The ladies had only been in the house for a few months, but already they knew that those words, particularly when uttered by a workman, were never followed by good news. Cici and Lindsay were using paint scrapers and sandpaper to ready the front porch for painting; Bridget was in the garden. When the heating-and-air contractor poked his head out the front door and pronounced those fateful words, Cici looked at Lindsay, gave a small shrug of resignation, and followed him back inside. The garden path was still only half restored, but the living room walls had been painted a pale shade of antique gold and the trim—including an endless chair rail and an acre of pressed tin ceiling—had been refreshed with gloss white. The floors were still rather dull and battered looking, but the rock wall in the garden was now eight inches high. Lindsay was still debating how to finish her bedroom walls, but Cici had completed the closets for Bridget’s and Lindsay’s rooms. No one had time to shop for furniture, so they ate all their meals at the wicker table on the porch, or sitting on stools at the kitchen island.
What do You think about A Year On Ladybug Farm #1?
