He shook his head in disbelief as he stared at me across the kitchen table.
“Why shouldn’t I be proud of myself?” I retorted. “The sun’s shining, isn’t it? The wind has stopped howling and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.” I buttered a triangle of toast and pointed it at him as I continued, “You should be grateful to me for making such a wise and benevolent wish. If I hadn’t, you’d have half the river running through your office right now.”
I’d spent much of the previous evening telling Bill about the luncheon at Ivy Cottage. Like Dimity, he’d reacted skeptically when I’d mentioned the wish I’d bellowed into Jack’s rediscovered well, and I’d spent the entire, sun-drenched morning reminding him of how wrong he’d been to doubt me.
“You did not stop the rain, Lori,” Bill stated unequivocally.
“I didn’t do it alone,” I acknowledged through a mouthful of buttered toast. “The wishing well—”
“Lori,” Bill interrupted, glancing meaningfully at Will and Rob, who’d been following our conversation with great interest.
“Oh, all right,” I conceded. I paused to swallow my bite of toast before saying solemnly, “I can’t control the weather. A wishing well can’t control the weather. A wish can’t keep the rain from falling or make the sun shine.”
“Thank you,” said Bill.
“But you have to admit,” I added, eyeing him mischievously, “it’s a corker of a coincidence.”
“What’s a coincidence?” Will asked.
“Did you use a corker to stop the rain, Mummy?” asked Rob.
Chastened by Bill’s accusatory glare, I spent the next few minutes explaining to our sons that I’d been playing a game with Daddy when I’d said those silly things about the wishing well and that intelligent young men knew better than to believe in silly things. I then scooped their dishes from the table and headed for the sink, leaving the definitions of corker as well as coincidence to Bill.
? ? ?
Since Emma Harris’s mornings were even more hectic than mine, I waited until after the school run to telephone her. She sounded harassed when I reached her, so I was slightly surprised when she jumped at the chance to put her vast expanse of gardening knowledge at Jack’s disposal.
“It’ll be a relief to get away from the stables for a while,” she said.
“Are you still nursing Pegasus?” I inquired, recalling her chestnut mare’s convenient case of colic.
“Rosie’s fine,” she assured me, “but not much else is. I had to cancel today’s riding lessons as well as tomorrow’s because the south pasture is flooded, the riding rings are knee-deep in mud, and half the hands are off sick. It’s nothing we can’t handle, but I won’t mind putting it behind me for an hour or two.”
“Come whenever you can,” I said. “We’ll have a nice cup of tea waiting for you.”
“Sounds heavenly,” she said. “I’ll try to get away around noon.”
“See you then,” I said, and rang off.
I’d dressed for the day in an old T-shirt, an old cardigan, a very old Windbreaker, and a pair of nylon hiking trousers that were old but still water repellent. I’d donned a pair of sneakers as well, but I’d tucked my trusty wellies into the rattan basket on Betsy’s handlebars, along with a pair of gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I was, I thought, ready to deal with whatever Hector Huggins’s gardens could throw at me.
My beautiful bicycle was waiting for me where I’d left her, leaning against the garage door, with a matching helmet dangling from her handlebars. After donning the helmet, I settled myself on Betsy’s well-cushioned seat, pushed off, and rang her brass bell to express the sheer joy I felt at finally taking her out for a spin.
There is nothing quite as exhilarating as riding a spanking new bicycle through the English countryside on a perfect day in May. The warm sun caressed my face, a self-generated breeze cooled my brow, and birdsong filled my ears as I pedaled swiftly along the twisting lane. I felt as if I were flying, and though the road surface was still quite damp, I handled the tricky curve near Bree’s house without slowing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Betsy’s twenty-one gears, but the gear she was in seemed to be working well enough for my needs, so I didn’t worry about changing into another. I arrived at Ivy Cottage feeling exultant, gave the hand brakes a firm squeeze, and tumbled over the handlebars and into the shaggy hedgerow.
A few unfortunate words escaped my lips.
“Lori?” Jack called over the hedge. “Is that you?”
He raced through the gateway, ran to my side, and hovered anxiously while I extricated myself from a web of springy branches. I noted vaguely that he’d donned his cargo shorts and sandals again, but I was too mortified to savor my close-up view of his shapely legs.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“No worries,” I said, spitting out a mouthful of hawthorn leaves as I hauled myself to my feet. “I had a soft landing.”