“Contrary to popular belief,” said Emma, “ivy protects stone buildings. It regulates temperature and moisture and it guards walls from pollutants that damage stone.”
“If the walls are in bad shape, though, I’ll need to find a stonemason,” Jack said with a sigh. “Can you recommend one?”
When Emma hesitated, I jumped in.
“Emma’s too modest to say it, so I’ll speak for her,” I said. “Her husband is the man you want. Derek Harris is a builder who specializes in restoration work. He’s a brilliant stonemason. If the ivy has damaged your walls, he’ll be able to repair them.”
Jack folded his arms and gazed thoughtfully at the garden, then turned to study the cottage’s ivy-cloaked walls.
“Done,” he said decisively, extending a hand to shake Emma’s. “No point in asking for expert advice if I’m not going to take it. I’ll hold off on the gardens for now and start in on the cottage walls. If I don’t find a ladder in the garage, I expect I can borrow one from Mr. Barlow.”
“I suggest you borrow three ladders,” I said.
“Lori and I aren’t afraid of heights,” said Bree, catching my drift. “We’ll be back here tomorrow, same time.”
“Beaut,” said Jack, gazing gratefully at us.
“Hello? Is anyone at home?” cried a voice all but one of us recognized.
“Millicent Scroggins,” said Emma, cocking an ear toward the front door.
“Fresh from the dentist’s,” said Bree.
“I told you so,” I said at last, wagging a finger at Jack.
My friends and I escorted him to the front porch to greet the missing Handmaiden, whose right cheek was as swollen as a chipmunk’s. We commiserated with her on her ordeal, suggested remedies ranging from oil of cloves to ice packs, then left her to Jack’s ministrations and took off, Emma in her Land Rover, Bree in her small sedan, and me on Betsy.
Riding a bicycle after a good night’s sleep is one thing. Riding one after a day’s hard labor is another. Fond thoughts of the internal combustion engine’s many charms filled my head as I pedaled home and I spent the evening hobbling gingerly from room to room.
Bill was an old hand at cycling. He rode to and from his office on the village green as often as his schedule and the weight of his briefcase would allow. He informed me during dinner that my homeward journey had been hampered not only by muscle fatigue but by topography.
“Finch is at the bottom of a river valley,” he reminded me. “We’re higher up the valley. You don’t notice the gradual slope in a car, but you do on a bicycle. The return journey is an uphill battle. Literally.”
“We should install a tow bar,” I said.
“Whit Kerby’s mum has a mountain bike,” said Rob. “She won a race in the Cairngorms last summer.”
“The Cairngorms are mountains,” Will explained, making peaks in his mashed potatoes. “They’re in Scotland.”
“Mrs. Kerby went straight up them,” said Rob. “On a dirt course.”
“She got a medal,” said Will.
“For best in her age group,” Rob concluded.
“Thanks, boys,” I said, leaning my chin on my hand. “I feel much better now.”
The twins smiled smugly at each other, pleased with themselves for comforting their mother, and Bill very wisely hid his grin behind his napkin.
After the boys had gone to bed, Bill again displayed his wisdom by inviting me to stretch out on the sofa with my feet in his lap so he could massage them. His tender treatment of my aching arches rendered me incapable of retaliating when he offered to teach me the correct way to use hand brakes.
“Sally Pyne tattled,” I murmured, slurring my words drunkenly.
“You didn’t expect her to keep your death-defying maneuver to herself, did you?” said Bill.
“Not for one second,” I said.
“I’m glad you wore your helmet,” said Bill, working his way up to my calves.
“I’m glad I landed in the hedge,” I said.
“Now, about the weather . . .” he went on. “Should I bring an umbrella to work tomorrow or did you wish for a prolonged dry spell?”
“Very funny,” I retorted as forcefully as I could under the circumstances. “Unfortunately, people are taking the joke seriously.”
“What people?” Bill asked.
“The good people of Finch,” I replied. “Jack told Peggy Taxman about my wish coming true, and she must have bellowed the news to everyone who set foot in the Emporium because Sally Pyne and the Handmaidens showed up at Ivy Cottage to make their own wishes. Miranda Morrow was there, too. She claims well water has healing powers, but you’d expect her to have oddball ideas.”
“I’d expect Sally and the Handmaidens to have oddball ideas, too,” said Bill. “I hear them at the tearoom, discussing their horoscopes as if their lives depended on them, and Sally will read tea leaves for anyone who asks.”
“Mr. Barlow thinks they’re balmy, too,” I said, “which is too bad, because he could make a really cool wish if he wanted to.”
“Such as?” asked Bill.