I would have added clairvoyance to my list of superpowers if my prediction hadn’t been so . . . predictable. Bree and I were less than halfway through our clearance project when Miranda Morrow arrived at Ivy Cottage, accompanied by Elspeth Binney, Selena Buxton, and Opal Taylor.
Elspeth and Opal wore their everyday tweed skirts, blouses, cardigans, and sensible shoes, but Selena, a retired wedding planner, was dressier, in a pale pink, tailored skirt suit and pale pink pumps enveloped in dainty, see-through galoshes. Miranda’s leaf-green gossamer gown set her apart from the older ladies, suggesting much about her lithe figure while revealing nothing.
“Where’s Millicent?” I asked.
Elspeth, Opal, and Selena were rarely seen without their friend and neighbor Millicent Scroggins. Bill had dubbed the quartet “Father’s Handmaidens” because of their devotion to my genteel father-in-law. Willis, Sr., disliked the nickname intensely, but his disapproval couldn’t keep me from thinking of Elspeth, Opal, Selena, and Millicent as the Handmaidens.
“Dentist,” Elspeth answered. “The poor dear is having trouble with a back tooth.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.
“Millicent’s sorry, too,” said Selena. “She wanted so much to be with us when we welcomed Jack MacBride to Finch.”
“You welcomed him on Saturday, didn’t you?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” said Opal, “but it was a general, community welcome. We wish to welcome him personally.”
Their story would have been more credible had they looked me or Bree in the eye while they delivered it. Instead, they scanned every inch of the front garden and peered voraciously at the cottage, as if they hoped to see through it to the miraculous well that had, I strongly suspected, been described to them in loving detail by Peggy Taxman.
Miranda’s pagan beliefs allowed her to come straight to the point.
“Thanks for the sunshine, Lori,” she said cheerfully. The sunlight glinted in her strawberry-blond hair, as if to underscore the efficacy of my wish. “I hope Jack won’t mind if I put his well to therapeutic use.” She held up her wicker basket to display a half dozen glass bottles stoppered with corks. “My rheumatic patients might benefit from a dose of his well water.”
“It hasn’t been tested yet,” I said quickly. “A dose might give your patients something worse than rheumatism.”
“I’ll use the first batch for external applications only,” said Miranda. “But I’ll be back for more if the tests—and Jack—give me the all-clear.”
The Handmaidens chuckled tolerantly.
“Such an imagination,” said Elspeth.
“So entertaining,” said Selena.
“You’ll be taking Henry Cook’s place soon, Miranda,” said Opal.
“I’m not telling a funny story,” Miranda protested. “It’s common knowledge that sacred wells have healing powers. Lori used Jack’s well to heal the weather. I’ll use the water to heal the infirm.”
Elspeth gave Miranda a condescending smile, then turned to me, saying, “My interest in the well is purely historical. The discovery of a traditional water source in our village should be recorded for posterity.”
“Oh, I so agree,” Selena chimed in sincerely. “It’s an architectural find of great distinction.”
“An artistic one, as well,” Elspeth asserted. “I’ve heard it’s lovely. Like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Is Jack at home?” Opal inquired. “Will he mind showing us his well?”
“While we welcome him to Finch,” Selena added hurriedly.
Bree couldn’t restrain a snigger as she sliced through a mass of weeds with her brush hook, but I maintained a straight face and led the ladies through the cottage to see the architectural find of great distinction.
“Jack,” I sang from the kitchen doorway as the Handmaidens spilled past me and into the back garden. “You have visitors.”
The sound of high-pitched twittering filled the air as Elspeth, Selena, and Opal surged forward to greet Jack, to cluck over the state of the garden, and to admire the well, which was now equipped with an appropriately aged bucket dangling from a suitably rough-hewn rope. Miranda waited for the chatter to subside, then explained her mission to Jack.
“You’re welcome to fill your bottles,” he said, “as long as you—”
“Don’t let anyone drink from them,” Miranda broke in, nodding. “I won’t. I’ll use the water in massages until I know it’s safe for human consumption.”
“In that case . . .” Jack wheeled around and held an arm out, as if he were an impresario presenting Mr. Barlow to an audience. “Mr. Barlow? If you please?”
Mr. Barlow employed the freshly oiled crank to lower the bucket soundlessly into the well and to bring it up again, brimming with water. Elspeth, Selena, and Opal applauded and Jack pulled the bucket over to rest on the wellhead. Miranda filled her bottles, thanked her host, and departed.