“He’d like to work on a classic Jaguar,” I replied.
Bill threw back his head and laughed. “Good old Mr. Barlow. Give him a wrench and a banged-up car and he’s a happy man. I wonder what Sally and the Handmaidens wished for?”
“Heaven knows,” I said. “Youth? Wealth? Your father’s hand in marriage?”
“Hope springs eternal,” said Bill, chuckling.
“For the Handmaidens, maybe,” I said. “Sally’s heart belongs to Henry.” I closed my eyes blissfully and asked, “What would you wish for?”
The soothing pressure Bill was exerting on my calf slackened infinitesimally. I peeked at him through my eyelashes and saw a shadow cross his face, but it was gone in an instant and he answered my question in his usual, playful manner.
“I’d wish for a wonderful family,” he said. “Oh, wait, I already have one. I guess I’ll give the wishing well a miss.”
I blew a lazy kiss at him, then said with a sigh, “If only Emma were as pleased with her life as you are with yours.”
“What’s wrong with Emma?” Bill asked.
“She’s not a happy camper at the moment,” I said. “Too much office work, not enough horsey fun. Or gardening fun. Or any kind of fun. I’d offer to help her, but if I did her accounting, she’d be bankrupt in five minutes. I’m hopeless with numbers.”
“Be a sounding board, then,” said Bill. “Be the one person who lets her vent whenever she feels the need.”
“I will,” I said, “but I wish I could do more.”
“Speak to the well. It seems to like the sound of your voice.” Bill laughed at his own joke, then shifted my legs from his lap to the sofa as he stood. “Sorry, love, but I brought work home with me. I must commune with my laptop.”
“No worries,” I said, sitting up with a groan. “I’ve got some communing of my own to do.” I let Bill pull me gently to my feet and continued the upward motion until our lips met in a soft but thorough kiss.
“I’ll be ready for bed when you are,” he said when we came up for air.
“Good,” I said. “Because you may have to carry me upstairs.”
Bill took his laptop from the coffee table and began the unenviable task of evicting Stanley from his armchair. I limped into the study. I couldn’t bear the thought of kneeling to light a fire, so I lit the mantel lights, took the blue journal from its shelf, lowered myself laboriously onto one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth, and looked up at Reginald, who peered down at me from his special niche on the bookshelves.
“Guess what, mate?” I said. “Jack MacBride has a buddy like you, only his buddy is a baby kangaroo named Joey. I knew I liked that boy.”
The gleam in Reginald’s black button eyes seemed to suggest that he was predisposed to like Jack MacBride, too. I leaned back in the chair, rested my creaky legs on the ottoman, and opened the blue journal.
“Dimity?” I said. I smiled wryly as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page.
Good evening, my dear. Congratulations on the fine weather. You are undoubtedly a meteorological magician. With one wish, you kept the river from overflowing and made a pleasant outing on your new bicycle possible.
“You and Bill should form a comedy team,” I said. “You could be his ghostwriter.”
You were rather full of yourself last night.
“I was joking,” I said. “I didn’t expect the rain to end because I told it to. Unfortunately . . .”
I spent the next half hour repeating to Aunt Dimity everything I’d said to Bill. I gave her a more detailed account than I’d given him and I saved the best bit for last.
“I’ve detected signs of softening in Bree,” I announced.
Clear signs?
“You be the judge,” I said. “She arrived at Ivy Cottage twenty minutes before I did. She didn’t tease Jack about Joey. I didn’t hear any explosions coming from the front garden when I cleverly arranged for them to spend time there together. And she volunteered to help Jack again tomorrow.”
The signs are promising, very promising. The relationship presents certain difficulties, of course. For example, they’ll have to decide whether to live in England or in Australia. It won’t be easy for Bree to abandon the house she inherited from Ruth and Louise.
“Slow down, Dimity,” I said, amused by her musings. “Jack and Bree met yesterday. They have a long way to go before they face problems like deciding where to live.”
I know, but I can’t help wishing them well, can I?
“Wish them well by all means,” I said, “but try not to get too far ahead of yourself. I’m the one who jumps to conclusions, not you.”
True. There are some situations, however, that beg one to jump. With your permission, I shall jump to a conclusion about just such a situation: There is a great deal of silliness abroad in Finch.