Chapter 2 #3
Florence’s eyebrows rose. “The chicken coop?”
“Oh, not just any chicken coop,” I said. “Mary Elizabeth’s chicken coop with rocking chairs and its own library.”
“That sounds interesting,” Alice said, her mouth twitched in a smile.
“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “But in the best way.”
That statement got me a glare from Mary Elizabeth, but I just smiled at her.
“It is charming,” I added, to smooth things over.
Tara looked down at her damp dress and then at the table where the waitress had returned with a fresh white cloth over one arm. “A short walk might help.”
“Good. Follow me.” I gestured toward the pasture and then looked back at the waitress, who was already clearing everything with quick, nervous hands.
Mary Elizabeth and Dawn had jumped in to help. Dawn moved the flower arrangement, and Mary Elizabeth hurried to get more silverware and linens.
The waitress paused, gathered up essential oil bottles, and set them on the tray with the cups so she could pull the wet tablecloth free.
The cloth dragged slightly across the edge, sending a few droplets onto the grass.
She worked fast, too fast, tugging the damp linen away and replacing it with a clean one that snapped open in the breeze before she smoothed it down with both palms.
The waitress glanced up for a second and gave me a weak smile before she went back to finishing up the new table setting.
The walk to the chicken coop wasn’t far, but it gave everyone a chance to breathe.
The back lawn rolled gently away from the farmhouse toward the fenced pasture.
Cows grazed farther out, tails swishing while a couple of calves stayed close to their mothers.
Beyond them, the line of trees marked the edge of the forest, thick and green under the summer sky.
“This really is a lovely property,” Tara said, still dabbing at her dress with the napkin.
“Mary Elizabeth has put her whole heart into it,” I said. “And every opinion she’s ever had.”
“She has been a gracious hostess,” Alice said with a smile. She put her hand up to her chest and started to pat around. “I think my necklace came unclasped during the little kerfuffle.”
She hurried off, going back toward the fundraiser. I didn’t try to stop her because she appeared to be in a panic.
Florence walked carefully over the grass, holding the side of her skirt just enough to keep it from brushing anything she didn’t approve of.
“I will admit, the farm is impressive. A working dairy, produce gardens, bed-and-breakfast, and event space all in one property. That takes vision,” Florence noted. “But I wouldn’t expect any less of Mary Elizabeth.”
“Yes. You’ve known her a long time,” I said.
The chicken coop sat just ahead, painted white with soft yellow trim and window boxes full of flowers.
Calling it a coop didn’t seem fair. It had a real door, a little porch, and curtains in the windows.
There was a small fenced run attached to the side, where several hens scratched around in the dirt, clucking as if they had opinions about our visit.
Florence stopped walking.
“That is a chicken coop?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Even Mary Elizabeth’s chickens have manners.”
Tara laughed under her breath. “It has curtains.”
“And heat and air-conditioning,” I said. “Don’t forget that part.”
Alice looked at me. “For the chickens?”
“For Mary Elizabeth’s peace of mind,” I said. “And apparently egg quality.”
I opened the door and let them step inside.
The familiar smell of straw, wood shavings, and clean feed greeted us, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
Mary Elizabeth kept the place cleaner than most kitchens I’d seen.
A small bookcase sat against one wall, filled with children’s books, old Southern Living magazines, and a few worn mysteries stacked neatly.
A wooden rocking chair sat near the nesting boxes, with a folded quilt over the back.
On the side table was a basket of reading glasses, hand lotion, and a little notebook where Mary Elizabeth kept track of which hens were laying.
“This is unbelievable,” Tara said.
“Mary Elizabeth reads to them,” I said.
Florence turned slowly to look at me. “Reads to the chickens?”
“Every night, if she has time. She says a calm hen is a productive hen.”
Tara finally relaxed enough to laugh for real. “I love this.”
Florence’s face softened despite herself. “It is certainly memorable.”
That was practically a standing ovation from Florence Sparks.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched the three women take in Mary Elizabeth’s prized chicken palace.
For a few minutes, the tightness from the table eased.
Tara asked about the bed-and-breakfast guests collecting eggs in the morning.
Alice wanted to know whether predators ever got close to the coop.
Florence asked if Mary Elizabeth used the eggs in the breakfast service then nodded with approval when I told her she did.
It was the first peaceful moment I’d had since being assigned to the table of Kentucky power women. Of course, it didn’t last.