“Thanks, Sally,” said Jack.
“Not at all,” said Sally. She strolled casually to the wide-open back door, peered into the garden, and exclaimed, “You have a well, Jack! I didn’t know there was a well at Ivy Cottage.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you mind if I pop out for a peek?”
“Be my guest,” said Jack.
Bree and I exchanged speculative glances as Sally made a beeline for the well.
“Jack,” I said, “have you spoken with anyone in the village since Bree and I were here yesterday?”
“I spoke with Mrs. Taxman,” he replied. “I went to the post office yesterday afternoon to mail a water sample to a testing lab in Oxford, and since the post office is inside Mrs. Taxman’s general store, I had a look around the shop while I was there. I didn’t find the bucket or the rope I wanted, but Mrs. Taxman offered to order them for me. She was very helpful.”
I nodded. “Did you tell Peggy about the well when you ordered the bucket and the rope?”
“Of course I did,” said Jack. “I’m prepping the cottage for sale, remember? The well’s a selling point.”
“Did you tell Peggy about my wish?” I went on patiently.
“I may have made a joke about it,” Jack admitted. “It’s pretty hilarious, after all. Lori Shepherd wants the rain to stop and—bam!—it stops raining! I think I said we could use someone like you back home in the wet.”
I groaned and Bree heaved a dolorous sigh.
“Why the long faces?” Jack asked.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” I said.
“Enlighten me,” said Jack.
“Where do I start?” I said, gazing at him pityingly. “What you have to understand, Jack, is that everyone in Finch is frothing at the mouth to sneak a peek at Ivy Cottage because no one’s set foot in it since your uncle moved in.”
“They would have come calling for that reason alone,” said Bree, “but you’ve given them an even better reason.”
“The well?” Jack guessed.
“The wishing well,” I clarified. “The villagers will be trooping through here morning, noon, and night to make a wish in your well.”
“You can’t be serious,” Jack scoffed. “No one over the age of six believes in wishing wells.”
“I’m not saying they believe in it,” I temporized. “Not all of them. Not deep down. But the ones who aren’t superstitious will be intrigued.”
“When they hear about Lori’s wish coming true,” said Bree, “they’ll think to themselves, ‘Why not give it a go?’”
“In short,” I concluded, “you’re about to be trampled by a herd of villagers.”
“What’s wrong with that?” said Jack. “Let ’em come. The more, the merrier.”
“Famous last words,” I intoned.
Bree put a finger to her lips and we fell silent as Sally Pyne came in from the back garden.
“It’s a wonderful well,” she said. “Like something out of a fairy story. I’d stay to lend a hand with the garden, Jack, but I don’t like to leave Henry alone in the tearoom for too long. Henry’s my fiancé,” she explained to Jack. “He used to be an entertainer on a cruise ship. His jokes make me laugh, but not everyone appreciates them.”
“Hello?” called a man’s voice. “Anyone at home?”
“We’re in here, Mr. Barlow,” Sally shouted in reply.
My eyebrows rose. Mr. Barlow was a down-to-earth handyman, sexton, and retired mechanic whose work-booted feet were planted firmly on the ground. Had I made a mental list of the people least likely to test the wishing well’s alleged powers, Mr. Barlow’s name would have been at the very top of it. Happily, my faith in him was justified when he entered the kitchen lugging his tool kit, a bundle of hairy jute rope, and an iron-banded oak bucket with a sturdy iron handle.
“Morning, Jack,” he said. “I heard you were looking to fix up your well, so I had a rummage in my shed and found these.” He held up the bucket and the rope. “No point in buying new when old will do.”
“No point at all,” said Jack. “Much obliged, Mr. Barlow.”
“Let’s see if the rope’s long enough,” said Mr. Barlow, turning toward the back door.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Jack, “as soon as I’ve—”
“You go ahead,” Sally broke in. “I’ll see myself out.”
Jack followed Mr. Barlow into the garden and Sally trotted back to the tearoom to rescue her customers from her fiancé’s sense of humor. Bree and I, left alone in the kitchen, paused for a meditative moment.
“Peggy’s going to hit the roof when Jack cancels his order,” Bree said, breaking the silence. “She’ll have Mr. Barlow’s guts for garters when she finds out his rummage lost her a sale, and she’ll give Jack an earful.”
“We can’t do everything, Bree,” I said philosophically. “Jack will have to learn some lessons the hard way. In the meantime . . .” I took off my sneakers and stepped into my Wellington boots. “We’d better clear the footpath to the front door. It’s about to become a superhighway.”
Nine