A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 by Donna Ball Page A

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