“No, it doesn’t,” Bill broke in, raising his voice to be heard above my babbling. “It does not stand to reason. Reason has nothing to do with it.” He took a breath and continued quietly but firmly, “Coincidences happen, Lori. I’ll admit that a Jaguar arriving in Finch the day after Mr. Barlow mentioned one to you is an extraordinary coincidence, but I refuse to accept any other explanation. Once you start believing in things like wishing wells, all bets are off. You may as well make decisions by ripping a chicken open and consulting its oozing entrails.”
The grisly image brought me back down to earth with a thud. I blanched, then put my head in my hands and chuckled ruefully.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think I was becoming hysterical.”
“I’m afraid the whole village is about to become hysterical,” said Bill. He gazed speculatively toward the green, where those who’d failed to nab a table in the tearoom were busily conferring on recent events.
“Maybe so,” I said, “but I won’t. When I’m in my right mind, I don’t believe in wishing wells any more than I believe in the predictive power of chicken gizzards.” I hesitated, then said, “I do believe in Aunt Dimity, though, and you have to admit that she’s not your average houseguest.”
“We have concrete proof that Aunt Dimity exists,” Bill pointed out. “She may not exist on the same plane as we do, but the blue journal proves she’s out there somewhere. If you can prove to me that Jack’s well converted an offhand comment into a malfunctioning car, I’ll eat my words.”
“It’s weird, though, isn’t it?” I said. “First, the rain. Then the Jaguar. Then Mr. Cozy Cookery.”
“Coincidences are weird,” Bill conceded, “but a wishing well that actually worked would be a whole lot weirder.”
“As always, you are correct, my best beloved. And on that somewhat sickening and technically inaccurate note,” I said, rising, “I’ll return to the sensible activity of pruning ivy. Hard work will clear the cobwebs of superstition from my tiny brain. But I’ll probably need a hand massage this evening.”
“Your wish is my command,” said Bill. “As the wishing well said to the Handmaidens.”
I laughed, but as I left Wysteria Lodge I couldn’t help wondering if we’d seen the last of Finch’s flurry of weird coincidences.
Twelve
I didn’t go straight back to Ivy Cottage. I stopped at the tearoom to pick up a fresh loaf of bread for dinner and some strawberry jam drops for the twins’ after-school snack. Henry Cook was so busy waiting on seated customers that I was still there—purely by accident—when Mr. Barlow came in to report his findings to Dabney Holdstrom. The low hum of conversation ceased abruptly as all ears, including mine, were cocked in their direction.
“Disconnected exhaust pipe,” said Mr. Barlow.
“Can you mend the dratted thing?” Mr. Holdstrom asked, licking chocolate ganache delicately from his fingertips.
“Already have.” Mr. Barlow held the ignition key out to him.
Mr. Holdstrom seemed disconcerted. He looked mournfully from the dangling key to the array of delectable pastries Sally had placed before him, then appeared to reach a decision.
“Would it be asking too much, Mr. Barlow, if I asked you to take the Jag for a test drive?” he said. “A good, long one. We want to be sure your repair holds, don’t we?”
“It’ll hold,” said Mr. Barlow, “but I’ll take the Jag for a spin, if you really want me to.”
“I do, my good fellow, I most certainly do,” said Mr. Holdstrom. “And take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
Mr. Barlow left the room with a bounce in his step, looking as though every wish he’d ever made had come true. I paid for my bread and my strawberry jam drops and returned to Ivy Cottage, where I studiously ignored the wishing well.
? ? ?
Six days passed and nothing remarkable happened. My sillier neighbors regarded eight sunny days in a row—in May, in England—as miraculous, but the farmers and the forecasters blamed the dry spell on an immobile dome of high pressure, and so did I.
One pleasant thing seemed to lead to another after Dabney Holdstrom’s visit, but I could account for all of them without resorting to supernatural explanations. The little editor had been so impressed by Mr. Barlow’s repair work that he’d driven several other treasures from his classic car collection to Finch for tune-ups and sent friends along as well. I couldn’t tell one sports car from another, but Bill reported sightings of a 1962 Austin Healey Sprite, a 1969 MGB-GT, and a 1965 Lotus Seven, each of which, according to Bill, would gladden a retired mechanic’s heart. Mr. Barlow gave the automotive gems his undivided attention and floated through each day in a happy haze.