disbelief to the window, where an emerald meadow, unfurling green leaves, and snowy blossoms testified to the fact that this was definitely spring. “But . . . everything is in bloom! The fruit trees, the berries, the flowers . . . they’ll all freeze!”

Lindsay, who was impatiently plucking the hot scones from Bridget’s baking sheet into a napkin-lined basket, paused. “Oh-oh,” she said. “I didn’t think about that. My roses are starting to bud, too. I’ll have to cover them.”

“We can cover the blueberries and the hydrangea bushes,” Bridget said. “But we’ll have to cut all the flowers and bring them inside.”

“You don’t cover blueberries,” Ida Mae said, coming into the kitchen from the pantry. “They need the cold to make. Same with blackberries and raspberries. You just leave ’em alone. Mother Nature has a plan.”

“What about the cherry trees and the pears?” Cici said. “They’re just starting to bloom. Does Mother Nature have a plan for them, too?”

Ida Mae shrugged. “They’ll either live, or die. I told you it was too dang early to be shearing sheep.”

The kettle started to shriek and Cici lifted it from the stove, pouring hot water over the tea bags in three cups. Lindsay put the basket of scones on the table and Bridget put away the baking pan, and for a moment the significance of Ida Mae’s last words were lost on them. It was as one that the three of them turned again toward the window, and the view of twenty-five naked sheep peacefully scattered over the meadow.

“Oh, my,” moaned Lindsay.

“The sheep,” gasped Bridget.

“What about the sheep?” Lori, who could be counted upon to respond to the scent of baked goods from anywhere on the property, came in from the back porch and helped herself to a scone.

“Those are for company,” Cici said. She took one for herself and sat down, reaching for the butter knife.

Bridget looked worried as she told Lori, “It’s going to get cold tonight.”

Lori said, “We’ll bring the sheep into the barn. It’s a mess to clean up in the morning, but we’ve done it before. “

“But,” Bridget said, “that was when they had wool.” She sat down and pulled her cup of tea toward her, her forehead furrowed as she absently dunked the tea bag.

Lindsay took a scone and slathered it with butter. Steam rose from the crevices as the pale sweet butter turned to liquid, and Lindsay bit into it, smothering a moan of delight. “Oh, I hope you made more of these.”

But Lori, with her own scone poised before her lips, hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“She means,” interjected Ida Mae, setting a glass of milk in front of Lori with a thud, “that unless you figure out a way to get heat in that barn, them sheep is going to be dropping like icicles off a roof.”

Lori stared at her. “You mean—they could freeze?”

“Dead,” confirmed Ida Mae.

Lori turned a frantic look on Cici, who was buttering her second scone. “We can’t heat a barn!” she objected before Lori could speak. “And even if we could, it wouldn’t help. The temperature is not going to get above freezing until Tuesday at the earliest, and the sheep have got to get out and graze.”

“This might be why the
real
sheep shearer don’t come till April,” Ida Mae pointed out, a trifle smugly.

Lori put her scone down on the tabletop, looking as though she might cry. Lindsay, feeling guilty for the pleasure she was taking in her own scone, placed it on her saucer and reached across the table to touch Lori’s hand.

“We’ll think of something,” she told her.

And Bridget added, “Don’t worry, we’re not going to let a whole flock of sheep freeze.”

“Couldn’t we bring them in the house?” Lori pleaded, and almost before she finished speaking all three women responded.

“No!”

“But people in Europe used to bring their sheep in the house at night,” Lori insisted. “The sheep would sleep downstairs, near the fire, and the people would sleep upstairs.”

“People in Europe lived in barns!”

“In the Middle Ages!”

“It’s not happening, Lori,” Cici said firmly.

Bridget suggested, “Electric heaters?”

Cici shook her head. “Too dangerous. Besides, that doesn’t solve the problem of getting them outside to graze.”

Lori plucked morosely at her scone, leaving a pile of crumbs on the tabletop.

Ida Mae said, “Too bad you can’t get back that wool you sold.”

Cici looked at her sternly. “Thank you, Ida Mae. I think Lori feels bad enough.”

Suddenly Lori sprang up from the table. “Mom, can I borrow the car?”

And even as Cici was saying, “Sure, but—” Lori turned to Bridget with her hand held out and her voice excited.

“I need some money,” she said.

Bridget dug into her back pocket. “But, Lori, your mother’s right. Heaters won’t help.”

“It’s not for heaters,” she said, snatching up the twenty as she dashed for the door. “It’s for coats!”

A bitter cold wind rattled tree branches and chafed their faces as twilight fell that evening, and still they lingered outside the barn, looking in, jacket hoods pulled over their heads, fringed scarves flapping in the wind, mittened hands shoved deep into their pockets. The hydrangeas and rosebushes were wrapped in cotton sheets and the vegetable garden was covered with mulch. Firewood was stacked beside each fireplace. And all of their sheep were wearing coats.

To be accurate, some were wearing fleece-lined UVA sweat-shirts, others were wearing wool turtlenecks, some were wearing trimmed-down thermal long johns. Lori had raided every thrift store, Goodwill mission, and secondhand shop in the county, and she, Noah, and Bridget had spent the afternoon wrestling the sheep into the garments and then driving them into the barn.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” Lindsay said, for perhaps the third time.

“Actually, I didn’t think of it by myself,” Lori admitted. “I saw it on a Nickelodeon cartoon one time . . . back when I used to have TV.”

“Dumbest thing I ever did see,” Noah pronounced, hunching his shoulders against a blast of arctic wind. “Them sheep’s embarrassed, if you ask me.”

“Well, they may be embarrassed,” Bridget retorted, “but at least they’re alive. Good job, Lori.”

“I just hope it works,” Lori worried.

“I don’t know why it shouldn’t,” Cici said. “It may not be as good as their own wool, but it’s the next best thing. They’ll be able to generate enough heat bunched up together like this in the barn to keep warm at night, and during the day the coats will keep them from losing heat while they walk around to graze.” She grinned at her daughter. “You’re a pretty smart kid, if I do say so myself.”

“I still say it’s the dumbest thing I ever saw,” Noah grumbled.

“Come on,” Lindsay said, giving both young people a playful shove on the shoulder, “let’s go in and get warm. We’ve got company coming tomorrow!”

9

Company

The silver blue Prius glided to a stop in front of the worn brick facade of Ladybug Farm and its driver got out cautiously, keeping one foot on the floor mat and the door only half open, as though he were still debating whether to exit. He was a tall, pale, sharp-nosed man of about forty with a thick mane of perfectly coiffed chestnut hair and Italian shoes. He looked around cautiously.

The white-columned porch appeared to have suffered some from the mud of winter, and nothing but the sagging frozen stems of daffodils remained of the whiskey-barrel plantings on either side of the wide front steps. Somewhere in the distance—hopefully behind solidly locked doors—a dog barked furiously, and a deer with a rope around its neck was meandering toward the car.

“Well, well,” Paul murmured to his companion. “The sheep are wearing coats and the shrubs are wearing bedsheets. We must be in the right place.”

At that moment the front door opened and four women rushed down the steps, arms opened wide. Lindsay reached him first, flinging herself into his arms and burying her face in his camel wool coat. “Oh my God, you smell expensive!” she exclaimed

He assured her, tweaking her cheek, “My dear, I
am
expensive.”

Cici grabbed the other door as it was opening and tugged Derrick out. “Look at you! Look at you both! How dare you look so good when I’m turning into a hag?”

Derrick, with his prematurely silver hair, bright blue eyes, and salon-perfect tan, preened under her praise. “Clean living and good hair products,” he told her, grinning broadly as he kissed her cheek. “And who’s turning into a hag? You never looked better! Your skin is positively radiant. Is that what fresh air and sunshine does to you? I might be tempted to try it after all.”

“I’m so glad you came!” Bridget exclaimed, claiming her hug. “We haven’t seen anyone from the old neighborhood in forever!”

And Lori pushed her way forward eagerly. “At last, someone from the civilized world! You’ve got to tell me, what’s happening on
American Idol
?”