“Permission granted,” I said, “if you’re referring to the wishing well silliness.”
I am, of course, referring to the wishing well silliness. I’m at a loss to understand why six grown women would go out of their way to make cakes of themselves. Sally, Miranda, Elspeth, Selena, Opal, and Millicent should know better than to believe in such childish nonsense.
“I agree,” I said. “And I’m afraid it won’t stop with six grown women. Christine Peacock will probably be there as soon as the pub closes and I wouldn’t count on Charles Bellingham, Henry Cook, or George Wetherhead to stay away.”
I expect the excitement will die down when none of the wishes come true. Until then, we can rely on Lilian and Theodore Bunting to behave like adults. It wouldn’t do for the vicar and his wife to replace prayers with wishes. We can rely on Emma, too. She’s far too rational to make use of the wishing well.
“You can add Bill to your list of abstainers,” I said. “He places wishing wells in the same category as horoscopes and tea leaves.”
Good for Bill! A father should set a sensible example for his children.
A strange feeling of unease came over me as I read the word children.
“Bill’s a brilliant father,” I said slowly. “He reacted oddly, though, when I asked him what his wish would be. He didn’t know I was looking at him, but I was, and his face looked kind of . . . sad. He perked up right away and said he’d wish for a wonderful family if he didn’t have one already, but I wonder . . .”
What do you wonder?
“I wonder if he’d wish for a bigger family,” I said, gazing pensively into the empty grate. “It’s not as though we haven’t tried, Dimity, but nothing’s happened. I thought he—I thought we—had given up on the idea, but maybe he hasn’t.”
Why would you give up on the idea of expanding your family?
“It took us forever to get the twins started,” I reminded her, “and I’m not getting any younger. I don’t have a lot of confidence in my reproductive system.”
Go upstairs this instant, Lori, and look at your beautiful boys. They should give you all the confidence you need.
I smiled at Aunt Dimity’s bracing words, but the fact that my sons were eight years old told me everything I needed to know about my ability to have more children. Thankfully, I was quite content with the children I had, despite their gratuitous praise of mountain-biking Mrs. Kerby. And I was sure—almost sure—that Bill felt the same way.
Before you go, however, please tell me how you and Betsy fared on your first outing. I presume you took advantage of the glorious weather to put her through her paces.
“I put her through her paces,” I said, groaning, “and she put me through the wringer. My thighs feel as if they’d been clawed by a mountain lion and my calves scream every time I flex my feet. I’m not sure I’ll be able to climb the stairs when we finish here. I may have to sleep on the sofa.”
Of course you’ll be able to climb the stairs. Your sons are up there. Look at Will and Rob, Lori, and be hopeful. Sleep well, my dear.
“I will, Dimity,” I said. “Believe me, I will!”
I waited until the curving lines of elegant copperplate had faded from the page, then returned the blue journal to its shelf, said good night to Reginald, turned out the lights, and with Bill’s help, went up to bed. I didn’t stop at the boys’ room. Though I appreciated Aunt Dimity’s advice, I’d run out of hope a long time ago.
Eleven
I could have used Wednesday’s blue skies to solidify my status as a meteorological magician. Since I wasn’t quite as silly as some of my neighbors, however, it was the boring old weather report that allowed me to drive Will and Rob to school secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be soaked to the skin when I picked them up because there would be no puddles in the school yard to tempt them.
Pride—and the thought of Bill’s teasing—prevented me from leaving Betsy at home on such a fine day. When I returned from the school run, I strapped on my helmet and cycled to Ivy Cottage, appeasing my irate tendons by taking full advantage of the downward slope and pedaling only when necessary.
I still didn’t know what to do with the gears, but I tested the hand brakes as I coasted along and through trial and error learned how to stop my forward motion while remaining in an upright position. Tragically, no one but a chattering squirrel was on hand to witness my graceful dismount at journey’s end.
Bree had again arrived at Ivy Cottage before me. Her car was parked in its accustomed place on Willis, Sr.’s verge and she was already in the front garden when I wheeled my trusty bicycle up the brick path. She and Jack stood across from each other, looking down at the three wooden extension ladders that lay on the ground between them. Bree’s arms were folded—never a good sign—and Jack appeared to be lost in deeply unpleasant thoughts.
“Good morning?” I said, when the pair failed to greet me.